In 2011 the Queen of England visited the Republic
of Ireland and made a very profound gesture. It was only a slight movement of
the head but it brought a breathtaking gust of wind that shook and released
much bitterness, resentment and sadness caused by events between England and
Ireland over the last 400 years. She bowed her head as a mark of respect
in front of the memorial in the Garden of Remembrance that was dedicated
to the memory of all those who gave their lives in the cause of Irish freedom.
Around that same time I went on a group walk near Mullaghmore in County Sligo. We ended up
very near to Classibawn Castle previously owned by Lord Mountbatten, the Queen’s cousin who was killed
in 1979 near Mullaghmore Harbour by a bomb planted by members of the Irish
Republican Army which exploded on the boat he was in.
The day of my walk was dull and soft, later
dissolving into a deceptively saturating drizzle. We were a group of seven or
so and the walk was mainly a coastal one along a stretch of coast between
Grange and Cliffony on the main Sligo to Bundoran road. I loved the Sligo
Bundoran road where on the straight stretches you could cruise along, switching
glances to the massive Benbulben Mountain on the right looking like the Irish
version of Australia’s Ayers rock. Then glancing over to the coast on the left
– part of that wild desolate and almost painfully beautiful coast line that
defines the north west of Ireland. And nearly always in view on that road –
Classibawn Castle on a hilltop in the distance, over at Mullaghmore.
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| Classiebawn Castle under Belbulbin Mountain, Sligo |
Directly under Classiebawn there is a steep cliff
known as the Fairy Rock. It is here that according to mythology the enchanted
people of the Sidhe live who were thought to be pre
Celtic occupants of Ireland.
Our walk was off the main Sligo –
Bundoran road near Grange. Thus we ambled along, dipping down a laneway until
we reached a rather untidy rocky shore, small boulders strewn around as if the
ancient Celtic warrior Diarmund had been hunting the enchanted boar on that beach instead of up at Belbulben where he now rests in a
cave with his love Grainne.After stumbling a bit along the rocky shore line
more or less in single file, we arrived to a long stretch of strand with sand
that would have been golden yellow on a sunny day but today was slick and pale
from the rain. So we ambled along Trawalua Strand admiring the grey and
lilac hues of the sea and sky – a compelling enough beauty despite the lack of
sun. As we walked along the strand we were always aware of the pale sandstone
outlines of Classibawn Castle in the distance.
Lord Louis Mountbatten, grandson of Queen Victoria
and uncle to Prince Philip came into ownership of Classibawn in 1922 when he
married the daughter of the then owner Lord Ashley. The Mountbattens then
started to come on an annual holiday to their Sligo castle. On a bright clear
August morning Mountbatten and his family prepared their boat lying in at
Mullaghmore Harbour for a trip out to sea. Out in the bay it exploded killing 4
people including Lord Mountbatten.
Back to our walk and I was strolling
along with another woman chatting desultorily, both of us regarding
the castle somewhat quizzically as our walk along the strand took
us on towards it. Talking about the sort of subjects such as the Mountbatten
bombing is a sensitive issue in those counties of the Republic of Ireland that
line up with the border of Northern Ireland. But as we both kept Classibawn in
our sights with its rather looming aspect on that grey, drizzly day she began
recounting an episode from her time as a voluntary worker who was part of a
group that took disadvantaged children from Northern Ireland on day trips as
part of a cross border initiative. On this particular day they had
brought the children for a brisk walk along one of the sandy stretches of beach
in County Donegal. My walking companion had been walking ahead luxuriating in
the warmth of the sun. Behind her there was the constant, rather pleasant buzz
of a group of 10 year olds on a day out chattering and exclaiming excitedly.
