Home is forever embedded in us

WHEN someone says: “I’m going home,” or “I’m heading over by,” I think there’s a universal understanding of what that means. It means going to a place where open arms and open fires await; with a heat that never fails to send you into a soft slumber. Where you head out on a beach walk and are warned: “The wind’ll blow the head aff ye.” A place where even a stroll across the fields, 40 shades of green, cut or wild, welcome you back with familiarity and knowing.

A squad of us—like the Irish Waltons we were—have just been ‘home’ to Donegal for September weekend. The Inishowen peninsula to be precise. We rented a rustic cottage beside Kinnagoe Bay and took our pals—a couple who’ve never set foot in our part of the country. To say we baptised them in all things Irish would be an understatement.

And more than that, the sun shone, for five full days—other than a couple of hours early Saturday morning—it was glorious. And sure we all know how often that happens! Donegal and sunshine don’t normally go together the way spuds and butter do. Sure they’ve even written songs about Donegal Rain there’s that much of it. So to say we didn’t feel somewhat smug as we drove our pals around Inishowen, all of us like sunglasses-clad Italian tourists, would be a big fat lie. They were seeing God’s own country in its full technicoloured wonder.

The house was perfect, with a huge kitchen range, an open fire and small sash windows dressed in gingham curtains. The owner—a Portstewart man—cheerfully told us the interior décor was actually inspired by hubby’s Granny Rose’s wee cottage just down the road. There were smiles all round. With its high wooden slatted ceiling with a pulley, the 1950s light switches and the Belfast sink, we stepped back in time; although we did appreciate the instant hot water and two electric showers. There was a Sacred Heart picture with a red bulb—once a staple in most Irish homes—an old black kettle and iron on the fire and even the colour of the paintwork gave it a real sense of how our ancestors lived. We fell in love with the place instantly and felt right at home.

A spiritual journey

We guided our pals around the peninsula in car convoy style to Kinnagoe Bay—our spiritual home—to Tremone Beach, Shroove, Leenan Bay, Moville shore walk and up as far as Malin Head, Ireland’s most northernly point, where it appears we could see the curvature of the earth, or was that just the Football Special talking? We cruised at a snail’s pace past thatched, whitewashed cottages with emerald green gates and perfectly manicured lawns and hedges, like Sean Thornton and Mary Kate’s cottage from The Quiet Man. We stopped at the Curiosity Shop en route, owned by Peter, who lived in the United States for 20 years, but clearly had the good sense to come home and surround himself with all manner of Irish paraphernalia. A huge framed photo of Michael Collins sat just waiting to be bought. He said a ‘Yank’ asked him if the fella was a German soldier. What he then uttered about said Yank isn’t printable so I’ll leave it there. He had a myriad of old whiskey and beer signs, some old cast iron road signs, jugs and bowls, dishes and dirt galore. Basically all the sorta stuff I’ve filled my kitchen with over the years, so we were well and truly at home.

The energy in the car bubbled with animation. The weans chattered fondly about their childhood, of Sunday runs to Culdaff beach after Mass at Bocan chapel; a favoured place where they rolled down the sand dunes and on a good day ventured in to the water. We laughed out loud at the stories we used to make up about the fairies when we’d walk up Wallis’s Hill; a place we embraced because hubby’s other granny was from there. She was Elizabeth Wallis of the Wallis clan who emigrated from Scotland to Ireland. And not far from their home on Wallis’s hill, a young man, Michael Lafferty was hired out to work on a neighbouring farm... and the rest they say is romantic history. They met, fell in love and eloped, because Liza was Protestant and Michael was Catholic. She literally jumped out the window and ran away! A story no doubt told by many families down the decades, because those were the times that were in it. She converted, and the locals and family say she was probably one of the staunchest Catholics of her time. Her faith became of crucial importance to her.

So, as we always do, we go up to Wallis’s Hill where our kids had a rope swing, where we picked brambles and played hide ‘n’ seek. Where the fairies were alive and singing. There’s a fella living there now. He’s spent the past 20 odd years rebuilding the home place, and sculpts all manner of things from great lumps of turf he literally pulls out of the bog. Pieces of turf up to 10,000 years old. My wee pal, a living breathing dendrophile (lover of trees), who knows everything there is to know about trees and plants and wood, felt she’d stepped straight into a little heavenly workshop on entering his studio. To be fair we all did. We were speechless with admiration at this man’s work. He was delighted we called up to visit considering the family connection as he knew all about Liza Wallis and her romantic story. As a parting gift he gave us and our pals a hand carved wine bottle holder made out of yew, whilst educating us on the significance of yew trees which were planted around chapels and churches to ward off evil spirits; and not only that, the poisonous berries from the yew tree would stop any roaming animals who dared wander into the church grounds. I never heard it, but every day’s a school day.

There was a fair bit of nostalgia when we stopped at the shop for Tiffin and Golden Crisp bars, Tayto crisps and Brunch ice lollies. A wee wheaten bread and a bag of spuds. And sure we met half the town while we were in there which was just pure joy.

Rest and relaxation

We made our own amusement in the evenings in our cosy cottage without Wifi or a phone signal. Making a phone call involved getting in the car and driving around to find a hot spot for coverage. To me this was bliss. Pure bliss. It was like the aul days when we had to walk to the yellow and green painted Eircom phone box beside the post office. A few jars were had and the big turf fed fire kept us warm along with the laughter. Hubby regaled us with ghost stories of flying pokers jumpin’ off the telly and mysterious heavy boots heard in the hallway of Granny Liza’s house. I wondered had the fairies followed his family around?

The cousins landed and the craic was mighty. A story was told by our cousin’s wife who was asked to help out the local undertaker. She’s a chef, and so the assumption was made that she was required to make food for the wake. No one could have prepared her for what she ended up doing. She drove the hearse. Only in Donegal eh?

We laughed and laughed and were reminded that this place where we lived, this place we call home, this place we return to with our children, and now grandchild, is not just about good spuds and turf. It’s so much more than that. It’s our past, our lineage, it’s our history and its forever embedded in our souls.

L J Sexton, mum of four, returned to university to pursue her passion for the written word. She achieved her Honours Degree in English Literature and Creative Writing and hasn't stopped writing since. Lyn is born of Irish parents and lived in Donegal for eight years. She is also the press officer for Irish Minstrels CCÉ music group based in St Roch’s Secondary School