The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part one - No Way Back, No Map Forward.

As with so many of my memories, some of it is crystal clear and some is rememebered through feelings rather than visuals. the journey across is a mixture of both!

I can still smell the ferry — that strange mix of sea salt, diesel, and stale food.

I remember the coach. I remember staring out the window, too numb to cry.

There was no car. No comfort.

Just a coach, a ferry, and the sense that everything familiar was being ripped from me.

I was dragged — kicking and screaming inside.

The village I grew up in might not have been perfect, but it was all I’d ever known.

And now?

I was being thrown across the sea, into a country I’d never been to, into a house I’d never seen, to live with family I barely remembered.

I don’t remember the build-up to it. No packing. No boxes. No proper goodbye.

All I know is that my brother’s future father-in-law was supposed to bring our belongings over at some point, and Mum was trying to sort out how to get her horse transported too.

And that brings something else back.

Horse riding.

When I was in care, I had some riding lessons.

It’s strange, I haven’t thought about that in years — but there it is.

Another foster family, half-forgotten in the fog.

But I remember the stables. The riding hat. The sense of pride that came with it.

Later, when I was home, I used to help Mum take care of her horse — especially when she was unwell.

I’m not sure if it was a bout of depression, but I think so. She wasn’t herself, well not the one we welcomed!

I’d cycle five miles to the stables.

Muck out. Brush her down. Clean her hooves. Turn her out.

She was an ex-racehorse — beautiful, powerful, temperamental.

And Mum would sometimes let me ride her too.

Under supervision, of course.

But I was overly confident.

Mr Independent.

I convinced her to let me ride solo, just once.

The horse dropped her head, slipped the reins through my fingers — and she was off.

Bolting round that manage like she was back at the races.

And then she decided the fence looked like a hurdle.

Went for it.

Misjudged. Cheated the jump.

All I remember is flying through the air — and hitting the deck hard.

Mum told me I had to get back on her.

I said, “Fuck that.”

Not a chance.

Anyway… back to Ireland.

I remember the coach journey well — or at least parts of it.

There was a long wait between coaches in Bristol.

It was cold.

Five kids and their mum, huddled in a coach station.

And oddly enough, we were… alright. I think we were even happy.

Because when shit was real, Mum had this strange way of softening it.

Maybe she was oblivious to how bad things really were.

Or maybe — and this is what I believe now — maybe she knew exactly how bad things were, and still chose to carry us through it with something close to magic.

Looking back at her now through a parent’s eyes is complicated.

She was shit in so many ways.

But in others, she was more than most parents I’ve ever known.

She gave everything she had.

And maybe what she had wasn’t much — not emotionally, not practically —

but her love for us was undeniable.

That’s what I hold on to now.

Back in that coach station, there was a moment of chaos.

Some commotion. Word spread that someone had been stabbed nearby.

I remember the little ones being scared.

I remember us all staying close.

And I remember the relief — real, physical — when the next coach pulled in,

and we boarded for the next leg of a journey none of us fully understood.

The ferry.

I’ve taken that journey a few times since — but that first time?

It was different. Etched.

We had never even left the county before — let alone the country.

And now we were on a boat, crossing the sea to a new land.

Ireland.

I remember the coach driving onto the ferry —

the loud clank and clunk of metal ramps and heavy wheels.

The air buzzing with tension and wonder.

We had to remember where we were parked for when we landed.

Like it was a car park and not the mouth of a giant metal beast about to sail us away from everything we’d known.

I remember climbing the stairs to the upper decks.

Looking out the windows at the wide, endless sea.

I made it to the top deck at one point — probably more than once —

taking in the wind, the smell of salt, and most likely a cigarette.

It was overwhelming. But not in a bad way.

More like… colossal.

A moment that whispered:

“Your life is changing now.”

And then —

nothing.

I don’t remember landing.

I don’t remember the rest of the journey.

Just flashes.

And then suddenly — arrival.

The whole journey had taken overnight.

From our home in England to our auntie’s house in Ireland.

I remember entering Cork city.

It wasn’t the sky that felt grey — it was the buildings.

Maybe they weren’t. Maybe that’s just how it felt.

I remember the towns we passed through as people got off the coach.

Rendered houses instead of brickwork. Some painted in colours that still somehow felt dull.

Bright blues and yellows that didn’t shine.

Cork felt like a step backward in time.

Misplaced.

Almost like we’d arrived in another world entirely.

I don’t remember much more of that journey.

I don’t know how we got to our aunt’s house, where she and my three cousins would be waiting.

I don’t remember the reception.

What I do remember is the feeling of it all.

Apprehension.

Tiredness.

That long glance backward at the place we’d just left —

longing in my chest, even though I’d spent most of that life just trying to escape it.

I was nervous.

Trying to picture what life would be like now.

New friendships.

New school.

New everything.

I had no idea how many memories I was about to make —

or how much this chapter of my life would go on to shape me.

But I did know that this was it now.

This was what we’d be calling life.

What we’d be calling home.

So it became a suck it and see situation.

Suck it up — and see what life was about to bring.