After a twenty-minute bus ride plus a five-minute walk, I'm in front of Mrs Cantwell's house. No car and shutters closed, the house may be empty... And finally not: an old lady opens the door. Smilling. Hello, you must be Mrs Cantwell. -Indeed, and you are Berton, Bertol, Bear... -Well yes, Bertrand, you must have a room for me.

Her house is so big. Four floors and twice as many bedrooms. She tells me that my room is the big one on the last floor. She lets me discover it. I suspect that climbing these stairs must be really tiring for her. I hardly imagine her maintaining the entire house...

Mrs Cantwell's

Double bed. Little window. Little washbowl. Flowers on the duvet. Flowers on the chair. Flowers in a frame. Fortunately, there is no flower on the walls (I really was afraid of that).

Mrs Cantwell's

After a minute I come back to my host. She offers me a tea. Or a coffee. I'd love a tea, please. She gives me armchair in the living room. There is a little radio with RTE 1. In the fireplace, there is an electric fire (so much easier to handle...). A dresser is full of cristal glasses (Waterford cristal I suppose) and there are wedding pictures. Old ones -her wedding- and not so old ones (her daughter I guess). Above the fireplace, a picture of John Paul 2 -there are another ones on the second and fourth floors.

We talk a bit about the weather. September is nice. Most of the times. About Ireland and France. About Irish and French. Then she asks me what I'm going to do at the UCC. Then we talk about windmills. She believes that all the wild lands in Ireland should be used for windmills. Nobody would complain. She's nice. You'll be grand, see you tomorrow for the breakfast.

PS: I didn't dare asking if there was an internet access, I didn't want to offend her...