I was exiled in New York 25 years ago ...

IT was Christmas Eve babe, and I wasn’t in the drunk tank.

Not yet, anyway. This is the time of year when most people gravitate towards family or close friends, and surroundings that reek of home. For some, home is just too far a journey, even for the seasonal fare. For others, home is a distant memory, lost or taken somewhere along the road.

Emigration has the country in a vice-like grip. Back on the Sean Bhean Bhocht, the warm glow of Christmas is tempered by worry, or the absence of loved ones. For the absent themselves, the pull of home is strong at this time of year, but sometimes just beyond reach.