On a stuffy day in London, when the west of Ireland seems very distant, I often imagine myself back in Rosses Point in County Sligo, perhaps the loveliest village in the country. My grandmother was born nearby and, for nearly a century, our family has returned as often as possible to a place that has acquired mythical status. There is Oyster Island, by which you can spend hours watching cormorants flying just above the water. And Coney, which has a stone chair upon which St Patrick is said to have sat, and its own pub, which the good saint may have missed. Opened when it 'feels right', the owner is John McGowan, whose family can claim to be the sole remaining permanent residents.
Moody mountains encircle the landscape.
On one side is Ben Bulben, on the other that rounded Matriarch Knocknarea, atop of which is buried the celtic Queen Maeve. Then there is the championship golf course, which plays differently every day with the changing seasons. Austie's for hot whiskeys when a gale's blowing, Hackett's for a chat, Harry's for a song, Nifty's for a bender. Such a shame they're all so far away. I'm not the only long distance dreamer about the Point.