“Not yet!” Erin shuts off the car and gets out. “We’re Erin and Ridlee. Here to stay a few nights. My Uncle Miley set it up for us.”

“Oh, well … the niece of Miley O’Neill is always welcome. But I’m not sure that I have any rooms, dear.” The woman goes from joyful to worried. Then she starts talking to herself again, and I can’t understand a word of it.

“Is that singing or talking?” I whisper loudly, getting out of the car. Mrs. O’Grady is walking into her house. I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten we’re out here already.

“She’s doing a little of both. In Irish. Let me go see what’s happening.” Erin opens the small picket-fence gate and follows the woman inside.

I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I just stand out on the sidewalk, admiring the view. All the houses are lined up in neat little rows. Everyone has a small garden in front, although none as interesting as the one I’m standing in front of. Some of them are tangled messes of weeds, some have pretty flowers, but none have the gnomes that I can see. The mist gives the place a dreary feel to it, but rather than making it seem off-putting, it makes it more mysterious. I feel like this place has secrets, things to be discovered. Or maybe I should just leave those secrets alone. I’ve read some stories about Irish folklore; there are some seriously spooky goblins and shit here that don’t seem like anything I’d want to meet on a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

“Baaaeeerrrggghhhh!”

Screaming, I nearly jump out of my skin trying to get away from the demon goblin behind the fence in Mrs. O’Grady’s garden.

Pounding footsteps come from inside the house and then the front door flies open. “What?!” Erin yells at me. “What’s wrong?!”

I’m on the other side of the Bambino, pointing at the garden. “Gnome! Demon gnome! Lock the door!”

“What?” She’s frowning and half-smiling at the same time. Instead of being terrified like she should be, she’s amused.

“Get in the house and lock the door!” I yell. “I’m not kidding!”

“What’s that dear?” Mrs. O’Grady comes out of the house and down the stairs.

“Baaaeeerrrggghhhh! Baaaeeerrrggghhhhpp! Braaaabbpptt!”

Erin’s eyes get as big as saucers but she doesn’t move her feet.

“Told you!” I yell, waving for her to get back.

“Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy…” Mrs. O’Grady is bending over, shuffling through her garden with her hand held out.

“Oh my fucking god, she’s going to get eaten,” I say in a half-whisper.

Erin’s hand goes to her mouth and then she starts laughing.

She’s laughing?

“What?” I stand up straighter, trying to see over the top of the car. It’s not difficult, being that it’s only about four feet off the ground.

Mrs. O’Grady disappears from view for a couple seconds and then she stands. In her arms is something big and hairy and black.

“Oh, da pussy, pussy, pussy. Is the pussy hungry?”

“What the hell is that thing?” I say softly.

Erin waves me in. “Grab the bags, will ye?”

I shake my head. “You want me to come in with the goblins? No, thanks. I’ll just stay out here.”

Mrs. O’Grady disappears into the house and Erin comes out to stand by the gate. She’s laughing. “It’s not a goblin. It’s a pussy,” she says.

My stomach turns over. “Please don’t say that word again, especially when referencing that big hairy … I don’t even want to know what that thing is that just came out of that unholy garden of demon spawn.”

Erin opens the gate and then un-bungies my bags from the roof. “It’s a cat, you muppet. Come on. We have to check in. She’s an official B&B, believe it or not.”

“I’m not signing in blood.” I say, pulling my bags gingerly from the roof. I’m appalled at how dirty they’ve become being exposed to the elements.

“She’s not a witch. She’s just a little batty.”

“So you say now. Just wait until she puts us in a giant pot with a bunch of carrots and eye of newt,” I say, walking up the front steps with Erin. “I’m so holding this against you for the rest of our lives.”

“I hear she makes the best homemade blood pudding,” Erin stage-whispers as we walk into the dark front hall. “Oh, did I say blood pudding? I meant black pudding.” She giggles.

My stomach does a triple flip with a twist for added flair. “Oh … My god … You are so dead. Where’s the bathroom?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

ERIN

“THERE ARE TWO ITALIAN LADS staying in the next room!” I squeal at Ridlee as I return from my little chat with Mrs. O'Grady, the bean an tí, or ‘woman of the house’ as my mother would helpfully add.

Our little chat ended up taking the best part of an hour, and I now know not only her medical history but also the medical histories of her two cats and her next door neighbour. “Hemorrhoids," she had mouthed at me as though letting me in on a state secret. The furry cat on her lap blinked its blue eyes as if to confirm what she said. It took all my dealing with older people skills to get away at all without offending.

Her review of the house rules took a very long time: no showers after nine o’clock, no visitors in the rooms — especially those of the opposite sex — no drinking, and the corker — would we mind coming home before eleven each night as otherwise she would worry about us. Great.

It seems better to break the news of the Italians to Ridlee to soften the blow of the house rules. I won’t mention the fact that they’re checking out tomorrow.

Bent down in front of the dresser mirror, my intrepid traveling companion is just putting the finishing touches to her bangs, which look amazing, before we hit the town. She recently had her hair cut to just above her shoulders, and now the natural wave winds strands of dark brown hair around her face, framing her stunning features. With grey eyes and generous lips, it’s no wonder the boys try to befriend me in order to get to her.

If Ridlee and I had met in school we would never have become friends; I would have found her too intimidating back then. By the time I started college in the States I’d given up on caring about what people thought of my looks and clothes, though, and to her credit, Ridlee didn’t seem to care what I looked like either. My hair is long and unruly, and while my features are pretty enough, I can’t be bothered with make-up much, or the latest fashions. I always feel a few pounds over my ideal weight, so jeans, t-shirts, and my trusty Chuck Taylors — in a range of cool colours and designs, of course — are my usual uniform. Occasionally, Ridlee will suggest a little lipstick or a particular item of clothing, but mostly she takes me as she finds me.

“When in Rome…,” she says before blotting her lips with a tissue.

“Ooh, sounds saucy… you mean the Italians, right? What are we gonna do to … I mean, with them?”

“No, eejit, I mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Comprende?”

I sit on the end of the bed, genuinely flummoxed once again by Ridlee’s logic. “Sorry, no—no comprendo. Are we gonna eat gelato and strut in the street? ‘Cause the west of Ireland doesn’t really allow for that kinda thing. There’s the weather for one, it’s waay too cold for gelato in the evenings, and strutting in the rain seems kinda desperate. And it almost always rains here.”