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The first thing I notice is the new wildflowers in bloom – foxglove, honeysuckle, spotted orchid, pink thistle…. The cow parsley has died down. The hedgerows are less frothy. The blossoms are warmer and fuller. Three weeks make a big difference when you’re this close to wild ground. It’s not the same in Belfast.


I’m back in Gortnagullion, ready to follow Frances’s story on to Irvinestown. But she may have been more eager to leave home than I am. I’ve come to love this place and its peaceful quiet and I need to stay a little longer. She wasn’t to know what I do, that she wouldn’t be returning.


I visit the McCrea house, looking forlorn today with the light behind it. Mary Brandon’s cottage is prettier, with its peeling blue and yellow paint and cast iron fireplace. I think now that Frances’s mother Eliza may have lived here in her later years, once Joe took over the family home, so I look round with new interest, seeing her in a chair by the window or bent over the fireplace. I go down to the tumbled foundations of the school and think of the sixteen siblings trekking this path in turn, books in hand, big ambitions in mind.


It's too hot to walk far, so I circle the roads in the car again, filling in my mental map, getting the roads in order. Back to Montiagh Bridge, round to the standing stones on the Montiaghroe Road, and right down Movarran Road to the border. The border is a nothing, an imaginary line down the middle of the muddy Tenor River. Forty years ago there were armed soldiers on guard here. Now there are just four placid, curious cows on duty.

Nearby, I meet Per, a friendly Swedish Fermanagh smallholder in Wellington boots. He is the personification of authenticity – he tells me about the carefully researched native trees he’s planted in his field. He has replaced the pointing on his half-ruined cottage, using traditional methods, and looks after the orphan lambs from the next farm over. But then he starts explaining that all the European royal families have actual blue blood, since they are monsters, descended from Genesis’s fallen angels and their unfortunate human wives. It’s time to leave.





It’s not far to Irvinestown, but I’ve spent long enough round Gortnagullion to make it feel a world away. To Frances, this would have been a large town. She travelled here as a child in her father’s trap, as he traded and paid visits to friends. And now it was the first step in the long journey she was to make as an adult woman.


Willie, the next brother up from Frances, had a grocery and hardware shop on the main street. He lived above it with his wife, Maggie Donnelly as was, and, eventually, his eight children, Helen, Gerald, Cecil, Arthur, Don, Will, Harry and Eric. Frances worked with them in the early days.

The shop would have been an exciting place for a girl from a tiny rural townland. Her circle of acquaintances would have expanded hugely. All the news would have been with them immediately, carried by small-town chatterboxes. The fair, mucky, cacophonous and thrilling, took place right outside their window. If ever there was a quiet moment, she could have watched the world go by and dreamed. It would have been fun.


I’m still slightly rattled by Per’s revelations, so I take refuge in Heather’s Cottage Bakes for tea and apple pie, a suitably turn-of-the-century refreshment. I strike up a conversation with the much more reassuring Sandra, the best housewife in town. She is on her fourth wash of the day, two done and ready for ironing, one on the line and one in the washing machine. She laughs a lot and has a great appetite for traybakes.


Restored, I cross the street to Willie’s shop. It’s a shoe shop now, with an architectural practice nicely added to the back, also including the family’s upstairs rooms. I have a chat to the woman who owns it and wander round the small space. There are few original features remaining, but it’s another room where I know for sure that Frances spent time. She flickers into view a little more clearly, competently measuring out butter and flour.



It’s here in Irvinestown that she first met William Bryans. I can see from the remaining photographs that he was tall and handsome, his dark hair slicked down in an attempt to tame the curls, with a luxuriant moustache and a slightly cleft chin. Before training for the Methodist ministry, he’d assisted his father in their painting and decorating business, and he was an accomplished artist in his free time. Articulate, practical and friendly, he must have been an attractive man.


He was a friend of Frances’s brothers and visited frequently to talk philosophy and theology and enjoy a family meal. His own family, from Clones originally, lived in Belfast, and he had been a member of the great “Methodist Cathedral” at Carlisle Circus. Frances may have travelled to Belfast to visit her older sister Lizzie, married to her second husband now and living in a large house on Botanic Avenue. She would have enjoyed hearing William talk about life in the city.


