Morning

I wake up to the sound of surf on rocks and poke my head out the window. Below is sea, above is lighthouse, and across the bay lies the hamlet of Crookhaven, population 40. (In July and August, Irish vacationers swell the headcount to ~400.)

The Crookhaven Light was first lit in 1843. At that time, a Cottage housed the lightkeeper and his family. In later years, other houses were built adjacent for keepers of the Fastnet, a lighthouse visible from here that sits on Ireland's southernmost point, a rock of clay-slate surrounded by deep water.

The Cottage was renovated in 1999 and the Longhouse was constructed in 2008. The Cottage has on the first floor two bedrooms, bathroom, dining room, kitchen and another small room containing a futon and electric keyboard. The second floor consists of a single, large attic room with big skylights, furnished with two more futons. The Longhouse has two bedrooms and a bath downstairs. Upstairs a huge living area with kitchen is walled almost entirely by glass.

For the first two weeks of her adventure, Peggy hosted two couples in addition to Cathy. Now we are expecting four other people, including Peggy's daughter Leah. Peggy has promised Leah the other Longhouse bedroom, so I stay in the cottage because I don't want to move in a few days. Peggy and I luxuriate in the ridiculous circumstance of having our own houses. 

We watch the news and learn that the volcano is still spewing forth ash and European airspace is closed. Seeing stranded passengers juggling small children while waiting in never-ending queues or trying to catch a few minutes sleep on airport terminal floors, I realize how lucky I am to be here.

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Peggy senses my anxiety about not being connected, so after breakfast we set out for a nearby town in search of a converter. After several stops, we find an electronics store in Bantry. The guy has a converter, but not one with a ground. However, we cobble together two adapters that will allow me to plug the netbook into the converter. I'm relieved and happy that I was able to solve the problem for only €7.50, although the klugy result - a stack consisting of three adapters and a converter - doesn't look pretty.

We take advantage of Bantry's Friday market to buy local cheese; a smoked goat cheese is especially delicious.

One of the purposes of this trip is for Peggy to scout locations for her future move to Ireland, so we stop at a realtor's office to check out properties. The realtors here post their holdings in their office windows; there isn't a central MLS as there is in the U.S.

Although we've been told that the real estate market here has collapsed, prices still seem quite high: cottages range from €300,000 to millions. One property catches Peggy's eye, a 19th century church just outside town that since 1988 has been used as a "centre for art, healing and dance." 

The realtor gives us the listing sheet and an article about the place that was published in 2004, when it was first listed for €600,000. The asking price is now €390,000. The church sits atop a hill amidst steep green sheep-dotted fields. The property, which also contains the ruins of an 8th century priory, is overgrown.

We park along the road and walk around the building, peering in a back window to glimpse an huge room with a kitchenette. Transforming the building into a residence looks daunting and the location feels isolated. We discuss whether Peggy needs to consider a more central location.

We head back to Crookhaven and I take in the picture-postcard scenery. Ireland's green hills are greener than any I've ever seen and divided by bright yellow gorse hedgerows or precise stone walls. I could spend a lifetime just studying the stonework.

The sheep - often sporting a splotch of bright pink or blue paint (a marking for vaccines? motherhood?) - peacefully munch grass and nurse their babies. There are not as many cows as sheep, but we see plenty of them, quietly grazing sometimes on impossibly steep hillsides.

Once or twice we pass what I call a pajama field, one featuring brown and white stripes. Upon closer inspection, we see that the white consists of long strips of plastic. Potato fields? We ask about it, but get a vague reply.

The coast is dramatic and, at the lighthouse, so similar to New Hampshire's that Peggy asks if the photo of Rye beach on my computer desktop was taken here. Both of us are struck by how undeveloped the coastline is: the few small towns are separated by miles and miles of farmland.

We arrive home and I rush to plug into my leaning tower of electricity. Phew, still in business, although now two days behind. But we're soon glued to the news, which is sounding ever more dire, and it's beginning to dawn on us that the flight stoppage could last into next week. Uh oh.