The island of Arranmore, nestled off the west coast of Ireland in County Donegal, is seeking residents. Its population has dwindled to fewer than 500, and leaders in the area are inviting Americans, and others, to consider moving there.
It’s green with ocean views, stunning cliffs and music-filled pubs. And I always did say I was going to move to Ireland. Maybe now is the time.
Even the cool, rainy summers are calling to me.
A letter to Americans boasts the island has high-speed internet, so those who work remotely may as well work from this beautiful spot on the Wild Atlantic Way, Ireland’s tourist route along its west coast.
I’ve already found a house in the right price range in euros that overlooks the bay and even has an American-sized kitchen.
I’m sure I could manage to edit articles from the private enclosed garden at my new place.
I’ve already got the outlet converters so I can plug in my made-for-America Surface Pro.
It might take a while for your letters to reach me. The island is only accessible by ferry. But someone at the office could type them up for me and put them in the cloud — not the clouds over my new rainy, home, of course, but that cloud of data that somehow exists here and there at the same time.
My phone is equipped with FaceTime. That should take care of the daily news meetings. Maybe we can even buy one of those telepresence robots, where my face appears on a screen atop a pole that moves around. My bosses could pitch in less than $3,000 to buy one from the same place where we buy our photography equipment.
I’ll just scoot around the newsroom looking through this screen at the reporters while actually sitting on my front stoop watching the waves and listening to sheep baaing in the distance.
There’s something about telepresence that might make me seem more all-knowing than if I walked the rows of cubicles myself.
Perhaps the staff would listen more intently to my words of wisdom about abbreviating avenue, boulevard and street when used with a numbered address, per the Associated Press stylebook, the journalist’s guide to all such minutia. Meanwhile, I’d be living in a cottage on a lane identified by Google Maps only as “Unnamed Road.”
I could keep up with the community back home by watching church services on Facebook Live, lurking on Nextdoor until someone kicked me out of the neighborhood and of course reading the news from those reporters still hitting the streets stateside.
Yes, this is sounding more and more feasible.
At my new home on this tiny island, it appears there’s a club for kayaking in the ocean. And there’s plenty of nice walks to go on; there’s even a walking festival in late May.
After all that good, healthy fun and a side of work, I can finish my day at a pub. Though they tout their pint of Guinness, I’m confident I can find a good hard cider on draft. Heck, maybe I could even learn to like Guinness.
I might have to learn some Gaelic and refer to the place as Árainn Mhór. But I did get a headstart on Gaelic back in high school during an independent study course. I told you I always wanted to move to Ireland.
Something about living on an island off of an island country sounds idyllic. But I suppose my problems would follow me across the pond, even if they do have to take a flight, a drive and a ferry to get there.
The dishes would still stack up. The dog’s hair would still need vacuumed up from the floor.
The bad news would still break. The tough decisions would still have to get made.
The kids would still throw tantrums. But I bet their arguments would be more amusing when the wee ones inevitably developed an Irish accent.