The three of us sisters would dance with excitement the night before our annual two weeks in Mom's farmhouse where she grew up with her 13 siblings in the remote place called Falcarragh, Co Donegal.

It was a long journey on the train, then overnight on the old boats that were the mode of transport in the 1960s.

I do remember Dad, Mom, and the four of us, including my younger brother, being on the deck as it was very stormy and dark with people getting seasick. I sat under Dad's bench and felt very frightened at the scenes about me with the boat that seemed to slowly rock side to side and could have easily eased me to sleep if I were not so terrified of the large waves that sometimes washed over the deck feeling the spray of the salty water as I huddled under Dad's legs for comfort.

Arriving in Belfast, we got a train and then a bus to the remote and wondrous Falcarragh which seemed and was a new world from Birmingham City in England. Mom had come over to Birmingham for work in the 1950s, as many did for work, and met Dad on the bus; she was a conductress and Dad was a passenger. He commented on her beautiful blue Irish eyes and the story began there.

When we arrived, I was always met by the healing aroma of the sweet peat in the air and granny's cosy fire with the large black kettle hanging over it to make us the tea that everyone drank as they talked to us about our lives in the big city.

I was more interested in their lives with all the characters that lived there, not tarnished by large crowds of unknown people controlled by work which were very often mundane, clock-in clock-out, 9-5 days. 

All the aunties, uncles, and cousins would visit and displays of tomato sandwiches and tea were put on the table for us to chat. Mom would reminisce about her childhood and going to school without any shoes, but stated they were the happiest days of her life. I felt Mother was never really content in Birmingham with its large communities being indifferent to each other and no real care to be found anywhere.

We would get driven to Mass every Sunday as this was something none of us should ever miss being in Ireland as it was a very special day for the Irish people. The males would sit on one side and the females on the other, with the smell of the incense over the years still in the atmosphere.

After Mass, I remember a local character called Sheila Vegey putting her head through the window to greet us. She wore a little tiny beard and a headscarf and had the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. We were holding our hands with excitement as she was an enigmatic person who lived in the hills and we were told she would take her only animal, a cow, she owned into her house in the winter to keep it warm. I look back now at her childlike innocence and realise with sadness that these people are gone forever never to return and feel that maybe this reflects Ireland today.

Seamus in the sweet shop would serve us brandy balls. He was the slowest walker I had ever met, but time is not in control there; the people there went at their own pace knowing that moments are to be savoured not rushed. 

Aunty Rose would come from the convent and was so beautiful and dignified. I was inwardly surprised to see her light a cigarette by the beautiful empty beach and I kept looking at her wanting to emulate her grace and her intelligence as I lacked both of these graces and romanced about being a nun when I grew up as the Godliness in the people in the area was something that left a big and deep impression on me to this day. 

They are all in their graves now in Falcarragh and oh how I miss those two weeks and the fascinating and special people with their genuine warm smiles, so interested in you and your story.

Well if there is a heaven, all those characters I know will be residing there with their altruism and kindness that leaves an impression for life. If people only knew what a child's mind sees and feels maybe adults would learn to really learn to love and not be afraid to show it.

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