Moy or No Moy
The other night while having our customary romantic dinner by candlelight—we now have a proper candle-holder with one 3” wide x 4” tall candle-that-melts-inward, which replaces a rustic block of wood holding an “individually foil-cupped Kinsale-Candle Night Light for Every Occasion,” (in other words a wee tea light)—I looked over Kevin’s shoulder (as he gives me “the view” to the bay, and I asked, “What is that big white building on the other side of the bay? Is it just one house?”
To which he replied, “That is Moy House.”
We then talked about the fact that before he bought the lot our present house was built upon, Moy House was up for sale and he went to have a look with an idea to purchase it. It was so run-down, requiring many tens of thousands of Irish pounds, that he quickly abandoned the thought.
There it now stands, across the bay, registered in Ireland’s Blue Book of Irish Country Houses and Restaurants. It is described as having a “sensitive restoration of an early 19th century estate, creating a contemporary and eclectic ambience…with eight oversized rooms on 15 acres and commanding hilltop views over Lahinch Bay, enhanced by mature woodland and the meandering River Moy.” The book also says it has a “traditional Drawing Room and a Zen-feel lower Library area.” Sounds lovely.
Too bad I am not at all confident about driving Kevin’s car while he is away at Old Head—especially in the rain with the sort-of-intermittent wipers, or I’d go have a look.
Moy or no Moy really defines: is there a mist, a fog, or a downpour? Can I see Moy House or can I not? As the crow flies, it is probably only three miles away. Well, I can see it, but it is raining.
In fact, while it looked like it was not raining yet, I thought I would take a walk up to the gas station/shop to get some soup or something warm in time to watch The Scottish Open on TV over at Loch Lomond. I figured on bringing my good golf umbrella (a perfect souvenir from Turnberry) in case it started to rain on the way home. As I got out the front door, it was, in fact, already raining. It was gentle enough with no real wind. That is, until I got around the corner. All hands on deck! Man the sails! Two hands on the tiller!
I made it to the store and back with a microwavable container of Erin Soupfulls Chicken & Country Vegetable soup, nearly soaked-through jeans and Moy House now disappeared in the mist.
But I know it is there—and someday, I promise myself I’ll see it from the inside, while having a piping hot bowl of seafood chowder as I look back across the bay and see, or not see, our charming little white house on the water’s edge.
