Some journeys are simply travel.
Others change something inside you.
This past week in Ireland was one of those.
It was a journey of weather and waiting, of family and memory, of laughter and exhaustion — and of a project that continues to shape my life in ways I never imagined.
And at the heart of it all was a feeling I did not expect to experience so deeply:
Belonging.
Arrival — A Long Road to Enniskillen
The alarm rang at 4.45am.
Dark. Wet. Cold.
On the road by quarter to six for Caen.
Airports, queues, shuttle trains, security belts off and shoes shuffled, and the strange choreography of modern travel followed. A kind stranger at Charles de Gaulle walked miles with me to the correct terminal. The world can be extraordinary when people choose to help.
There were small moments of joy — sitting in the same café seat I’d occupied months earlier when flying to America with The Longest Yarn. A quiet sense of full circle.
Then Belfast.
And the moment I knew I was home.
At Charles de Gaulle everything had been polite and orderly. In Belfast airport baggage hall it felt like the local pub had temporarily relocated — laughter, conversation, rugby chat, directions offered freely. Warmth everywhere.
That’s when I thought: yes. I’m back.
I chose the longer drive to Enniskillen so I could pass through Magherafelt — the town where I was born over seventy years ago but had never truly seen. Driving through it for the first time was strangely moving. The place where life began.
And somehow, everything already felt right.
Enniskillen — A Warm Welcome
Everywhere I went in Enniskillen, people remembered.
Handshakes. Hugs. Smiles.
“You’re back again!”
There is something profoundly special about being welcomed like that.
At the Cathedral, visitors arrived early despite drizzle and cold. Volunteers gathered, cheerful and expectant. When the trucks arrived carrying the exhibition, the sense of relief and excitement was palpable.
We unloaded, carried, positioned — and everything fell into place.
Then came a deeply personal moment.
My cousin Elizabeth was there.
My Uncle Ian, aged 96 — the same age as my mother — came to see the exhibition, testing the wheelchair access with determined spirit. And when they saw my grandmother recreated life-size in her ATS uniform, it stopped us all.
She was no longer just memory.
She stood there — stitched into history.
I showed them scenes of my father as a child watching B-17s flying from Polebrook, where Clark Gable was based. Stories from one side of the family meeting memories from another.
And in that moment — amid drizzle, diesel engines, speeches and family — I realised something.
After leaving Northern Ireland during the Troubles, for me to say this is extraordinary:
I feel I belong.
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Calm Moments, Laughter, and the Joy of Community
Not every day was grand ceremony. Some were simply human.
Coffee at Charlie’s Bar where Patrick lit the fire to warm my knees while I drank an exceptionally strong cup of tea — he understands me already.
We laughed at a sign for a “Husband Day Care Centre.”
We checked displays.
We rescued a crash-landed V1 rocket from its case while concerned volunteers rushed over thinking disaster had struck.
The V1 is now safely airborne again.
These moments — the laughter, the conversations, the volunteers, the steady flow of visitors — are what give The Longest Yarn its life.
It is never just an exhibition.
It is always about people.
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Farewell to Ireland — A Perfect Goodbye
When it came time to leave, Ireland gave me a gift.
For weeks the weather had been relentless — nearly sixty days of rain. The Mourne Mountains had remained hidden behind cloud the entire time.
But on the morning I left, the rain stopped.
The sun broke through.
Snow dusted the peaks.
And as I turned the road near Rathfriland, the Mournes revealed themselves — magnificent, luminous, standing proud.
A perfect farewell.
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The Journey Back to Normandy
The return journey tested patience.
Delayed luggage.
Missed coach by three minutes.
A moment standing alone in pouring rain at Charles de Gaulle wondering how on earth I would get home.
Then fortune intervened.
Delayed trains. A last connection. A long journey that finally brought me back to Carentan close to midnight.
Exhausted — but home.
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A Defining Moment Ahead for The Longest Yarn
Now we stand at a pivotal point for The Longest Yarn.
A permanent church home in Carentan is expected.
The exhibition is preparing to return from America.
Logistics, transport, and installation are falling into place.
Years of work are approaching their defining moment.
This moment has been building for nearly two years.
In June 2023 I first shared the idea with the Mayor.
In May 2024, after seeing the exhibition for the 80th Anniversary, he expressed his wish for The Longest Yarn to have a permanent home in Carentan.
Since then there have been months of complex process, negotiation and determination.
Now we wait.
Resting. Preparing. Hoping.
Because this is more than a project.
It is for remembrance.
For the stories we carry.
For the extraordinary community of makers who brought this vision to life.
For history that must never be forgotten.
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What This Week Taught Me
This journey reminded me that The Longest Yarn is not just about history.
It is about connection.
Community.
Family.
Memory.
And the unexpected places where we discover we belong.
Ireland gave me warmth, laughter, and a sense of home.
Now the next chapter begins.
And the story continues.
