There’s a place that stays in my memory.  I can feel it now, it’s solitude, it’s tranquility.  It was on the outskirts of our town, yet only a stones throw from the trials and tribulations of everyday life. We found it quite by chance as we ventured down a turn off from the busy road, not knowing where it would lead to or if anyone lived there.

We walked there many times after that, when my children were young.  To get to it, we walked down the Dargle Road, past Murphy’s Pub and to the left towards the roundabout which branched off towards the motorway.  At that time there were no shops along the way, where the Egan Centre is now.  To the left, on the main road, the Dargle River wound its way down from the Wicklow Mountains. Horses grazed in the fields beyond the river. Sometimes we sat on the wall to watch them. Some had their heads in the grass, others occasionally lifted their heads and stared over at us. Sometimes the older children climbed over the wall and walked beside the river, as it slowly made its way downstream, past the People’s Park to the bridge in the town and out to sea.  The children threw stones into the water, watching the ripples spreading outwards.  I would shout “don’t go in the water” but if their feet got wet, they hardly noticed.

We crossed the road and turned right into the laneway. We walked under a canopy of trees, which led to a large house at the end. We never ventured as far as the house. The eldest two girls scrambled deeper into the wood. “Don’t go too far” I would call out after them. My two year old son was in his pushchair.  We stayed on the pathway.  In the Spring, clumps of primroses and bluebells grew here and there.  We wandered slowly, as the lane gently curved.  At first the muffled sound of cars could be heard faintly in the distance. After that, apart from the leaves rustling overhead in the breeze, it was quiet and still.

The sun glistened through the trees, blinding, like a torch, flashing on and off. The trees were an assortment of Beech and Sycamore, Silver Birch. Some had ivy or moss growing up and around the bark, or birds nesting higher up. I could hear the crunching of leaves or twigs breaking beneath the girl’s feet, amid the sound of laughter or the odd shriek as the they waded through the undergrowth. There was nothing to fear. We were safe here. We were the only ones alive in this place, apart from the robins or thrushes bobbing and chirping on the branches above.  We often saw the odd grey squirrel, sitting on the path before scurrying up a tree. This was our place to wonder at will.

One day, somewhere in the distance, we heard a dog bark.  Within minutes a Doberman came bounding down the road, from the direction of the house.  The girls scrambled towards me, grabbing on to me.  ‘Keep quite still’ I told them.  I held my breath and clutched the pushchair tightly, staring him down.  He stopped barking, but growled showing his white teeth and fangs. His black coat glistened.  He lowered his head, sniffing, and then with one last look in our direction, he headed back.  We didn’t stay there very long that day.