The ways of the West

The Leenane Hotel sits shyly in a nook by the road that winds circumspectly along the edge of Killary harbour. I passed it with an unsatisfied curiosity for decades. Finally I came to stay.
Inside a hallowed afternoon quiet was broken only by the tinkle of silver plated spoons stirring china tea cups. It was 4 o’clock. Outside a wind raged, clouds scudded and the fjord corralled its white horses where hills fell steeply to the water’s edge.
After check in I climbed the stairs in both directions and wandered off towards the Field Bar.

It sits low and cosy in what can barely be called the village. Inside three old ‘codgers’ sat, skirting warily around the idea of acquaintance. Words were offered sparingly, nothing given away. The arrival of a stranger gave them unity of purpose. Ireland of the welcomes indeed !, their greeting more like an inquisition.
As I return to the hotel night falls and the silence lifts. A group of ‘locals’ joins visitors in the hotel bar – wining, dining, drinking craft beer and strong porter. The generations mingle, hours run fast.
Next morning the West sleeps. Under my tiny balcony the fjord lies becalmed. The wind is nowhere to be heard. Quiet, warm sunshine stirs a passion for the unfolding day. Memories form.
The Leenane hotel may not be a place you visit often but in many ways it is a place you never leave.