Then amongst the chatter and exclamations she heard a boy talking softly and
thoughtfully to his walking companion. She did not look round but she could
feel that he was looking out at the sea and distant blue grey Donegal Mountains
– everything transformed by the sunny day. He was saying “I’m gonna make sure
that my kid turns out alright – he won’t do what I do. He’ll do grand wee
things like this – heading to the beach on a grand warm day like today”. This
boy was 10 years old and his words belied a life where he did not seem to have
a choice. He spoke as if he had already reached middle age – a day out
like this giving him a wistful glimpse of what life could be if his own life
time of 10 years had not already moulded him to believe he could not change his own life
. At 10 years of age he was already so jaded and entrenched in a lifestyle
that he seemed to wear helplessly like an albatross around his neck – already
passing his own lost aspirations and lost dreams on to his own as yet unformed
children.
And so we carried on in reflective mode until the
end of the strand and then clambered over the Beltraw Rocks until we reached
Roskeeragh point where we could then see Classibawn Castle closer now over to
the north east. By this time the day was iron grey and though we all had
sensible hill walking gear on it was certainly not akin to being beside a
roaring fire with a hot toddy. We all gazed out from Roskeeragh Point to the
unending space of the Atlantic gaining that sense of being at the limits of a
continent .Then, heads bending away from the sea, the castle and the almost
mythical aspect of it all, our walking group turned back towards more worldly
thoughts of finishing that Sunday afternoon snug at home made all the more
gleefully deserved after our elemental walk.
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| Approaching Enniskillen from Sligo |
But I never explored Enniskillen – too much on my
mind back then after having moved to a new country, new job and having
undertaken the huge job of having an old house practically rebuilt.
Then came the years where prices were low in the
North and high in the South and the influx of people to Tesco or ASDA had
begun. One day I was horrified to find as I drove in on the Sligo road into
Enniskillen a line of traffic snaking its way back along the Sligo road. I
fumed and fretted as I waited an hour to get into Enniskillen. My intention was
not even to go into Tesco or ASDA both of which would have been heaving with
shoppers from practically the whole of the Republic of Ireland displacing
itself to Enniskillen for the day. I just wanted to go to my beloved
Argos. But at that stage I had more or less finished with furniture stuff for
my house. So after that I decided to avoid Enniskillen at all costs.
Then a few years or so ago when the
Republic of Ireland had reduced it’s food prices and all the frenzy and furore
of people stampeding to Enniskillen from the Republic had dampened down, I
decided to venture once again to Enniskillen. On my side there was no longer
the rather sterile focus of having to go to Enniskillen just to get stuff for
the house. This time round I had more of an inclination to wander at leisure
and explore. So I parked the car in a rather potholed car park just off the
Sligo road close to Lough Erne and decided to walk round the wending, winding
lough fashioned like a river along to the Erneside shopping centre. It was a
warm April day and cootlings were bobbing on the lough amongst the reeds with
their beaked, neat black mothers. Every now and then it would become somewhat
squally and the breeze ruffled the lough making it look almost irritated when
the sun went in and calm and sanguine when the sun came out again. I passed the
castle and the walls felt warm as we had been having a long spell of
settled, fair weather.
Enniskillen is the capital of County
Fermanagh in Northern Ireland and is located on a natural island on the web of
waterways that forms Lough Erne.The island separates this lough into Upper and
Lower Erne. The name Enniskillen (Inis Ceithleann) means Ceithleann’s Island
after a legendary woman warrior. The mile long main street which changes names
6 times throughout its length straddles the island’s drumlin. One of the key features of
Enniskillen is the web of waterways that glide seamlessly and quietly through
the town giving it almost an air of Venice. It is an attractive town with the
main street thankfully avoiding the generic blandness that has blighted so many
English high streets and threaten to encroach those of Ireland. A feature of
the Enniskillen main street are the many pubs, cafes and restaurants along its
length. A huge draw to Enniskillen is its bustling waterside
setting with moorings throughout the town and which are also close to the
Erneside Shopping Centre.
Continuing my walk along the river I passed the
castle on my left and the lough spread out on my right in a river like fashion,
reeds swaying with the intermittent breeze rippling across the water. It was a
pleasant manner in which to approach a shopping centre. Closer to my
destination the riverside was now dotted with moorings reached by wooden plank
ways stretching out from the bank.
