L is for LOUGHGALL

The size of our local village is best illustrated by the fact that if you address a letter with only the name of the recipient and the word Loughgall, it is almost certain to reach its intended destination. Indeed Main Street represents a large proportion of the village that has been closest to home for all of my life and the distance between the 30mph signs that cautiously welcome visitors at each end can be little more than half a mile. Along that stretch of road, some things have changed. The once busy Department of Agriculture grounds that hid behind the wall of the demesne are now home to an eighteen hole golf course and country park and the lake from which the village inherited its name, and which was at one time forbidden territory, is now a tourist attraction complete with lakeside walks and fishing piers. The football club perimeter used to be marked by two strands of barbed wire and an old oak tree perilously close to one corner flag, while defenders and attackers could only see the head and shoulders of the kicker at another corner, such was the uneven nature of the pitch. And nobody relished changing in the old shed across the road, where the only shower was on an overcast day. Nowadays, the ground is a welcoming arena, with a pitch like a carpet, extensive clubhouse, stands for shelter and the ubiquitous hot food stall. The school, named after the former owners of the walled residence, is now encamped in its third building while a heavily fortified and almost vacant police station is a reminder of less happy times when ramps, barriers, bombs and diversions were part of everyday life.

Yet, apart from a few, recently erected houses, an estate over twenty years old and a few renovations, little else seems to have changed from the time when my bicycle used to freewheel down the hill towards primary school. The same houses still sit on the inside of the speed limit signs, the majority of names haven't changed, Main Street looks strikingly similar to earlier photographs and the Old Road is just, well, older! Yet, closer inspection and a clearer memory soon reveals that all is not the same. Gone are two of the three shops including the little shop that supplied sweets to most of the school population, gone are the two sets of petrol pumps that sold fuel at less than five shillings a gallon, gone is the craft shop that made a fleeting visit in the late eighties, gone is the car mechanic business where dad's old Morris Oxford often sat, gone is the orchard that provided an afternoon snack and a morning smack for many a thieving schoolboy. And gone are so many of the people, whose names live on in their children and in our memories. At the top of the hill, shining inscriptions in the new graveyard plot provide the clearest evidence of change.

An unremarkable village then, through which most people pass on their way to somewhere else, a village with its place forever in history because of one major event during our troubled past.

Jesus came from an unremarkable village and Nazareth didn't seem to be on any tourist's map of essential places to visit. When Philip informed Nathaniel that Jesus of Nazareth was the One whose coming had been predicted, he replied,sceptically, 'Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?' And while Jesus could have chosen Jerusalem or any of the big cities of the world to be his home, he chose an unremarkable village as his base to reach a world of ordinary people. How remarkable is that!