NO wonder people from Northern Ireland flee to Donegal whenever they can.
I spent last weekend in Kincasslagh, following Daniel O’Donnell around like a puppy, for the purposes of making a radio documentary about the Great One.
The village of Kincasslagh is about as far away from anywhere else that a person can get. For those who don’t know, I must explain that it is situated in west Donegal, near Burtonport, and nearer still to Dungloe (or Dunglow as some signposts confusingly tell us).
The wind howls in from the Atlantic, having last seen dry land in Massa- chusetts – it is no place for a man who wears a wig. The rocky terrain dictates that only a fool would farm there while the rain tends to lash horizontally across the tundra. The sea isn’t for the faint-hearted and often can’t be seen at all for white horses.
The climate may be inhospitable but the people aren’t. Donegal folk are the way people used to be. I spent much of my childhood in a different part of Donegal and remember it as a place inhabited by kind, gentle people who understood things and laughed softly and easily.
I thought those days had long gone with the advent of Big Brother, Dog Eat Dog, pipe bombs in people’s gardens, youths in baseball caps swigging bottles of vodka, Celtic and Rangers’ fans left behind by empty planes, urine-filled balloons being thrown at schoolchildren and designer labels stitched onto the outside of dull clothes.
But Donegal hasn’t changed. The rest of us have regrettably moved on but things are still the same up there – the Celtic Tiger doesn’t roar as loudly as it does in Temple Bar and stag parties from Birmingham are few and far between.
People from all over the world come to the Donegal Shore Festival in Kincasslagh; they come mainly to see where and how the Great Daniel lives. They come in their thousands from England, Scotland, Wales, America, Canada, Australia and Japan. And Portadown.
They all gathered, first inside the great canvas Festival Dome that had been erected behind the Viking House Hotel. It was an extraordinary sight. The hale, the hearty, the crippled and the sick assembled for Daniel’s only official concert of the weekend. Never have I seen such an outpouring of genuine happiness and good will.
A very relaxed Daniel O’Donnell appeared on stage and became the stand-up comedian that those close to him know him to be. He had them rolling in the aisles. One severely handicapped teenager in front of the stage was enjoying himself so much his parents couldn’t stop kissing him; they were so happy he was having such a good time. It did my heart good. You don’t see that at raves.
Next day we all trooped down to stand in the rain outside the local pub in front of what seemed to be a flatbed lorry upon which local dignitaries assembled to officially open the festival. Daniel was on the lorry too but took a back seat; this was anonymous community work. The best kind.
The festival was solemnly opened by local man, Charlie McBride whom none of the visitors had ever heard of. He was a shy man with little to say. After a few hesitant words from him, another man grabbed the microphone and said Charlie had taught him everything he knew about fish. This effectively silenced the visitors from Sydney but a man from Japan seemed to understand. He clapped and muttered about sushi.
Daniel made himself available throughout the weekend without being in everybody’s face and a more masterly and convincing display of diplomacy I have yet to see. As far as the visitors were concerned, he was God and Kincasslagh was Heaven.
Looking at the Australian visitors, I tried to put myself in their shoes and wondered if any entertainer in the world could motivate me to travel all the way to, say, the Great Barrier Reef, to hear an artist sing and look at his or her house. I couldn’t think of anybody. Except possibly Kylie Minogue. But then she wouldn’t give me a cup of tea.
A woman from Oldham told me when she was making her way home after her first visit to the festival, Daniel had given her a lift to the local airport. When the plane took off and gained altitude she looked out of the window; Daniel was standing on the tarmac waving goodbye to her. “Amazing,” I said. “And do you know what?”, she added. “He continued waving until he was just a dot!”.
I heard stories like this all the time. They beat a path to Kincasslagh because the people are nice and Daniel is genuine. I found no evidence to refute either of those claims. On Sunday, Protestants and Catholics go to Mass with Daniel and all sing together. Afterwards we participate in a whist drive at Saint Mary’s parochial hall. Tea from an urn and buns from a box are served.
To think when I played in rock bands I thought life was about sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Where was Kincasslagh when I needed it?
Originally published in The Belfast Telegraph