Liam and I left Ireland last autumn with our kids aged six and one. It was improvised, but we’d felt stuck in a rut for years. Renting in Dublin is epic.
Our first child was born in the Coombe. Despite its charms, inner city Dublin with its constant shouting, discarded syringes and broken bottles didn’t seem like an ideal environment to raise our little girl, so we decided to move to the leafy suburbs.
Our new home turned out to be a booby-trap. Appliances broke down one after the other, and new leaks kept spouting and weren’t repaired. Last July, the rent for our shabby two-bed was to go up by a whopping 30 per cent. At the time, that was still legal.
We had a new baby now, a little boy. We needed more space anyway, so I started hunting for a house and a crèche.
Our daughter was in a private school, stretching our budget to the limit, because we wanted a non-religious school and hadn’t found one, despite applying when she was just nine months old, and sending many pleading letters.
We finally got a place in Greystones in Co Wicklow. Its hippie vibe seemed exciting, but it was an hour and a half away from Liam’s workplace in Dublin, and we soon found it had become just as expensive as the city.
Every rental I viewed was tiny, decrepit, overpriced or all of the above. One apartment smelled like a sewer. In another one, the dog next door kept barking and had adorned the balcony with a big turd. Mould, flaking paint and battered furniture were common features.
At last I saw a decent house, but with a disproportionately high rent. I tried to negotiate 25 per cent less, but even that would have been tight for us.
I was starting to despair. “Never mind, we can just leave the country,” Liam said. He has an unusual background for someone with a very Irish surname: He’s English, because 100 years ago, his Republican ancestors had to escape to the UK, and he grew up in France. My late in-laws’ house in Brittany was waiting for us to make the big decision.
Should we leave now, after ten amazing years together in Ireland, and two children?
As a writer and translator, I have a portable job. And Liam’s boss agreed to let him work from abroad. So we went for it. We booked a one-way ferry ticket to France. Typically, that’s when the owner of that nice house in Greystones called to accept our reduced rent offer after all. But our minds were made up.
We didn’t want our daughter to miss the first day in a new school, so we had four weeks to vacate our Dublin home, which was a juggling act with our jobs and two kids on holidays. Another challenge was to drastically reduce the bulk.
Liam booked cheap movers online. Until the last minute, we didn’t know what would fit in their van. We weren’t sure they could be trusted, but it was a relief to see them drive away with all our belongings, because we couldn’t postpone the move any longer. The ferry was not going to wait, nor the property manager.
That night, we slept on the floor of our empty house. The next day, we hugged our friends and neighbours, managed a breezy “See you soon”, and left. Our old banger was crammed full with our luggage and all the last minute paraphernalia. Our daughter asked, “Do we live in the car now?”
On the ferry we were finally able to relax. When we arrived, Brittany felt strange because this time we were here to stay. With the scorching sunshine and beautiful beaches, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just a holiday.
Two days later, our daughter started in her new school, which was secular, mixed and free. Everyone was really friendly. We also found a lovely crèche for the baby. It is cheap compared to Ireland.
Many Bretons would insist that Brittany is not France. In any case, it’s great. We buy our vegetables and dairy products from organic farms down the road, and feast with French wine.
I was driving along French country roads after the school run one morning, listening to Lisa Hannigan’s “What’ll I Do (Without You)?”, when it finally hit me. We left Ireland. We left our home and our friends. Grief came suddenly, like a slap in my face. I enjoy living in my native France, but I don’t belong here anymore. I have been uprooted. So have my Irish children.
Wasn’t it very Irish to leave Ireland? My daughter still asks when we will go home.
I look ahead and wonder, where to next?
