What is life like for elderly people living on their own in rural Ireland? A widow and a bachelor talk to Rosita Boland

'The radio is on non-stop. It's great company. I always leave it on when I go out, so when I come in it sounds like there are other people here."

There is never anyone else there when Eileen, who is 80, returns to her isolated cottage in Connemara. She is a widow and lives alone. Three of her children live at opposite ends of Ireland. A fourth lives elsewhere in Connemara, visiting periodically to check on sheep.

"But he never stays long," she says. Well, why would he? He's busy. Very busy."

A fifth child died of a long-term illness last year.

"My husband, he died: he was old. But for a child to die on you . . . . I wasn't able to eat or sleep after that for a long time. When I look at her photograph I get so lonely," she says, starting to cry.

Almost 114,000 over-65s, or 29 per cent of their age group, live alone. The highest concentration, a total of 12,997 people, is in the Western Health Board area: Cos Galway, Mayo and Roscommon.

Eileen lives not far from Loch Nafooey, a starkly beautiful but wild and remote part of Connemara - the mountains that command the sky also block mobile-phone coverage. She has lived here all her life. The area is very sparsely populated, and hers is one of the last houses on a road that ends where the mountains begin. On her boreen are two elderly bachelors, who also live alone. They seldom visit each other, although they will call over the wall to tell her if her son's sheep are out on the road. Eileen doesn't come out and say it, but you can sense that sometimes, when you live right beside someone, too much intimacy can be uncomfortable.

Eileen's kitchen is where she spends most time when she is indoors. It is very simply furnished and looks time-worn. She apologises for the newspapers on the lino floor, but it's the trailing wires, hanging from appliances and lights, that catch the eye. The television is in here, beside a Sacred Heart lamp, and her armchair by the range is covered by a patchwork woollen blanket. There's knitting on another chair: she used to knit herself geansaís, but these days she sticks to socks, as her hands are getting arthritic. Eileen writes, too. She has been keeping a diary for years. She writes it without fail every night, before she goes to bed.

"I'll have to burn them before I die," she confides.

Many of the elderly people living in rural Ireland face social problems that their counterparts in urban centres do not. The lack of transport in particular can isolate people yet further from the community. Services such as libraries, shops, banks and cultural and social centres are much more difficult to access - impossible, in fact, without the help of a neighbour, unless you call a taxi.

There is no public transport in the area, and Eileen does not drive. There was never money for a car, even when her husband was alive. They farmed 17 acres.

"We were poor," she says, straight out. "I depend on very good neighbours for lifts now."

She laughs when she is asked when she last visited Galway: she can't remember. "I'd get lost now if I went to Galway."

Her lifts these days are mainly to Clonbur, for shopping and to attend the doctor. Her favourite outing is to the GP's surgery in Clonbur, where she chats with new people in the waiting room.

"Mass? No, it's very, very hard to get to Mass. I miss that," she says.

She might not have a car, but Eileen is still on her bike most days. She goes out regularly to check on her son's sheep, which explains why she always wears trousers. "You'd be killed with a skirt on the bike."

When it comes to groceries, she depends on the travelling shop that still comes by once a week and on the postman. Whether or not she has letters, he will regularly stop at her door and ask if she needs anything. Eileen gives him a shopping list on Mondays, and he will come back later in the week with what she has asked for. She praises his kindness effusively. She says she loves her house. It's her home. She wants to stay in it as long as she can.

It's very still and quiet in this part of Connemara. Virtually no cars pass Eileen's door regularly other than the travelling shop and the postman's. Loneliness is a hard word to define. It's slippery. It doesn't hook only on being alone. It depends on the person. Circumstances that one person would welcome as an opportunity for peace and solitude another person can find simply lonely and claustrophobic. Does she get lonely?

"I used to keep 10 hens and a cockerel, and they were great company," she says.

One morning she came out and there was a small, mink-sized hole in the netting. All the birds lay decapitated. She never had the heart to replace them. Yes, she says, and her voice breaks with apologies for weeping again; yes, she does get awful lonely.

Not 20 miles distant, Peter Laffey, who is 89, lives in the house close to Lough Mask that he built with money he saved from working in England. He retired 20 years ago and came home. His old family home, now ruined, stands in the garden. The centre of Peter's house, like Eileen's, is the kitchen. He has fixed up his armchair beside the range so that he has a clear sight line through to the pantry, where the television sits atop a food cabinet. Last year's Christmas cards from the US are still up on a piece of string.

