Bigger, better, cheaper and friendlier . . .

Accessible schools, affordable housing and good neighbours are among Carlow's attractions. But it has an Achilles' heel, writes Kathy Sheridan

In less than six years, Carlow's urban area has seen its population soar by nearly a third, from 17,000 to 22,000. Has a proud market town been reduced to just another Dublin dormitory for reluctant first-time buyers?

Primary schools are in the frontline of such developments, and Rody Kelly, the principal of St Joseph's junior boys' school in the town centre, analyses his roll-book. This shows that although 27 per cent are non-Carlovians, just 10 per cent are originally from Dublin - the parents of half of them coming to jobs in the region.

The one thing Carlow does not lack is educational establishments; the town centre alone boasts eight. And there is a sense that Carlow is developing at a manageable pace. "Water, sewerage and drainage are top notch," says council chairman Michael Abbey. Plans include a €70 million development for the cattle market site, and an eight-storey hotel and retail complex for the river front. The message is that, with a thriving, 4,000-student institute of technology and a tradition of indigenous engineering excellence, Carlow is doing nicely.

But there is a significant gap. "Only 7 per cent of our IT graduates get employment in the county," notes Joe Watters, the town clerk. "That was the trigger for the IDA business park [empty, awaiting development on the town fringe\] . . . to give them a choice."

Michelle Abbey, daughter of Michael and scheduled to marry Limerick-born Barry Wall in a few weeks, nods rueful agreement. "Carlow doesn't have the big multinationals of the kind we've ended up in, in Dublin. Unless it can start providing those, you'll find people will vote for quality of life and go back to Dublin."

Both work in Dublin-based IT companies but have set up home here, in a "great" €170,000, four-bed detached house, on a small estate with a big green, within five minutes' walk of the town and an hour from Dublin Airport.

"I suppose if we had been dead set on living in Dublin, we could have," says Barry, listing a catalogue of southside house-hunting horrors. "But no way, even now, could we afford a house like this in Dublin."

A city boy, Barry is the one with the most adapting to do.

While Michelle can "telework" three days a week, Barry commutes to Clonskeagh every day, rising at 5.30 a.m., driving out into a "convoy of cars" to get to work for 7 a.m., leaving again at 3.30 p.m. and arriving home between 5 p.m. and 6 p.m.

The Carlow rail service doesn't work for him. After a 90-minute journey to Heuston, he would require two further buses - and 45 minutes - to get to Clonskeagh; but the real problem, he says, would be getting back to Heuston for the train home. So he drives.

Both are "wrecked" by Friday night. "I've seen more Late Late Shows in the past few years . . ." says Barry with a wry grin. But they have a "good circle of friends", and the pub scene in Carlow is as good as Dublin. "And there's a couple of good restaurants and a cinema," Barry says, before trailing off. The undeniable fact is, he misses city options - things such as the Screen cinema, the theatres, the music events.

They can organise overnights with friends or relations. "It means that very little can be spontaneous," says Barry but, positive to the end, he adds, "I knew what I was getting into . . . It means we have the best of both worlds."

At first glance, the Barretts' move makes little sense. Beforehand, Oonagh, a theatre nurse in St James's Hospital, was a three-minute walk from work. Renny, an English-born IT contractor, worked in Park West, near the junction of the M50 and Naas Road. Why move 50 miles away?

Answer: better local schools for their two small children and a bigger house. "The school was so poor the teachers were moving out, and there was some exposure to anti-social behaviour," says Oonagh. "But I don't like the idea of private schools. I wanted to send our children to local schools. I wanted the social mix I had grown up with in Enniscorthy."

Their house, in a safe cul-de-sac of a small new estate, is spacious and detached, two-and-a-half times the size of their old house, with a garden four times as large, and all for just €3,000 more than they got for their Dublin property.

"In Dublin, I wouldn't have let the kids out to play. Here, most of the kids are in the three to five age mark, and they're in and out of each other's houses," says Oonagh. "And we have neighbours we can actually talk to," says Renny.

"In Dublin everyone assumes no one will talk to them, so no one talks. Here, the people next door are among our best friends." The bonus is that Oonagh's family is a skip away in Wexford.

Commuting is tolerable. Oonagh works two days a week now, and Renny squeezes his working week into four 10-hour days, using the 6.30 a.m. train to get to work, arriving home at about 6 p.m. Key to this is the fact that there is no "dead time": travelling time is work time.

A success then? Well, apart from the fact that Carlow "could do with a bit of a lift . . . I do miss the shopping and the choice of restaurants," says Oonagh. "And around holiday times, when I read all those articles about what to do with the kids . . . I find myself thinking that we don't have any of that."

While Oonagh was moving closer to her Wexford family, Catherine Gaynor, a 23-year-old civil servant, was doing the opposite. The wrench from big, extended families is a recurring theme for Dubliners on the move. Catherine and her baby son lived with her mother in Palmerstown, within striking distance of a host of aunts and cousins, so her mother minded the baby during the day and baby-sitters were never scarce.

But when Catherine and her partner, Paul, tried to rent locally, they found no landlord wanted a child. Any houses within budget were in undesirable areas or awkward for Paul, who works in Kilcullen. When his sister bought a house in Carlow, they discovered there were houses available for £105,000. With much saving and sacrifice, they were able to buy their first home 18 months ago.

Now that they're saving hard for their wedding (to be held in Carlow), they manage without a car. So they board the 6.30 a.m. bus together every morning - he for Kilcullen, she for the city. Their son is delivered to Truesdale's crèche - a huge success, to her relief - by obliging relatives of Paul, and she collects him when she returns at about 6.30 p.m.

It's not entirely alien country. Half their "great" neighbours, she reckons, are from places such as Cabra, Phibsboro and Tallaght. In any event, they have little energy for a social life: "We're in bed by 9.30 p.m. and just conk out."

For people such as Catherine, decentralisation represents much more than some vote-winning wheeze. For this hard-working, home-loving girl, a job transfer to Carlow, Kilkenny or Kildare would simply mean an immeasurably easier life.