Home

I have roamed the market places, in the crowded streets of Tangier, immersed in the scent of spices being carried through the hot and dusty air. I have dipped my feet in the same Spanish waters where the Armada sailed from and met the spectre of myself on the other side of the Atlantic. I have danced in the snow of Germany and sipped wine in France. I have seen the Yankees play at Yankee Stadium and touched the stone edifice of President Lincoln. I found peace in Malta, swimming through the crystal clear waters of the Blue Lagoon and walking in the ghostly footsteps of the seekers of the Grail. I've seen the halls where Anne Boleyn fell in love with King Henry and I had my first history lesson on the battlements of Gibraltar.

Before I had reached adulthood, I had seen more of the world than many people do in a lifetime, and fallen in love with it and yet, always, my feet would grow weary and without having to be told, they carried me home. Back to the town I was raised in. The home of the seven towers.

It's not seen by many in the world as a magical place. I've heard it described as 'the space between Belfast and Derry' (Londonderry, Legenderry/City) where two Shopping Centres make up the epicentre of activity. My little town isn't given half the credit that it deserves.

There was a time, when I was seventeen, I thought I had left this place for good. A teenage life, filled with a series of unfortunate events, lead me to England. I visited often, and every time my mother dropped me off at the airport to go back to England, I found that it became harder and harder to leave.

I spent two years in Kent and while I made some life long friendships, my heart longed for the streets of my childhood. I came home.

It was April. My second day home I put my dog on his leash and took him for a walk around my little town.

I walked him around the river that ran close to my mother's front door. A place where I had played many games involving little but my imagination. Where I had walked with every friend and every family member. Where I had left offerings for the fairies in a hollowed out tree trunk. I reached into that tree trunk that day and found the little tin I had left there so many years ago. I walked past the section of the river where I spread my brother's ashes. I walked in the footsteps of my past.

I strolled past the field where I spent a long, warm summer with the first boy I ever loved and smiled at the school where I learned too much about myself. I recalled my teachers, those I loved at least. The RE teacher that changed my life and the drama teacher whose voice I've never forgotten.

When I came to the bus station where I had my first kiss, the girl who stole it blushed and the woman who recalled it wondered where he was now. Was he happy?

I watched the ghost of myself throw ice cream at my friend on the last day of summer in the park and washed out hair in the bathroom sinks so our parents didn't see the mess we made and we laughed until it hurt. We didn't know then that not all friendships last forever but it remains a memory I look to fondly.

I greeted my past as a friend and I knew that day, that of all the places I had been, this was the only one to call home.

My town is not perfect but it is mine. The people here are my family, they know my story and I theirs. It is a quiet place, but not a lonely one. There is beauty in it.

In these trying times now with Covid raging, I have seen such community. Troubles of the past set aside in favour of kindness and support. I have made new friends that will last a lifetime.

If ever you find yourself in Northern Ireland, visit us. Come to Ballymena. Sample the coffee and find the little bars where the Guinness is always cold and the fires always warm.