The transition from city suburb to rural village life is an obvious step to take, but is not without its perils and difficulties, writes Kathy Sheridan
Who are the flesh-and-blood people behind the exploding towns and villages of the commuter counties? Miserably-oppressed young first-time buyers, squeezed out of their native city by house prices? Struggling young parents, forced to strap new-borns into cars at dawn, en route to a 12-hour day via four-hour commutes? Are the weekends focused on sad forays back to granny in the suburbs or nostalgia-charged trips to Hill 16?
As always, there are germs of truth in the stereotype but the truth is more complex.
Start in, say, Daly's lounge bar in Rochfortbridge, Co Westmeath, on a Saturday night. The dominant accents are pure Dublin. The surprising part is how many sold a "pokey little Corpo house" in Drimnagh/Clondalkin/Tallaght for "amazing money", paid "buttons" for a place twice the size 50 miles out, and, with the profit, were able to pay off borrowings and buy a new car for the first time in their lives.
Of course, cash is not the only motive. Much greater is the yearning for more space and privacy. Many women describe taking "one look" at an expansive, well-fitted kitchen with patio doors opening into a spacious back garden and "falling in love".
In countless cases, there are deeper motives which may never be articulated for fear of upsetting decent, former neighbours: worries about children being enmeshed in rampant anti-social gangs; the woman too terrorised to walk to the shops or get a bus; the family devastated by the new neighbours from hell; schools so poor in every sense that even the teachers are bailing out.
Implicit in it all is the sense that they have this one shot at gifting another, better life to their children.
While many people passing through, say, Rochfortbridge, see only a suburban-type eruption in the middle of nowhere, newcomers look behind the bland housing to a rural idyll of space and peace, fields and bogland, sheep and ducks, stars visible in the night sky, good schools with a "country" ethos and pubs that remember your name and are up for a good, old sing-along on a Saturday night.
Everywhere, there are numerous stories of siblings and grandparents who came to visit and slapped down a deposit themselves on a house nearby, sometimes re-uniting an extended family in a new estate 40 or 50 miles from Dublin.
They are the success stories. There are also stories of wrenching loneliness and an inability to settle. Some people are clearly in denial. It takes courage to admit that such a major and public life-choice has been a disaster. They never stop missing the old city infrastructure and neighbours, the noise, the buses, the shops, the strolls down Grafton Street on a Sunday, the women's groups, Hill 16 and, above all, the vast, extended family life beginning with Mother, that many Dubliners cultivate and love.
Older children - accustomed to multiplexes, malls and buses every few minutes - are the family members most challenged by the city-to-country move. A year into the move, some are still taking the bus to the city every weekend. For now, the great bulk of the in-comers are young children, many of them in fine houses but hurtling towards their teens in areas without proper roads, traffic controls, transport, footpaths, lighting or facilities. The authorities ignore this time-bomb at their peril.
Sometimes, the prime reason for the move to the country - freedom and safety for children - is negated by thunderous traffic speeding through tiny villages, as in Ratoath. Older people used to lingering for a chat after Mass, now scurry to the neighbour's car for a lift home. One parent described having to load all four small children into the car just to fetch a carton of milk.
And in many places, eager parents who bought the estate agent's line about the "fine nearby school", note ruefully what they did not say: that it was designed for a population a quarter the size.
Invariably, the toughest tales are about commuting. Those working on greenfield sites have no choice but to drive. The "criminal lack" of park-and-ride facilities on the city fringes gets frequent mention. No one can fathom why there is no commuter train for exploding Gorey. Those with a tolerable rail service - such as Carlow or Portlaoise - where, ostensibly, the journey takes an hour or so, find that by the time they reach their city centre offices, it has taken little short of two, often in choking cigarette smoke. Over-crowding and city snarl-ups mean that fold-up seats and bikes are the new commuter must-haves and the train table (if you get a seat) is for lap-top working.
The greatest pressure, of course, falls on the first-time buyers, the young couples with a small child or two and a mortgage that requires two full-time salaries, probably involving long commutes.
There are plenty of them, though probably not as many as is generally believed. The Maynooth study of Ratoath, though not a place with typical socio-economic profile, confirms the trend.
Many couples, where they can, are making choices that put family first. In Rochfortbridge, the public health nurse, Lillie Donoghue, reckons that she sees as many "stay-at-home" mothers as commuters and quite a few have got jobs locally. Often, while a couple might appear to be trapped in a relentless cycle of bed/crèche/commute/work, it emerges that the mother works a week-on/week-off roster, or a three-day week, or mornings only. More employers are enabling people to work some or all hours from home.
There are also fathers who work 12-hour shifts and have alternate weeks off, others who squeeze five workdays into four and some - especially in the notoriously competitive IT sector - who sacrifice promotion by insisting on being home in time to read the bedtime story. Too often, however, the overall impression is of regression to a time when father was largely absent and mother spent lonely hours alone with small children.
And once home, how do the blow-ins and natives rub along together? Apart from the odd murmur about the Dubs "taking over" the pubs and GAA venues, the answer is positive. In Sallins, a schoolboy delights in his new footballing mates. Ratoath needed new blood, says a long-time resident. Rochfortbridge wasn't exactly a model of progress before the influx, says a Co Westmeath native.
The question is, where will it end? "With all their talk of 'facilities' and 'amenities' and big roads and fancy shops and developments, you'd have to wonder what they're looking for here," says a "country" man. "Do they really want to live in the country - or will they never rest until they have Dublin down here with them?"