What better way to recover from the the horrors and traumas and PTSDs, or 'nerves' as they so quaintly called it back before they invented PTSD, of the First World War, than a nice quiet stay in Ireland, circa 1920? The peaceful countryside, clement weather and charming locals are like soothing balm for a troubled soul. HAHAHAHA no really the British Empire is crumbling into a shattered morass of blood and resentment and sectarian grudge fights, a bit like the hotel the Major goes to because he may or may not have proposed to the owner's daughter, a bit like Ireland in 1920 when savage Irish leprechauns began chewing at the ankles of the snotty British toffs.

Anyway, the Major's maybe-intended proves weirdly difficult to pin down before abruptly departing from the picture, leaving the Major more confused than begrieved, but a weird fascination and attraction has begun and he finds it difficult to depart, so he finds himself part of the hotel's long slow slide from decrepitude to utter ruination, and cleverly enough, the Irish War of Independence serves as an acute metaphor for this haunting portrait of the severe difficulties in the hotel trade and the Anglo-Irish tourism industry at this time.