The mother-in-law suspected that a neighbour beside the farm was operating a shebeen. "There's smoke coming from a shed on Arthur's land," she said. On Paddy's Day it was raided by gardai, who followed a car. Twelve punters inside; the neighbour was given a warning in lieu of the ten grand fine.

Only 3.4% of the Republic's population have been vaccinated. According to the NYT, Ireland is not among the 48 countries - all rich ones - set to be fully vaccinated by the end of this year. It's quite frustrating. We're under one of the strictest lockdowns in the world - no non-essential movement beyond 5 kilometers of home, and no meeting people beyond your bubble, even outside. It's working, I guess, the incidence rate is below the European average, and zero cases were reported in our county for the last fortnight. Still, frustration is mounting, as it doesn't look like we'll get out of this most severe of lockdowns until well into the summer.

The husband drove us to a townland about nine miles away to look at some land he is selling for an Englishman. You wouldn't know it was there, screened by beech stands, just a mucky dirt road leading up to a house falling into ruin. "Some hippie will buy it, someone who'll do it up." On the way home we drove through the village. Cherry trees in full bloom lined the quaint main street. Quaint is a word for something no longer new or modern, something well past its prime but not quite dead, exerting a vaguely nostalgic appeal. Some of the shopfronts were empty, and their windows were painted with signifiers of the bars and grocery stores they had once been. A young girl leaned over a wall and waved. An old man, sitting in his idle car, squinted at us. A golden bear of a dog stopped to turn to stare at the car as we passed, as if we were Martians.

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