"Fortune Presents Gifts Not According to the Book," Dead Can Dance
Marguerite is presented with an unexpected opportunity to move to the wilds of Ireland.
Hello! If you are new here, I suggest you go back to the start and read the whole story sequentially. The full list of scenes is here if you’ve missed an instalment, and read this if you’d like to know where the memoir is going.
‘When you expect whistles it's flutes
When you expect flutes it's whistles…’1
The threat of being confined again returns halfway through the Toussaint break. Scrolling through emails one morning, I open an alert for holiday house-sitting, set up when we first arrived and rentals were all but forbidden. Referencing a pinpoint in the northwest of Ireland, the advert has somehow blasted past my tight filters for Anglet-Biarritz-Guéthary. Sacha and Diego are at their surfing lesson, Sophie and Julian, who’ve joined us for the weekend, are cycling with pals, and I have just delivered a translation job. The listing features a photograph of a craggy shoreline, and I find myself clicking out of curiosity, remembering a single trip to that part of the world—the last one with my husband before we started our family. Fun memories of B&Bs that served porridge with Bailey’s, yarn shops, and endless stretches of dark, smoking turf.
In the picture, shadows of deep purple fronds frame glowering water and whorls of contrasting mist. Dusk or dawn light suggests forlorn, liminal time—not your usual cat-sprawled-on-a-sunny-patio shot geared at enticing house-sitters. Reading on, there are no mentions of pets or donkeys. No menagerie to feed for a week, or small farmstead to tend while owners go on a jolly. Not even a houseplant to water. Intrigued, I read the clipped description - a regal “We” answering to Bryony Vines ‘seeks an intrepid individual (couples preferred) to occupy the wing of a large house. No gardening skills required; pets and families encouraged. Driving a must. Accommodation and electricity covered. Six-month minimum, ideally prolonged into a permanent position.’
A news flash interrupts my reverie, confirming that masks will be mandatory for all school-aged children from Monday, with lockdown resuming until further notice. The prospect of being stuck in a tiny flat with an extortionate rent now overshadows the perks that thrilled me only this morning. Queuing for bread alongside scowling Paris exiles and forcing Sacha to suffocate at his lycée for up to nine hours a day makes no sense. Teaching is already online at the American high school where his dad teaches. Besides, Sacha has been weighing the pros and cons of joining his brother, as the French system hasn’t changed much since I was a teen—dismissive teachers who seem to take pleasure in shouting or humiliating students that don’t fit the mould.
The house in Ireland feels like the safest option and its isolation will hopefully blot out the grimness of life in lockdown. With nothing to lose, I rattle off a bubbly note highlighting my portable, solitary profession and the ashram stays of my twenties. I also mention my long-time dream of hosting musical residencies. It was one of my reasons for moving to England in the first place, a plan I shelved when things didn’t work out. I’m surprised by how quickly the dream has reactivated. The Teacher keeps nudging me to go on longer retreats, so on the off-chance that I am chosen, this could be a perfect opportunity to go deeper into my practices.
Bryony Vines sends an enthusiastic reply almost immediately, and forwards my message to the owner of the property, Sebastian Calderwood. When I type her name in, Google kicks up an artist, but the man does not have much of an online footprint—he seems to work with trees in Scotland. A week and a flurry of polite informational emails later, I feel oddly ready to pack things up again, but should probably check with the Teacher. After all her support getting me settled in France, I am worried that planning another move might be considered ungrateful or flighty, or that she’ll tell me off for acting before running it by her first. I’m also apprehensive because her encouragement would mean taking another massive leap:
Me: I have been thinking of ways of streamlining my life to make more time for sādhanā2 and writing. On a whim, I’ve replied to a long-term house-sitting position in a remote part of Ireland. They are offering a large house in exchange for looking after a historic property on a farming estate. It is over in the West, near the ocean.
I’d be keeping an eye out for problems, liaising with the owners, letting in contractors and occasional family visitors, and it doesn’t involve cleaning. The man says it would take about 10 hours a week, with some very quiet weeks and fuller summers. They don’t seem to live in Ireland full time and want the house occupied, to keep out trespassers and dampness.
On the upside, having no rent would free up time and reduce stress. It would be very connected to nature, and healthier, especially during the pandemic. But the weather will be wet wet wet and gloomy.
I want to live closer to natural rhythms, and part of me is drawn to the solitary lifestyle. But I’m nervous about being alone in such a remote location. About nature’s rawness, too.
You’ve said that our next Goddess will be about facing our fears, so this opportunity could be ideal. Life has been gentle here in Biarritz, and I would very much like to continue onto the next part of this three-year cycle, if you will have me.
I would love your guidance. Thank you.
Teacher: It sounds perfect! I’d take the job if I could.
