`I always like to write in gloomy weather," says Donna Lewis, the Cardiff-born pop star who has lived in Howth since last November. "Since coming here, I've been very creative. Being Welsh, British, you just grow up with the seasons. I have friends who live in LA and they love the constant sunshine. That wouldn't work for me. I like this kind of weather, even though I could do with a bit more sun."
Location was important for Lewis, who releases her second, self-produced album, Blue Planet, which was recently released. When she and her husband, Martin began scouting around for suitable properties, Howth wasn't their first choice, and where they now live wasn't initially Lewis's ideal fully furnished abode, but as she says, in a Welsh accent so sharp it could slice leeks, "If I didn't feel right, I couldn't have stayed here. The other properties were lovely, but the atmosphere wasn't right. And they weren't secluded enough."
If seclusion adds to the glamour of the enigmatic pop star, then Lewis is well placed to reap the dividends. Blue Planet was written and produced in a house that affords brilliant views everywhere but is visually inaccessible to most.
Inside is a 24-track digital studio. Apart from post-production work and fine-tuning, all but one of the record's 11 songs were recorded in Howth. There's mobility and reclusiveness for you. But it's home. The results might be pricey, but they're clearly worth it.
Of course, far from it she was raised. As is the way with these things, Lewis's trail from soul-destroying work to life-enhancing career prospects was littered with mishaps, fervid bouts of tension, and the drama of spurned talent.
Born in Cardiff (when? "I'm in my 30s," she fends off in a way that sounds more sharply defensive than selectively coy; I'd guess mid to late), Lewis began studying piano at the age of six. By 14, she had begun to write and record her own songs. She studied classical composition at the Welsh College of Music and Drama, majoring in piano and flute.
A qualified music teacher, she taught during the day and sang with various cover bands at night. Soon after, she followed her then boyfriend to Birmingham, where she got her Equity card. So began a number of walk-on parts in BBC TV productions, notably the detective series Boon, and period dramas the names of which she says she can't remember. This period was, she recalls, "earning-a-crust days. The plan was always to be a singer, singing my own songs".
Initially, Lewis "worked" her music in piano bars in and around Birmingham. Signing up with a London-based agency, however, provided her with much work in Scandinavia. There, for two months at a time, Lewis performed in five-star hotels with great piano bars - where people actually listened. Bye, bye Birmingham.
Almost five years of five-star living later, Lewis found her goal slipping away from her. Eventually, she upped sticks from Stockholm, went back to Birmingham, set up a studio, and started a residency at the city's Belfry Hotel.
"It was both soul-destroying and a means to an end," she states pragmatically, brooking neither sympathy nor criticism.
"In the early days it was a fantastic experience for me, just being on my own instead of singing with a large band. You start creating an individual style with your voice, and it gives you so much confidence . . . But I was using my voice, which was important, and it was giving me the money to buy another piece of equipment."
England couldn't hold her, however, and the country's record companies didn't want her. In 1993, Lewis (by this time hooked up with Martin) did the sensible thing. She went to the US and used as many contacts as she could to further her cause. Through sleight of hand and lots of luck, a demo tape found its way to Doug Morris, head of Atlantic records, who beckoned Lewis into his office.
"I played for him and a few other people, and after two songs he said, congratulations, you have a record deal. It really was as simple as that. All those years of struggling." Even now, she looks as if she can't believe it.
A happy end to a story of strain, tension and turbulence? Almost. Lewis's new single, I Could Be The One, is a hit in Ireland. In the UK, it didn't get placed on the Radio 1 playlist. Why not? Well, it's a darned catchy song with an all-too-familiar melody, that's why.
Like the record it's taken from, it's breathy, tinkly 1980s pop (with towering twin reference points of Cyndi Lauper and Kate Bush at its base), but the song's verse melody is so remarkably similar to a 1988 song called Mary's Prayer by Scottish band Danny Wilson that people began to ask questions. Lewis pulls a face. She claims the similarity was purely unintentional. Frankly, this is difficult to believe.
"It's every artist's nightmare, to write a song that sounds like another song," she begins to explain. "I wrote I Could Be The One here. At the time I had two choices: to rewrite the melody, or to keep it the same. There was something about the way the song sat, the way it felt. There were all sorts of ways to change the melody but I thought maybe it would lose something. It's interesting how different people see it. My managers didn't see the similarity at all. Others thought it was so obvious."
Gary Clark, the writer of Mary's Prayer, was contacted by Lewis's publisher. Clark now owns 25 per cent of the song, and has a writing credit. Lewis reckons the brouhaha about the taint of plagiarism has dampened the overall commercial effect the song could have had if she had reworked the melody.
"It's one of these things you learn about," she remarks evenly. "People just say it sounds like Mary's Prayer and that she's ripped off the songwriter. No matter what you say, you won't be believed. As a writer, you always strive for originality. To people who don't know Mary's Prayer, I Could Be The One is a good song."