A few Christmases ago, I went to Ireland with my mom and sister. Two weeks, two Airbnbs: one on a farm in the countryside and one in Dublin with modern everything and zero sheep.
We fell in love with the entire country—the people, the accents, the landscapes that made you want to narrate your own movie trailer. I’d underestimated how Ireland could get under my skin and into my heart.
The farm stay was what did me in.
It was run by the family’s single son—nothing like Aidan, for the record.
He took his job as host very seriously. There was birthday cake and tea waiting when we arrived because he’d noticed in our booking notes that two of us were celebrating. He stopped by often to check on the firewood, to build the actual fires, and to make sure we were comfortable.
He was kind, funny, and had an adorable dog—which is saying something, because I’m not a dog person.
I may or may not have developed a small crush, the kind that’s equal parts admiration and “how old is he, exactly?” I’m a terrible age guesser, but let’s just say I decided it was best to keep that question rhetorical.
Still, he was the reason I started imagining how a story like Norah’s could happen. The cottage, the quiet, the unexpected kindness—it all felt like the beginning of something.
The nearby town wasn't exactly cinematic, though.
So when we visited Adare—a few hours away—I knew that if I ever wrote the story, it would have to be Adare-adjacent.
Adare is everything you want an Irish small town to be: thatched roofs, stone walls, historic churches, pubs, Adare Manor, rolling hills, and locals who could probably run the whole place without a city council. It’s ridiculously beautiful in every direction.
Settle in with a blanket, pour the tea, and visit the Irish farm that started it all:
Faith has always run deep in Ireland.
Sometimes beautifully, sometimes painfully. But that’s what made it such a powerful backdrop for Norah’s chaos.
What struck me most while I was there was how grace showed up in ordinary ways—through people who served, helped, and cared without making a show of it. The kind of faith that doesn’t announce itself, it just builds a fire, leaves cake on the table, and keeps showing up.
Even in Aidan’s stiffness, Norah still sees that goodness. It felt true to the Ireland I experienced—the kind where people reveal grace through quiet, practical care.
That’s where An Unexpected Christmas in Ireland began: one farm, one trip, one small crush, and a country that still feels like magic.
It felt too good not to turn into a story.
xoxo,
abs
P.S. Next stop in the Passport to Mistletoe series in November: Amsterdam—canals, second chances, and at least one emotional crisis involving stroopwafels.
