Page 18 of The Apple Cider Orchard

The village looked completely different in daylight. Buildings that had been gray smudges through yesterday’s rain, now revealed themselves as a charming collection of stone structures, a few whitewashed, others showing their natural limestone.

Window boxes overflowed with late-season wildflowers in shades of purple and gold. Carved wooden signs hung from wrought-iron brackets, identifying shops with names that could easily have been plucked from Aoife’s stories.

Molly descended the steps and stepped out on to the village square. Those cobblestones, so goddamn treacherous in yesterday’s rain, now formed a picturesque path that guided her between buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, their fronts adorned with ivy and climbing roses. The space opened up before her, a broad expanse of ancient stones surrounding the central ornate fountain she’d glimpsed yesterday.

Now in full daylight, she could clearly see the detailed carvings on its base – apple blossoms and Celtic knots intertwined in a pattern. Water trickled from the mouths of stone fish, the sound a gentle counterpoint to the fading church bells. Molly circled the fountain slowly, taking in the shops that lined the square.

The Cherry Blossom Café with its duck-egg blue door stood directly opposite, windows steamed slightly from the heat of ovens within. Beside it, the bookstore with the rainbow display she’d seen yesterday, the traditional butcher shop, a pharmacy called The Glen Remedy – and what appeared to be a combination post office and newsagent – made up the majority of the square’s commercial offerings.

A few locals moved about, nodding politely to Molly as they passed. Unlike the city where eye contact was often avoided, here it seemed expected – a brief acknowledgment of shared space that was oddly comforting.

She headed for the bookstore first, drawn immediately by the cheerful display. A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door, releasing a waft of that distinctive oh-so-comforting bookstore smell. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, packed with volumes ranging from brand-new releases to well-loved classics with cracked spines.

A woman in her fifties with short steel-gray hair looked up from behind a counter cluttered with bookmarks. Pencils and various utensils. ‘Good morning,’ she called. ‘Just browsing, or looking for something specific?’

‘Just browsing,’ Molly replied, running her fingers along the spines of nearby books. ‘You have a beautiful shop.’

‘Thank you. Been here twenty years next spring.’ The woman smiled and returned to the paperwork she’d been checking, leaving Molly to explore at her own pace.

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.