Silver and Gold around Lough Craghy

It was in the middle of our conversation when Hugh said he was 32 years old. Although he was at least six feet tall with square broad shoulders his presence and presentation was more like an early twenty year old. Maybe it was the way he described in detail the different breeds of sheep his father keeps and how the teats on a cow can become shrivelled and how this is treated. All far too much information for what was a ‘by-chance’ conversation.

We had pulled into the boat yard by the side of Lough Craghy about six miles to the west of Dungloe, Co Donegal. We were heading into the south-western part of the Glenveagh National Park, but we had seen the lake and wooden rowing boats so we thought we would stop for some ‘Insta’ photos.

As we parked, Hugh came out of a large work shed and I went to ask permission, quite expecting to be told photos were not permitted and this was private property. But then we were in Donegal not the UK. The default responses here is openness and welcome; “aye its OK to take photographs go and enjoy yourself” Hugh said. But again, this is Donegal so Hugh didn’t retreat back into his work shed – he stood waiting for the conversation. I had my questions ready and he didn’t disappoint.

I asked him about the name of the lough. He said that many people call it Lough Craghy because that is the name of the area over there, he waves his arm in a big sweep to the left. “But then that area over there”, swinging his arm to the right, “is called Tully – so I call this Lough Tully”.

The beautiful people of Donegal need no encouragement to talk I found. Just keep a bit of stillness and keep listening. Hugh pulls his shoulders back and looks a little taller; “in fact”, he says with obvious pride, “the stream that feeds this lake flows past our farm. Its only about ten minutes up the lane. “It’s only a wee stream but it fills this lake”.

I settle down to what will surely be a delightful conversation. With very few prompts he tells me he works at the boat yard three days a week, with another young fella. They mend and paint the boats to make them ready for the fishing club who come and fish here in the season. He tells me it is a government funded scheme for it is the government who pays his salary. How I wish we had such an imaginative Government in the UK supporting the rural economy in this way.

But then he strangely gets down to some detail telling me what time they clock on in the morning and finish in the afternoon and how they are supposed to work till 4pm on Friday but skip off early at 12.30pm. He fixes a questioning stare at me to reassure himself that his secret will be safe with me.

But he speeds on saying how this three days of work helps the farm because his dad cannot pay him. How there is no money in sheep but they have 400, and one cow. Before I can ask he says they do not sell the cow’s milk but use it themselves in the house. I get all romantic and ask if they make butter and he looks to pity this urban ignorant man “sure,” he says, “its almost like butter when it comes out”.

In a conversation a few days ago a shopkeeper told us farmers were unable to sell their fleeces, indeed farmers were leaving the fleeces at the roadside in the hope locals will find a use for it. So in an attempt to look less of an idiot I ask what his dad does with the fleece. He looks at me again and narrows his eyes and said they are not allowed to burn them. His eyes tell me that is just what his father does. Otherwise they are buried. But he advised that farmers where burying the fleeces in boggy areas for it was a way of reclaiming the land.

Hugh was not smooth with his speaking. It was as if the words he wanted came to his head but didn’t escape his mouth so quickly. His chin and bottom jaw would shudder as if those words needed chewing or arranging properly before being spoken. But in all of this talking his eyes never left the horizon, while speaking he was scanned the horizon as if he were looking for stray sheep or looking for something to arrive. Being born on the farm up the hill meant he always had a horizon to look at. Maybe his grandfather and great grandfather also scanned the horizon for sheep or maybe they were looking for something to arrive that never did.

Desperate to ask about the Irish language I asked if he used Irish at home. He said his family spoke English in the house and he spoke English to his friends. But his father would speak Irish when he rang his own sister and how ashamed he felt for not using the Irish he learnt at school. He explained how people around the lake spoke English but further up into the hills it is only Irish spoken.

I tried hard to imagine Hugh away from this area or in a very different context. He said he went to Spain on holiday once and enjoyed it. He had a sister who moved out of Ireland to live in Australia. He often thought about going to visit her, but it was a long way and very hot, and the idea of Australia faded as it faded in the conversation.

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I have no doubt this conversation had little significance for Hugh. I suspect Hugh met few tourist but surely this was for him an everyday conversation and convention. Talking, relating, sharing maybe gossiping seems to be an important part of community life here.

The day before we had taken the hire car to a recommended mechanic just outside Glentise. We needed it checked to ensure it was safe. John did just that, accompanied by a customer who happened to be chatting with John when we arrived. John checked the tires while his friend provided a commentary about Donald Trump, the busyness of London and how Fiat cars were shite etc. After the inspection John reset the car and pronounced it good to go. At that point he and his friend settled down for a conversation with me. It was almost expected we would – I realised the conversation was payment for the car check-up.

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It was time to move on and leave Hugh to his boats and we needed to travel further.

Moments like this, I have learnt again, are silver and gold in our lives. Unguarded conversation, an open honesty, a simple sharing of the moment and oneself are precious and enriching. In some respect this was an unequal sharing, Hugh spoke about himself I said little about myself. But he seemed comfortable and willing and wanting to talk. My part was to listen carefully, be respectfully and hold precious all he offered.

I will remember Hugh and my conversation with him for a good long time. He not only shared his precious life with me, he showed me again the importance of simple conversation and sharing.

Tim Clapton

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