Daniel McFadden | Contributing Writer
Donegal – not the usual boastful check-in that you may come across as you trawl through your news feed during the summer months. When I resume lectures in September, my friends will brag of trekking in Vietnam, attending their first Red Sox game in Boston or catching a glimpse of Brad & Angelina in Cannes. Actually, my summer has proven quite different; more a journey of rediscovering the value of family, learning to appreciate where you grew up and what it has given you. The truth is this was not my plan for the summer but due to circumstances it became my only option.
At the beginning of the summer, I took off on a Ryanair flight to Nice hoping to find a job, cheap wine and everything that comes with a summer on the Côte d’Azur. At first it was idyllic, chilling on the beach with friends speaking with interesting people from all over Europe who had as many languages as I have meals in a day. So although feeling incredibly pasty and embarrassed at my lack of European languages, it was shaping up to be a great experience. The job hunt then began, and with it the illusion of my beautiful summer in the French Rivera faded away. Clad in Penney’s sunglasses, Hawaiian printed shorts and a Dunne’s Stores white t-shirt; I was intent on impressing all the great business managers of Nice. Unfortunately, my Donegal accent and bar experience cannot make up for my lack of French so I was turned away at nearly every door I darkened.
Was I naïve going to France with no French and expecting a job? Perhaps! But it has been done before. Granted by skinny good looking blonde girls, but I was still hopeful. “Where there’s a will there is a way” is the outdated phrase I used to comfort myself. On my last day of job hunting I decided to try the Westminster Hotel, a very posh hotel on the Promenade des Anglais. I was greeted at the desk by a woman who strikingly resembled Joanna Lumley’s character from Absolutely Fabulous, all the way down to her deathly stare at something which was beneath her. That day I was that something. Unimpressed with my attire she quickly got down to my linguistic skills. Upon her realisation that I didn’t speak French, she looked at me and with a Cheshire cat smile began to speak only in French. She continued to do this until I was forced to walk away and out the big glass doors and marble columns of her hotel. Not before rubbing my dirty Adidas high tops a little too roughly into her Persian rug. Four days later I was on an Aer lingus flight home, I decided to treat myself with 5kg extra baggage allowance to soothe my pain of rejection and failure.
There I was, back in Falcarragh Co. Donegal on the edge of the Gaeltacht. The place where I grew up yet had only been back a handful of times in the last year due to studying and working in Dublin, as well as being in America for all of last summer. Since coming out as gay a year and a half ago I was certain I could never reintegrate myself into that community. I made presumptions about everyone in my community, that they wouldn’t be completely comfortable with it or that I would have to face snide remarks when socialising. Unfortunately I still harboured those feelings as I arrived at home for the foreseeable future. Of course, I was looking forward to spending time at home with my family but again it didn’t seem as glamorous as a yacht party in Monaco. After settling in for a week I finally got a job in a small pub which plays music every night. I was suddenly working alongside all these people I haven’t seen since I left for Trinity Halls nearly two years ago. Of course, the thoughts of quiet judgements of my changed lifestyle since leaving home were in the back of my mind, but as my work life continued on there I discovered this wasn’t the case.
Each passing day was a testimony of acceptance whether from my co-workers or those who drank in the pub. Even those people who were perceived as thugs and troublemakers showed me exactly how far I had let my own fears and conceptions cloud my judgements of those at home. The fear I felt as an 18 year old had encapsulated how I felt about my hometown for so long, and the failure of Nice and the fact that I could no longer hide from it managed to refresh my mind and clear my vision toward my rural community.
I firmly believe travelling broadens the mind; however I did not think I would need to come home to grow as person, but I did. I needed to come home. Aside from acceptance the place where I grew up has so much to offer, outside of work there is a bustling community of drumming classes, traditional music sessions and drama groups filled with people who not only know your name but more than likely your entire family tree.
The sites in Nice were amazing and awe inspiring. However, I was equally impressed with the sites of Glenveagh national park and the cliff diving off Dunfanaghy’s coast. My local nightclubs version of a beach party does not compare to that of a full moon party in Thailand. However sitting on the seats and reminiscing about the cruelty of our old economics teacher brings so much laughter that I feel I am back in secondary school. What is always at the core of one person’s home is their family, and my appreciation for its importance has also been reignited. Whether it is sitting with my siblings for days on end watching Louis Theroux documentaries, listening to my mother recount every shot of her 18-hole golf game or stopping my dog from chasing the postman. This is home. So I may not be working in a summer camp on the east coast or skydiving over Lake Bled, but I am learning something which I needed to come home to do before I ever went anywhere else.
