In the first half of the last century there were few households in rural Ireland which hadn't endured the scourge of emigration. Leaving home then was a particularly poignant experience because many of those who went away never returned. Not all left for economic reasons. Of the five sons in my mother's family who farmed a hundred acres in north Monaghan, including a profitable quarry, one inherited the farm, another became a shopkeeper, the third a teacher and two emigrated - the eldest and the youngest, my uncles Frank and Hughie. Frank went to the United States when he was seventeen, after an argument with my grandfather. He had been entrusted with the breaking in of a young horse which involved taking the animal around the local roads on a long rope.

My grandfather issued strict instructions that on no account should the horse be allowed to break free because if he did, he could never be trusted on the roads again. The inevitable happened. The horse bucked and reared and became so unmanageable that Frank had to let go. Back home there was a blazing row and bitter words were exchanged. Frank packed a bag and left for Derry, where he got a boat to America. He never saw his parents again. For several years he led a nomadic life from Alaska to Texas, from Kansas to Maine. His proud boast was that he had worked in every one of the forty-eight states. He eventually settled down in New York where he opened a bar on Third Avenue, called Glenmore House after his birthplace. Married but without children, he made one brief trip home after the deaths of his parents. Then in 1960 he sold his business and returned to Ireland with the intention of settling down among the rolling hills of north Monaghan he had known as a boy.

Unforseen difficulties arose. His wife, who was also Irish, decided she wasn't spending her last years in a lonely rural environment and announced she was returning to New York. Then Frank himself found that his relationship with his brothers and sisters hadn't the meaning or closeness he had expected. After a lifetime apart they were little more than strangers. A few months later he followed his wife back to New York and after her death he retired to Tucson, Arizona where he died in 1971. Whenever I think of Frank, I try to relive the pain and hurt that must have been tearing him apart as he left home knowing he was leaving his loved ones behind and would probably never see them again. At seventeen he was little more than a child. His parents, too, would have been shattered, particularly his mother, who would have tried in vain to make peace between her husband and her eldest son. The ache they felt would have diminished in time but would never have gone away; a lifetime of regret because two people could not find it in their hearts to say sorry to one another.

That, unfortunately, is the story of many lives. Hughie, the youngest boy of the family, left home in 1939 for reasons probably not clear even to himself. His father had left him a small outfarm of twenty-five acres which was just about large enough to sustain a basic living. There was also an understanding that he would inherit a more substantial farm from his uncle, but another brother, the teacher, claimed he had a prior right to it and another family row ensued. Embittered by the experience, Hughie decided this was not how he wanted to live the rest of his life. The time had come to pack his bags and seek his fortune elsewhere. At first he thought of going to America where Frank would help him find a job, but changed his mind and decided to go to Scotland instead. Scotland was a popular destination for' people from the border counties, especially those looking for agricultural work. Belfast was only an hour away from Monaghan by train and the boat trip to Glasgow was relatively short.

Burns and Laird: RRMV Royal Scotsman, published by Valentines (serial: A690). 3000 Tonnes, 19 Knots, Glasgow - Belfast Direct Service

Hughie was a reluctant emigrant. The night before he left my aunt performed the ritual for a family member leaving home of washing his feet in a large basin on the stone floor in the kitchen. As a child, I sat watching and listening to the conversation. Hughie cried and told her he didn't want to go. She reminded him that there was little for him at home now that plans to inherit the uncle's farm had fallen through and perhaps he would have better luck if he made a fresh start. Scotland was not that far away and he would be able to return every year on holiday or come home permanently if his plans did not work out. Next morning a car called to take him to Monaghan railway station and more tears were shed. I never saw Hughie again. He got a job on a farm near Girvan in Ayrshire and there he remained as a labourer for the rest of his life. He made one brief trip home about 1950. He died in 1973 and I attended his funeral in Carrickroe, where he is buried in the family plot. Hughie never married and no less than Frank must have spent many lonely hours thinking of home. Perhaps on clear days as he worked in the Ayrshire fields he would even have been able to see the Antrim hills and imagine the scene around Glenmore, less than a hundred miles further south.

Emigration is no longer the scourge it once was. Today people can be home in hours from any part of the globe. But there are still those who go away and never return, some because they have made new lives for themselves in other countries and others who have hit hard times and have no choice but to remain where they are. And there are many more like my uncles Frank and Hughie, who parted from families they loved and discovered after years away that those same families had become strangers and their homes were no longer the welcoming places they felt they once were.