I love July.
As a child growing up in Glasgow, July signified the start of the school holidays and the month we travelled to Ireland to see our grandparents on Rathlin Island. It has rooted me in the island and the tastes, sights and smells of this special month. The summer month.
Sadly, my grandparents died when I was very young. Granddad died in February 1977, just days before my ninth birthday, and granny died just days into the summer month of July when I was nine years old. July has always been her month, and always will be.
When I was that nine year old child, and beyond, I dreamed of a time when I would be a granny on Rathlin. A time when July would be my month too. Given the many challenges I went on to face as a teenage mother, twice homeless and living in poverty for long periods; firstly as an unemployed lone parent and then as a university student of two small children, it seemed like an impossible dream.
But that was then. Ten years ago, in July, I slept under the roof of my own home on Rathlin for the first time and thought of the roots my father, and his mother and father before him had established; roots that will continue to pulse with vigour even when my own blood runs dry.
This July, as always, my children and grandchildren came to Rathlin for their annual holiday. It’s a wonderful affair – hectic, loud, busy, but always beautiful. I adore seeing my children Daniel and Siobhán on the island and I’m grateful for the lifelong, rewarding friendships they have established with the friends they have connected with here since childhood. It is especially rewarding to see their friends have children and for my children’s children to have developed those same strong bonds with them too.
My eight year old grandsons Ruairí and Harris
My children’s children. Yes, I am that granny, on Rathlin in July, embracing my grandchildren. This year, my eight-year-old grandson Harris had the idea of making a film about Rathlin, a place he has grown to love and cherish. I think of him, and my grandson Ruairī, also aged eight, and remember my eight-year-old self and how I longed to spend time with my granny on Rathlin. In a timeshift, here I am. That granny, spending July with beautiful grandchildren who have traversed from Glasgow, just as the schools closed their door for summer.
July is summer. July is granny’s month.
Here’s the film that Harris made (along with some help from Ruairí). It is beautiful and meaningful and it is July. It is and always will be July. Summer. Granny. Rathlin. Family.
Enjoy.
Next year, the twins, Grace and Órlaith, will be three years old by the time they visit in July. I hope that they can be nine, and ten, and then more and more, and still be able to spend time with their granny in Rathlin, in July.
Grace and Órlaith, age two.
Oh, just before I go. July is also the month of spuds. Freshly dug at Maoil na nDreas and dowsed in butter, just as granny would have made.
Margot McCuaig 