Gran’s house was a refuge. A different place and a different time, out of step from the rest of the world, but real.

Maybe the pilgrimage to get there imbued it with a sacred charm: an international overnight flight to London, a connecting flight to Dublin, car hire collection and a road trip north through stunning Irish green, to Dundalk.

Gliding to a halt beside the row of identical terraced houses brought an overwhelming sense of peace. I am home.

A warm lounge. The clatter of Rosary beads being placed into a drawer. And tea. Endless cups of tea.

Romance books piled up beside guest beds were like guilty chocolates, comfort food to be guzzled on the sly. Hours into the night, books mindlessly wiped away any woes that may, or may not be about.

Precious visitors popping in at all hours (for tea), taking me out to magical castles, flashing me back to childhood memories of playing on windy beaches with cousins. Ruins defying the ages, standing tribute to the forgotten, a little beaten down, but implacable.

Even now I can’t pass a ‘pile of rocks’ as my mother calls them, without needing to stop and investigate – climb and caress the stones, marvel at worn-down stairs. Enjoy the ancient Irishness of it all: green, smiling and so precious.