Last week we stayed on a small island called Inch to the west of Derry, or Londonderry, depending on your allegiance to the British crown.
It was a beautiful island, very rural. You can see it in the middle. It is only connected to the mainland by two causeways.
The house could have easily been the set of an Angela Lansbury-type murder mystery story: velvet couches, books everywhere, winding staircases, vast grounds with old stone ruins, a wing that was locked and inaccessible…of course, I loved it.
We never found out whose cars were in the driveway, nor who was the owner of the bicycle leaning on the front steps. Also while we were there both the electricity and cold water went out at different times, only to be restored a short time later with no human intervention. These were only a few of the mysteries we didn’t solve, but any spirits who lived in the walls seemed to like us reasonably well and didn’t scare us away.
But the best part of the house was not the cozy farmhouse kitchen, the view of sheep farms, or the Celtic stained glass in the hallway.
Pablo Grif followed us on all our adventures around the island, even helped us find the way to the beaches. After bus tours with the students, he would be there to greet us with his tail wagging enthusiastically.
We were eventually told that it was dangerous to have him join us on any more trips to the beaches. We had to learn how to make him stay with a firm command of “Home, dog.”
Other than that, Pablo Grif was very smart. After being reprimanded for trying to play with Van’s new soccer ball, he unearthed a old, tattered one from somewhere on the property for us to play with.
I admit. I was a little heartbroken.