Hanging a pair of gates at the rear of the house gave us so much satisfaction, it suddenly seemed strange that we had waited so long to do it.
When we first moved here, I fell so in love with the place, and was so lost in a dream about rural Ireland, that I left the back of the property ungated, even though the rear of the house almost adjoins a small public road.
Not a road, a boreen. A lovely little lane with grass down the middle. What possible hostility could occur on that?
I was enjoying such naive notions about how relaxed our existence was going to be that I completely overlooked the fact that people are the same wherever you go. I should have known never to disregard the lyrics of Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder.
It’s also an old adage I’d do well to remember: that no matter where I go, I take myself with me. And so of course I was going to have run-ins and rows in this small rural community stuck up a hillside down the end of a peninsula.
I can’t take anything lying down, and neither can the builder boyfriend, so when the locals started kicking us about a bit to see if they could knock us into line, we didn’t give way.
When we first moved in, everything was lovely. And then it wasn’t long before a brassy old bird pulled her car to a screeching halt by our back verge and yelled at us that she was going to sue us if she hit the wall running around our stable yard again. For she’d hit it and knocked a rock out of it, and now screamed and shouted that she wanted this rock moved out of her way…
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the builder boyfriend, who was cutting back a hedge.
It’s an old adage I’d do well to remember: that no matter where I go, I take myself with me
‘I’ll sue you!’ she screamed, before adding: ‘Anyway, welcome to Ireland!’ And off she drove.
A few weeks later, she pulled up as I was outside the rear of the house watering some geraniums on my kitchen window’s ledge, wound her car window down and informed me that she’d be suing me if she hit the wall of my house. It made no sense. I informed her politely that if she hit the wall of my house, I’d sue her. But by all means, dear lady, do send me a lawyer’s letter and we’ll get the proceedings under way, especially if your car is in my kitchen.
Some months after that, a man crashed his car on the grass verge by our stable yard wall, putting it almost entirely into the ditch. If he’d gone any further he’d have been through the wall and in the middle of our horses while they ate their hay.
The BB went out and offered to help but he said: ‘No I’m fine.’ He didn’t look fine. An hour later he was still there, wheel-spinning his old banger and churning our grass to bits.
So the BB went back out and said that he really must insist. It took a while but he used his pick-up truck to tow the fellow’s car out. And the very second the car was back on the road, the man announced he was furious about the damage to his car and was going to sue us.
‘I’ll sue you!’ she screamed, before adding: ‘Anyway, welcome to Ireland!’ And off she drove
‘You’re now taking the absolute…’ and the BB used some choice swear words before informing the man that the next time he crashed into our ditch on the way back from the pub he would not only not tow him out, he’d also call the Guards and get him breathalysed.
The next day, we erected a small rustic stone wall on our verge which stopped people driving on it. The angry lady driver duly pulled up to inform us if she hit this new wall she’d sue us.
But we really didn’t care. The verge was walled off, the only gap was the rear driveway opening.
Then one day, I was interviewing a chap for a job mucking out our horses when a younger woman drove past as an oncoming car blocked her on the single carriageway boreen. Because she couldn’t swerve into our driveway, where the prospective groom had parked, she wound down her window and yelled: ‘Get out of the way!’
‘Right, I’m not having that,’ I declared, and I tied up a line of white fencing tape across the driveway.
We then came up as an agenda item at the next local farmers’ meeting. Bitter complaints were made that I was impeding urgent farming business by blocking off my grass verges and driveway, so stalwarts of the community couldn’t cut the corner of the road and skedaddle over our land to save time, as was traditional, and so on.
Never mind her water main being located on that private verge, it was argued; those of us who have been four generations in this area need to get two cars past each other at breakneck speeds on the boreen.
The only problem with the Irish is that they’re either fantastically clever and sharp-witted, or else they’re cross that they can’t illegally drive their car on to your land and then sue you for falling into your ditch, I found myself reflecting, when the farmers’ meeting was recounted to me.
The Irish can be volatile, although we do love that about them, the BB decided. And they’re also the worst drivers of any country, including Italy, in my experience.
Does one take this seriously, or does one ignore it as an outburst of flamboyant temper, part of the reason we like it here in the first place?
We decided better safe than sorry, and erected two huge galvanised farm gates across our farm entrance and rear driveway.
I stood back and surveyed the effect. Our rural idyll now looks like Fort Knox. My dream has been dragged kicking and screaming into reality. But, to come back to Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder, it’s not about Ireland.
Where in the world can I go where I don’t need to put up a ruddy big gate? There are people determined to put a spanner in my works on every inch of this planet, and I’ve no doubt they would find me if I moved to Kathmandu.
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