I was on the road from Dublin to Donegal on Friday evening when I first heard news of an explosion in Creeslough.
After living and working away in the capital for seven years, I’ll take any chance I get to go back. This time, I had a Dub along with me – to show him why it is the best place on earth.
So I felt it in my bones when I woke up on Saturday morning to a news alert confirming the true extent of the tragedy.
READ MORE: Over €1m raised for families of Creeslough victims as final funerals take place
Ten people had lost their lives. Creeslough had lost 10 of their own.
I’ve never been to Creeslough but it’s like a smaller version of my own hometown of Ballyshannon.
I instantly knew everyone would have gone to that shop. Everyone will know someone. This is going to devastate the whole village.
I echoed Daniel O’Donnell and many other Donegal folk talking about the tragedy this week, as I kept reiterating the simple fact: “Everyone knows everyone up here.”
I don’t know the victims personally. But I know them as people.
I know their way. I know their values, their traditions, their lingo. I know their nature and love of home and each other.
And I know how losing one of our own, on any day, never mind so many in such a shocking way, will cut deep in Donegal forever.
Death in Donegal is different. You’d get more at a wake than a wedding. There are sign-posts on the road to direct traffic to wakes in homes and queues out the door.
Wakes and funerals are major events and you could end up at one every other week the way things can go. Because whether it is your closest relative or someone’s mother’s friend, you show up and show your respect.
You bring a tray of sandwiches, offer to make the next round of tea, top up the kettle of soup and bring the dirty pots home to wash so they aren’t in the way. You just be there.
You could see this same togetherness throughout the devastating funerals all week. Heartbroken locals got out every day to wrap their arms around the grieving families whilst they themselves are mourning the huge loss within their small town too.
You could see it in the newspaper photographs of guards with their arms around the mourners’ shoulders. They were also hurting.#
You could hear it in Amber Barrett’s voice when she told how she dedicated her goal that sealed the Republic of Ireland’s place in the Women’s World Cup to the victims of the Creeslough tragedy and the people of Donegal.
Referencing the black armband she wore in tribute, she said: “I think when the goal went in, in my head I just couldn’t think of anything but what was on my left arm.
“It’s not going to bring anyone back but I’m glad it brought some recognition to the tragedy,” the Milford native, whose mother hails from Creeslough, told RTE’s Claire Byrne.
You felt it when Fr John Joe Duffy spoke at the funeral mass of fashion designer Jessica Gallagher, 24, who was the first of the 10 victims to be laid to rest on Monday.
He told mourners: “While we cannot take that pain away from you, we want to walk with you.
“We cannot feel your pain but we will walk with you in that pain because to even say that we feel that pain would not be right or not be fair to you. But we walk in that pain.”
It brought up flashbacks from my aunt Ann’s funeral.
It was the Rory Gallagher tribute festival – the June bank holiday, 2019 – the biggest date in the calendar. The annual event itself is a saving grace for a place like Ballyshannon, a bit of life about the streets – sometimes even good weather – and our claim to fame.
Yet when Ann, 45, died after a short battle with cancer, locals and festival-goers alike stopped what they were doing and lined the streets, side by side, to be there for us.
They turned off the music, turned down the lights and shut the doors of shops and they all came to a standstill in silence as we made the journey from the chapel to the graveyard.
The only sound to be heard was our footfall down the hill. They stood with us, walked with us, were there with us. This is Donegal respect. We weren’t just a family in mourning. We were a town in mourning.
When one of our own goes, and goes too soon, every single one of us feels it.
And as Fr Duffy rightly said, it doesn’t take away any pain but it does make you glad that these are the people around you and this is the place you call home when you are in pain.
As we say at home: “Sure, we’re all the one.” When I was younger, being from a small town in the “forgotten county” felt like drawing a short straw.
“They can go to Penneys when they want, they have McDonalds, we don’t even have a supermarket anymore,” I’d think, looking at anyone from the big city.
It was only when I moved away to that big city, I realised we might not have Just Eat or Tesco delivery but we have Mr G’s, where owner Liam can sort you with a toaster, hula hoop and packet of Wagon Wheels in one go.
Our own service station, where we spent Friday evenings as teens hanging out on the benches at the side of the pumps sharing pizza and people-watching.
It’s ringing the takeaway and hearing: “Is that you Katie, do you want the usual?”
These places, like Lafferty’s service station, are much more than just shops. The victims were more than just random customers and staff. They were 10 cherished characters in a tiny, 400-strong community.
It’s the fact that when I get off the bus at home this weekend, I know my five-minute walk up the town to the house will take at least 20 after I get chatting to Rita in the deli, John at the Daycentre, Val outside Spar and Pauline next door.
All asking “have you met anyone famous this week” before telling me, “Sure I’ve been following you on the Facebook”. No doubt they have.
It’s how every single time this happens I get the same feeling in my belly. I’m home. It’s not that I had gone far but this is home, where – like it or not – everyone and their mother knows your name.
Home, where when something as awful as this happens, everybody is ready and willing to walk with you in your pain.
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