Peace In A Green Land

PEACE IN A GREEN LAND Fergus climbed wearily over the old, wooden style and, when he’d steadied himself, raised his rheumy eyes towards the object of his fascination. The Widows’ Rock, unclear and somewhat illusory in the weak April sun, dominated the border landscape; in the past it had acted as a trysting point for volunteers coming from the South, though in the last fifteen years the peelers and squaddies had established a viewing point on its peak which had made it off limits to Fergus and his people. Those unwelcome interlopers had gone now, however, and the ancient site was now reverting back to its wild, verdant origins. As he started the final ascent his posture was one of eager anticipation, like an ancient whippet straining at the leash. Leaning slightly forward, and with his grey head dipped below his shoulder blades, Fergus forgot his previous fatigue as he set himself a keen pace up the hill, elbows akimbo and legs pumping like pistons. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the summit, a remarkable achievement for a man who had seen eighty Easters come and go. Quite alone, Fergus basked in the glorious feeling of euphoria that washed across him – he had forgotten how good it was to engage in clean, honest endeavour. The only sound to be heard was the harsh rasp of his breath as it engaged in a violent and one sided argument with his lungs. Gradually, though, he remembered his purpose for this visit, and turned to look for a commanding viewpoint across the border. After mounting a large grey boulder, which stood in fine isolation amongst the yellow gorse and pink heather, Fergus turned and faced the South and was immediately struck by the ephemeral glory that was Eire. To his left, and eight miles away, was Carlingford Lough; gun metal grey, with flecks of white spume visible even from this distance, the heaving mass of water looked as treacherous as a smiling politician. To his right were the shadowy blue lumps of the Monaghan hills, bathed in the soft rays of a craven sun rapidly retreating from the onset of inexorable darkness. Facing him was Louth, the county of his birth that he loved and yearned for; a lush and fertile plain descended gently towards rustic Kilcurry and wild Dundalk, where his family still lived.

The thought of family shook Fergus out of his reverie. He was here, in this symbolic place of ancient Celtic mourning, to make peace with the shades of his comrades who had died for the cause. Could Tom Malone, Liam O’Brien, or even his own brother Iain fully comprehend, or empathise, with his support for the new peace plan? Would they be horrified by his handshake with Paisley, the devil incarnate, or might they not see the bigger picture. Fergus shivered. He had thought that climbing this mountain, which was so evocative of his lifetime’s struggle, would provide him with some answers, but he had been wrong – the spirits were absent without leave, most probably sat in front of a celestial hearth enjoying a nip of the hard stuff with Cuchalain. As Fergus contemplated the beautiful landscape, with all its potential for spring growth, he was immediately struck by a thought so profound it made his hands, stained as they were by nicotine and blood, tremble. Life moved on, like the cycle of the seasons, and he realised now that the Movement had no further need for thugs, thieves and murderers. He had been right – this noble place had acted as a catalyst, but not in the way he had envisaged. The ghosts of the past, with their ancient enmities acting as barriers towards progress, could not compete with the dawning realisation that the future, as represented by the green shoots appearing before him, should be in the hands of reasonable men and women, not bigots beholden to an inglorious past. His return was more measured than his original sprint up the slope, and yet no less determined. Fergus was a man transformed; at peace with his past and the present, he was certain that the future of Ulster would be defined by people of peace and compromise. He stopped, once, to look back to the rock. He knew instinctively that he would not return to this place, but not because of superstition, infirmity or poor health; Fergus had a task to perform, and there would be no more backward glances. He reached the style, climbed effortlessly over the wooden bar and walked briskly towards the future of Northern Ireland.