Tucked beneath the rolling hills and forests outside Cappoquin, “The Cabin Under The Hills” is a place where you instantly feel at ease. We drive through the old gates and journey up along a winding, hedgerow-lined track, climbing higher as we go. We park the car and walk up the gravel path for the final stretch. Every so often, as we make our way, the trees part just enough to give us glimpses of the Blackwater Valley below.
Once inside the cabin, we light the stove — half for warmth, half for the grounding ritual of lighting a fire. Light and shadows drift through the windows, and the sky keeps changing its mind: deep blue, moody grey followed by fluffy white clouds that look almost too perfect.
We are here without our children, and we don’t know ourselves.
We make dinner, read books, chat uninterrupted, and make plans for the next day. Slowly, we acclimatise to the idea of having nothing in particular to do. In the evening, the Blackwater river flickers sliver with the last of the setting sun before the whole valley settles into a hush.
Morning starts with birdsong echoing across the hills. We sit on the porch with breakfast, easing ourselves into the absolute peace and quiet of this place. We watch as the mist that has settled in the valley slowly lifts, revealing and hiding the curves of the land as if it’s playing.
Days here naturally fall into a gentle rhythm — quiet breakfasts, walks to the river, curling up with a book, and a feeling of space to breathe that we are unaccustomed to in our day-to-day lives.
Notes:
With thanks to Greg Keane and family.
Go visit : The Cabin Under the Hills