In early Christian times when overland travel was
difficult, Lough Erne was an important highway between the Donegal coast and
inland Leitrim. More recently as part of a cross border initiative there has
been development of the canal linking the River Shannon in the Republic of
Ireland with the River Erne in Northern Ireland. This canal is 40 miles long
and runs from Leitrim village in County Leitrim to Upper Lough Erne in County
Fermanagh. I passed a large gaggle of ducks heads tucked under wings or milling
around the bank with their peculiar waddling gait. Like many urban creatures
they were oblivious to the people including myself walking along the path now
becoming busier as shoppers made their way towards the shopping centre.
Actually the ducks presented a vaguely gang like aspect sitting on
the bank like errant teenagers. Then I saw the bus station over to my
left and at that stage the path took me away from the banks of the
lough through a car park and then over a small walkway spanning a
tributary of the lough which brought me to the entrance of the shopping
centre.
As well as Argos another store that I had liked to
visit in the Erneside shopping centre was Millets. Again as with Argos there
were not many Millets in the Republic of Ireland. Millets sells outdoor clothes
at very good value such as rucksacks, walking gear etc.
So I walked on through the shopping centre out the
other end, round a few bends to dip down once again by that ubiquitous presence
of the water ways flowing silently through the town. I followed the tributary
as it flowed under the road to the other side to the main part of the town. I wound
my way through a charming peace garden dedicated to the memory of Princess
Diana and up some stone steps by a bridge called East Bridge to just near the
War Memorial.
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| East Bridge viewed from Peace Garden |
The War Memorial in Enniskillen was the scene of an
explosion on Remembrance Day that killed 11 people in 1987 with 64 people
injured. The last victim died after being in a coma for 13 years. The
bomb had been planted by the Provisional IRA in the town’s reading rooms behind
the War Memorial. One of the fatally injured was a nurse called Marie, daughter
of Gordon Wilson. As they both lay buried in rubble he had held her hand trying
to comfort her as she lay dying and said her last words of “Daddy I love you
very much” .Five minutes later rescuers pulled Wilson and his daughter from
under the collapsed building. Marie never regained consciousness and died later
in hospital. Many will remember the emotional television interview that Gordon
Wilson originally from Manorhamilton in County Leitrim, Republic of Ireland
gave.
”She held my hand tightly, and gripped me as hard
as she could. She said, ‘Daddy, I love you very much.’ Those were her exact
words to me, and those were the last words I ever heard her say.” She was a
great wee lassie. She loved her profession. She was a pet. She’s dead. She’s in
heaven and we shall meet again”
Then he stunned listeners by adding “But
I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge…… I will pray for these men tonight and
every night.” He also begged that no one took revenge.
Those powerful words of forgiveness reverberated
into and shattered the almost by now Pavlovian response of anger and hatred
that had characterised those bitter times of the Troubles in Northern Ireland
and against all odds were a watershed for how things would evolve there – a
different way forward into discussion and negotiation rather than the trip wire
response of tit for tat killing. This lead eventually to the Peace Process that
started in 1998 and is still holding nearly 15 years later.
