'For 60 years we were called traitors'

THE young priest's vestments were crumpled from his travel case and his uneven hem revealed runners wet and muddied from the Normandy shore.

From his bag he took two chubby candle stumps and a cupful of wine from a plastic Ballygowan bottle, arranging them on a plain white cloth.

His altar was a low table which earlier displayed tourist brochures; his church the small landing at the top of a twisting staircase on the first floor of the old railway station building, now the village hotel.