“I downsized my career, dropped out of the rat race, and discovered happiness in an Irish potato field”
I was at Dublin Airport—rumpled and red-eyed, but ready to start my new life. I stepped outside, looking for my ride. It was raining. Better get used to it, I said to myself. I eventually found my brother-in-law, who had come to pick me up. As I climbed into his car, I noticed its scent: Eau de barnyard filled my nostrils.
Better get used to that as well. As the muddy green countryside flashed by, I wondered, not for the first time and definitely not for the last, if swapping my go-go New York existence to live in a cottage in the middle of a potato field on a farm in Ireland, a stone’s throw from my in-laws’ house, was a huge mistake.
Eighteen hours earlier, I’d spent my last night in New York…in the spotlight, literally. My wife, Sasha, and our infant, Benjamin, had already gone ahead to Ireland. I was onstage at The Moth, a hip literary club. I’d just had my first book published, and I was telling the final chapter of my Manhattan story. I’d been drawn to New York, like so many people, for my shot at the Big Time. I’d nailed it. I worked for four years as a nightlife columnist, paid to drink at the coolest bars and eat at the hottest restaurants. Now I wanted to slow down, to spend more time with my family, to become a better husband and dad. That prospect scared me. I was scared about being a dad, about downsizing my career, about moving to Ireland. It could be paradise. It could be hell. “Maybe I’ll be back in three months,” I told the audience, “but if not, good-bye.” They applauded, some in admiration, others in pity.
To many of my friends, the ones who clock 60-hour workweeks and whose nannies know their kids better than they do, the move was a brilliant escape. Others warned me about the perils of “the daddy track,” which would lead to career oblivion. But I wasn’t just moving to any old farm, I protested. Lisnavagh is an estate covering more than a thousand walled acres of pheasant-studded countryside. At its heart sits Lisnavagh House, a nine-bedroom Gothic Revival mansion that my in-laws rent out to wedding parties and vacationers. The countryside here is heart-stoppingly beautiful, but I worried about my ability to make a living. As a former daily journalist, I would miss the call of fresh assignments and deadlines, the hurly-burly of the office, the ease of living close to colleagues. I would no doubt miss the vibrancy of Manhattan. I had no idea what a challenge it would be to operate as a freelancer from another continent, to set up my home office five time zones from the beating heart of the publishing industry.
The weather cleared up by the time we turned in to the Schoolhouse, our two-bedroom home, which sits at the foot of the drive. It was fall, and Benjamin, Bento for short, was playing with the leaves in the garden with Sasha. He crawled to the gate to greet me and said his one word: “Hiya!” Then he bit my leg and I remembered why I wanted to make this great escape in the first place.
The country is the place to bring up children. It’s where I grew up on a farm in Kent, England. We kept chickens, horses, and even a milking cow named Trefoil. It was a magical world for a little boy. I adored the animals. For my seventh birthday, my granny gave me an orphaned lamb. I called it Twinkletoes and it followed me to the village primary school one day. I wanted to re-create something like the world of my childhood for my son, where community is about knowing your neighbors, not logging on to Facebook.
I eased into our country routine rather quickly. I’d wake up at 7 a.m. every day and give Bento his breakfast, then we’d walk up to the big house and feed the chickens. After that, we’d drive the mile and a half to the village of Rathvilly, where I’d collect my specially ordered copy of the London Times. The postman delivers the mail at 9:30 a.m. sharp, so by 10 o’clock, I’d be at my desk, in my office, which is in an old bedroom in the big house. I’d head home for lunch at 2 p.m., and then, depending on how the deadlines were shaping up, I’d either go back to work or go for a long walk with Sasha and Bento.
I didn’t feel bored. One of the things about having young children is that you’re always on call. Somewhere around the third week of parenthood, it hits you that boredom is a luxury of the childless classes. But raising kids—even in this remote and beautiful place—doesn’t substitute for the cultural stimulation of the metropolis. In fact, in all of our discussions about the move, it was this factor that Sasha and I had zeroed in on as the element that could make or break our new life. To keep our spirits up, we booked ourselves cheap advance flights to London and New York, with plans to binge on new restaurants, plays, and exhibitions.
To many of my friends, the ones who clock 60-hour workweeks and whose nannies know their kids better than they do, the move was a brilliant escape. Others warned me about the perils of “the daddy track,” which would lead to career oblivion. But I wasn’t just moving to any old farm, I protested. Lisnavagh is an estate covering more than a thousand walled acres of pheasant-studded countryside. At its heart sits Lisnavagh House, a nine-bedroom Gothic Revival mansion that my in-laws rent out to wedding parties and vacationers. The countryside here is heart-stoppingly beautiful, but I worried about my ability to make a living. As a former daily journalist, I would miss the call of fresh assignments and deadlines, the hurly-burly of the office, the ease of living close to colleagues. I would no doubt miss the vibrancy of Manhattan. I had no idea what a challenge it would be to operate as a freelancer from another continent, to set up my home office five time zones from the beating heart of the publishing industry.
