I didn’t know it then, but I had just started to write my novel. Ireland gave me the space to begin

A takeaway from my undergraduate year in the French Caribbean island of Guadeloupe is my ability to recite flight safety instructions in French. Twenty or so inter-island flights will make you pay attention to that sort of thing. Every successful atterrissage was something to celebrate, every stunning island destination worth the risk of life. Despite being a regular visitor, when I arrived at Dublin airport some 15 years later, I found no comfort in its familiarity. I boarded the City Link bus to Galway in a state of auto pilot. I didn’t know that I was going to Ireland to write. I certainly didn’t know that I would ever write a book. I went to Lettercallow, in Connemara, to stay with my dear friend Katie; it’s my peaceful place.

How does a jaded South Londoner disguised as a British-Ghanaian barrister end up in Lettercallow? I couldn’t claim to be running away from my daily commute, the stress of surviving a packed train at 7am before navigating the landscape of the law and repeating the journey in reverse. The pandemic had put an end to that. But the loneliness of lockdown had brought with it a friend called Time, and our relationship had become complicated. Time caused me to reflect on the life I had envisaged for myself in my late teens; a life that featured some degree of domestic bliss: a husband and a baby. At the age of 36, I had neither. Time invited me to wonder why. I went to Lettercallow, a burnt-out 30-something in the middle of a third life crisis, to stop the thoughts that were taking over my mind. I went to surround myself with the green, and beautiful, and tranquil. I went because I had lost my joie de vivre. Did I ever have it?

Life in Lettercallow is rustic and simple and beautiful. If I need reception on my mobile, I can stand ‘like this’ in the living room window. Katie poses like a ballerina showing me how to outsmart the forces of technology. The window in my bedroom frames a mass of colourful hydrangeas and a hammock that Katie has hung between two trees. A hill sits on the horizon in the distance. If I listen, I can hear a gentle stream that passes next to the house. I set my phone on the table in my room, along with a book I have hopes of reading once I can concentrate again.

Katie is always doing stuff. She does stuff while I sit in the living room or kitchen or garden and watch with unseeing eyes. ‘Hey, you wanna try some jam I made?’ ‘I’m having a go at a patchwork quilt, you wanna see?’ ‘I think I’m gonna plant some more vegetables in the garden this afternoon, you wanna help?’ I don’t know what I want to do in life or in Lettercallow, so I sit and watch - until I do. ‘I want to write.’ I can’t remember the last time I wrote, not because I had to but because I wanted to. Work life with no balance has denied me that. I am proud to make a decision to do something that requires motivation and movement. My plan evolves into something elaborate: I don’t just want to write, I want to write - with a pen, on paper. I really want to write.

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When Katie’s uncle stops by the house before dinner - Ghanaian jollof rice, because Katie knows how to make things like that - we down cutlery. It’s just a brief visit after all. It’s nice to meet him. I’m not here for too long, just a few weeks. A change of scenery. A chance to recharge. We’ll probably go to the beach tomorrow - if the weather is good. Irish people talk about the weather a lot. When I mention this to Katie, she laughs a knowing laugh, ‘We do!’

After a few days in Lettercallow, I start to understand why. We have had close to four seasons in as many days. Before I know it, I’m an authority on the subject. Katie’s uncle wants to know about the weather in Ghana. And the food. What vegetables do we eat there? Are we a religious people? Before I can search for it on a map, I’ve been invited on the family pilgrimage to Medjugorje. I have to defer to Katie on the more challenging questions of Ghana’s population and land size. ‘Fek ah mah who’ means ‘see you later’ in Irish, Katie’s uncle explains. When he leaves, the food is cold and we are confused by how a brief visit has lasted for over two hours. Food with laughter tastes really good.

After dinner, we light a fire in the living room. When I say we – I peer over her shoulder as Katie places turf and logs in an intricate arrangement. I snuggle in a chair that she upholstered last summer, because that’s the kind of thing Katie does. I reach for my pen and a fresh pad of paper and write a couple of lines. I strike them out and start again. Katie is crocheting and Derry Girls plays on the TV in the background. I try again. A few sentences of something – nothing really. I raise my head from time to time to consult the subtitles. I reach for my laptop and relocate to the desk in my room. My daytime view is replaced by bright stars against a beautiful clear sky, and the tap of the keyboard provides a percussion that helps marshal my thoughts. When I’ve typed a whole paragraph, I read it out loud to Katie. ‘That’s brilliant,’ she says. ‘Keep going!’

Back in London, I email my first chapter for her thoughts. ‘How’s the weather, Katie? Fek ah mah who.’

I didn’t know it then, but I had just started to write my novel. Ireland gave me the space to begin.

One For Sorrow, Two for Joy by Marie-Claire Amuah is published by Oneworld