It was being a policeman saved Jonathan Adams from continuing as an evangelist. Sometimes when he listened to Willy he was shocked and enthralled by his brother’s lack of intellectualism, the lack of humility. His shameless oratory made the Sergeant wince. Jonathan Adams did not want to hear the words read out. The policeman in him did not want to hear raised voices. And it was being a policeman brought Jonathan Adams face to face with an element in himself he would rather never have encountered.

When the Civil Rights march on 5 October 1968 passed through the city of Derry it was met by a police baton-charge. Jonathan Adams, along with other elder policemen, had been called up from various counties in the North for the day. Not only because of a shortfall in numbers but also because outsiders would not be recognized. The air was rank with bigotry and acrimonious shouts like “In the name of God let us through”. The whole affair, the police thought, would be restricted to a small side street, and here it was proposed that Law and Order would make its stand on a genuine footing. The police had been told beforehand that the march had not been properly endorsed by the Civil Rights movement, that it was directly Republican, directly IRA. This was the perfect chance to settle old grievances.

First the Catholics parleyed, then became adamant. But the route they wished to take was closed to them. Then it started. It was a hectic violent day.

Jonathan Adams clouted with euphoria to the right and left of him.

That was the night, in the aftermath of the march that did not take place, that the riots started in the Catholic Bogside area of the city. But by then the old timers had been removed from the scene, the young local police took over, and Jonathan Adams, battle-worn and fiercely satisfied, had returned home to Fermanagh. The following morning he began three days’ leave with his wife and daughters.

They drove at break of day into the west through Ballyshannon. With a sense of pride Jonathan Adams flashed his identity card as they entered the Republic. The guard, with a knowing nod, leaned in and said: “That was a bad doing, yesterday.” “What did he mean?” asked Maisie as they drove through the uplifted barrier. “I don’t know. Every last man of them is a Republican,” said the Sergeant, “but they don’t frighten me.” Then the family was undecided as to what to do. Because the girls wanted to see Yeats’ grave they turned south and drove along the coast to Sligo. From Sligo, they drove out west to Achill Island. They stopped there for the night in the Valley House Hotel.

“What’s thon island I can see from here?” Sergeant Adams asked.

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the man.

“What is that island over there?”