Share this story with a friend or family on St. Patrick’s Day or any other day of the year! It was inspired by a rare breed of dog called the Glen of Imaal Terrier from Ireland. Some people say these dogs used to help people roast food over a fire! Food was put on a stick, called a spit. The spit was attached to a wheel. As the dogs ran inside the wheel, the spit turned and the food cooked evenly. Yum!
There was once a tiny village buried deep in the Glen of Imaal mountains of Ireland. The village was a world of its own, far away from everyone and everything. No one came. And no one left. Every day was just the same.
The villagers worked hard tending sheep and keeping their crops safe from animals who wanted some for themselves. Sun up, sun down. Day in, day out. Every day was just the same.
At the end of each day, villagers would return wearily to their tiny cottages. But there was always more work to be done– if they wanted to eat. Churning butter and cooking meals over the fire were tiresome chores that never seemed to end. Every day was just the same.
Until one day.
At the darkest stage of twilight, the cottages glowed with flickering candlelight. The villagers prepared their evening meals, roasting meats by turning spits over the fire with pots underneath. And as they did, they heard a tune throughout the village, echoing in the valley of the mountains. The tune was hauntingly beautiful, mournful, and unlike anything they’d ever heard before.
The villagers parted their curtains and peeked out their windows, wondering who– or what– was bringing this music into their quiet homes. Their eyes grew wide when they saw a visitor, dressed in green from head to toe. He walked carrying a stick and yes, whistling the very tune.
Everyone watched this strange spectacle except for Noreen. Unlike the rest of the villagers who had a husband or wife, Noreen lived alone. And for this reason, she worked twice as hard for half as much food. Her days were full of exhaustion and her stomach was often empty.
Noreen, busy as always, didn’t notice the small visitor knock on the door of a fellow villager’s cottage, asking for food. She didn’t notice when the visitor was turned away with nothing. Or when the visitor knocked on yet another cottage door, and another and another and another… and no one gave him a speck of food, even after he’d knocked on all the doors of the all cottages in all the village.
Except for one.
The visitor, still whistling his magnificent tune, knocked on Noreen’s door three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. Each knock sounded more hopeful than the last. Noreen let go of the spit she used to turn the teeny-tiny piece of meat over the fire, checked the empty pot underneath, and smoothed out her apron. She opened the door with a smile.
The visitor stopped whistling and returned Noreen’s smile with his own wide grin.
“Are you able to share your meal with me this night?” he asked, twirling his stick as he spoke.
“Why, of course!” Noreen replied with warmth. “I haven’t much but it’s yours for the askin’!”
Together, the visitor and Noreen dined by the fire late into the night. The pair enjoyed each others’ endless tales and laughter. Neither one noticed their hunger lingering from the scant food, because their hearts overflowed with friendship.
Darkness faded into the light of the day. Noreen slept, slumped over on a chair, but awoke with a start when the sun shone upon her face. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“What a lovely dream!” she said to the empty room. As she stood up, she held onto the chair she’d slept on. And what good luck, because she nearly fell over when she noticed something strange.
It was a stick. The stick. It wasn’t a dream, after all.
Noreen picked up the stick and carefully stood it in one corner of the cottage. She put it out of her mind and went about the day, working until the point of exhaustion as she always did. Every day was just the same.
Or was it?
As twilight descended once more, Noreen began to prepare her evening meal. She was about to turn the spit to roast her teeny-tiny piece of meat over the fire when, suddenly, it SNAPPED. The snap was so loud that it was heard throughout the village, echoing in the valley of the mountains.
Noreen didn’t know where she’d find a replacement so late. It was too dark to find another outside. She looked around her cottage when her eye caught the stick she’d stood up in the corner earlier in the day.
Carefully, she arranged her teeny-tiny piece of meat with the new stick as a spit, and positioned the pot underneath. The stick happened to be just the right size.
As she turned the meat, her eyes grew wide as she watched the meat glow… first red, now orange, then blue… and on and on until every hue of the sky, of sunrises and sunsets, of every day of every year, enveloped the meat. Round and round the spit turned– as if by itself– growing more and more brilliant, illuminating the walls of the cottage with bold and vibrant colors that Noreen had never before seen.
And as the spit turned, faster and faster, and yet faster still, Noreen held her breath as a shower of gold coins fell into the pot beneath the spit! The clatter of coins was so loud that it was heard throughout the village, echoing in the valley of the mountains.
Noreen examined the pot that had once stood empty, but now stood overflowing with gold. GOLD! She picked up a pile of gold coins and let them fall, listening to the sounds they made as they hit the pot. Each drop sounded like the note of a tune. A tune that was hauntingly beautiful, mournful, and like something she’d heard once before.
Maybe every day wasn’t just the same, after all.
The Story Cottage 