Page 6 of The Wandering Season

“You live here?”

I asked, not caring that I sounded like an imbecile as I gaped at the ancient structure. I felt my annoyance with Avery and Stephanie dissipating. What they lacked in consideration for the practicalities of travel, they seemed determined to make up for with once-in-a-lifetime lodgings. It wasn’t the worst outcome, though the lack of a rental car might prove a challenge.

“I do. In the caretaker’s cottage in high season, but I take one of the rooms in the castle itself in low season. Winter is hard on these old buildings, and I like to be on-site in case something goes wrong. Catching a broken pipe within a few minutes or even an hour or two is a headache, but not catching it until the next day can be disastrous.”

“I imagine so.”

I was more than a tad relieved to hear mention of indoor plumbing. Not all the castles in Ireland, even those used for bed-and-breakfasts, boasted such modern comforts. Some rugged tourists probably thought a sojourn in a medieval castle without heat or running water would be charming. Character building, even. And for a night or two—in summer—I might be game. But for a full week in winter? No. My character could remain weak and underdeveloped if that was the cost. “Have you lived here long?”

“My whole life.”

A note of pride rang in Niall’s voice that made the corners of my lips turn upward. He loved his work. Caretaking couldn’t be a glamorous job, but he clearly thought it was worth doing.

“Do you own the place?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s rather an odd arrangement. The castle is owned by the county, and I’m paid a salary to maintain the place. It’s allowed to be run as a bed-and-breakfast so it can pay for its own maintenance. Rather elegant solution, I think. My da was caretaker before me, and his father before him. And generations of Callahan men before them have worked in the castle in some capacity or another dating back centuries.”

“That’s quite the legacy.”

“My granddad claimed my family has served this castle and the families who held it for over seven hundred years until it went vacant. They’ve been stewards ever since. Of course anything going back that far is hard to prove with certainty, but it seems more likely than not based on what I’ve parsed together from the castle archives.”

I gave a low whistle. It was almost hard to fathom from my American perspective. Back home, any building approaching this vintage and significance, usually the remnants of native societies, was preserved as national monuments and historic parks. These castles were still being used. Perhaps not in the way they were designed for, but they were still homes—albeit temporary ones—for travelers and history buffs. And the Callahan family, it seemed.

“She’s a beauty from the outside, but there’s plenty to see indoors, so we might as well stop gawking or she’ll take offense.”

I giggled, but it didn’t seem entirely like jest. It seemed perfectly logical to me that this massive edifice before me had feelings. A personality. A beating heart.

He carried my case into the Grand Hall. Replete with iron sconces, a roaring fire in an immense fireplace, and sturdy furniture built to last centuries. And it had. Rugs made of animal hides made the space seem less austere and somehow closer to nature.

“It’s incredible,”

I breathed.

“I still wonder when the sight of this place will grow old. I’m beginning to think it won’t.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the place long enough to read his expression. “How could it?”

“Why don’t we settle you into your room, and I’ll rustle you up a hot meal, shall I?”

I imagined this giant bear of a man fumbling through the kitchen, cursing his way through preparing a meal, burning and cutting his fingers along the way.

“Oh, you don’t have to go to any trouble. I’m sure I can find a pub.”

I paused. It would be a four-mile trek back into town, and I’d be hard-pressed to make it that far on airplane food and the sad train depot sandwich I’d hurriedly purchased in Dublin more than four hours ago. “Or maybe you just have something I can reheat?”

“Oh now, I see that look on your face. I’m a skilled hand in the kitchen. Let me show you upstairs.”

The staircase to the second floor was impossibly narrow, and I was glad Niall was wrangling my case.

“Apparently people were a good deal narrower eight hundred years ago,” I mused.

Niall chuckled. “In general, that has to be true. We have fast food to thank for that. But don’t forget, castles weren’t just passive fortresses; they were active weapons, and every inch was designed with that in mind. Narrow staircases gave the soldiers encamped here an important tactical advantage. Invaders would be forced to fight an uphill battle without the possibility of sneaking past the guards. A grand staircase out of Kensington Palace would have just been an invitation for trouble.”

As I walked I wondered how many bloody encounters happened on these very steps. Living such a brutish life would have been unthinkable, but as I sneaked glances out the narrow windows at the wild landscape beyond, it wasn’t hard to imagine a time when this didn’t feel like the edge of the world.

“Here you are.”

Niall opened the door to what must have been the bedroom of the lord and lady of the house.

“Wow.”

I could only sputter a monosyllable as I took in the room. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a small writing table, but each piece was heavy and imposing like the pieces in the Grand Hall. The four-poster bed alone looked like it weighed more than Niall’s car. There were more pelts, and the blaze in the fireplace was prepared for my arrival.

“I take it you approve?”

Something eager infused his voice. He wanted me to approve of the room. This castle. It was like an artist waiting for a critic to give her opinion on his chef d’oeuvre.

