Our Homes in Donegal 

Alex McDonnell reports as he and John Glynn once more bring a group of returning men from the northern counties face to face with their past.

Valerie Morton, our benefactor in Donegal, has asked us to make it clear that her gift of a free stay at her idyllic cottages at Fintra, just outside Killybegs, is in honour of her late husband Denis. And when we entered the main cottage in May there was a picture of Denis on a shelf to welcome us. Denis had heard about Aisling and had wanted to help in some way - and now we were staying in his holiday cottages for the fifth time, thanking him in his absence for another week in his amazingly located cottages.

Amazing. There is no other way to describe the setting of Cloughey cottages, perched as they are, way up the side of a hill overlooking Donegal Bay. They are just amazing. The two cottages are long and low and have no room to be anything else, butted up against the side of the hill. In front is a panorama extending to the coast of Mayo in the distance with all of south Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim in between. At the back, the hill rises steeply where sheep and goats graze away happily, as far as we can tell, paying little attention to the wonders before them. The cottages are homely and comfortable and a perfect antidote to the trials of big city living. It’s a long way to travel though and we were a bit worn out by the time we arrived.

There was only room for six of us altogether in Fintra and so we could afford to all have berths on the night crossing from Holyhead to Dublin but the best you can hope for is about three hours kip, that is without getting up in the night to go to the bar and getting lost on the way back. For the four men travelling with us on this trip who hadn’t been in Dublin for so many years, the first view of the city coming out of the docks onto the quays is a bit of a shock with it’s glass and steel offices, hotels and apartment blocks. Myself and John can’t get used to it either.

On the morning we arrived we had been invited to breakfast by Niamh Collins who has run a café for us in her house on the outskirts of Dublin on many occasions when we have arrived off the boat at ungodly hours of the morning. She has moved to a flat in town and so hasn’t the space to cater for 30 travellers but was able to put a spread on for the six of us on this occasion. And spread it was. Finding Smithfield wasn’t too difficult and we drove smack into the fruit and veg market which was a hive of activity at that hour on a Saturday morning and eventually found the famous Cobblestones music pub and the main square. Niamh’s flat is over in the corner above the new cinema. If the lads doubted they were in Dublin before, they probably thought they were on a different planet now, as Dublin has gone space age without bothering to go through the industrial age. Niamh and her friend Criona served up big fries and cake, still dolled up from the night before and gave us bags of clothes they had collected from friends, which we piled into the van thanking them profusely as they waved us off. The lads were thoroughly charmed and mesmerised as we headed off on the rocky road to Donegal.  

Three of the men with us had been with Aisling on previous trips but none had been back to their home counties in many years. We often find that returnees need their first trip to be well away from their home town or even their home county and the three had wanted to stay well away from home on the first trip but had begun to have thoughts of going home in the time since. Tom was the fourth man, an Arlington House [hostel] resident who had dropped out of sight of his family, as many of the men there do. However he had recently been in contact with his sister who lives in London and she had prepared him for this trip, cleaning his clothes, packing his bags and getting money together for him. The home visit had mixed results for our little band of returning emigrants.

Charlie Conquest, our outreach worker had worked with Gerry over the last couple of years preparing him for the home run. She had been in touch with his sisters back in Donegal who were expecting him and had contacted other family members. Gerry was terrified of rejection, as he had not been in touch for 17 years and his family had no idea where he was. In the meantime their mother had died and Gerry only found out about her death from an old copy of the Donegal Democrat when it was too late to go home for the funeral. He felt so bad about it that he hid himself away full of shame and regret. When he arrived at the office on the Friday evening for the trip he was actually shaking, and it wasn’t with the drink. Over in Donegal, his nerves were still bad and he kept stammering as he asked us what we thought. Did we think they’d want to know him, would they be there, what would they think of him?