Me: Thank you! I will keep investigating, and see where the Goddess leads me.
It’s the encouragement I need to schedule a video call with Bryony and Sebastian. Our first one is scheduled for 9pm, as he does not leave work before eight. I fuss with the lights, plump up cushions on the sofa, and then relocate to the balcony, not wanting sounds from Sacha’s film to trickle through. Night has long fallen and rain is tipping down, but it should be okay out there, it’s still warmish. I flick on the outside light, pull the awning down for shelter, and wrap myself in a shawl.
When we connect, Bryony’s voice comes first, the syllables drawn out and plummy, the final consonants exaggerated, ‘Mah-ga-weet, thank you for meeting with us…’ She pauses, takes a breath. ‘Apo-lo-gies for the teh-blah late caawwl.’ It sounds as if she might burst into tears at any minute—her words are slow, deliberate, as if addressing a distant, captive audience.
The video comes on and shows a man and a woman in their late fifties. They are sitting side by side, very upright at a formal dining table. What looks to be a gallery of ancestral portraits hangs on the red wall behind them. He wears a tweed jacket, with hyperbolic eyebrows beneath a hat; she has a fleshy mouth, watery eyes, and a fuzzy halo of strawberry blonde hair. With similar pale complexions and matching olive clothing, they could be brother and sister.
‘Oh no problem at all!’ I reply. ‘Sorry it’s so late for you, happy to reschedule, if that’s…’
There is a loud splash. Rain that has been collecting in the awning lands on me like a tidal wave and startles me, but I pretend not to notice.
Staring into the camera, Sebastian’s eyes blink rapidly and he jumps in, ‘Not a bother. Tell us, why would you want to leave sunny Biarritz for the wilds of Ballyboghole?’ he asks, deadpan.
Ballyboghole? I thought the place was called Bawnbay… Oh, of course—British humour.
‘I love it here,’ I reply, ‘and have loved being home during this terrible time, but my boys are all leaving home, at least, the older two are… But yes, anyway, in times like these, nature is a source of solace. And silence, so healing… I’d like to lead a simpler life, and may have mentioned that I like to write and meditate a bit…’
Bryony is nodding and smiling beatifically, but Sebastian’s face remains impassive.
Stop waffling, I tell myself, as outside, the storm gathers momentum and my slippers go squidgy.
‘…and if Ireland does go back into lockdown, well, your home looks like the perfect place to be. Generally, too, of course. Sebastian asked me about the concerts I’ve organised… If the world is ever normal again, and obviously, with your permission, it would be amazing to somehow…’
‘How lovely,’ Bryony interrupts, ‘We love music too!’
Sebastian is squinting at me in a rather hard way. I’ve been waving my hands around too much—he must think I’m some kind of fluffy-head.
‘What about work? And why are you sitting in the dark?’ he asks.
‘Ah… I’m actually on my balcony. Sorry, I thought it would be bright enough…’
‘Outside? At this hour?’ he scowls. ‘Surely it isn’t that warm in Biarritz this time of year?’
Bryony wears a pasted-on smile. It really is quite cold now.
‘If you’ll bear with me, I’ll pop back inside…’ I fumble back into the living room with my laptop, forgetting to turn off the mic. On the other side of the screen, Sebastian clamps his hands over his ears as if sheltering from a missile. Behind me, the door slams, blowing in a season’s worth of dead leaves.
‘I can work anywhere…’ I continue, ‘though I did have a question about your internet speeds…’
‘That all sounds so delightful!’ Bryony nods gleefully. She doesn’t seem to be into details. ‘I very much hope you will come and live at Bawnbay,’ she adds with a reassuring smile.
Sebastian’s head whips around like something out of The Exorcist, glaring at her. Then he turns back to me.
‘Please do some homework about us and the locality,’ he instructs me. ‘For this to work for everyone, you have to love it here and to make it yours. That could mean hosting yoga gatherings or concerts or whatever you please. Either way, let us reconvene after the weekend, as several people have expressed an interest.’
Minutes later, Bryony has emailed, saying again how much she would love me to come to Ireland. Could they be playing a game of good cop, bad cop, or is this their typecast routine all the time? In any case, she seems as whimsical as he is prickly. If they end up being hard work, at least we would only overlap for a few weeks at a time, I reason.
This is Faye’s Wing, a series of multimedia scenes about the creative quest for fulfilment beyond a fixed spiritual identity. It comes out every Wednesday, and often features music and visuals from contributing artists.
A Passage in Time, Dead Can Dance, 1991.
Sanskrit: spiritual practice or discipline aimed at achieving a specific goal or state.
I love the image of the rain dumping on Marguerite during the call, yet she doesn’t react. Very funny. And actually, what a brave thing to even think about doing!
I absolutely love how you portray Bryony's speech patterns.