by Fay Martin
Shortlisted for the 2024 PureTravel Writing Competition
Surrounded by pure opulence, I decided that this was perhaps one of the most striking hotels I had ever stepped foot inside. A place of grandeur, dripping in luxury, with suites to die for. The circular mahogany bar was straight out of a movie, a focal point for guests to gather whilst others lounged looking out across the lake, which lay undisturbed, barely a ripple in sight.
It was from this bar, on a fresh autumnal morning, that we began our journey. Steeling myself against the cold with much needed coffee, I took in the serene beauty of Lough Eske, nestled amongst trees, almost hidden from the world. The county town of Donegal was barely a few minutes away, but this lake felt like an escape from the humdrum of the outside world.
We were embarking on a treasure hunt of sorts, with only a handful of clues to aid us. Using the hotel as the starting point, we would not be travelling far – 15 minutes around the lake – but the destination would feel like a lifetime away. Setting off in convoy, we squeezed through the country tracks which dipped and dived as we circumnavigated the lake. These tracks were the arteries used by the scatterings of locals with smaller capillaries diverging off into the woods, soon swallowed by shadows as they weaved through the trees.
Now the real test began. Before undertaking this quest, we had been given two vital clues: a vague location and a picture of a particular landmark, a metaphorical ‘X marks the spot’. With very little information to go on, we took our chances with the unknown. Venturing down the narrowest of lanes, we prayed we wouldn’t meet any oncoming traffic, only to then awkwardly manoeuvre back to the main track having reached a dead end. Each lane looked identical, lined with fields and trees, their gnarled branches reaching overhead, fending off the weak October rays.
On our fourth try, we finally spotted our landmark: a green gate, so unassuming we almost drove right by it. The gate itself was inconsequential. It was the field directly opposite that was of real interest, a field that looked just like any other in the rich green tapestry of the Irish countryside. Yet, this field held a priceless treasure that would surely be worthless to everyone else. We knew it was in there. On a darker day, we would have surely missed it. An untamed rhododendron bush dominated the far corner but small gaps gave us a glimpse of that which we most desired to find.
A shrill screech reverberated through the stillness of the day as we pushed open the rusted gate. Squelching through the muddy field, the ground so boggy we had to watch every tiptoe and footstep, we were momentarily distracted from our slow progress by the sounds of clopping feet thundering down the lane. Peering back through the gate, we were met with the unrelenting stares of local cows, obviously curious as to what this group of visitors were doing in their home. Thinking we were about to be mobbed (an additional challenge we had not considered), we were relieved when they continued their lazy stroll, leaving us in peace.
Pushing aside the branches of the bush, the last guardian of our treasure, a moment of silence descended amongst our group as we took in the sight before us. It was a house. A house that had stood for so long, it was a mere skeleton of what it once must have been. Walls made of dark grey, moss-covered stones, of all different shapes and sizes, closely packed together to give rigidity to the structure. Verdant greenery poked through any available gaps, gasping for sunlight which had long been blocked from reaching this dark corner. Most notably, the house lacked a roof, completely open to the elements. It was a miracle it was still standing, that it had been left to grow old.
Ducking through the doorways, peering through the windows, we felt as if we were in a different time and place compared to the hotel where we had embarked on this journey. Imagining we were standing in what might have once been the living room, we tried to visualise the lives of the family that had lived here a century before. My grandfather’s family. A house where he had lived as a little boy. Now, here I was, with my parents, my aunt and uncle, gifted with this brief moment to glimpse his childhood and to step into the not-so-distant past.
Photo by Brian Kelly on Unsplash