We drove up to Glenties with Gerry, all red-faced and shot nerves and stopped outside his sister’s tidy little house on a crescent just off the town’s main street. I got out of the van with Gerry as the door opened and Gerry’s four sisters stood there with stern faces of disapproval and berated him for missing their mother’s funeral. No really, that was probably what Gerry expected but they welcomed him into their arms with more relief than anything else. We left them together and arranged to be back later. Gerry enjoyed a great homecoming and the feeling of relief in him was palpable for the week we were together. One of the sisters was living in Dublin, she had done very well and had a holiday cottage on the coast near Glenties and Gerry couldn’t have been more proud if it was his own. They brought Gerry back to Fintra later in the week and looked out at the view sharing their joy at finding their brother again after so many years.

The weather was consistently beautiful for the week with temperatures in the mid 20’s and we spent most of the days outside making the most of it. Going down the steep path to the sandy beach at Fintra one day Tom’s legs wouldn’t carry him and he pitched over down the hill miraculously without spilling a drop from his can or dropping the bag of beers he held in his other hand. Tom’s legs have acquired that strange sort of drinkers gait from muscle wastage and hardened arteries where every step looks like you’re walking off a cliff not knowing if your feet are going to touch the ground. And sometimes they don’t. It’s a bit worrying to see this happening to a relatively young man. We visited Tom’s hometown and called up to his aunt and uncle who had just arrived back from holiday and were unpacking the car. This was late in the evening and we were very fortunate to catch them in at all because Tom was also nervous about going home after so long, and had found plenty of reasons not to go during the week, until we had to decide to go for it. On the drive over to Tyrone we took a circuitous route stopping off in several towns and pubs on the way. One place we visited was a wonderful old pub in Cookstown’s majestic main street called Quinn’s where John found, as usual, that he had many friends and neighbours in common with the barman.

Tom’s Aunt Maggie and Uncle Frank fed us with sandwiches and cakes and when Tom went out for a cigarette they whispered their concerns about his unsteady walk. In the Central bar in town Tom met his cousin and best friend from his days at home, who took me aside when Tom went to the toilet and asked what had happened to his legs, thinking that they had got hurt in an accident on a building site or he had been hit by a car. Tom seemed to have little awareness of the state he was in but it was glaringly obvious to those who hadn’t seen him for years. Coming back from the easterly north to the westerly north we entered and re-entered the 6 counties four times according to Tom whose brain is certainly less affected by alcohol than his legs. He’s sharp as a razor at crosswords and is pretty untouchable at 25, the card game of choice for Irish men everywhere.

Kevin came with us to Achill Island one year and spent a lot of the time in the pub with his mate from Shepherd’s Bush. This time he had palled up with Gerry, also living in Shepherd’s Bush as it happened. Gerry was pretty busy with his family but we had days out driving around Donegal in the sunshine. One day we went up to north Donegal knowing that Kevin came from that direction, to see would he make a move for home. All week he had been deflecting our enquiries about his home but Gerry’s homecoming may have sparked an interest. We headed for as far north as it’s possible in Ireland, to Mizen Head. The glorious calm day somehow turned into a hurricane on Mizen Head and we were nearly blown off the edge of the world along with the discarded food and used nappies strewn around the car park. Down off the head the day resumed its placid demeanour and we stopped for a pint in the nearest pub, which was in the process off being upgraded. One of the locals, an ex-fisherman, had known rare old times in Shepherd’s Bush and reminisced with our two Bushmen. I wondered how he had found work as a fisherman in west London and was reminded of the Hammersmith Irish festival about 20 years ago when a team of Connemara fisherman won a race against the victorious Cambridge boat race team. While the Cambridge team waited in the Thames for half an hour having to row against the fast flow of the river, the Connemara men were in the pub relaxing. Suddenly they burst out of the pub, ripping their shirts off and jumped into their currach to win by two lengths.

