From Clare to here

For all the years I lived in England, the longing to go home would jump up and bite me at odd times. I would find myself humming Clare to here and remembering all the years when I was blessed to enjoy the music of the Furey Brothers and Davy Arthurs, never knowing that I would sing this song with tears in my eyes first in Birmingham and later in London.

I could be at work or on the London Underground when there would be this song, ringing in my ears. Suddenly, I would be daydreaming of packing my suitcase, stepping on the boat or on the plane and going home. Home to turf fires and slow walks and meeting the neighbours on the street, where everyone spoke the same as me and everyone understood what I was talking about.  Don't get me wrong, I loved my work, and the wonderful opportunities living in London gave me. But Ireland wouldn't leave me alone. The love and the longing...

Over the years, I learned the hard way that if I could get home twice a year for a fortnight, I could avoid the worst of the pain. When work colleagues went to France or Spain, Martine was always saving up to go home. People never needed to ask me where I was going for my holidays, they knew. I always went home.

Like so many others, I had my dream. I wanted to come home and buy my house. It took longer than I expected and the re-entry into Irish life was far harder than I anticipated but I made it home. There was no joy greater (excepting the births of my daughters) than the day I signed for the deeds of my house. I felt so proud. I knew then that all the sacrifices were worth it. I was home.