This tale recounts the poignant story of a young girl from Donegal who, driven by poverty, leaves her home and family to emigrate to Glasgow, crossing the "Bridge of Tears" in a journey filled with sorrow, resilience, and the harsh realities of emigration.
I am a storyteller with a tale to tell, it's a true tale but it has to be said a sorrowful one.
Imagine if you can, soft free-spirited mist claiming mountains shaped like the spines of two mythical beasts and air, cold and fresh like tangy homemade lemonade.
Now imagine an old stone bridge, inconsequential perhaps but then again perhaps not. A bridge that still stands and bears testament to a country tortured and cursed by hunger and exile.
So to the story.
The sun as it does arose in the east on the morning of the fall equinox and awoke Annie McLaughlan. A meager bowl of porridge with a large dashing of salt awaited her on a scratched, wooden table. Her mother shielded her gaze because her moist face betrayed the wrinkled smile on her face. Annie glanced around the room and took in the chiseled-in faces of her four siblings. She smiled at them.
Annie supped her porridge, saying nothing. The time had come. Time to leave home and begin her long journey to Glasgow. Her mother called out to her two brothers and sisters.
"Beidh mé ar ais go luath" ("I'll be back soon").
Then mother and daughter wrapped their cloaks around them and stepped into the damp air. Both walked into the silence, no words were uttered.
Annie's boots slapped the squelchy soil which sneaked through the holes in her soles. The first thing she would buy when she got her first wage would be a pair of good strong shoes. Then perhaps one day she could afford to buy a pair of rose red heeled shoes in which she could dance all night.
She was tired of the misery and discomfort of cold wet feet. Hunger, a constant companion, walked everywhere with her. Her eyes gazed the landscape, and she whispered to herself, "if anywhere could make broken beautiful, it was certainly Donegal".
A salty droplet fell from her dull eye, she raised her hand to her face to dry it. She did not want her mother to see her tears. She, like many others, was a victim of poverty which saw many young people walk the Trail of Tears to the Bridge of Sorrow to migrate to Glasgow.
She trudged along the stony road and passed the old crooked oak tree. Annie was certain that she saw its trunk arch as though he was paying his respects to her, honoring yet another poor soul leaving kith and kin behind.
When Annie and her mother arrived at the bridge, they stopped and eyed each other. Annie gazed into her mother's eyes and she noted for the first time that her eyes were the same shade of green as her own. There would be no "see you later", for the crossing of the bridge would be a permanent parting for both.
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The wind howled angrily around them as Annie and her mother locked their arms around one another. Her mother whispered softly into her ear, bidding her well in her own native language. "Oh, how earthy their own language was."
Sadness fell upon Annie as turned away from her mother and she shuffled towards the Muckish Mountains to continue her journey to Derry where she would board the ferry to Glasgow.
Time passed and when she arrived at the county border she took a sharp intake of breath. She let the taste dance on her tongue and committed it to memory for she knew it would be the last time she would feel the Donegal air on her face.
Soon she would be spending her fifteenth birthday in a city where black smog would choke the smile off her face. The air would bang with the heavy beat of industry and she would live in a cramped tenement with a horde of other people. There would be little opportunity to daydream.
For five minutes Annie stood motionless and took one last look at the Donegal landscape. As she looked she thought she could see the ghostly figures of her ancestors bidding her farewell.
Annie continued to walk until the sun hung low. then she found a place to lay her head for the night. She tossed and turned and fear came upon her. The aloneness of night set in and in one fearful moment, she let out a wail which split the inky blackness.
When morning came, Annie rubbed her eyes and with one faltering step after the other, she continued her journey to Glasgow.
Now that concludes my tale. However, I would like to add, if you ever have the good fortune to visit the beautiful and magical county of Donegal, why don't you visit the old bridge for yourself? It still stands and you can find it approximately ten miles from Dunfanaghy.
Sin é (That's it).
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