Chapter 8 #2
She wandered deeper into the shop, discovering a section dedicated to local history and folklore.
Her fingers quickly found a slim volume titled; Trees of Tipperary: Myths and Legends, and she flipped through it, pausing at a chapter about ancient oaks and their significance in Irish culture.
There was no mention of the specific tree she sought, but the book felt like a sign nonetheless.
At the counter, the bookseller looked up from her work as Molly approached. ‘Found something of interest?’
‘I think so,’ she said, placing the book beside the register. ‘Do you happen to know much about the old oak trees around here? I’ve heard there’s a famous one in particular.’
‘The Wishing Oak, I expect,’ the woman said, ringing up the purchase. ‘Been standing longer than any building in this village.’ She chuckled. ‘Some say it remembers the old gods.’
Molly’s heart quickened. ‘Can visitors access it?’
The bookseller hesitated, placing the book in a brown paper bag with practiced movements.
‘It’s on private land and the owners tend to be a bit particular about people wandering around, especially during harvest season.
’ She pushed it across the counter. ‘They do open the gates for the Harvest Festival though, so you could catch it then.’
On private land.
Her grandmother hadn’t mentioned anything about that when she’d made her request.
Uncertain how to proceed, Molly said goodbye to the woman and continued her exploration, stopping next at The Glen Remedy to purchase a few toiletries she’d forgotten to pack.
The pharmacist, a jovial man with ruddy cheeks, engaged her in conversation about the weather while ringing up her purchases.
‘Perfect day for a walk along the lakeshore,’ he suggested, bagging her items. ‘Path goes all around the western edge, gives you a nice view of the vale from across the water.’
With each step through the village, Molly found herself comparing reality to Aoife’s descriptions – the way sunlight caught on the weathervane atop the church steeple, the particular shade of the lake in morning light, the smell of peat smoke that occasionally drifted from chimneys.
Yet there were differences too – contemporary houses on the outskirts, modern cars parked alongside centuries-old stone walls and, of course, people with smartphones.
Eventually, Molly’s steps led her down toward the lakeshore, where a well-maintained gravel path wound along the water’s edge.
She followed it, watching sunlight dance across the surface of Lough Corrin, creating patterns of light and shadow that shifted with each passing cloud.
Beyond, rolling hills gave way to orchards – neat rows of fruit trees that must be the Goldenridge place, though from this distance they appeared as orderly brushstrokes against the landscape.
Molly paused at a wooden bench facing the water, sitting for a moment to absorb the view. From here, she could see further across the lake to the far shore, where older native trees grew thick and tall.
Her eyes scanned the treeline, searching for anything that might resemble the ancient oak her grandmother had described so vividly. ‘Wider than three men could span with their arms, with branches that reach for the sky like fingers toward heaven.’
The Wishing Oak, the bookstore owner had called it. But from here, the distance was too great, the details too indistinct. The tree remained hidden from this perspective, still keeping its secrets. Would Molly be able to persuade the landowner to allow her access?
She sighed, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. Aoife’s request had seemed pretty straightforward when Molly had made her promise. Now, faced with the reality of gaining access to private property and who knew what else entailed, the task felt somewhat more complicated.
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her jeans, and continued along the trail.
The rising sun warmed her shoulders now as she walked, its heat a pleasant contrast to the cool breeze coming off the lake.
All around, the community went about their morning business – people flitting here and there on errands, a pair of joggers on the trail, a young mother pushing a stroller while chatting on her phone.
Ordinary life in an extraordinary setting.
Molly could see why her grandmother had loved it all the same, why its memory had sustained her through decades of exile.
There was a timelessness to Golden Valley, a sense that while the surface might change, the essence remained constant – like the lake itself, reflecting different skies but fundamentally unaltered.
As she rounded a bend in the path, the village itself came into view again, its stone buildings clustered protectively around the square, the church steeple rising above them like a sentinel.
Molly squared her shoulders, determination settling over her like a familiar coat. She hadn’t clawed her way up Manhattan’s corporate ladder by shying away from obstacles.
If direct access to The Wishing Oak was blocked, she’d just find another route. After all, she was Aoife Brennan’s granddaughter – and if there was one overall lesson Nan had taught her, it was persistence.
In a village this size, information surely flowed like the water in that fountain – all Molly needed to do was find the right channel.