‘I know that too,’ he said.

I couldn’t think what to say in response, so I asked him for his phone number again. Then I shepherded him out the door, checking how he was getting home, and was he all right. Goodbyes take a long time in Cork.

I walked up the hill and into the gale, though at least the rain had lightened. A few minutes later I turned off the wind tunnel street into a sheltered lane lined with with tiny cottages. At the end of the lane stood a high stone wall with a dark grey door. My door. Inside, there was a yard with a narrow path to a second door, and inside that, a winding staircase that emerged in an open loft with an oak floor and views on all sides. Whenever I hear myself complaining, I remember this place, a contemporary tower house, midway between Elizabeth Fort and Cat Fort. I had bought the small vacant site and gone through the exhausting design, planning and building process, having seen the potential of the old stone wall and the privacy it afforded. Almost landlocked, with pedestrian access only, even at the height of the Celtic Tiger, Ireland’s doomed property bubble, the site had had had limited appeal. Nevertheless, on my income, I couldn’t have afforded the purchase and build except for the questionable banking practices of the Tiger times, where the normal salary multiplier was a tiresome detail, easily overcome by obligingly inventive bankers and brokers. So it had been, and so it was no longer. Now, my mortgage was a stretch, but doable, and I still had my safe place, even after the carnage of the crash. I was grateful for it every day.

And ‘Rapunzel’ always was my favourite fairy story.

I hung my coat on the bannister to dry, and kicked off my shoes. I unzipped my damp skirt and hung it beside the coat, but my tights were beyond saving. I rolled them down over my thighs and calves, packed them into a soggy ball, and threw them down the stairs. They landed on the stone floor below, close enough to the door to remind me to bin them the next day. I propped my shoes at each side of the top step, letting them take their chances. Another night, I might have stuffed them with paper and massaged them back to health.

I crossed the room slowly, using only the yellow glow of the city to light my way. I took down Pieces of the Sky, moved the needle to track 4, and lay down on the sofa, pulling my burnt orange and buttermilk Foxford wool blanket over me.

When ‘Boulder to Birmingham’ finished, I let the album play on, Emmylou’s voice pure and clear like a cooling balm.