And so I stood on East Bridge for a while
near the War Memorial watching everyone going to and fro . I could see how
people were unfurling like flowers turning their faces towards the sun, grins
stretching faces as if they were cats basking in the afternoon sunlight in that
opportunistic way those cats have of revelling in any moment of comfort and
luxury. Then I saw some people laughing and gazing at something on
one side of the street. A pair of mallard ducks had made their way up from one
of the tributaries to the East Bridge. They were quacking indignantly and
stridently, tails flicking from side to side. They kept snaking their heads
down and round in a strange dance like aspect as if they were trying to find a
way to weave their way through the laughing shoppers. Suddenly they stepped
into the road in front of an on coming car. Everyone held their breath as a
hush descended as all watched for the reaction of the driver. He was a bald
headed man with the window of his car rolled down due to the heat of the spring
day. He had the look of someone driving from A to B accomplishing a task
with no time to pander to errant, cheeky ducks who insisted on crossing the
road. But like the draper from Manorhamilton who forgave those who killed his
daughter, people are full of surprises. A grin stretched across the driver’s
face as he stopped the car and waved his hand out of the window in a sweeping
motion as if to say “After you Sir and Madam”. The male duck, bejewelled green
head almost iridescent in the sun waddled right up to the driver’s window and
started to squawk daring him to drive on any further. Meanwhile his meeker more
unobtrusive partner continued on her way in front of the car across the road to
the other side. This scenario took around 5 minutes to enact. Meanwhile a
string of cars had backlogged way back from the War Memorial, the
faces of initially annoyed drivers breaking into delighted grins as the reason
for the delay was passed down the line. Once the male mallard was finally
assured that his beloved had made it safely across the road he marched off and
joined her as she stood quietly and proudly waiting for her brave and brash
mate. To an outsider like me that day on the East Bridge in Enniskillen, it was
hard to imagine this merry town that was so indulgent to it’s flora and fauna
had previously experienced so much sorrow
.
So much has changed since that day of the explosion
in 1987 down by the East Bridge in Main Street by the War Memorial in
Enniskillen. We are all 25 years older, the Queen recently bowed her head
to those who fought in the 1916 Uprising, boys brought up entrenched and
polarised in one ideal or another wish for another future for their children,
leaflets in the tourist office in Sligo now proclaim Mullaghmore to be the
seaside jewel in Sligo’s crown .And on a sunny Spring day people feel carefree
enough to be amused at ducks holding up the traffic in Enniskillen. But before
I position my rose coloured spectacles too firmly on the bridge of my nose, not
all has changed for the good. Recently I was once again in Enniskillen and I
was shocked to see that my old stalwart Millet’s had closed down – a legacy of
the recession. And then on the other hand maybe some things have not yet really
changed at all or are slower to do so. This year is the year of the
Queen’s 60th Jubilee and all around items are being sold that are
quintessentially British including the Union Jack emblazoned everywhere. The
other day I saw a rather fetching umbrella with a huge Union Jack pattern
printed on it. I was just about to buy it and then had second thoughts.
Although much water has flowed under the bridge concerning the Troubles and
Northern Ireland and the whole British/Irish history of the last 400 years
- I asked myself if I would feel comfortable going around
with my Union Jack umbrella in this sensitive, hinterland border area of
Leitrim/Cavan/Fermanagh where I live…… and the answer is frankly
no
.
Recently the Queen and Prince Philip made a 2 day
visit to Northern Ireland where momentously the Queen and Martin Mc Guinness,
former Irish Republican Army (IRA) leader and now Northern Ireland’s Deputy
First Minister shook hands. Across the great divide of what they had both lost
as a result of the Troubles they joined Mr Gordon Wilson and so many others who
in the end decided to just let all the bitterness and hatred start to flow
under the bridge so to speak, on and away from them. As part of the visit the
queen came to Enniskillen. When I heard that the queen was in Enniskillen I
remembered the day that I had stood on the East Bridge near the War Memorial.
I remembered once again everyone looking on with amused
benevolence ,exchanging laughing glances with each other as a
pair of ducks waddled across the road quacking indignantly at drivers who
they considered as being disrespectful of their desire to amble across the road
at their own pace. I remember how luxuriant the heat of the sun had felt as it
shone on my neck and the craning necks of the drivers in the cars, peering out
and smiling benignly at the ducks. I saw in my mind’s eye how the traffic had been
held up all the way back from the War Memorial. But no one had seemed to mind.
It was a carefree sunny spring day of flinging off aches, pains and troubles,
turning the face to the sun and laughing at belligerent ducks
And in that moment as I had stood on the East Bridge in
Enniskillen, to an outsider like me who was never there during it’s dark days,
it really did seem true that as Ivo Andric the Yugoslav
writer who wrote “The Bridge over the Drina” where he portrayed a key bridge in
a troubled town as healing divisions, said in his book:
