Dónal Donohoe

Many years had passed since I had been in county Mayo, I was back in Ireland to attend my brother’s wedding in Roscommon and the next day got a bus from Elphin to Foxford from where I intended to retrace my steps from memory and find my old friend who had recently moved back from the U.S. to a farm there left to him by his uncle. He would travel down from Dublin at weekends as a young man to help his uncle with various chores around the farm and sometimes I would join him. The farm was nestled on a bend of the river Moy with the end of the Ox Mountains visible to the north and the majestic Nephen mountain dominating the vista to the west. The highlight of the weekend was usually the dance at the Pontoon ballroom situated on the narrow strip of land that separates Loch Conn and Loch Cullin, on starlit nights during our summer visits we would sometimes sit on the rocks at the shore of Loch Cullin after the dance and talk until late into the night.

I had not seen my friend for over ten years and it was even longer since I had been back to the farm, but with the image of Nephin in my mind’s eye I was sure that I could find my way back to the farmhouse using it as a marker. So setting off on foot on the road south out of Foxford I kept the great mountain to my right and hoped that I would reach my destination before evening came and the light faded. After about three miles the road climbed a long hill then descended again down an equally long slope to a bridge over the river Moy. It was just as I remembered it and if I could now find the turn and the Norman tower I knew I would be almost home and dry. I crossed the river, found the turn and after a short distance I saw the Norman tower in a field on the right, a little further on a narrow road turned off up a hill on the opposite side. I continued on my way eager to reach my journeys end.

After walking for some time I saw nothing that looked familiar or that I could recognize, I did not remember it being such a long distance from the Norman tower to the farm and with each step the feeling grew that something was amiss. There were no turns on the road and I continued along it seeing no other option, I sang an old song to help pass the journey. As the song ended I came to a place where there was a turn to the left after which the road continued on over a humpback bridge, on the corner there was a small quaint cottage. I stopped for a while and searched my memory but had no recollection of a humpback bridge.

I walked the narrow pathway from the gate through a small lush country garden and knocked on the door of the cottage. A young woman with a pleasant smile answered, I explained my predicament and inquired after my friend. She knew who I was talking about and said that I should take the turn to the left and I would find the place. It seems that I should have taken the turn opposite the Norman tower but had instead continued on almost to the village of Bohola and had come around full circle and would now be approaching the place from the opposite direction to what I had originally intended. It was late in the afternoon as I walked the remaining half a mile or so and then there it was, some of the surrounding spruce trees had been felled and those remaining had been trimmed, but the house looked just the same. I greeted my friend and he boiled some water to make coffee.