With summer at an end and the Leaving Cert already a distant, uncomfortable memory, I – like thousands of other students leaving home for the first time – find myself with the daunting but exciting task of finding a new place to live. For someone who has spent the majority of their life eager to leave a rural village surrounded by sheep, the prospect of moving to Dublin is thrilling.

Unfortunately, relocating to the big smoke is no easy feat. Rents in the capital have risen by a staggering 12% since last year, and, with thousands of other students in a similar predicament, house-hunting has become a manic frenzy. Armed with an equally nonplussed best-friend, hours upon hours of sifting through Daft.ie soon leaves any hope of affordable cosy city-centre flats completely dashed.
With friends back in Galway renting for as little as €160 a month, I am ever so slightly disillusioned when the very cheapest room I can find is €400 – and upon calling the estate agent I am told they are unwilling to take students. Assurances that my friends and I are mature, quiet and responsible are dismissed and we are back trawling the internet. Most of our calls to landlords are unsuccessful: upon hearing my name a few bluntly ask my nationality (Irish – not that it should matter); several nosily enquire whether or not I have a boyfriend (again, one would assume irrelevant?)
We are finally granted a viewing for a seemingly perfect flat in Rathgar, only to be flippantly told 15 minutes before we are due to arrive that it’s been taken. Unperturbed we eventually make it to a house, much further away from town than initially intended. Still, as my friend flatly reminds me: beggars can’t be choosers.
After getting lost among rows of identical red-brick houses, we at last come to the address and are met by a landlord inexplicably more nervous than we are. I am suspicious, but, relieved at having finally been granted a viewing, pay little heed. Following him inside the first thing I notice is the wallpaper; an unapologetic orange mess of paisley and flowers, greyed and peeling at the corners. With the clashing chintz armchairs and swirling carpet the entire room is a microcosm of everything wrong with the '70s. Desperate to find somewhere before a post-CAO influx of new students we take it.
Our first night is unseasonably cold. Within 20 minutes I have clumsily broken the desk and the bed in a fruitless attempt to adjust the feng shui (or something). The furniture is an endearingly haphazard collection of flimsy plywood Argos bits and the odd retro ’50s piece (fringed velvet armchairs, anyone?) Later I discover the internet I have just paid a month’s bill for is not connecting, the taps in the downstairs bathroom don’t work and, comically, the damp patches at the back of the cupboards are lined with reindeer-patterned wrapping paper.
Amid the excitement of complete independence, the relief of gaining admission to my desired college and the adventure of being in a completely new place, there are several practicalities to take into account. How do we divvy up the bills? What’s the cheapest way to heat the house? How do we divide the housework? The cooking? Luckily, I am sharing with a fellow (Smiths-influenced) vegetarian. We’ve decided to split food preparation. In a house of five girls and one shower I am already predicting future early morning arguments... As well as this, as a musician of sorts, are my housemates likely to grow annoyed if I want to practice guitar? Was committing to spending the next year under the same roof as my best friend really a good idea? All of this is at the back of my mind, along with the sage wisdom and reassurances from parents and older friends that college years really are the best of your life. I decide not to worry.