A Childhood Memory
In the days of my youth people travelled by train.
I remember the journey to the sea as a wean.
My father and mother got up early that day.
No effort was spared to get us on our way.
We had porridge that morning, and boiled eggs and toast.
It looked like a contest to see who’d eat the most.
As soon as the breakfast was finished that day,
We impatiently waited to get on our way.
We walked to the station that fine summer’s day.
The Donnyloop Chapel bell was tolling away.
The small crowd at Clady soon boarded the train,
The Guard blew his whistle and we were moving again.
We picked up more people at every station and halt.
The timetable’s taken with a large pinch of salt.
After what seemed a long time to us all,
The train rumbled into”homebase’ Donegal.
We anxiously wait as the engine takes on some coal,
Fills up with water, and then we’re ready to roll.
The next place we stop is at Friary halt.
We’re a half a mile to walk before we splash in the ‘salt.”
On the road to the beach the red fuchsias grow wild.
Their sweet blooms are picked by both mother and child.
The beach once so tranquil, a short time before,
Is home to a hundred small children or more.
Our meals for the day were provided by mother.
To reject what was offered meant you were in bother.
Our treat for the day was a penny ice cream.
Did this really happen, or was this just a dream?
Our day at Rossnowlagh seemed never to end.
Only red rays of sunset us homeward would send/
We’d trudge up the hill, which now seemed so steep.
In the heat of the carriages most children would sleep.
Late in the evening, it was perhaps even night
The train reaches Clady and stops in the light.
Our parents alight holding us by the hand.
The engine puffs loudly and starts off for Strabane.
As we walked from the station a kind neighbour was there.
He called in the darkness “Is that you, Mrs Haire?”
It was our local grocer and neighbour as well.
We were glad of the lift, the truth be to tell.
Alas John’s passed away now and so has the train.
They only live on now in a part of my brain.
My father and mother have passed away too.
I hope they’ll forgive my sharing this memory with you.
By John Hair
This poem was first published in ‘The Scribbler’, Vol 2 – the forward which was written by Barney Mc Cool
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