Gone to America - a haunting abandoned house in Donegal reveals its story

The desolation was palpable as I sheltered under the door frame of a derelict cottage on Gola Island, Gweedore, West Donegal, on a wet July day.  Remnants of red paint, daubed around the frame, provided a backdrop to a scene of abandonment that shook me to the core.

Here was a home, now in tatters, that once reverberated with the sounds of happy children, perhaps a busy Mum cooking rabbit stew, and a father probably away in Scotland betimes in order to provide for his family.

A stairway to heaven loomed before me as I entered, pointing up to nothingness and a grim blue sky.  The imaginary loft was surely the warmest room in the house, where four young children might have slept, all snuggled up together in one old lumpy horse hair mattress, with sheets made from flour bags, awkward quilts and Daddy's old army coat slung over them for warmth.

Downstairs, the empty blackened fireplace gaped out at me, its central darkness menacingly drawing me in.

"They're gone to America", Pól, our tour guide, told us.  "Never to return".

We fell silent, as if at the awkward stage of an American wake they probably had before emigrating, when people didn't know what to say, but ended up singing and dancing the night away before the final heart-breaking goodbye at the lonely pier below.

I spotted the burnt pink frilly cushions on the big messy pile in the corner, surely the pride of a mother's parlor, a black stiletto - the wearer most likely to be the talk of the place in her day, and a raggedy doll, one leg amputated, splayed across the pile, a frozen smile on her faded painted face.

The hobnail boot did it for me.  I could almost feel the thud on the flag floor.

Here it was, the true symbol of toil and determination in an Irishman of farming stock. Up with the dawn and work all day - that's the way it was.  By getting up early you demonstrated to neighbors, enemies and all comers that you were a good provider, a decent man, proud - but never admitting to being poor. 

"Next year will be a better year", I could hear him tell his family.

But next year never came, and, apparently, they left this bleak, sometimes beautiful, barren and remote island for the tough and tacky streets of Baltimore, USA.  

We left the deserted house, my world travelers and I, walking gingerly on the same stony tracks that once guided so many islanders to The New World.

The stony silence reminded me of the flight of the native corncrake, perhaps scared away by 20th-century behaviors, too loud for nature's gentle birdlife and fabulous fauna.

"Where are the cormorants, the razorbills, the oystercatchers?" someone whispered.

We paused by a stone bench, where a plaque sits in its remoteness, dedicated to islanders, Patrick Sullivan and Peter Milano, who perished on that brutal 9/11 day in New York.  We prayed for them, as we did for so many others who fell from the sky, never to tread this land again.  

Ah, but the flora saved the day somewhat - fluffy cotton flowers, heathers clinging to the cliffs for dear life, and elegant, slim, amber and green reeds that fuelled my imaginary vision of the deltas of the Mississippi and the Amazon, re-drawn in miniature before my eyes.

With swirling clouds and seas all around us, the skies obliged with advance warning of impending nasty weather fronts, so we ducked and dived like the whining seagulls, braving the elements and seeking out the island's next secret.

Meanwhile, I'm conscious of the galleons lost beneath the sea near these shores, their gallant sailors and their unspoken treasure.  As they stand guard in the deep, I am transported onto the decks of the lost ships of the Spanish Armada, and the daily reminder that thou shalt not underestimate the power of the sea, man's inhumanity to man and the power of The Man Above.

And with that - it happened!

The sky cleared, clouds morphing into pristine whiteness, as a disc of bright light burst through, prising the depressing sky apart, to reveal a galaxy of rays on the willing blue ocean stretched out before us.

Then I knew.  There IS hope for this island.  Its unique beauty, rich heritage, the now returning generations, and the plain people of Ireland like you and me. WE will spread the word and keep it alive, and significant, and safe.

Drowned to the skin, we headed for the pier and a trusty little ferry under the command of Saba Curran, a rotund happy-as-Larry skipper from Donegal, who clearly loves his life.

The gentle roll of the ocean cajoled us to return again, as the rhythm reminded me of the memorable lullaby of this stunning island:

Baidin Fheilimi, d'imig to Gabhla, Baidin Fheilimi is Fheilimi ann,

Baidin Fheilimi, d'imig to Gabhla, Baidin Fheilimi is Fheilimi ann.

Baidin bideach, baidin beosach, baidin boideach, baidin Fheilimi

Baidin direach, baidin deontach, Baidin Fheilimi is Fheilimi ann.

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