Out of Africa: Waterford woman's travels inspired dream home renovation

Margaret Flanagan was working in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, when she spotted a thatched complex for sale in Dungarvan

Margaret Flanagan making friends with Mathiba in Livingstone, Zambia.

Once she set foot there, Africa’s “endless tracks and horizons” drew Co Waterford woman Margaret Flanagan farther and farther away from her home village, under the shade of the Comeragh Mountains.

This was the early 80s, and the young Margaret was embarking on the adventure of a lifetime. “I solo travelled, carrying a red sleeping bag, toothbrush and a change of clothes,” she says.

Margaret Flanagan at work on the exterior of Champagne Cottage.

The new friends she made on her voyage, and the houses they lived in, held her spellbound. “I loved the people and their language, their dramatic dances, music and plump thatched rondavels,” says Margaret. “I ended up exchanging my dreamy village life in Lemybrien [Co Waterford] for exotic village life in Lesotho.”

You could say it was the rondavels, or traditional thatched dwellings, often built of stone, that were to inspire the second, more recent chapter of Margaret’s life saga, which started to unfold in the early noughties.

Dancing in the desert: Margaret Flanagan in Namibia.

Margaret was working in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, when she spotted a thatched complex for sale in Dungarvan, Co Waterford, on a trip home to Ireland, she says. “How could I resist? I was used to development work in Africa, not self-employment in Ireland, yet I wanted to return to Ireland for my three boys.

The interior stairs to attic and landing in Champagne Cottage: 'This was a tricky painting spot,' says Margaret.

“After living and working in Africa for over 20 years, I was looking for a business and a home to return to in Ireland. This was our chance, and we did it together,” she says.

Margaret — with the help of her sons, Rhys, Rhuin and Ross — set about revamping their new base. “Champagne Cottage is where we decided to hang our hats,” she says. “Renovations kept us busy, and we often even paid the bills. Support from my local enterprise office in Dungarvan and grants from the National Heritage Council in getting off the ground were invaluable.”

Now Champagne Cottage is part of a complex of three award-winning vernacular heritage buildings, called Coole Cottages, where Margaret also holds open days with thatching demonstrations, storytelling and photography and art exhibitions. “We still live, work and play here happily on the banks of the Colligan River — 25 years later,” adds Margaret.

Margaret Flanagan photographed in Livingstone, Zambia.

Coole Cottages have been recognised for their contribution to heritage as well as for the restoration work carried out there, including at The Nook Cottage, and Champagne Cottage recently won yet another National Heritage Week prize.

The chatelaine has an ongoing attachment to the buildings that, in effect, lured her back to Ireland. “I spent so much of my time mending, redecorating, painting, camouflaging, stretching, fixing these ancient cottages to magic them into some shape to call a cosy home,” she says.

“You could say we were almost joined at the hip by the time the years of (not-always-successful!) DIY were completed. Jobs still call and sing out when winter time arrives. By now, my boys are fit heritage apprentices when these tricky tasks summon us.

The interior of Margaret's cottage during the revamp complete with 'dusty books; painting was in progress at the time', she says.

Margaret, who has also spearheaded the Dungarvan shopfront heritage trail for several years, adds: “The power of heritage on our creative instincts is undeniable.”

The 66-year-old retains her passion for travel, charting her exploits on her Instagram account, Margaret’s Curious Travels (@Margaretscurioustravels). “I love fresh adventures [travelling] into Africa. I have written a book about my first trip ‘Out of Ireland Into Africa’ (waiting to be published),” she says.

Midnight visit to Champagne Cottage

By Margaret Flanagan

My old armchair’s deep contours comfort me as it groans and creaks to my moves, despite losing some stuffing in the oddest of places. Its sounds compete with the soothing tick-tock from my clock. Bellowing chimes happen on the hour, drifting in musical echoes throughout my home. Twelve o’clock is my favourite.

The cosy inglenook and fire wheel at Champagne Cottage.

Rows of frayed books line my rough walls, providing me with extravagant and flamboyant thoughts on adventures, risky encounters and entertainment, until the dead of night, midnight to be exact, I have company.

Not just any old company, as you might immediately imagine, as she appears familiar and is welcome while floating through thick walls, upstairs, downstairs, drifting by, observing what new moves I have made about the place. She is curious to see if new paintings, rugs, books or lights have been added to the room, which might cast shadows over her gliding movements. She is quite convivial, actually, which is why I call her Viv for short. We are on first-name terms after all. Viv often inspires me as I sit here to write and wonder what moves she would have made in my place.

How would Viv move if she were a character in this book? What brave actions would she take? How would she use her charm, resources, power, wealth or skills, I wondered? Ink glides and drifts across the pages, inspiration flows, mostly synchronising with my own thoughts. Novel ideas solve difficult plots, action flows through my veins, courage springs to the fore, revealing heroes or villains in the same chapter as the story jumps off the page, exploding with dramatic episodes, incidents and outcomes. I often wonder who is writing the story?