Kevin was by now thinking of going to his home place and we headed in the general direction eking out clues as we went. Kevin hadn’t much of an idea about directions as it had been so long and there seemed to be many roads going in the same direction. Kevin just kept saying Lough Swilley and so we hugged the edge of the Lough. In the tiny village of----------we came to a full stop at a small beach. Two young women were sunning themselves and pointed us towards a tiny boreen behind a farmhouse. The road winded up and up to -------------. On the steep incline there is a holy well with a fibreglass statue of Padre Pio and a Virgin Mary festooned with medals, ribbons, small toys and other weird tokens, we stopped to taste the fresh spring water and Kevin thought about the countless times he had climbed this hill coming from school and maybe said a prayer.

Over the pass we came down the other side of the hill and Kevin led us to a house standing on it’s own in a field. There was scaffolding all around it and obviously in the process of major renovation. His sister in America now owned the house and it seemed that she had plans for it. There was no-one around but, having got this far Kevin didn’t want to look any closer. There hardly seems to be a place in Donegal without a perfect setting and Kevin’s old house was placed on the edge of a sandy bay shining gold in the sunshine. Driving on we came to --------- , a military fort with huge guns pointing out into the Lough. We did the tour and watched a film on the history of the place which told us that it was one of many defensive positions strategically placed along the Lough, built by the British and taken over and maintained by the Free State army in the 1920’s. Even peacetime soldiers can die young and Kevin’s father was a soldier based at the fort when he met Kevin’s mother. The family was still very young when he died and they were brought up by Kevin’s uncle, not too happily for Kevin it seemed. It was a homecoming of sorts and seemed to have a good affect on Kevin who was becoming a little less closed off as the holiday progressed. Kevin is in touch with his sister in America now and he bears no resentment about her inheriting the family home, the beauty of its setting and the value having no mitigation for whatever unhappy memories it held.

Our final returnee was Brian who had not been home to Leitrim in 27 years. The last time he had come back he had a wife and 3 young daughters with him. Now he was living in a hostel on his own and wanted to go back to meet his two brothers and sister who were living in the family home and another sister based in Sligo. We had the home phone number and had talked to the sister and arranged a day to call. Like Kevin, Brian was confused about how to get to the house and we had experience before of that part of Leitrim and its winding paths and bye-ways. Eventually we got directions from a local farmer, two right turns, a left and another right found us on a tiny windy road with high hedgerows, passing a church and farmhouses to the house that had to be the one. A tall two storey house close to the road, Brian still wasn’t sure. There was no answer at the door but a neighbour came over who knew Brian well and they talked as we looked around. We left a note saying we would come back on our way to Dublin on Friday.

After a glorious week in Donegal we were heading home by way of Dublin where we would spend one night before catching the ferry in the North Star Hotel, an old Dublin landmark going through a painful transition into a modern establishment. We’ve stopped here before and it suits us just fine as we are experiencing a similar process ourselves. In Leitrim we arrived at Brian’s house only to find no-one home again, sitting outside in the sunshine we met the neighbour’s mother coming back from shopping and she sat on the wall with us. She remembered Brian coming home all those years ago and asked after his wife and daughters, with whom Brain has no contact now. She said that she remembered the girls well but saw nothing of Brian on his home visits as he was always in the pub down the road. Brian said the road and the house looked so much smaller now and was still finding it hard to recognise the home he was brought up in. Looking back, we have a confusion of thoughts and emotions, and the reality can be difficult to reconcile with our memories. Sometimes we fool ourselves and it can be a hard lesson to realise how we are remembered by others. These can be good and bad experiences but I suppose they are lessons we need to learn if we are to have any peace.

Back in London the rain was pelting down as we came face to face with another reality. Dropping the lads off, we said our goodbyes. I took Brian back to his hostel in south London in a cab. I had never been to the hostel and arriving on the street I asked Brian where it was. He had lived there for years but he wasn’t sure. We drove up and down the street and I had to ask directions as Brian, once again either didn’t know where he lived, or didn’t want to go home.  

reports on other Aisling trips