Page 9 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Molly shifted her laptop case onto her lap, cradling it there as the bus navigated another rough patch of road. The familiar weight was comforting, a tether to her purpose here amid the unexpected beauty that threatened to distract her.

They passed a small farm where a man in a flat cap waved at the bus, a young border collie circling his ankles with barely contained energy. The driver returned the wave with a friendly honk and Molly glimpsed a smile beneath the cap before they rounded another bend.

The road wound higher now, offering glimpses of the wider landscape through gaps in the hedgerows, which began to appear more frequently, sectioning the land into irregular parcels that were far more organic than the precise grids of US farmland. Some were mere suggestions – tumbled stone half-reclaimed by moss and wild grass.

‘Nearly there,’ the driver announced. ‘Golden Valley’s just over this rise.’

Molly straightened in her seat, suddenly alert despite her fatigue. This was it – the place her grandmother had spoken of with such longing, such precise detail that Molly now worried whether Aoife’s memories had been polished into something brighter than reality could possibly match. Then the bus crested a hill, and her breath caught in her throat at her first glimpse of the Golden Vale.

Lough Corrin spread below, just as her grandmother had described, like a mirror laid on the landscape, its surface a shifting palette of slate-blue and silver where the emerging sun caught ripples. The lake curved gracefully between undulating hills that almost seemed to breathe, their green slopes dotted with sheep. At the near end, nestled against the water’s edge, lay Golden Valley village itself – a cluster of buildings with slate roofs, smoke rising from chimneys in the morning air.

Surrounding the township on three sides was woodland – different to the dense, impenetrable forests of wilderness, and something far older. Native trees, their massive trunks testifying to centuries of slow, steady expansion, their branches spreading to create dappled shadows across the ground beneath. Even from this distance, Molly could see that the leaves were beginning to turn, hints of gold and copper among the green.

‘Oh my …’ she whispered, the words escaping without her permission.

The driver chuckled. ‘Told ya.’ There was pride in his voice, as if he personally owned the countryside they were about to traverse.

Molly couldn’t tear her eyes away. This was it – exactly as Aoife had described, down to the particular way the light caught the water, the specific curve of the shoreline where the lake embraced the village. She blinked hard, surprised to find her eyes damp again. She’d been so focused on the physical journey, on the logistics of flights and buses, that she hadn’t prepared herself for the emotional impact of seeing the place her grandmother had loved so fiercely.

The bus began its descent toward the village, winding down a narrow road that offered changing perspectives of the lake and woods with each curve. No wonder Aoife had never seemed quite at home in Brooklyn, despite building a full life there with Eddie and Molly’s late mom. No wonder her stories always returned to this place, these hills, this particular quality of light that seemed to gild everything it touched.

The road straightened as they approached the village outskirts. Modest contemporary houses and smaller thatched holiday-cottages appeared, set back from the road behind low walls or fences, their gardens still vibrant with late-summer blooms, despite the cooling weather. A dog barked, the sound carrying clearly in the morning air. Through gaps between buildings, Molly caught various glimpses of the lake, now closer, its surface textured with tiny ripples from the growing breeze.

Something about the quality of the light changed then and she glanced up to see clouds gathering from the west – deep gray harbingers of rain.

As if on cue, the first drops appeared on the window glass, small translucent pearls that caught the light before streaming downward in irregular paths.

‘And here’s your Irish welcome …’ the driver announced cheerfully.

Molly watched as the raindrops multiplied, quickly blurring the landscape she’d been admiring. The perfection of the moment fractured slightly, reality intruding on what had begun to feel like a dream. Yet there was beauty in this too – the way the rain softened edges, the fresh scent that seeped in through the bus’s ventilation system, earthy and green and alive.

Her grandmother had spoken of this also, of course – the Irish weather’s quick-changing moods and how rain could sweep across the lake like a curtain being drawn. ‘We’re all ruled by the weather,’ she’d say watching a Brooklyn thunderstorm from their front window, while Cole complained about a missed hockey game. ‘Learn to live alongside it, not against it.’

The bus slowed as they entered Golden Valley village proper, passing a row of buildings, one with a hand-painted sign that read The Orchard Pub in faded lettering.

Next, a row of charming shopfronts – a bookstore with a display of colorful volumes in the window called Wildflower Books, a cozy café Molly didn’t catch the name of, and a small convenience store, butcher and pharmacy side by side.

‘This is the square coming up now,’ the driver said, helpfully announcing Molly’s stop.

She nodded, gathering her things, suddenly nervous. The rain streaked down the window glass now, transforming the village into an impressionist painting of blurred colors and shapes. Yet even through this watery lens, Golden Valley was unmistakably real, solid and present in a way that even Aoife’s most vivid description failed to capture.

The bus pulled into a quaint area paved with cobblestones, stopping beneath a tired-looking bus shelter that offered minimal protection from the elements. ‘Watch your step getting off now – cobbles can be slippery when wet.’

Molly rose on stiff legs as she slung her case over her shoulder with careful movements. The velvet parcel within seemed to almost pulse with its own energy now.

Her first step off the bus sent a shock of cold through her suede ankle boots – not the wisest choice as it turned out, but still better than the flimsier flats.

Rain pelted her head and shoulders, instantly transforming her makeup into something more abstract. She tugged the case strap higher on her shoulder and waited as the bus driver hefted her suitcase from the luggage compartment underneath. It emerged already glistening with rain despite its brief exposure to the elements.

‘The Glen Arms Hotel is right at the top of the square,’ he said, pointing through the downpour. ‘Can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For all the advice, I mean. It was nice to hear about the place.’

He smiled, the creases around his eyes deepening. ‘Ah, sure, we all love the chats around here, as you’ll soon find out. Enjoy your visit. Despite the wet welcome,’ he added, rolling his eyes at the rain.

As the bus pulled away with a hiss of tires on wet stone, leaving Molly alone in the increasing downpour, she gripped the handle of her suitcase with determination.

The first tug sent water spraying from a puddle onto her already dampening pants. The second revealed a more pressing problem – the suitcase wheels, perfectly adequate for the smooth floors of JFK and Shannon airports, were completely unsuited to old cobblestones slick with rain.