I was certain my eyes fairly bulked from my head. “How could I not? I’ve never seen a medieval castle before, let alone slept in one.”

“Well then, you’re in for a treat. Loo’s down the hall, so you’ll have to adjust to that small inconvenience, but it would have meant gutting the place to put a bathroom in every suite.”

I examined my room more closely. “No, I like indoor plumbing as much as the next girl, but that would destroy the place. This isn’t the Ritz or the Savoy.”

He broke into a smile. “I’m glad you see that. I’ll have a bite ready in about thirty minutes. Take your time.”

I exhaled as the door clicked behind me. My cobalt suitcase looked garish in its modernity against the earthen tones in the room. I unpacked as quickly as I could so I could stow it away and return the room to its rightful state.

I thought I saw a glimmer to the left of the fireplace, a flash of orange and green, but it passed so quickly I dismissed it as a play of the afternoon light against the lapping yellow flames in the massive stone hearth making mischief with my jet lag. I rubbed my eyes and fought against the pull of fatigue.

I ventured down to the bathroom, which I guessed had been installed sometime in the last hundred years and definitely appeared antique. It boasted a row of porcelain sinks and stall showers, reminiscent of an old boardinghouse. It was devoid of any sort of twenty-first-century luxury, but it would have been a marvel to anyone who’d lived in the castle when it was built. I thought of the indignities the lady of the house would have had to suffer, bathing down in the kitchens. Hauling hot water up the narrow stairs would have been a beastly task to ask often of the servants.

I placed my hand on one of the stones from the wall. Cold and unyielding. Ancient and immutable. It was hard to think that as lifeless as these stones were, they had witnessed centuries worth of living.

* * *

After half an hour, once I’d washed off the day of travel and changed into fresh clothes, I went downstairs and followed the scent to the kitchen where Niall had set the rough-hewn table with earthenware plates already loaded with a generous portion of soda bread and glasses brimming with amber liquid. My mouth gaped, unladylike, at the welcoming sight. Two matching bowls sat to his left at the stove, waiting for their contents.

“I told you I was a good cook. Serves you right for doubting a Callahan.”

He winked as he stirred the contents of an enameled Dutch oven.

“I won’t be making that mistake again.”

I took in a deep whiff. Whatever he was making smelled more delectable than it had any right to. My stomach rumbled in hunger. “Beef stew?”

“No, no. This is a proper Irish stew with lamb. My grandmother’s recipe.”

He ladled a helping into the bowls, placed one before each place at the table, and gestured for me to tuck in.

I took a spoonful and felt myself melting as it trickled down my throat. The lamb was tender, the broth seasoned to perfection. My eyes were closed, but I could hear him chuckling at me. “I’m glad you like it. It’s gratifying to see a meal I created eaten and appreciated.”

“No worries here,”

I said once I’d swallowed. “I’m a food matchmaker. A professional eater, in a sense.”

“You have me intrigued, Miss Stratton. What exactly is a food matchmaker? I’m worried that I’ve missed my calling.”

I finished another bite of stew and explained the ins and outs of my work as The Kitchen Muse, endeavoring to eat politely, despite my baser instincts that longed to lick the bowl clean and move on to devour the rest of the contents of the Dutch oven left simmering on the stove.

“That is fascinating.”

He’d been nodding with enthusiasm as I spoke. “I source all the ingredients I can from the estate here. And what I can’t, I find from the nearby farms. My mother says I’ve gotten to the point I can tell which farm raised the cow a local cheddar came from.”

“That’s exactly the sort of thing I do. I can tell you which farms in Palisade have the best peaches each season. Who’s got good rhubarb and whose millet crops are subpar. Even the best chefs in the world can’t work their magic if the ingredients are shoddy.”

“Amen to that. I’ve been trying to convince the powers that be to expand the food service here. There isn’t a bed-and-breakfast in Ireland that doesn’t serve a platter of dry scones, a bit of jam and clotted cream, and a pot of weak tea of a morning, but I want to host grand feasts here. Give people an idea of what a holiday meal might have been like in the times of yore. Food made with local ingredients, done well.”

“Sounds like a sound concept to me. And there’s no saying that you can’t improve upon the techniques and give the guests an updated version of what they might have eaten when the castle was in its heyday instead of giving them a more museum-like experience. Bland mutton and the like might not be a huge sell. Could you really keep up with the castle and a more elaborate food service?”

“It’s impossible to say until I’ve tried, but we could start off small and seasonal. A Christmas gala or an Easter luncheon for people in the surrounding area, and expand from there.”

I could immediately imagine the place festooned with evergreens and long, scarred tables laden with food and fires blazing. Mulled wine, roasted pigs over the fire, and all the lush trimmings. “I love that.”

“Your eyes glazed over as you pictured that. I’ll take it as a good sign.”

I imagined my face was in full Kitchen Muse consultant mode. “I think you’re onto something. It would be a way to boost business during slow periods, which I assume would be a good thing?”