Guests to my house have reported fuzzy images floating through the stone walls, in the same house, in the same room, at the same time. No one is ever frightened, alarmed or rushes about screaming. Nothing eerie or unpleasant is ever felt.

It is rather more like that of an old friend who occasionally returns for a look at her own home, to see how it has developed without her. Perhaps to investigate its new tenants’ style, ways and tastes. Rather like I feel I might be entitled to return here myself one day after all the energy I have invested in my old home, painting walls, fixing roofs, replacing floorboards, sneezing its dust, while also living with wildlife roaming in unwanted places, enduring freezing winter temperatures and all just because I love this place so much. It sings its own unique orchestral sounds to me, choosing drumming rhythms or softer flute notes depending on its moods. Music races up and down the attic beams through creaking floorboards, whistling winds, scratching rhythms, even onto stubborn doors with squeaking handles.

My overwhelming feeling is that here is where I belong, yes, right here under all this rhythm and jazz. Here is where I hang my feathery hat, where music is spontaneous, company is chilled, and life is jolly.

Nowhere is this more evident than when I am stretching on my ladder over the stairs balcony to paint the furthest corner point. I hope against all odds that this whole pile of soft, spongy wooden floor under my ladder will not crumble or fall this time. I promise never to use them again once this last stretch of painting is done.

I love the rough walls collecting dust patterns over my fireplace, the crows cawing through the chimney, the wind blowing through the rafters after centuries, as the big old slates have finally become loose, allowing the rattling ivy to have its way.

A lazy log finally summons forth a blaze showing off its colourful drama as pulsing embers shine bright against my sooty chimney. I simply cannot resist winding, stirring and spinning the bellows wheel, gaining extravagant flames as the fire spits, crackles and blasts into a whizz of energy, guaranteed to get my dreamy attention.

Rough walls tell a story of the winter’s past. Paint peels from the walls, fluttering shadows across the room as hundreds of paint colours peep through under its gaps. Retro paint techniques creep along the walls, all on their own? I do wonder. A crackle and glaze paint style adorns my walls, depending on the weather’s temperament, or even a unique marbling effect can materialise after a particularly damp spell of weather. Occasionally, the paint rolls, sways and trembles in the breeze, bringing another piece of spontaneous entertainment to my ancient home. All this appears to happen without my interventions or precarious efforts, which is amazing, really, but I know better. I am sure the walls have some assistance to perform creative wall murals besides the weather or me.

A fog settles on the windows. Water droplets race down the glass, all wishing to be the first to make it onto the flaking wooden frame. I feel a chill. Sunlight beams flow through the windowpane, revealing intricately woven cobwebs. Spiders are always busy here.

My whistling kettle is calling me as I rush to the kitchen.

It is safe to say I am no kitchen diva as I always speed my way through the scullery. My only disappointment with Viv so far is that she has failed to come to my rescue with dishes, pots or pans. A task I am quite willing to share. Bowls, platters, and glasses sit there patiently awaiting a sparkle, shine or more likely an enthusiastic scrub with some abrasive equipment to restore a former twinkle. An activity I find is more suited to a long, wet, dreary day, wearing tall, elegant elbow gloves as bubbles roll off the sink while doing their tricks.

Anyway, I am ever patient in this department as I favour creativity and sharing my affable company over dishes any time. Ever confident of our mutual friendship, as I know if I speak of this domestic glitch, my floating house guest will strive to resolve it.

Time to pour my fizzing drink and one for Viv too, after all, we live together as she occasionally joins me for an evening soiree of imagined laughter, entertainment, kicking up heels, enriching tales to be told as secrets unfold, all within the safety of time and ancient stone walls. Sometimes I could tell her how she formed and guided the heroines in my novel, even if occasionally floundering into unsavoury situations.

I sip my glass of bubbles and the one I poured for Viv to enjoy before she returns to her own secret place. I wonder where she lodges when not floating through my house? Where does she reside? Does she have company down the cellars until her next visit? I wish she could stop for longer than a short foggy vision through my walls.

Now what is that rattling on my door? I hear it again. Somebody is eager to join me by my fire for heat, a rest or company. Well, now it is simply too late.

The fire crackles. A drama of twirls and flames suddenly shot up the chimney. I should know by now, as this event always happens before the 12th strike.

The door rattles again. As loud as I possibly can, I clip along the stone-flagged floor in my dancing heels, to alert any intruders to the ferocious inhabitants dwelling within these walls, both seen and unseen. A longer-than-necessary “meow” sound echoes as I open the door. My cat rushes in against my feet. A floating shadow of freezing air follows him, making straight for my sofa, fireplace and glass of bubbles.

The night begins.