By K.M. Churchill
Walking on the edge of myth in Ireland.Snow rarely fell in Ireland. When it did the dusting was so light it looked like confectionary sugar had been sprinkled all over the green ivy and winter-blooming roses. So I knew our first winter storm in Union Hall, a tiny fishing village on Glandore Bay in the remote southwestern tip of County Cork—where I’d moved with Francis, my Irish chef husband, and our two young children to open a restaurant—would be nothing like the New England blizzards I was used to. The joyous, drunken raucousness of the Irish holiday season was upon us and, even with the storm clouds spreading out against the sky, our seaside village seemed festive rather than pensive.