Jonny McCambridge: From Carrickfergus to Creeslough

When I arrive in the town the preparations are well underway. Metal barriers are being placed along the picturesque Marine Highway and there is a significant security presence. Some people are already gathering. A few locals see me with my video camera and ask if I know which Royal is coming.

A few hours later and the number of people lining the streets of the historic town has swollen to thousands as the Royal cavalcade passes in front of the famous Norman castle.

As William and Kate emerge from their car, the thing which strikes me first is the noise. Sustained loud cheering and applause, similar to what you might expect to hear at a pop concert. Young voices mixed with the older, but the excitement consistent in them all.

I follow the Royal couple into a building near the castle where they learn about the work of a local charity. It is about an hour later when we go back outside.

William and Kate take part in an extended walkabout, meeting with many of the children from local schools who are clinging to the metal railings. The noise follows them everywhere.

As the walkabout continues, I give some thought to the scenes of excitement I am witnessing. It seems like it is almost a form of contagion. If a person was on their own, they may not act in exactly this way, but because they are in a crowd there is a feeling of shared experience. To put it more simply, when you are in a crowd of people who are having a good time, it is natural to be carried along by it.

It is Friday afternoon. In an unusual move for me, I have bought a couple of bottles of beer which are chilling in the fridge in anticipation of the end of my work shift. After a busy news day, a journalist may hope that the one which follows will be quiet. The news agenda often does not work that way.

It is shortly before 4pm when the first reports begin to come through that there has been an explosion in Donegal. There are the usual early moments of uncertainty as journalists try to establish the scale of what has happened. Soon it is determined that I am to be sent to Creeslough.

I quickly pack my gear into the boot of the car and set off. I spent some holiday weekends in Donegal many years ago, but I do not know the area well and I have only the vaguest sense of where Creeslough might be.

By the time I pass Letterkenny the evening haze has been replaced by darkness. As I move further into rural Donegal the roads become narrower and there are no more street lights. I have a low feeling about what is to come as I have to pull over several times to allow emergency vehicles with lights flashing and sirens blasting to pass me.

About a mile from Creeslough I am told by volunteers that the road is closed. I am diverted along a narrow country road, and then another, until, purely by chance, I find a route which takes me into the village and I can access the area where the media are huddled near a police cordon, about 100 yards from the scene of the explosion.

What strikes me first is the silence. Journalists are communicating only in hushed tones and small crowds of local people are quietly gathering. There is just the low rumble from a small mechanical digger and the occasional distant cry or sob.

I carry out some interviews and record footage. I speak to one local man who tells me that he knows six people who are missing. It is very late before I reach the hotel where I have been booked to stay.

I am back at the scene early on the Saturday. The silence, which may not seem unusual at night, is much more striking now under the autumn morning sunshine. A popular tourist village like Creeslough might normally be bustling with noise and activity on such a day, cars driving back and forth and people going to shops. Instead, all is still, as if silence is a cloak which has been laid across the area.

I do some more interviews and notice that even when being recorded, politicians are speaking in quieter tones than they may usually do, as if afraid to say the words out loud. In this atmosphere the song of the birds is heard with unusual clarity and the peal of the bell from St Michael’s church carries for miles.

It is hard not to think for a moment about what I was feeling a couple of days ago, about the contagion of raw emotion. Perhaps this is a different form of it. It is impossible not to be affected. The silence becomes a metaphor for the sadness which covers us all and seems to seep into our very souls and bones.

And yet there is solace among the grief in the shared sense of community. Everybody that I speak to is dignified and kind. Most ask me my name and how far I have come. Several tell me that they hope I will visit again at another time. A local café owner brings coffee and refreshments to the journalists at the scene. When we offer to pay, she refuses the money.

In the afternoon, another journalist is sent to take on the next shift and relieve me. I say goodbye to a few people I’ve met before I set off on the long drive home.