In the shadow of Bloody Sunday

On her first visit to Ireland in 1972, an in-love Sue Leonard was enchanted by its beauty and shocked by the violent aftermath of Bloody Sunday

ON Jan 29, 1972, I came on holiday to Ireland. I’d never visited before, though my grandmother, who was Irish, had filled me with stories and fables of her homeland. I was 19, and in my second year as a student nurse in London. We’d been miffed when told January was our allotted time for a holiday — but my new boyfriend, an Irishman based in London, jumped at the chance to show me his country.

And so we arrived; by boat, on a grey Saturday evening. We went to stay with his mother, who lived in a large early Victorian house in Killiney, facing the sea. I remember, that first evening, having my first taste of soda bread. And loving it.

Sunday was social. It seemed the older generation were curious to meet Michael’s new girl. I was scrutinised at a cocktail party, but with great warmth and charm. We walked on the beach, and then climbed Killiney Hill, before returning for tea.

Later, sipping gin and tonic, we turned on the TV news. And stared in shock as we watched footage of the Civil Rights March in Derry turn into a bloody massacre. Seeing people shot as they fled; seeing the white hanky of surrender fill with blood was beyond belief and bearing. The arrogant statement by the British army, who claimed they had fired merely in defence, made me shake with disgust. And with shame.

I was English, or five-eights English anyway. This was being done in my name against a people I had started to love. Later, meeting friends in a pub, we were subdued. And scared, too. Would there now be civil war? When I spoke I was horribly aware that my accent made me the enemy. Nobody would guess that I was part-Irish, or how proud I was of that part.

The anger and disbelief continued. English newspapers were banned. On Tuesday we met a friend, Richard, in Dublin. He was studying at Trinity. We drank coffee in his rooms, then he showed us around. He took us up to the Long Library. Impressed, I remember feeling jealous of my cousin, who had studied there, a few years back.

Outside, a crowd was gathering, ready to march on the British Embassy. We joined them for a while, eager to express our anger and disgust. There was a great sense of camaraderie as we walked along, behind the banner, shouting, ‘Brits Out. Brits Out.’

We peeled off, after a while, and went for some lunch in The Old Stand. All around us, people were talking of the atrocity, theorising why it had happened, and what would happen next.

Silence fell when black-clad IRA sympathisers entered the pub, circulating with collection tins. Everyone parted with their cash. I sat there, ashamed of my nationality. And confused by that shame.

The following evening we had dinner with an uncle and aunt of Michael’s, and most of their nine children. I felt subsumed into the family, welcomed and cherished. There was a warmth about everyone I met that week — which contrasted with the relative reserve I was used to. That night, I remember, the British Embassy burned to the ground. I felt jubilant, then guilty for feeling that way.

If the political tension made us edgy — and it did — since Michael’s battered MGB GT had GB plates, the countryside seemed set to seduce me, as if wanting to compensate for the atmosphere of fear. The day we toured Wicklow, it was blanketed in snow. We climbed the Sugarloaf in the crisp cold, but were warmed by sunshine. Enniskerry, where I sampled my first hot whiskey, looked positively alpine.

Later in the week we drove into a sunset in Connemara. We were opposite the Twelve Pins when we saw it; it was reflected in the lake, with the mountains as a backdrop. My diary entry says it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. I was even moved to write a poem — my first as an adult — and my last.

When we toured Kerry, I drove, unlicensed, and unskilled, over a mountain pass. The views down to the lakes and the sea beyond were Hollywood perfect. We stayed in a hotel in Oughterard, and in an apartment in a cousin’s house in Kinsale. We were so happy on that first holiday, but the shadow of Bloody Sunday touched everything.

Everyone, everywhere, was talking about it. I listened to the arguments carefully. I knew my Irish history, having studied it for A Level, but I hadn’t followed it in the recent past. I shared in the outrage, and strived to hide my accent. My postcards home raged about ‘those bloody paratroopers.’ But then, on our last day, bad news came.

A friend had been injured in the North — lucky to get away with his life. And, returning to England, my certainties in shreds, I sobered up, more than a little.

Ireland, though, had won me over. In April, still nineteen, I said, ‘yes’ when Michael asked me to marry him. And when we made it up the altar, that same October, I knew I was also promising to live in Ireland. It took until 1988 to make that move, but I’ve never regretted either promise.