He can sit in the cottage for a week without a problem. The rain rips across the last of the headland, chased in from Northern Ireland by endless west...rlies, gathering fury and pace until it smashes itself against the rough walls of the house. The living room is small and, to most tastes, merely functional. His armchair sits next to the open fire, which he must always keep at least simmering with hot ashes. It heats the whole house. A stack of logs leans against one of four bookcases that form. It seemed I had accomplished what I had intended, but something was missing. I climbed the steps to the porch, feeling a bit confused. I should have been happy just then, but I was not quite sure what I was feeling. I could almost describe myself as feeling lost. I put the basket down and looked at the old man and my boyfriend. Rick was sweating, he wasn’t accustomed to this heat, but the old man looked as comfortable as he had when we arrived. The farmer smiled at me as I stood there looking. More

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