"I have the wireless on a lot," he says. "And I watch The Late Late. Sometimes the young ones would call in if they weren't going anywhere, and we'd watch it together. The reception isn't the best sometimes, on account of the mountains."

He stands while he talks: a tall, dignified figure, leaning against the kitchen sink, holding a mug of tea. Peter never married and lives alone.

"There were 11 in my family," he says. "I have one sister I never met. She was gone to America before I was born, and she died in 1935."

Only three siblings are left, and he is the only one in Ireland; the others are in England and the US.

He still drives, although he mutters something about his impending licence renewal and cataracts. He's affronted that he will need an eye operation before he is eligible for a licence renewal, as he considers himself a grand driver, in no need of fixing up before he gets another licence.

"If I want to go for a spin I'll go as far as Ballinrobe, but mostly it is over to Clonbur," he says. He doesn't drive at night any more, though, he concedes; he finds oncoming lights too blinding.

Peter says he loves the independence his car gives him. A bus used to come through Cloghbrack, the nearest village, on its way from Clifden to Galway, but it doesn't run any more. The travelling shop that Eileen uses comes out his way also, but he doesn't use it much.

"I don't like being tied down to it. Waiting around for it to call, all that crack. I like just jumping into my car and going to the shop when I want," he says briskly.

Apart from the cataracts, he says he's very healthy.

"Oh bad health, it's deadly, that old crack," he declares. "I wouldn't like to be that way at all."

He cooks for himself, although he has stopped eating red meat. "You'd need to be doing a lot of physical work to digest meat at my age." He eats fish, and chicken, and "spuds every day. I like a few spuds".

Unlike Eileen, who is always in bed by 9 p.m., Peter stays up late, until midnight or 1 a.m. He gets up as soon as he wakes, usually at about 8.30 a.m. During the day he spends time outdoors, working on his garden.

"I do be messing round with plants and flowers. You feel fitter when you're doing something," he says.

When he gets fed up with RTÉ in the evenings he reads crime books and thrillers. He has a cousin in Finny he swaps books with. He doesn't bother with pubs any more. "The euro is not valuable. You couldn't afford to be going there."

Peter says he has very good neighbours. "They call in or come to the door to see if I need anything, am I all right. The Irish are good that way."

But modern life being the wayit is, a lot of his neighbours are away working during the day.

"They mightn't get home until seven, so I wouldn't see much of them during the day," he says. He doesn't have a dog. "You'd need to have a licence if you had a dog. But maybe the police don't be too hard on you when they know you. There are two or three wild cats round all right. They do call around for a bite to eat. But they're wild; they don't ever come into the house."

Although he lived in English cities most of his life, he says he couldn't imagine living in a city now. "Galway is deadly at night. You wouldn't know what'd happen to you there at night. You could be killed."

The last time he was in the city was 18 months ago, for a day at Galway Races, "a big day out that lasts you a week".

He says he doesn't take much notice of Christmas now. Last year he went to a Christmas Day lunch in Clonbur, organised by North Connemara Voluntary Housing Association, which he praises highly. He has his name down for a place in its housing scheme there.

"If there was a vacancy I'd go for it," he says. "They're nice, the lot of them in there. You'd have the shops, and the nurses nearby. And the company, of course."

Does he get lonely? He stands even more stiffly by the sink.

"Arragh now," Peter says, a few times. He looks at his mug of tea. Then he looks at the wall opposite.

"You don't start thinking about it. If you started thinking about it at all, you would," he says, matter-of-factly. Then he says, twice, how cross he is with himself that he doesn't have sweet cake in to go with our mugs of tea.

Eileen's name has been changed

Where to turn for help

The Senior Helpline (1850-440444) is a service available to any elderly person who feels isolated or lonely and wishes to talk to someone in confidence. Lines are open every day from 10 a.m. until 1 p.m. and from 7 p.m. until 10 p.m. Calls are charged at the local rate.

In some towns organisations such as the Society of St Vincent de Paul and Friends of the Elderly offer home visits by volunteers. Contact your local organisation for more information.

Age Action Ireland is the national organisation for practical information on all aspects of ageing, offering advice on retirement, pensions, travel insurance, nursing homes and health. Call 01-4756989 or visit www.ageaction.ie.

There are various sheltered-housing schemes for the elderly. The nearest to Eileen and to Peter Laffey (featured above) is an eight-unit scheme in Clonbur run by North Connemara Voluntary Housing Association, which is available to those living in Joyce Country (the region around loughs Corrib and Mask). Each resident has a home help who comes in every day. The units are in the village, next to the Western Health Board surgery.