The year is 1968, September, in the gentle mist on the dark, dark, sea. There I stand, age fifteen, on the top deck, watching the twinkling lights of Belfast harbour slowly vanishing. With an Ulster accent, a case crammed full of Irish potato bread and some ‘cracking’ memories, I am on my way to England’s green and pleasant land.
My return visits over the years have been frequent and much documented. Lingering walks by Loch Neigh, and gazing upon the beautiful Mourne Mountains. Ambling through Carlingford in search of the perfect Irish coffee. Following the haunting sound of the fiddle and an Irish voice or two to the nearest pub.
There is one place though that is more than magical. The small village of my roots, Scarva, (Scarbhach in Irish), in County Down. It is placed on the map beside County Armagh and marked by the Newry canal.
Visitors come by bike or foot, or the humble motor car, to relax by the water, to take refreshments or maybe like me, to people watch with a notebook not too far away. It’s a delightful way to spend a day.
My grandparents lived in a cottage with a small holding up a nearby lane. They grappled with mucky pigs, squawking hens, belligerent cows and needy sheep. Paradise!. Eventually they moved down to the village in the main street minus the livestock and the early hours. Here their new window on the world gave me many opportunities for writing a story or two., but I missed the early sound of the cockerel and the clanking of the milk churns. though I’m sure they didn’t.
In search of nostalgia, I recently revisited the now tumbled down and derelict Drumilla Cottage where the seeds of my writing first appeared. There it was … a crumbling reminder of a childhood spent amongst the fields and lanes of the delightful County Down.
We decided to take the winding road to Portadown, eight miles from Scarva in County Armagh. This used to be a small market town in the fifties and sixties, where I attended secondary school, Portadown College, until the age of fifteen.
One of the defining moments for me will always be the morning that Mary Peters (our ex Head Girl) hid behind the curtain on the school stage. Curious? So were we young first years. She had recently won a medal for Great Britain and Northern Ireland in the Pentathlon, so how on earth did she have the time to be here?
“Well, I’m sure you have no idea who is behind the curtain children?” Said our headmaster, mischievously.
“Could it be Jesus Christ sir?” said a brave lad in the front row.
Mary appeared with her warm, friendly grin clutching her medal. Everyone cheered.
“Go for what you want in life. Aim high. Never give up” she told us with great passion. We all nodded like a hundred puppy dogs in the back of a vintage camper van.
Later that morning, Mary visited my cookery class to judge a pastry rolling competition.
“Now then class, who can roll the longest piece of pastry for our local champion and there’s a prize …”.
I was off… the class were completely mesmerised. The long, thin, discoloured snake of pastry touched the ground, sweeping up the fluff at the bottom.
“And the shilling goes to Wendy, it’s a really good effort. Well done”.
“But it’s a wee bit dirty miss,” said one girl in a disgruntled manner.
“Colour doesn’t matter dear. It’s all about the attitude”, said the teacher passing me the shilling.
Mary Peters kissed me on the cheek and I got to hold the shiny medal.
As the car ambles through the winding roads on the way back to the ferry, there was much laughter as I recall this and other moments, to him beside me. We both agree, not just because I was born there, that Ireland is magical, mystical and magnificent. If you haven’t been before why not cross over the Irish Sea this year. Drive to the North or to the South for a short while or even longer. Just say, “RETURN TICKET TO IRELAND PLEASE”.
