I’ve been quiet of late. At least in the context of this column. But my silence is for good reason. I’m delighted to share that my first book, provisionally titled Falling for a Farmer, will be published by Mercier Press later this year.

In November, once the excitement of signing the contract subsided, it dawned on me that now I would have to actually finish the thing I’d begun writing one year before. The January 2018 deadline left little time for distractions, and family and friends were warned accordingly. So you can imagine my surprise at Jack’s seemingly blatant disregard when he text me at work on Friday, 22 December, and asked me to meet him in town.

Festive Spirit

Luckily for him, I was in good spirits that afternoon on account of it being my last day in the office before the break. Knowing I would get away early, I agreed to meet him, assuming that he needed help with some last-minute shopping. It was an excuse for the two of us together to indulge in the excitement, the bustle and brilliance of Grafton Street at Christmas. A dose of festive cheer before we parted ways for those few days between 24 December and Stephen’s Day, which we’d spend with our families in our respective home counties – Kildare for Jack and Derry for me.

It was grey and drizzly out, but as I made my way from Custom House Quay to the south city centre, the joy of office workers enjoying their first taste of holiday freedom brought a welcome glow to the busy streets along the Liffey. I got as far as O’Connell Bridge before I realised that I didn’t yet know where, exactly, I was headed. I texted Jack to see where he was.

The Difference a Year Makes

As I waited to cross the road, I reflected on the year almost gone – a year that, for me, had certainly been eventful. I’d moved in with my farmer, come close to being washed away at The Ploughing, attended my first country music concert and made my first visit to the mart. 2017 definitely had some milestone moments and it wasn’t over yet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. “I’m in Temple Bar,” read Jack’s reply, and I felt a sudden rush of blood to my head. With trembling hands, I texted him back: “I’ll be there in five.”

He hadn’t said where, exactly, in Temple Bar I should meet him, but my feet were moving anyway, guided by memory and nostalgia. When I found myself stuck behind a crowd of ambling tourists, I sent Jack another quick text: “Where exactly will I meet you?”

That time, he responded almost instantly: “I’m at the Porterhouse.”

The text message stared up at me expectantly.

I knew then. I knew what was coming, and let me tell you, it’s a funny feeling when a moment you’ve dreamed about your whole life, imagined, and built up, suddenly comes into view.

As much as I’d willed it, beckoned for it, I wanted to push pause, too. I wanted to slow everything down so that I wouldn’t miss a second of it. So that I would remember every thought, every feeling, every word. But my feet kept moving. I turned the corner and straight away, I saw him, standing outside the pub where we first met three and a half years ago, his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowed in the way that it does when he’s deep in thought. I smiled and waved and he barely nodded his head.

He looked very serious. Oh no, perhaps I had got it all wrong? I approached him somewhat warily.

Building Nerves

“How are you?” he said, his smile unconvincing.

“I’m grand,” I lied, my nerves shot. Indeed, I could have done with a shot to calm me. But he made no move to enter the pub. Instead, he took my arm and led me into a nearby doorway. People passed by, but I was aware of them just barely – blurs in my peripheral vision. Jack stepped in closer, and lowered his head so that our brows were almost touching. He spoke quietly, his voice deep and low.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m not good with words…”

Well, I don’t know what standards he had set for himself but as far as I was concerned, the words that followed were among the best I have ever heard.

There’s a worry that nothing is sacred when you’re in a relationship with a writer but that’s not true. Even we recognise the moments that are best kept private. What I will share is this: three and a half years ago, Jack and I first met at the Porterhouse, Temple Bar. On that Friday afternoon, on a grey day set aglow with festive feeling and Christmas cheer, he asked me to meet him there again, and he asked me to marry him. I said, “yes”, of course. Here’s to forever, and to becoming a farmer’s wife! CL