Love and longing for Irish roots that will never fade away

GROWING up in East Kilbride in the 1960s was a bit surreal. As the first new town in Scotland, it was a bit of a social experiment and, by extension, its residents were the guinea pigs. People moved to the new town from many parts of Scotland, but mainly from Glasgow. The East Kilbride Development Corporation—responsible for the burgeoning town—managed the housing stock and allocated tenancy to those who had secured employment in the area. Rolls Royce was probably the biggest employer at the time, with a workforce of more than 4000.

As a new community, East Kilbride residents began to create social bonds and civic structures, drawing on the history and culture of the communities from which they had come. The friendships and relationships formed in those early days of the new town were deep and long-lasting.

In my own case, my family had moved from Partick, from the tenements of Byres Road to a five apartment house, complete with a front and back garden. As a child of two years of age, it wasn’t something which I immediately appreciated but, with hindsight, I now realise what a gift this was.

Our neighbours came from a variety of backgrounds with links to Govan, Aberdeen and Skye, to name but a few. Friendships were formed and bonds of solidarity were forged among the young families of the little street in which we lived. The received wisdom of mutual support being put into practice in the new context of the modern new town.

My paternal grandparents had come from Fermanagh in the 1920s and had initially settled in Clydebank, where my grandfather made good use of his farming background, cultivating an allotment, complete with a goat and chickens.

Sadly, like many others, they were to lose their home in the devastating bombardment of the Second World War, known as the Clydebank Blitz. I’m convinced that the trauma of this experience was something they carried with them for the rest of their lives.

They were eventually rehoused in Byres Road, in Partick and were to remain there until around 1980 when my grandmother passed away, my grandfather having died some years earlier.

On my mother’s side, her parents were also Fermanagh people, with roots in Leitrim. They had remained in Ireland and raised their family in the townland of the Barrs of Boho, near the village of Derrygonnelly, where the family still live to this day.

Of four children, three had left their homeland, two arriving in Scotland and one in England. Their youngest—my uncle—remained at home, working and running the farm and is still doing so in his 80s.

The land was mountainous and remote, set on a high limestone escarpment, overlooking the Fermanagh lakes, with beautiful Lough Erne in the far distance. It was a difficult area to farm, dedicated mostly to livestock, cattle and sheep, and to the cultivation of grassland for animal feed. Fuel was provided from the peat bogs, found at the high points of the mountain.

My mother, may she rest in peace, was immensely proud of her Fermanagh background and, as she advanced in years, reflected on the great privilege she had as a child, growing up in the midst of such natural beauty and human goodness, notwithstanding the challenges of everyday life. She understood the gift that had been given to her and, in her own way, conveyed that sense of pride to her children.

We were blessed every summer to decant from East Kilbride for the six weeks of the school holidays to live in the magical world of rural Fermanagh. Nights were spent by the light of a tilley lamp, listening to the stories of those who came to ceili at my grandparents’ house—tales of the fairies, the little people, of their presence among us, turning the landscape into a magical world to be experienced each day. Smelling the thick, tarry smoke of pipe tobacco and hearing the cackle and laughter of neighbours bound together in the struggles of life. Days were spent working on the farm, tending the cattle, winning the hay, being empowered with responsibility beyond our years.

Of course the new town of East Kilbride had its fair share of residents with Irish backgrounds. However, my childhood memory is that every other person with Irish connections seemed to be from Donegal, at least that’s the way it seemed. As a Fermanagh man, I soon developed a sense of uniqueness, on the one hand, but possibly a passing sense of inferiority too, since I was not one of the majority.

Whilst Donegal has a wonderfully rich cultural history and boasts a breathtakingly beautiful coastline, of which its people are rightly proud, I began to develop a greater appreciation and love for the county of my own ancestors, Fermanagh—an appreciation which continues to grow.

Of proud Fermanagh stock, Fr Dominic Quinn is parish priest of St Leonard’s in East Kilbride. He spent time on mission in Bolivia and Peru and is Missio Scotland’s Diocesan Director for Motherwell Diocese