There was a placelessness to it, which I liked best about it – the Way of the Cross. It somehow did not appear to belong any more than I did.

With all of its winding bends of yew trees and rhododendrons, wild fuschias and brambles with glistening glossy blackberries, I could lose myself.

I could forget about all the things that bothered me – forget that I was in Ireland,

forget about school,

or about my new hometown,

or the devastating lack of snow in the winter.

I would chase after my brothers and sisters without a care, following them around the looping path and up the towering hill, past each Station, their stony markers which today stand in disrepair. The faces of Jesus and a Roman soldier have fallen away or had perhaps been broken by an angry teenager.

I would pause only for a second at the foot of the Cross then almost cautiously approach the darkest Station – the Tomb.

It is a strange thing to revisit your childhood fears.

Even as an adult I cannot ignore its influence. I have returned to this tunnel of rhododendrons with new eyes, as if death were a stranger. I let myself linger there for what seems like hours.

Then at the end, where there might have been a marker for the Resurrection the sunlight and the blue sky which is so rarely seen in Donegal give a postcard ready view of the beach below. The quiet which had been a tense constant throughout the entire path, now breathes a calm and joyful air.