{"id":2934,"date":"2026-08-30T08:00:00","date_gmt":"2026-08-30T07:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/?p=2934"},"modified":"2026-08-27T09:48:53","modified_gmt":"2026-08-27T08:48:53","slug":"three-summers-after-leaving-dun-laoghaire-for-the-erne-lakeshore-this-couple-say-they-only-miss-the-sea","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/three-summers-after-leaving-dun-laoghaire-for-the-erne-lakeshore-this-couple-say-they-only-miss-the-sea\/","title":{"rendered":"Three summers after leaving D\u00fan Laoghaire for the Erne lakeshore this couple say they only miss the sea"},"content":{"rendered":"

They packed the car with plants<\/strong>, books, and a kettle that whistles like a train<\/strong>, and pointed it northwest. Three summers on, their days are edged by reeds<\/strong>, not granite piers; by curlews<\/strong>, not car alarms. The move was meant to be a one-year experiment<\/strong>, a pause long enough to breathe in quiet<\/strong> and see what surfaced. It became a life<\/strong>, stitched by water that doesn\u2019t heave, only holds<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Trading the pier for the peninsula<\/strong><\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They remember the exact evening<\/strong> they knew they could leave: dusk along the East<\/strong> Pier, gulls mobbing a chip bag, a wind that bit through coats<\/strong>. \u201cWe loved the harbour\u2019s rituals<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve says, \u201cbut our weeks felt like sprint<\/strong> repeats.\u201d Brendan nods: \u201cEvery hour had a meter<\/strong>, like we were keeping time<\/strong> for somebody else.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

On the Erne, the ferry to Devenish<\/strong> glides past their cove<\/strong>, and a heron lifts like a folded piece of paper<\/strong>. \u201cHere, the clock is the light<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve says, smiling. \u201cAnd the lake is always the first<\/strong> word.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A small house with a wide<\/strong> view<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They found a cottage that once stored oars<\/strong>, its stone cool and the roof honest<\/strong> with slate. The kitchen windows are a movie<\/strong>, flickering with weather, boats, and sometimes an otter<\/strong>. They kept the footprint modest<\/strong> and let the shoreline do the talking<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cEvery change we made had to listen<\/strong>,\u201d Brendan explains. \u201cWe stripped back to lime<\/strong>, kept the boards bare<\/strong>, and let the rooms feel porous<\/strong> to the outside.\u201d In winter, a peat stove murmurs<\/strong>, and the lake breathes mist<\/strong> through the hedges like a slow parade<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Work that fits like a cardigan<\/strong><\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Neither of them retired; they just rearranged<\/strong>. Maeve edits manuscripts for small presses<\/strong>, trading conference halls for a desk<\/strong> facing water. Brendan shifted from site management to joinery<\/strong>, building benches that quote the shoreline<\/strong> in their grain.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cConnectivity is a thread<\/strong>, not a chain,\u201d Maeve jokes. \u201cA weak signal can be a gift<\/strong>, especially when you have to finish<\/strong> a paragraph.\u201d They learned to schedule calls between squalls<\/strong>, to send big files while the moon is high<\/strong>, to lean into the rhythm of a place<\/strong> that dislikes hurry.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Neighbours measured in fields<\/strong>, not floors<\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Community arrived like a breeze<\/strong>, unannounced and kind<\/strong>. The woman who sells eggs also knows every jetty<\/strong>. A retired angler taught Brendan to read wind<\/strong> as if it were a second map<\/strong>. Nights sometimes end with six people around a table<\/strong>, bowls of chowder and a fiddle\u2019s lilt<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen something breaks, you don\u2019t google<\/strong>, you call<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve says. \u201cAnd when the rain is a drum<\/strong>, someone texts to say the road at the bend is a river<\/strong>.\u201d It\u2019s slower and more woven<\/strong> than the apartment-block nods they used to trade<\/strong> in town.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Weather as a second language<\/strong><\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

Living by the Erne is learning to translate<\/strong>. Summer arrives in shards<\/strong>: ten minutes of sun, a page of rain<\/strong>, then a sky that can\u2019t decide which story<\/strong> to tell. The lake is a barometer, a long silver sentence<\/strong> that changes its verb<\/strong> hourly.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

They keep jackets by the door<\/strong>, torches in the drawer<\/strong>, and a short mental list<\/strong> of sheltering piers<\/strong>. \u201cWe don\u2019t fight the elements<\/strong>,\u201d Brendan says. \u201cWe count them, and then we join<\/strong> in.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

What they actually miss<\/strong><\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

They don\u2019t pretend it\u2019s a swap<\/strong> without a seam. \u201cWe miss the sea<\/strong>, in a way that sits in the bones<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve admits. \u201cThe brine, the hit of iodine<\/strong>, the big weather<\/strong> that stands up to you.\u201d The lake can be vast<\/strong>, but it doesn\u2019t roar<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

They also miss the Thursday-night cinema<\/strong>, the last-minute gig<\/strong>, the bakery that did kouign-amann with gloss<\/strong>. \u201cSometimes I want to walk until my feet<\/strong> are tired of pavement<\/strong>,\u201d Brendan says. \u201cSometimes I want to be anonymous<\/strong> again.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Gains that surprised them<\/strong><\/h2>\n

<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n
  • A calendar shaped by light<\/strong> instead of traffic<\/strong>; friendships made by knocking on an actual door<\/strong>; hobbies that began as chores<\/strong> and ended as small joys<\/strong>.<\/li>\n

    \n<\/ul>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Boats, not buses, and a different pace<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Their commute, when they have one, is a punt<\/strong> to a jetty and a short drive<\/strong> past cattle staring like mild inspectors<\/strong>. Grocery trips happen in clusters<\/strong>, lists pinned to the fridge<\/strong> with found shells<\/strong> from their coastal past<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They measure progress in the garden<\/strong> by the stubbornness of mint<\/strong>, by how long the wild strawberries<\/strong> fool the birds. Weekends might mean paddling to a cut<\/strong> between reeds just to see what the light<\/strong> is doing there. \u201cYou start keeping track of small<\/strong> things,\u201d Maeve says. \u201cAnd the small things become daily<\/strong> victories.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Advice for the almost-ready<\/strong><\/h2>\n

    <\/p>\n

    \u201cDon\u2019t come to escape a self<\/strong>,\u201d Maeve warns. \u201cCome to meet a place<\/strong>.\u201d Brendan suggests renting first, in all seasons<\/strong>, to learn your own thresholds<\/strong> for silence, damp, and the quick company<\/strong> of midges.<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    They also urge patience with infrastructure<\/strong>. Roads will puddle<\/strong>, deliveries will wander, and plumbers keep their own time<\/strong>. \u201cBut if you match your stride<\/strong> to here,\u201d Brendan says, \u201cyou\u2019ll find that not much is truly urgent<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n

    <\/p>\n

    Three summers later, their photo albums smell faintly of peat<\/strong>, their playlists drift toward fiddle<\/strong> tunes, and their windowpanes host a rotating cast of weather<\/strong>. They say the only ache that lingers is salt<\/strong>, the kind you taste on your lips just after a wave has spoken<\/strong>. And sometimes, on still nights, when the lake is a polished coin<\/strong>, they swear they can hear the sea<\/strong> breathing beyond the dark, patient hills<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2989,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2934","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-news","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-50"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2934","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2934"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2934\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2959,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2934\/revisions\/2959"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2989"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2934"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2934"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.farmersforum.ie\/trends\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2934"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}