He was also recently bereaved. His father, Alexander, died in 1896. The poignant burial certificate gives the causes of death as lead poisoning and exhaustion, inevitable problems for a hard-working painter. As the oldest son and a clergyman, William organised the purchase of the burial plot and the funeral, and was now responsible for his mother, Catherine, his delicate sister Isabella and his younger brother, Alex, training to be a minister too. I can imagine him confiding in Frances, a warm and compassionate woman, intelligent and faithful. They were both from modest backgrounds, well read, artistic and interested in the wider world. They had both reached points in their lives when life with a partner in their own home was the natural next step. The romance was inevitable.


I’m not sure how courting happened in Irvinestown in the late nineteenth century, between respectable church members in their late twenties. Probably they couldn’t have been alone together in private, ever. But they might sometimes, once they were engaged, have walked together in the town or the country roads.

My walk out of town takes me to the quirkily boarded-up towers of Necarne Castle. When Frances and William were courting, it was a private home, not open for public recreation. But its environs are atmospheric. The paths are shaded, and rooks circle the treetops. I collect a few dark feathers and some sycamore wings. Teenagers are competing on horses on the lawn – there’s a holiday spirit here in the late afternoon sun. If you look above car level, there’s very little that’s anachronistic. A tall couple in formal clothing, hands not quite touching as they talk, might easily pass unnoticed in the shadow of the castle’s east wing.



The wedding was in Fintona Methodist Church, on August 15, 1899. I’m so excited about this visit that it seems impossible for it to live up to expectations. My plan is to attend church here at 10.30 and then go back to Irvinestown for the midday service. Two services in one morning – nothing out of the ordinary for nineteenth century Methodists.


The congregation is tiny, eighteen of us in total. But, like Pettigo, it’s very friendly. The minister comes to welcome me personally before the service starts, and afterwards she asks me to tell everyone about my project. We sing familiar songs. There’s a great children’s talk based on one of those dolls where Red Riding Hood, Grandmother and the Wolf are all combined in one body. We’re reminded that sometimes we ourselves have both good and bad within us. We pray for local friends and disasters unfolding across the world, forest fires in Portugal and elderly church members in Togherdoo. The minister is eloquent, full of heartfelt vitality. I think of William, known by his contemporaries as an inspiring preacher. He would have enjoyed this service.


I notice something serendipitous. In most of the pews, the floors are carpeted. In mine, the floorboards are bare. My feet are touching the same boards Frances and William walked 118 years ago. I don’t think this will happen very often on my journey, and it sends a shiver down my spine.


There’s a rough hole in the wood near my feet – maybe this is why the carpet has been lifted. I reach down and lift out a half-inch splinter. I keep it safe in my purse.

Afterwards, everyone stops to talk to me. They remember Frances’s nephew Theo, who used to play the organ here. They point me in the direction of his shop. I have several invitations to lunch. Once again, I feel very welcome. And I chat so long it’s too late to get to Irvinestown for the midday service.






Methodists don’t ring bells. Instead, Frances and William departed for their new life in Ballybay with kind good wishes and maybe a few more raucous shouts from her nine brothers ringing in their ears.


They would have travelled the 36 miles by horse and trap. In all their days, they never owned a car, so this would have been the first of many slow, scenic, momentous journeys. I imagine them shy at first, but relaxing as the day wore on. They would have talked about William’s churches in Ballybay and Cootehill, the places they would move on to in the future, their own families, perhaps, more vaguely, the family they might have together. Domestic arrangements and deeper things too.

I drive their route, down the Aghafad Road to Clogher, then along the old Monaghan road, passing through Tydavnet, a place that appears very early in our family annals, and Monaghan itself. Then on out the Ballybay road to the tidy town where William was working. It’s still a very beautiful journey, marked in several places with Scenic Route signs. At some points, the road becomes a complete tunnel of bright green leaves. It’s soft countryside with wildflowers still abundant. After Monaghan, though, the views open wider. I look back and see, ten miles away, the dark gothic spires of St Macartan’s Cathedral, not long completed in 1899. There are more people about and more traffic. Everything here is bigger, busier and more complex. And that’s how life was going to be.

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