I found myself sitting on the steps of Ballywillan Church. The paved car park, descending toward Taylor’s field, stood empty. The only sounds were the cawing of crows and the occasional roar of cars racing down the Portrush to Coleraine Road nearby. I knew where I was, but I had no idea how I ended up there. I felt quite bewildered. It was like going into a room to get something and then not remembering what you were looking for. Is that how dementia feels?
But in a sense, finding myself sitting on those steps was déjà vu; the only other time that I ever sat there was not long before I left Ireland in mid-1965. I had injured my leg playing rugby on the previous Saturday and I had very slowly hobbled the 300 m from our farm to the church, with the aid of my grandfather’s walking stick. Since that day, so many cars have since travelled the Portrush Road.
Although my surroundings appeared familiar, some aspects had noticeably changed. The burn and flax dams along Taylor’s field were still there, but gone was my father’s poultry farm, the hedges and fencing removed, the fields freshly ploughed. The old two-room Carnalridge primary school was also gone, having given way to a larger modern school. My grandparent’s house on the rise was still there as I remembered it but painted a garish pink. My mother’s trees formed a protective barrier around our family home, offering shelter from the relentless wind. I wondered if her favourite flowering cherry tree had survived; the day she died, it shed all its petals, leaving a circle of pink on the ground.
For my first nearly twelve years, those fields of perhaps 300 m by 300 m were my entire life. Only rarely did I ever venture beyond their boundary, and then only for a short time. It is not surprising that I am an introvert, quite content with my own company.
Suddenly, I heard a loud buzz. I looked around me, but I could not see where it had come from. And then I realized that I had been dreaming. I stretched out my arm and gently aroused the sleeping form beside me. She rolled over into my arms and fell instantly sleep once more.
Another Cape Town day had begun.
The Irish Rover 