a gasp. The moon was full and hung like a golden globe in the clear night sky and the frost crackled underfoot on the cobbles as she made her way across them to the barn. She’d had the foresight to bring a slice of soda bread with her, which she shared between the two farm dogs, stilling the barks in their throat before they were able to rouse the house. She pulled the bike from the pile of sacks she had hidden it under, hung the bags on the handlebars and wheeled it up the lane to the main road.
There she stopped and looked down at the farmhouse. It looked so homely, so welcoming in the light of the moon. What if she could never go back? What if that door was closed to her for ever?
She pushed those thoughts away before she went scurrying back down the lane and into her bed. She mounted the bike and set off, glad of the warm clothes for the night was colder than she’d ever known it and the fields around were rimed in frost, which sparkled in the moonlight. She told herself to be stout-hearted. She was doing the only thing she could do and so she pedalled down the road towards Barnes More Halt and never looked back.
She was familiar with the route to the station at Barnes More and set off confidently alongside the river Lowerymore, the two dark mounds of Barnes Gap towering before her.
She was thankful to see that the rail tracks and the road ran side by side. The moonlight was helpful and it felt no distance to Derg Bridge Halt. It was as silent as the grave and Bridie rode past it quickly. The rail bus tracks then led over a single span bridge across the river known as the little red stream, or Sruthan Dearg, while Bridie took the road bridge further down, meeting again with the rail tracks as she began the route through Barnes Gap.
It seemed almost menacing to ride between those imposing craggy hills with the darkness thicker than ever. The wind channelling through the gap hit her at gale force and she had trouble controlling the bike. She rode on quickly, anxious to get away from the place, remembering suddenly the gruesome tales Uncle Francis used to tell her. And she didn’t want to think of her uncle either. If the man had never existed, she’d not be scurrying from her home at the dead of night, pregnant, frightened and alone.
The darkness was no less dense when Bridie was through the Gap and she looked for the moon, but it was obscured with clouds and few stars twinkled. She wished she’d thought to bring a torch or lantern, something to light her way. She also knew that she had to skirt the edge of Lough Mourne. It was a beautiful loch in daylight, but as she could see so little in the pitch black, she went on cautiously, afraid of going too close to the muddy banks and falling in.
The road and railway began to climb steeply up to Meerglas Halt built, people said, for the sake of Lord Lifford, the first chairman, who lived out that way. But before Bridie had gone halfway up, she was gasping for breath and her legs had begun to shake.
She could have taken an easier route lower down the hillside, but she’d have had to lose sight of the rail tracks then and, in such darkness, she was afraid that if she went too far away from the tracks, she’d never find them again.
She could ride no more so she got off the bike and pushed it up the road to the station, feeling the strain in the backs of her legs. The darkness was so intense, she felt she could reach out and touch it as she eventually mounted her bike again – the road didn’t climb again for some time so she was able to ride more easily.
Suddenly the wind picked up and icy spears of rain began to stab at her and she groaned because she’d brought nothing to cover herself with.
The road began to dip at last and Bridie was glad to ease her legs. She freewheeled down while keeping the tracks in view as much as possible as they ran between shrubs and trees. The clouds shifted slightly and for a brief moment the moon shone down through the driving rain and she caught a glimpse of the steel girder bridge over the River Mourne.
She was nearing Stranorlar, the next halt along.
She redoubled her efforts until the stone viaduct spanning the River Finn came into view and she knew she was almost there. The road led downwards and over another bridge into the town of Stranorlar, but she skirted the town, riding around the outside of it before picking up the tracks again.
Her legs were tired, aching and cold, the rain was lashing at her and she longed to stop, to ease them for a moment or two, but didn’t dare because she knew she had miles to travel yet. She forced herself on through the inky blackness, the sound of her wet wheels on the road covered by the noise of the buffeting, blustery wind, sending clusters of icy rain hammering against her.
She sighed as she passed Killygordon Station. As she left the bridge beyond it, she pulled in her bike, desperate to rest even if it were just for a moment or two. She could never remember feeling so cold or wet or miserable in her entire life. Her back ached, while the hands that gripped the handlebars were so cold, despite her gloves, now sodden with rain, that she wondered whether she’d ever be able to straighten them again. She was soaked through to the skin and had the greatest desire to put her head down and cry; in fact she did give in for a moment or two and laid her head on the handlebars.
She brought herself up sharply. She couldn’t give in now. She was doing the only thing possible and was already halfway there. But it took every ounce of resolve inside her to set off again, every nerve in her crying out in protest.
She knew Cavan Halt was only a few miles away for she’d studied the timetable in detail and resolutely set off again. She said the rosary as she rode, the litany and familiarity comforting her for these were the prayers she’d been taught some many years before when the world was a safe and wonderful place. She implored God and the Virgin Mary to help her complete this hazardous but necessary journey
Liscooley Village was after Cavan Halt, but as she reached it, the rails deviated from the road, turning right in towards the station, while the road continued straight ahead to the centre of the village. Bridie was too wary of being seen, and possibly challenged, to ride through the main street so instead used the back roads and came upon the tracks again, just before the level crossing at the other side of the station.
She dismounted and tiptoed past the gatekeeper’s cottage. It was doubtful if he would have heard the whoosh and swish of the wheels on the wet road, for the wind was hurling itself around the whitewashed dwelling and rattling the windows, while the rain was now coming down in sheets, but she could take no chances.
With a sigh, Bridie mounted her bike again, feeling low-spirited and unnerved by this long solitary ride in the rain and the cold as she toiled on towards Castlefin Station. Suddenly Bridie realised the rails had disappeared away to the right, through dense tree and bushes that she couldn’t follow.
She didn’t know what to do other than continue on the roads and hope to catch up with them again. She shivered in fear at the thought of being lost in the dark cold night.
Maybe, she thought, that would be for the best, if she was to just let herself fall from the bike and curl up in a ditch somewhere to die. By the morning she would be stiff and though her parents might wonder what she was doing way out here on a strange road on her own, no one would say a word about it once she was dead. She’d once again be the sainted daughter and they would mourn her for the rest of their lives.
The tracks suddenly met the road again and Bridie drove these gloomy thoughts from her mind, sighing with relief. Castlefin Station loomed up before her a short while later and she dismounted, pushing her bike around the outside of it. Castlefin was the custom’s post and she wasn’t sure if it had a stationmaster’s house or not.
Clady, the next station, wasn’t far away, and though Bridie was just as wet and miserable as ever, and every push of the pedals was an effort now, the thought that she was nearly at her journey’s end spurred her on. Added to that, the road was flat and the road and track ran side by side and so she didn’t feel it was very long before she reached the station. Clady was the frontier post between the Irish Free State and the British-ruled six counties and just after the station, Urney Bridge, crossed the River Finn into Tyrone. It was manned in the daytime, but fortunately not at night, so Bridie dismounted again and pushed her bike along the gravel beside the tracks, too weary to look for the road bridge.
When she reached Strabane Station, she