Once upon a time, a hedgehog family lived in a garden...

Maudlin Street was quiet except for a few pub crawlers on the weekend. But one Thursday morning about 2:00 a.m., we were awakened by ferocious barking that didn’t pause for almost an hour, coming from the yard next door. I had never heard such barking; the dog sounded desperate, panicked, as if he or his owner were being attacked. Ron trotted outside in his pajamas to find out what was going on, but he couldn’t see above the neighbor’s fence. He began clapping and shouting, hoping at least the owner would respond. We feared something criminal and were about to go for the police, when the neighbor’s light finally went on. Not long afterward the barking ceased.

The dog began yelping again the next night, but the noise was more intermittent and lasted for a shorter time. Still, we reported the incidents to our landlord Sean, who spoke to his neighbor, who promised it would stop. We heard barking a couple of other nights, but at a much lower volume.

A week later Sean called to report he’d heard from neighbor Joe, who had gotten to the root of the problem. “We have a family of hedgehogs at the bottom of the garden,” said Sean. “And of course the dog went ballistic over it.” In a half hour he appeared at the door with a pet carrier, the size you’d use for a cat, complete with a little towel dusted with cat hair.

Now it just so happens that for over twelve years, our traveling companion has been Henry, a 4”-tall hedgehog made of wool. As soon as I saw Sean, I presented Henry with a flourish, saying “We’ve found the culprit!” I received the blankest of looks. “Where did you find THAT?” he asked. I tried to explain, but he couldn’t get his mind around a traveling hedgehog (though he wanted his hedgehogs to do just that).

Sean sprinted out to the garden to capture the little family. He returned in roughly three minutes with his empty carrier. “I’ll try again on Sunday – at night, when they come out!”

The next day we had to say goodbye to Sean and the house on Maudlin Street. But we’re already planning our next trip to Ireland.

Mrs. Farrell's Corner House

I first went to Dingle in 1990 with my husband Ron and 14-year-old son, Dan. We arrived late in the day and looked for Mrs. Farrell's, a B&B mentioned in my guidebook. Unable to find it, we were about to give up when I noticed a small worn sign: "Corner House."

“I think that’s it,” I said, remembering the name from the book. I knocked tentatively on the door.

A woman’s face appeared. Fair skinned with grey hair and a small, pointed nose, she wore a hair net and held her hands clasped at her waist. “Hello,” I said. “We wonder if you might have a room for the three of us.”

She looked us over. “Indeed I do. A couple came by not an hour ago wantin’ my last room, but I said ‘I don’t think so, I have a feeling a family will come.’ And sure enough, here you are.” Mrs. Farrell bustled us in and showed us to a room on the second floor just made for three. As if that weren't enough, the next morning she asked if we weren’t sick of full Irish breakfasts and would we like something else for a change? Perfect.

We stayed four days, and on the third, she took me aside. Hands clasped, hair net still on, she leaned forward and whispered, “Can I ask ya a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“How is it your son is so civilized, being an American child?”

* * *

We returned to Dingle this year and learned that Mrs. Farrell had closed her B&B. The town and Slea Head Drive were as lovely as ever, but our visit wasn't the same.

Two weeks later we found ourselves in Dublin. Ron spent an afternoon at the National Library researching his family’s history, while I went looking for a couple of classic pubs. One of them, Long Hall, was decorated in Victorian style, unchanged for over a hundred years.

I went in and ordered a pint, sat down and started talking with the gent sitting beside me. He said his name was Paul and he grew up in Dingle, so I told him about my recent visit and mentioned Mrs. Farrell.

“Oh, Mrs. Farrell, is she still with us?” he asked, worried. I said she was, but she had retired the year before. "Someone told us she’s fine," I said. "Well turned out for church on Sundays." I related our time with her 17 years before, and the question she had asked about my son.

His eyes opened wide, and he couldn’t keep from laughing. “Were you offended, then?” he asked.

“No, I took it as a compliment. And you know what?” I continued. “When I called Dan the other day and told him we’d been to Dingle, the first thing he said was “Did you see Mrs. Farrell?”

“Ah, he remembers, after all these years.” Then Paul told his own Mrs. Farrell story.

Many years ago, his uncle and cousin went to visit Paul’s family, but their house was too small to hold them. The men inquired at Mrs. Farrell’s B&B. But as soon as she heard a Dublin accent, she said, “Oh no, I’m sorry, we’re full.”

The uncle, suspecting what had put her off, said, “Thank you anyway,” and started to leave. But he turned around before she closed the door.

“Can you tell me, then, when mass is tomorrow mornin’? We’ll be wantin’ to....” He didn’t get a chance to finish.

“It’s 9:00 a.m. sharp,” she replied. “And wait just a minute, let me check my book....” She had a room for them after all.