Back to the Farm

We come to Ireland often. This was Nora's third time back to the farmhouse in four and a half years. But getting to show the girls the Irish adventure that was so important to my childhood summers feels almost like sharing a memory. The taste of brown bread and butter around my aunt's table. The smell of grandad's pipe smoked amongst his roses. The grip of mud and manure on the boot's as you try to trudge past the milking parlour.

Things are different now, obviously. My younger cousins, once excited kids, are full-grown adults that tower over even me. Nan isn't around anymore, and grandad is getting older. We have kids now, so the catch-ups are more scattered as we wrangle the girls.

But it still smells the same. Which is cool. I think it's the peat.