Cahair O’Kane: Troubles free generation don’t appreciate how lucky we are

The crowd makes its way past Mary B’s bar right beneath Bligh’s Lane, a place that has seen such innocence and such terror in the shadow of Celtic Park. Photo: Stephen McCarthy/Sportsfile

IT’S two hundred yards from the bottom of Bligh’s Lane back to where the car is in St Cecilia’s College.

They’re no ordinary two hundred yards up from Celtic Park, least of all when you’re carrying a seven-year-old.

The doorway of Mary B’s looks out at you, a different crowd of revellers inside now, young ones and ones that used to be young ones out for the day with their young ones that aren’t young ones any more.

A tired but contented seven-year-old, slumped over your shoulder, head buried, her eyes wide shut.

Time enough until she knows Mary B’s.

Up the steep hill we go, the dead weight of the exhaustion brought on by a morning of camogie and gymnastics a timely reminder to do some training.

Bligh’s Lane. A place of innocence, where young children would congregate in winter and run their makeshift sleds down from the top of the hill.

They would pour water on the hardened snow to make the sled run faster.

Local legend has it that in the fifties the ghost of an old woman, Susie, that once lived at a cottage on the bend saved two boys from their death.

They were hurtling down the hill on a sled when they saw the woman crossing the road with a bucket in each hand.

To avoid colliding with her, the two boys turned for the ditch. Lying there, they looked up. No old woman, but at the bottom of the road, a lorry stuck in the snow. They were headed right for it.

We had the same steep run from the top of Beech Road to the bottom of the hill as kids, a couple of hundred sleepy yards where you hardly ever saw a car, even in the late 90s.

There’s no day like a snow day.

We only ever encountered the innocence of those truant sled runs and never the other side of what Bligh’s Lane has seen.

A place of terror.

There was a British Army base up there, a regular flashpoint in the heart of the Creggan.

On Bloody Sunday, the civil rights parade went a roundabout way to try and avoid Bligh’s Lane because of the fear of trouble.

A lot of innocence died that afternoon and a lot more of it joined the IRA at the injustice.

As babes of the ‘90s growing up miles from anything, our childhood had a bypass around the Troubles.

My only truly distinct memory is of watching Grandstand one Saturday afternoon and a message flashing up on the screen around half past three calling on all available medical personnel to report to their nearest hospital.

That was the Omagh bomb.

We’re so, so lucky and we don’t appreciate it half enough.

It’s really hard to imagine the fear through which our elders lived.

We never had to worry about going out on a Saturday night and somebody planting a bomb in the bar or bursting through the door with guns in their hands, as happened far too often in far too many parts.

You’d think the hassle he endured as a result of his and Barry McCaffrey’s brilliant film on when that happened in Loughinisland would have put Trevor Birney off, but last night RTÉ screened his latest production on the murder of Sean Brown.

I live in Bellaghy now, have gotten to know a lot of the Brown family since, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to grasp the share terror of what they actually went through.

For Bridie Brown to take a torch out of her cupboard and go out looking for her husband at half-two in the morning, knowing something wasn’t right, and then to hear the RUC arrive in the street first thing in the morning and bring a heartless and callous approach with them.

The emotional turmoil of all that, you’d call unbearable, but they’ve had no choice but to bear it.

Still, they’re obstructed.

To think of all the parents who went to great lengths to shield and protect their innocent children and yet still their sons and daughters went out one day and didn’t come home, victims of being the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It’s hard to comprehend the fear and angst that must have rattled around in that generation of parents every time the back door closed behind their child, lying awake and staring at the ceiling until they heard the latch open again. Only then must sleep have been possible, if even.

And there’s the seven-year-old in my arms, being carried up Bligh’s Lane at eight o’clock at night on a Saturday evening, not a care in the world.

Thousands of us, marching through the streets of Derry, safe as houses, headed back to the homes and jobs and families that we’ve never been denied as once was.

Her first really big match, the excitement gripping her for days, the only concern being whether to go to McDonald’s first or get something right to eat, or whether she has enough layers on to cope with the disguise of a sun that we don’t see or feel in the stand.

Switching from knee to knee, stealthily making her way through the uncle’s half-time chips, occasionally springing to life, cheering at Daire Ó Baoill’s first goal.

Innocence.

Contrast that with the dread of those that went to Casement Park in October 1993 to see Derry play Donegal the day after ten people were killed in the Shankill Road bomb.

We’re so busy listening to the Jamie Brysons or Jim Allisters of the world that we’ve fallen guilty of not appreciating the peace that we and our children have come to know and enjoy.

We can never take that for granted.

The crowd of people that thronged down the Lonemoor Road on Saturday evening reminded you of the streets of Clones on Ulster final day. The big yellow ball in the sky had made its first appearance of the year.

It felt like an occasion and all we had to worry ourselves with was Derry’s empty net.

Then, back up Bligh’s Lane, the innocence in your arms. Tired. Contented. Hasn’t a clue. Nor do I, really.

How lucky we are.