THE BOATSHED
The sun casts a warm golden glow on the rugged Irish landscape surrounding us as we drive towards The Lake House, painting the green hills and distant mountains in a delicate brush of light. James, with one hand casually gripping the wheel of his well-loved jeep, gazes ahead with a sense of peace and nostalgia in his eyes. I take in the strong contours of his face, softened by a hint of a smile. I’m entranced by the beauty of the scenery – and the company.
We drive in comfortable silence for a few more moments before James speaks. ‘I’m glad you came, Daisy,’ he says, his voice slightly hoarse.
I turn to look at him, taken aback by the emotion in his words. ‘I wouldn’t be here without you; thanks again for all your help,’ I reply sincerely. ‘From what your dad said, you and Mick had a very close bond. I know how hard it is losing someone you cared about.’
A sadness passes briefly across his face as he nods in response, but it swiftly fades and is replaced with a small smile. ‘He was a great man,’ he remarks fondly.
We lapse back into silence as James weaves through the country roads, through valleys and over hills. We pass bysprawling green fields, cattle grazing lazily in the distance. I love the smell of the fresh Irish air, and the sound of the birds chirping in the trees. The peace and quiet is interrupted by the occasional car or motorcycle racing by, but other than that it’s just us and nature. The scent of woodland and wildflowers fills my lungs as I gaze out across the rolling hills and lush meadows, so different to London’s smog-filled skyline. An unexpected sense of connection washes over me here, a calming energy that sparks my creativity. What stories could these hills tell? I think as I take in the scenery.
Bright red poppies, their petals reflecting in the sunlight, dance between blades of grass. A brilliant brand-new hue. Is it vermillion? Flame? Dark coral? As I stand here watching nature’s colours unfiltered, I’m reminded why coming here, away from the city, even just for such a short while, was such a good decision for me. If it wasn’t thrust upon me, I’d have been too scared to take this trip. How long had I wanted to come to Innisfree but never did? And then, out of nowhere, James O’Connor shows up and here I am, winding through country lanes, feeling a sense of belonging like none I’ve felt before.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I say after a while.
‘Sure.’
‘Why have you gone to such lengths to do all this for Mick?’ I’m eager to learn more about the man who played such a crucial role in shaping the person sitting beside me.
He looks across at me, his eyes darken. ‘It’s complicated…’ he says. He takes a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is even softer than before. ‘Like Dad said, Mick was like a father figure to me,’ he explains. ‘He was the one who took me in when I had no home, no family and no hope. He believed in me when nobody else did. He showed me that life could be so much more than what I’d imagined and gave me the strength to makesomething of myself.’ He pauses briefly and his shoulders slump as if weighed down by memories. ‘So, I owe it to him.’
My heart softens at his words; I can’t help but admire his strength of character, despite all his pain. I know there’s more to the story than he’s telling me, but I also know that it’s not my place to push him. So I just sit next to him, offering him my support and understanding. Because sometimes, that’s all you can do for someone. Just be there for them and wait till they’re ready.
Up ahead, a single sheep begins to wander across the road. Then another comes. And then a whole flock joins them. A man in a flat cap is standing in the middle of them, waving a stick around.
James brakes, bringing the jeep to a stop. ‘Roadblock,’ he mumbles before slumping in his seat. ‘Grab a snooze if you’d like; they’ll be here for at least twenty minutes – sheep are notoriously slow.’
We sit in silence, then James blows out his cheeks and straightens up, locking his fingers around the back of his head. ‘You sure you want to know…?’ he says.
‘If you’re sure you want me to,’ I reply.
‘Come on then – I’ll show you.’ James flashes me a sideways grin before shifting gears and leaving the main road for a dirt track. ‘We’ve time for a quick detour.’
We follow the winding track until we reach a clearing surrounded by old-growth trees. James pulls up to an aged wooden gate bearing a sign that reads ‘The Boatshed’, and we get out of the jeep and cross through the gate, making our way down a narrow path lined with tall pines. We walk down the glen, through the heather and the gorse, to the place where a babbling brook sends its melodic lullabies upstream. The air is fresh and clean, smelling of wildflowers and new grass. This place is unlike any I’ve ever visited in person, apart from the places that existedonly in my mother’s stories. I’m starting to realise how having a vivid imagination is like flipping two sides of a coin. It’s easy to dream up any possibility – both dreams and nightmares. I find it easier to see things as they could be rather than how they really are. But here, for the first time, I feel those two visions are aligned, closer together than they’ve ever been before.
James offers me his hand as I try to navigate my way down the steep grassy drop to The Boatshed, pausing every few steps so he can point out something or ask me about my life in London, about my work, about the books and music I like, about my hopes for the future.
I slip forward slightly. A grassy verge gives way underfoot, and he catches me, both hands firmly holding me by the side.
‘I’m sorry. Clearly I’m not the mountain goat I like to think I am.’
In an instant, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me. I look up at him and hold my breath for a moment. Our eyes lock and the air around us seems to change. My heart races; is he feeling it too? I want this, whatever it is that’s happening here, to be real. All I can do is hope that his smile is real, and it’s not all in my head. I can’t be sure. I step back to regain my stance, and he fiddles with his watch, blushing.
‘Anyway. If you can stick with it, we’ll be there in less than a minute.’ He laughs. ‘Unless we go into injury time.’
We walk a few more feet until the terrain shifts to flat land, and suddenly, through the canopy of trees, I can see it all. I gasp in wonder as we approach – at one side there’s a vast lake filled with crystal-clear water reflecting like glass across its surface; on the opposite side, a three-story white house with a thatched roof and two chimneys stands tall. The original windows of the manor overlook the lake that laps around the estate – all set against the backdrop of rolling green hills stretching out into eternity.
James leads me to a little wooden boatshed on the banks of the lake. Turning over a large stone, he finds a key and unlocks the door. The small space is so cosy and charming, a little workshop with tools hanging on the walls, a large canvas of pencil etchings and scrawled notes. A scratched window, devoid of any curtains, gives a perfect view of the lake and the peaks in the distance. James lights a lantern and sets it on the table. He opens a small chest and takes out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He pours us each a glass, and we sit down at the table.
‘So… here we are,’ he whispers. ‘Where it all started and where it all ended…’ He takes a sip of his drink and stares out the window, lost in thought. ‘Right, so I was a complete tearaway when I was younger – stupid, arrogant, bad-tempered, reckless… you name it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you weren’t that bad,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
‘No, I was worse.’ He gives me a half-smile. ‘I had a mullet.’
‘Oh, okay… that is bad.’ I laugh.
‘Anyway, my dad used to bring me fishing here when I was a lad, and it was the only time I was ever calm. It’s like this place has some kind of magical power over me. But as I got older, we fought more and more – I was in trouble at school, in town, out late, up to no good. Of course, he was mortified as he felt he was a respectable pillar of the community.’
