"If my sisters and I were a litter of pubs, I would be the runt"

8pm, Sligo — and life has transposed, like it always does, into a scene from The Edwardian Farm. 

Everywhere inside the house, there are vast jugs stuffed with dark-pink crab-apple blossoms the children have picked. Above the kitchen table where we sit, two stuffed pheasants — Bread and Butter — stare down at us from a shelf with beady eyes.

And under the table lie Nelson the dog and Colin the cat. Outside, there are three degrees, wind, rain, Delilah the donkey and chickens. Lake-water lapping.