Tucked into a low valley ringed with gentle green hills, just fifteen minutes’ drive from the wind-kissed Atlantic coast, sits the timeless village of Caerhollow.

Caerhollow is built like a slow exhale — winding gently around the central church, its roads more like worn footpaths widened by wheels over time. The houses here are storybook-like.

No modern buildings disrupt the village skyline — nothing taller than the steeple of St. Brigid’s Church, which proudly watches over the village with its grey stone and stained-glass windows.

Thatched cottages line both sides of the roads, their whitewashed stone walls glowing softly in the Irish mist. Ivy coils up the chimneys, dances along rooflines, and wraps itself lovingly around window frames. Wooden fences separate front gardens overflowing with foxgloves, lupines, wild roses, and hydrangeas. The air carries the scent of fresh bread, peat smoke, and salt from the not-so-distant sea. Moss carpets the low stone walls and sneaks onto rooftops.

A timber-framed building with red-painted trim, run by the Doyle family for three generations is Caerhollow Only General Store & Hardware.

The Rye Oak Bakery is a cozy spot that smells like heaven. They sell brown soda bread, cream buns, and a daily-changing pie that villagers swear by.

Seamus the Butcher and his small shop is tiled in old white ceramic and always noisy with people.

The Post Office with the postmistress, Noreen, who knows everyone’s name and gossip all day.

The Red Harp is a pub right in the village center. Lively, loud, full of fiddles, local pride, and exaggerated stories.

The Blue Boar, another pub at the west end near the road to the coast. The two pubs’ owners constantly at odds.

Caerhollow Primary School, a small stone building with a red wooden door, two classrooms and a tire swing.

St. Brigid’s Church, small, gorgeous, traditional Catholic church with ancient stone walls, a holy well and a tiny graveyard. Close by the community hall.

A little pale-blue building with lace curtains. Dr. Egan sees everyone and knows each villager’s needs.

Three bus stops in total, which didn’t make sense since everyone walked.

Just one garda, who’s also the school’s crossing guard and occasional pub peacekeeper.

A red barn-like structure with a vet that specializes in cows, sheep, and horses.

Called “Snips & Shears.” Mrs. Keegan handles the perms, and her husband does the cuts and shaves.

A charming tearoom with delicate wallpaper, perfect for breakfasts.

A converted old manor house has became the village library with it’s creaky wooden floors and rumoured secret passages.

To the north, hills roll like waves, dappled with sheep and shaded by great oaks and hawthorns.

To the west, the sea wind slips through the valley and leaves behind the faint tang of salt.

A narrow stream cuts through the village, crossed by two old stone bridges, with ducks bobbing in the current and children dropping in paper boats.

The Keanes had warned her a month prior, over breakfast they’d told Ailis an exchange student would be arriving. From far off. Someone who, oddly enough, had chosen Caerhollow from a list that must’ve included glittering cities.

Ailis hadn’t thought about it much. Just curious about the flicker of something unfamiliar in such a familiar place. She imagined all kind of people, someone who flinched at sheepdogs or asked if the cows were dangerous to someone that would be like her, just from elsewhere.

The morning they arrived, Ailis had been painting in the loft when the sound of tires on gravel tugged her gaze out the open window.

She descended slowly, still barefoot, her fingers smudged green and ochre.

Her mam stood at the doorway, apron still on, unsure whether to present a pie or a handshake. Her da leaned slightly forward, smiling in that careful way he did with new lambs. A car door clicked shut. A pair of boots touched the ground.

Ailis came around, the sleeves of her blouse rolled, her hair a loose mess of curls.