My love story in Cork that ended in heartache

I came out of the Stéphane Grappelli concert at the Cork Jazz Festival feeling his music was almost too good to be true.

That was my first taste of Cork culture, and I knew I was going to enjoy living there.

It was the early 1990s. I had recently moved to the ‘real capital’ from Dublin. It was a condition of my civil service job that I would spend at least one year in an office outside Dublin.

When my turn came to move, I had a choice between Cork and Galway. Almost on the toss of a coin, I chose Cork, and was looking forward to exploring this beautiful city.

My one-year stint evolved into four years. I was very happy in Cork, until I was very unhappy.

I was first struck by the number of churches in and around the city centre. And I remember playing a tune on the famous Bells of Shandon in St Anne’s Church after climbing the 132 steps to the bell tower to take in the panoramic 360-degree views as my music rang out over Cork city.

Then there were the hills - if you weren’t fit, you’d soon become fit walking around hilly Cork.

In my first hours there, I discovered that there were two branches of the River Lee flowing through the city centre. It surprised me that I knew so little about my new home city.

I had been sent to work in an office on Sullivan’s Quay as the sole staff member there. That was a lonely start.

Through an advertisement in the Cork Examiner, I got an apartment in Bishopstown. While that was a nice place to live, it didn’t give me a way to connect with the local community.

I knew I had to do something to get to know people in my new city. So I joined the Friends of the Crawford Gallery. That put me on their invitation list for events such as exhibitions, dinners, and social evenings.

When I was introduced to other members I was sometimes mistaken for one of the Merchant Prince family with the same surname. That family must be nice people because our common surname seemed to get me a warmer welcome.

I spent a lot of time in the gallery gazing at paintings. And that’s where I met my Corkman. That meeting changed my life. Suddenly, I was no longer a stranger in Cork. I was with a local man who knew his way around and was happy to take me with him.

Instead of being a place to work, Cork became my home. With my new fella, I got to know my new city.

I remember spending some gracious evenings in the Arbutus Lodge in Montenotte. Then there were the more down-to-earth evenings spent in the Roundy House in Castle Street, which was actually a circular pub and one of the oldest buildings in Cork.

My first trip to Kinsale left a lasting impression. It was only a short drive from Cork city and yet it was another world on a bank holiday weekend - full of young people enjoying being young.

My fella rented a motorboat there and took me on trip along the coastline at fairly high speed. But he knew what he was doing and we got safely back to land - excited, exhilarated, and a little wind burned.

Kinsale is a great place to be for the gourmet weekend held every October. We dined like kings and wandered back to the Trident Hotel blissed out on self-indulgence.

I remember a visit to Blarney Castle where I kissed the Blarney Stone. My fella told me I didn’t need to as I already had the gift of the gab.

A very special memory of Cork is of a concert in a little room above a pub near the city centre. That was my introduction to Guy Clark. He sang beautiful poetic songs and played simple guitar chords. I’ve loved his music ever since. Though completely different in style, he made as great an impression as Stéphane Grappelli.

The most important lesson I learned during my stay in Cork was that if you think something will last forever - you’re wrong.

My lovely Corkman was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. I took special leave to sit by his bedside. His two brothers shared in his care. They did the night shift and the dawn shift, giving me the easier day shift.

I remember leaving the hospital exhausted each evening and hoping I would be able to sleep through the night, which seldom happened. He lasted three months. He passed on the dawn shift. I wasn’t with him. How did I not sense that he was going? That was one of the few times I had slept all night.

I stumbled through the next few days on automatic pilot. I felt cold all the time. That Friday night I went to bed and couldn’t get up for four days.

I spent the rest of my time in Cork wondering, why?

For 18 months after his passing, I sensed his presence beside me every waking moment. Then I saw him in a dream. He gave me his boyish grin and then he faded away. I never felt his presence again.

Head office gave me a transfer to Dublin. It was a relief to get back to my roots. Gradually, my sense of security returned.

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ became a cliché because it’s true.

Now, when I look back on my time in Cork, I say thanks for the memories.

The Long Way Home, by Helen Dwyer, is published by Poolbeg Press, €15.99. Out now.