We left Dublin for a village in Leitrim and our rent dropped by two thirds: two years later we would never go back

We packed our lives into a van on a wet Friday and pointed it northwest. Friends called it a phase, a trial, a “see-how-it-goes.” We just called it a change. By Sunday, our boxes were stacked in a quiet cottage, and the sound of the city had been replaced by wind through trees and the tapping of rain on slate.

Why We Walked Away

Dublin had begun to feel like a treadmill. We worked more to pay for the privilege of being near what we rarely had time to enjoy. Even the groceries felt expensive, even the evenings felt rushed.

“Why not try a smaller place for a year?” I asked, half joking. She nodded, half relieved. We looked at maps, called a few agents, and one day a long lane in Leitrim floated into our lives like a possibility.

The Rent That Changed Everything

The numbers were the first big shock. Our monthly rent in the village was about a third of what we’d been paying in the city. We didn’t just cut a bill; we bought back time. “It felt like someone handed us an afternoon every day,” she said, “and told us to spend it on living.”

With the extra breathing room, we upgraded our old car, fixed a leaky roof, and still had enough to save for trips. The constant mental calculator—Can we do this? Can we afford that?—grew quieter.

A Different Kind of Abundance

Here, abundance looks like space. It’s a lane with blackberry briars, a field that glows a rare gold, a kitchen big enough for six friends and a pot of stew. Our neighbours trade eggs for advice, stories for time, laughter for lifts into town.

We found ourselves saying “yes” more—yes to the lake at dusk, yes to a Tuesday ceilí, yes to the farmer who needed an extra pair of hands. The calendar grew fuller, but our heads grew lighter.

Work, But Saner

We both kept our jobs, thanks to solid broadband and bosses who valued results over postcodes. There were hiccups: a storm knocked the power, a neighbour lent us a generator and three candles. We learned to plan around the weather, to download files before the wind made the trees argue.

Oddly, we became more focused. Fewer coffee-line chats, more finished projects. Lunch is a loop around a bog road, or ten minutes pruning an unruly rose. “My work day has edges now,” she said. “It begins, it ends, and then I’m not working anymore.”

What Changed, Measured Simply

• Rent shrank, our margin of error grew
• Commutes vanished, our evenings stretched
• Friends thinned out, neighbours thickened
• Noise dropped, birdsong rose

Trade-Offs We Accept

There are trade-offs, because there always are. A great gig happens on a Thursday in the city, and we see it from a glowing screen. Buses run when they can, not when you will them to arrive. Winters are long and wet, and the sky sometimes presses like a low ceiling.

We’ve learned to be active about culture: drive to Sligo for a play, host musicians in the kitchen, stream what can’t be found at the local hall. We keep a shelf of emergency candles and a WhatsApp group for storm updates. You don’t fix the weather; you fix your expectations.

Community, Unscripted

In the city we knew first names and closing times. Here we know the sound of our neighbour’s tractor, the day the calves are due, the shortcut when the river swells. “You can’t hide in a small place,” a woman at the shop told us, smiling. “But why would you want to?”

Grief and joy are shared fast. A new baby brings casseroles and loud jokes. A funeral brings traffic on a lane, and a patience that stretches into the evening. Community isn’t an event you attend; it’s the fabric you wear.

Home, Relearned

We look different now in the mirror of our days. We linger over breakfast, walk out back to check the rain and end up on our knees in the soil. Weekends have themes—water, hedges, friends, rest—rather than a ballet of errands and queues.

If Dublin is a thrill, Leitrim is a long, deep breath. The thrill was grand, and we still love its loud, brave heart. But we didn’t move for novelty. We moved for a quieter center, and we found it.

Two Years On

People ask if we’ll ever move back. We say the same thing every time: not to the life we had. Maybe someday we’ll keep a city bolt-hole, or spend a month chasing theatre and late-night noodles. But our week-to-week belongs to the lake, the lane, the small routines that make large sense.

“Every choice writes a story,” she says, and the wind tugs at the edge of her scarf. Out here, our story reads clearer. We pay less in money, more in attention, and it has made us quietly, stubbornly rich.