The only time you truly see a country is when you leave it and look back from a distance, not just of miles, but years.

But thanks to the miracle of the internet you can return in real time without even stepping out of the house in which you find yourself now.

Can ‘walk’ along your old street and stop to gaze at the flat you left in search of….God knows what. A whim. A ‘because I can’ moment.

Imagine what those desperate migrants fleeing persecution, famine and life-sucking poverty from the shores of Scotland and Ireland would have made of such marvels?

Imagine if in the slums of Boston, New York, Sydney, they could have switched on a box to assuage the gut devouring hunger of homesickness and unwilling exile?

Stood again on the outskirts of their villages; heard their own tongue uttered by kin; almost felt the flecks of surf as the waves smashed against their childhood beaches.

But then perhaps they wouldn’t have felt the need to cluster together, swap tales of the old life and recreate their communities; their native accents diluted in their children and grandchildren but never quite dying out.

When they gathered, those dispossessed, they remembered the cruelties vented upon them by absentee landlords who operated under the lofty disguise and power of the Crown.

Long awaited letters taking many, many weeks, would tell how nothing had changed – how, in their own lands their history, culture and customs were being viciously wiped out.

And with each letter, each testament of the latest arrival, something more would harden in hearts once thought to have been hardened beyond all pain already.

Fidelma Cook: Families will be torn apart by Brexiters' hatred of Freedom of Movement

Meanwhile they would reassure all back home that they had found that land of gold and not to worry about them – stuffing a handful of dollars into tear stained envelopes.

Plots and dreams were made and formed amidst the pints of porter, the whiskies and the whiskeys, to rid their lands of the foreigner forever.

Songs of exile vied with songs of revenge as the night wore on and the children were reared knowing there was more to this life they lived.

There was a debt to be repaid, once and forever.

But most went to their graves in far, far, away soil; their dreams unrealised, their eyes growing opaque turning far eastwards.

It’s telling that, these days, most of the Scottish films of ‘freedom’ focus on the long ago past of Bruce, Wallace and even Mary.

The Irish catalogue focuses on the Easter Uprising, Dev and Collins, down to the Troubles, old and new.

Or perhaps it isn’t so telling.

Ireland is out the other side. Or, at least all but six counties are and I believe it won’t be long before they ‘go home.’

Ireland, we were rightly taught, was never conquered. It was invaded, but never conquered.

It’s why as they say, all our wars were happy wars and all our songs were sad.

But of course, as all the widows and orphans would say, that isn’t true, either.

All these thoughts and more have been churning in my mind as I sit in my French field and watch countries I’ve lived in, and in two cases, loved, be affected yet again by English might and arrogance.

The Irish, now willingly part of, and prosperous, in a united Europe can, at long last, look calmly on the fist-shaking little Englanders in the Palace of Westminster as their bluffs are called out.

Not so the Scots. Each session their representatives are laughed at, talked over, dismissed as irritants in England’s, yes England’s, desires. Humiliated even.

The message is undeniable. The ‘precious union’ counts only when votes are needed.

The other ‘precious’ peace process of Northern Ireland is ready to be sacrificed on the altar of English; English, sovereignty.

Now, imagine again if those reluctant exiles had been able to double-click the Parliament channel and hear and see all that is being said.

Imagine their incredulity and joy that freedom can be simply attained by voting it to be so. Oh my – imagine.

And that freedom can mean being an equal part of another community – a full European community of countries whose people have also known the despair of exile, hatred and war.

Countries whose sufferings mean they stand shoulder to shoulder against those who would try to break them.

They may not be perfect; may still have much to learn – but they are as one and willing to group together, tell old tales, ‘sing’ old songs and above all, look out for each other.

We Celts are remarkable. We are proud in a good way; resilient in the best way; we can be led but never driven; we accept government by choice but not force or lies; we will never – however long it takes – be broken.

I know you may call me a dreamer but I’m not the only one.

Imagine.

Fidelma Cook: Families will be torn apart by Brexiters' hatred of Freedom of Movement