Book Synopsis:
Nick and Lesley Albert yearn to leave the noise, stress and pollution of modern Britain and move to the countryside, where the living is good, the air sweet, with space for their dogs to run free. Suddenly out of work and soon to be homeless, they set off in search of a new life in Ireland, a country they had never visited. As their adventure began to unfold, not everything went according to plan. If finding their dream house was difficult, buying it seemed almost impossible. How would they cope with banks that didn’t want customers, builders who didn’t need work, or the complex issue of where to buy some chickens?
Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds is available in ebook and paperback now. You can purchase your copy using the link below.
Extract:
This scene occurred a few days after we moved to our new home in Ireland.
A few days later we spotted someone walking along the lane at the rear of our house. I called out a greeting and he stopped to have a chat. Jim is a local farmer who lives around five miles away. He is a delightful man, with a ready smile, twinkling blue eyes and a tendency to call everyone ‘sir’. Today, he was wearing boots, jeans, and a mud-smeared jacket that may once have been green. A faded baseball cap partially covered his tousled dark hair and like an eight-year-old boy, his pockets overflowed with bits of twine, pocket-knives, apples and cattle feed. Next to him was an actual eight-year-old boy. He was immaculately dressed, standing politely to attention and shyly watching us from under the brim of his Munster rugby cap.
After introducing ourselves, Jim welcomed us to the area and explained he was in the habit of grazing his cows on the pasture attached to our property. Apparently his relatives once owned much of the land in the area, and his great uncle used to live in our house. I promised to take great care of the property and asked his opinion of what it would be like to live here.
“Well, sir,” he declared. “You will find it’s grand – apart from the midgets.”
“Midgets?” I queried, thinking of the dwarf we had seen twice, driving a tractor while standing up. “What about them?”
“I fecking hate them. They’re BASTARDS, sir!” he replied.
I knew some people had a prejudice against those they considered outside of the norm, and while I understood everybody is entitled to their own opinion, I felt very uncomfortable with Jim’s venom. However, I was conscious this man was my distant neighbour and I didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.
“Really? That seems a little harsh,” I offered in pacification.
“Harsh?” He seemed genuinely shocked. “Harsh is it, sir? Them little bastards cum up here in their ‘undreds. They’s after me cows they is. Well, you ask my opinion, they should feck off to Scotland, where they cum from.” He turned his head and spat.
I looked out over the hills and pictured a missing scene from the movie Braveheart, with hundreds of kilted dwarfs, belonging to some secret cattle rustling clan, charging across the moor like slightly taller versions of Mel Gibson. It seemed a little far-fetched, but I was new to the area.
“Well, I’ll have to try and keep out of their way, I suppose,” I offered.
“You can try, sir, but it won’t work. The girl midgets are the worst. When it’s time for them to breed, they can smell you out for miles. So I’ve heard.”
“Good gracious – how extraordinary! You learn something new every day.” I was now picturing a miniature version of an Essex girl’s hen night. “Perhaps they’re attracted to the smell of Guinness.”
“Oy don’t know about that,” he proclaimed. Suddenly, he changed tack like a drunken sailor. “Can I still graze me cows on yer field, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, Jim, I don’t see why not.”
Jim’s hatred of little people remained a perplexing mystery until the first muggy day in late April. I was trying to wash the mud from my car, when I became aware of tiny hot pinpricks of pain on my neck and face. I noticed several small lumps were already growing on the backs of my hands. In the sunlight I could see a cloud of dancing dust that seemed to follow my every move.
“Oh! MIDGES!” I gasped slapping my forehead, physically and figuratively. I quickly made my escape indoors in search of the antihistamine cream, and told Lesley the puzzle of the midgets was now solved.
About The Author:
Nick Albert was born and raised in England. After a hectic career as a training consultant and sports coach, Nick, and his wife, Lesley, decided it was time to leave the stress of city life behind. In 2004 they made the sudden decision to begin a new life in rural Ireland – a country they had never before visited. There they bought a dilapidated farmhouse, and with the aid of a second-hand do-it-yourself manual, began renovations on their new home. When the refurbishments to the property and their lives were complete, Nick began writing full-time.
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