From Ireland With Love

The house on Mullet Head which changed our life so, sat in an alcove of a minor Irish peninsula that jutted into the Atlantic Ocean. It was an extension of land into the Atlantic Ocean, that was an intrinsic part of Ireland but it was not alone in that concept. The entire southwest coast of the country was dappled with such rocky promontories. Outside of the charming cottage, a bay faced the hearty teak windows whose glass mirrored the ocean’s frequent ferocity with each of the passing seasons. Alone on a fair-sized meadow, the house bemoaned the now absent bird called the Corncrake that used to habituate the tall fescues until too-frequent cutting of the graze laid low the population of them. A few hardy pheasants wandered by often, perhaps as a token to the departed ‘Crake’.

We loved the headland, for it provided nourishment of the soul in the call of screeching seabirds and the sound of surf that stirred emotions with its constant crashing against the sturdy rocks that tried futilely to stem an eternal sea. Perhaps more importantly, we enjoyed the lovely walks that kept one alive with views that changed day-to-day due to the light of the tossing ocean that reflected the hues of the heavens which passed its giddy iridescence back to earth. Our place on Mullet Head sat perched in the face of it all, sternly resisting a natural demise that would inevitably occur with the passing centuries. It must succumb as the Atlantic, of necessity, would pass over and the Mullet would someday be part of the swirling waters. It is nature’s way.

The Masons, our landlords, had made leasing this marvelous home a joy. We had occupied our home for quite a few years and our love of it with our newfound friends had nourished us with a warm and hospitable feeling that remained day to day and then, with time, year to year. One’s mind swirls often with distant memories, for I remember well one fine morning, a tap at the front entrance door. It was James with the post and at the front door. I knew that it was James for looking out the seaside windowpanes; I could see a mail pouch hanging off a gray-blue uniform and our affably attached postman appearing on serious business.

“That’s James, what’s up?” I said to my wife Pat who was casually moving to the front of our warm kitchen to see.

“Usually he walks around and comes in the back door,” Pat said as she peered out at him, curious as to why all the mystery.

“I’ll see what’s up,” I thought as I entered the small vestibule and pried the heavy seaside door that was usually left unlocked for strangers. There, standing in a gentle sea breeze, was our dear postman - James. Stiffly erect, he was holding an envelope up as though it contained a notice to evict.

“Morning, James,” I said as I held my hand out for him to deposit what he was obviously supposed to deliver.

“Sorry Jim,” he said quickly withdrawing the missive, “but you must sign for this. It is special delivery and they told me to get a signature before I give it to you. The rules you know,” he said with a very somber face. Pat peeked around the corner and looked puzzled.

“Somebody died or something?” she worried.

“Don’t think so,” I assured her as I took the offered pad and scrawled my illegible signature that always caused my wife to complain. I always defend it by suggesting that they want an original signature, not a ‘John Hancock’ reproduction. We thanked James deeply and retired to our comfy kitchen where a peat fire was blazing to take the morning chill off. Pat looked over my arm as I undressed the nefarious post by tearing the top raggedly and again getting chaff from Pat to be ‘careful.’