When we travel, we try to rent locally. Ideally, we find a property that has been in the family for awhile. I look for local hosts who have great reputations. We avoid corporate rentals.

I love spaces that feel lived in. I want local connections. But it is hard to make a selection from photographs and emails when we will be staying on the other side of the world in a place where we haven’t been. We factor cost, location, house layout, and hosts. But eventually we have to just make a choice.

Part of the fun is traveling to the house and stepping across the threshold for the first time. On that first day I question whether we picked the right neighborhood and whether the house will meet our needs. By the last day, it almost always feels like home. We have been lucky in our selection.

In Ireland, I am deep in farm country. The smell of peat hits me as I open the front door. I notice that there is firewood and peat stacked by wood-burning stoves in both the dining room and the living room. Wood smoke always makes me feel content as there is something calming about a fire.

The farmhouse is quirky and lovely in its imperfections. It has clearly seen a lot of life and love in its walls. Decorations are tasteful yet authentic. Generations of objects on mantels and walls. Each has its own unique story.

The floors slope from decades of use. The electrical boxes are jumbled above the front door where they were added over time, based on each technological advancement. The couches have lumps in just the right places. A large dining room table with chips and dings from frequent family gatherings offers a place to work and regroup.

The house is clean and functional. It sings of family. Maybe it reminds me of my grandparents house. The rooms are small but plentiful. Upstairs bedrooms under the eaves, remind me of the many times I snuggled into a feather bed in an upstairs attic. I can almost imagine grandma puttering downstairs as I drift off to sleep.

I will have to remember to flip the switches to turn on and off the electrical outlets. The stove and microwave won’t work until the electricity is turned on. Even the heating system runs from a timer that must be activated. So much to remember that is different than our usual existence.

On this trip, I already know how to operate the washer. I am not surprised that the dryer is simply a clothes rack. I am intrigued, however, with the choice to put the dishwasher in the laundry room. I will do the dishes in the kitchen sink because carrying them back and forth across the house is nonsensical to me. But people make choices for reasons that are logical for their situation and I am just a guest in someone’s home. They are allowing me the privilege of living in their space for a short while.

After unpacking on move in day, I sit and take in the views from the patio. The mountain is spectacular in the afternoon sun. I wonder what the month will bring?

On our last day in the farmhouse, I sit in the same place and breathe in the smell of sweet grass and sheep. This place has become part of me. It feels like home and is rooted in my being. I am attached. This time we picked the right home away from home.