Rosie Feeney

I mostly remember feeling sick on the ferry from Holyhead, and then again in the car on the drive from Dublin.

I remember my great uncle eating banana sandwiches in his damp house with the company of his 26 sheepdogs he kept in a barn outside.

I remember feeding lambs, and going to wakes in the local pub.

I remember my aunt flying to Spain for pilgrimages she did barefoot, and feeling like there was just so much space everywhere.

I remember arriving home at the end of each summer with a sense of relief, back to civilisation I thought.

Back to busy streets, train rides to London and being the only Irish kid in school who dressed up for Paddy’s day.

One summer when I was sixteen, my parents announced we’d be moving there after the death of my great uncle.

It was moving home for my dad but moving to a place I’d rather not go on summer holidays, for me.

We had to rehome all the sheepdogs and sell the sheep.

I started at the local school where everyone’s parents were farmers, where my classmates’ weekends were filled with helping on the farm or going to mass.
I didn’t do either of those things.

As soon as I finished school I left for Dublin, searching for some sense of my previous life.

For the past few years I have been repairing my relationship with my homeland, and this project led me to a deeper understanding and appreciation of the people and landscapes I was trying for years to avoid.