Irish Sea by Suzanne Hudson

Every Summer of my childhood
We packed the car to bursting
And began the long journey from
Buckinghamshire to the Wild West.

Each child could take one teddy

Which sat on our laps
On either side of our
Little sister’s sick bowl.

I looked out the window
At the funny welsh sheep
Dotted on the steep grassy slopes
Like balls of cotton wool.

I tried to ignore

The churning of my stomach
As our car dipped up and down hills
And navigated narrow bends

On the ferry from Holyhead

The Irish Sea was rough
A nun held her head in a sick bag
As the boat swayed from side to side.

The heavy doors slammed behind us
As we emerged onto the blustery deck
And tried to walk but were held back
By the power of gale force winds

Then the rush of disembarkment

A mass exodus down metal stairs
The slam, slam, slam of car doors
And the revving of the engines.

We drove out of the ferry’s mouth
And in a magical moment
Crossed onto the sacred soil
Of the Emerald Isle.

This was before the motorways
So we began the final three hour slog
Crossing the country towards the West
On winding roads, through one horse towns.

At Kinnegad we always stopped
For a Club Orange and a sandwich
My sister and I sat on high bar stools
And ate bags of Tayto crisps

We finally arrived at our Daddy’s home town
To familiar smells of peat and dampness
We found the front door unlocked
And a warm welcome within.