“Of course. We aren’t suffering, but what businessman doesn’t want a buffer to see him through lean times? And it would be a nice treat for the locals who never have much cause to visit the place, which is always a nice move for PR.”

“PR is never a bad move, and there are plenty of lean times to be had in the hospitality business.”

I took another spoonful of the stew, which somehow tasted better with each bite. “Though in a perfect world, your skills with stew would shore up this estate for the rest of time.”

“Well, bless you for that.”

He sat across from me and tucked into a bowl of his own. “And you’re right enough about the fickle nature of this business. I’ve seen a lot of good restaurants come and go just in Westport. Dublin must be even worse.”

I nodded. “Easier and harder at the same time. More potential clientele but fiercer competition. A two-hour wait to get into a flashy place with a big-name chef, while a better place with an up-and-comer with twice the talent and a million times the drive and creativity sits empty. I see it all the time in Denver.”

“I imagine you do. Now what is it you want to see while you’re here? It’s my solemn duty to make sure your brief time in County Mayo becomes a pleasant memory to carry home without weighing down your carry-on.”

I smiled, despite the corny language that seemed right out of a travel brochure. I wondered if that wasn’t exactly where it came from. A glossy Guide to the Charms of County Mayo pamphlet that the locals joked about. “You don’t have to go to any trouble. If there is a rental car agency in Westport, I might prevail upon you for a lift if it isn’t too inconvenient.”

He shook his head. “Nothing closer than Castlebar, especially in winter. I could take you there if you like. But I’m sincere in my offer to serve as your tour guide if you don’t mind my company. You’ll find the price is right—free with the cost of your lodgings—and you wouldn’t have to fuss with adjusting to driving on the left.”

I shuddered. “That is a very compelling argument. But I couldn’t impose like that.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It will give me something to do, and I’d be grateful for it.”

I paused. Did I really want to spend my week in Ireland tagging along after this man I’d only known hours? Certainly anyone with good intentions had more to occupy their time than shuttling me around. But everything had seemed sleepy, and there wasn’t a town in the world that didn’t cope with tourist cycles. He was probably vying for a huge tip when my week was up. Which wasn’t necessarily unreasonable. If he was a decent guide, I could hand over whatever I might have paid for a rental car and gas.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. There’s nothing like seeing County Mayo with a native. And one that’s on a first-name basis with every farmer in this county and most of the neighboring ones if you’re on the lookout for ingredients for your fancy big-city chefs. Now have some soda bread before I collapse. Try it with the butter.”

With a poorly concealed laugh, I ripped a hunk from the serving of bread and slathered it with butter from an earthenware crock as he’d instructed.

“No raisins. Well done,”

I said, approvingly. I wasn’t an expert on Irish cuisine, but the introduction of raisins into soda bread was inauthentic and unwelcome in my book. Unwelcome in most things, really.

“You know of what you speak. And perish the thought of a Callahan doing such a thing.”

He held a hand over his heart. “If my gran found any of the children she’d helped see raised up adding raisins to her recipe, she’d come back from the great beyond to collect our hides.”

“Sage woman.”

I inhaled before taking a bite, breathing in the scent with the flavors. There was something earthy and grassy in everything that seemed unlike any place I’d ever been. The crust was thick and crunchy, the fluffy white interior was still hot from the oven.

“The butter,”

I breathed. It was the creamiest—somehow the butteriest—butter I’d ever had. Of everything he’d served it caught my attention most. “This is truly incredible.”

“I thank you kindly. Made it myself this morning.”

“Let me guess. You probably learned the family method for making butter passed down for twelve generations and a three-hundred-year-old butter churn, and you’ve made magic. It’s alchemy instead of butter.”

“You’re spot on about the method, but not about the butter churn. I retired it and bought a professional-grade stand mixer. Had a row with my ma about that one, but she let it go when I offered that she could come churn the butter for breakfast herself if she didn’t like my ‘dreadful modern ways.’ And once she tasted my handiwork, that was the end of it. I’m not one for wantonly disregarding time-tested traditions, but the constant speed of the motor makes for a better consistency. And I’m the first to do anything with herb-infused butters and the like. She asked for a crock of my cinnamon butter for her Christmas gift.”

“I source vanilla beans for my mother so she can make her own concoctions. I’m convinced her bourbon-and-Madagascar-vanilla-bean extract is more magic than food. Once you’ve had an angel food cake made with it, you’ll never buy store-bought vanilla again.”

“Lord in heaven, that sounds divine. Will you show me how it’s done?”

The eagerness in his eyes lightened my spirits. Finding someone just as devoted to food as I was didn’t happen often.

I nodded resolutely. “Nothing simpler. Perhaps we can source ingredients when we’re out? If you want to play tour guide, let’s go. Show me what there is to see.”

“Grab your coat, and I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you what there is to eat.”