The N-67 to Galway

Leaving the Cliffs of Moher, we traveled the N-67 to make our way to Galway.  My sister, Omega, said that Galway is not to be missed if at all possible.  The trip was eventful!  First of all N-67, though it may appear to be a major artery on the map, is a two lane narrow twisty turny romp and in some cases, travels along side the Atlantic coast.  At some points the land next to the byway is held in place by six foot rock fences that line the N-67!  Over these fences creep woody vines and tree branches that actually brush up against the car if you get too close.  Too close?  For anyone not aquatinted with cars in Ireland, the driver is sitting in the right side of the vehicle.  The typical Irish car is a standard shift.  For the entire first day, Joe would reach towards the right to shift, utter the mother of all curses "FOOT!" and then reach to the left for the gear shift on the floor next to me.  He thought he was burning out the clutch at many points in this trip and I was grateful that the smell of grinding gears was displaced by the smell of cattle.  

We shared the road at one point with the cattle.  I saw this gent on the roadway, dressed in long overcoat, knee-high boots, with a staff and the Irish cap.  I thought to myself (because I knew not to talk to Joe and break his concentration except when I would have to shout out some warning)! "what in the world?" and then I saw the cattle, moseying along in the middle of N-67.  I screamed "COW," Joe down shifted.  We made it around the cow parade and even got a nod from the farmer!

We entered into the town of Ballyvaghan.  Even though it was still raining off and on, the town looked inviting.  We pulled off to the side of the road and parked.  (I will for the rest of my life envision Joe kissing the ground as he exits the car, even though theoretically he never did this.)  

We were soaked from the trip to the Cliffs.  We wandered down the streets and found a small cafe that was just opening for lunch, around noon.  I had a most marvelous vegetable soup that was made with a celery and cream base. While Joe had a nerve calming pint.

We headed back out and on to the area in Ireland known as the Burren.

 

 

Joe's thoughts about Ireland

"If ever asked 'what driving is like in Ireland?', tell them after driving two days I came to the Cliffs of Moher (in the rain).  A decision had to be made - jump from the cliffs, or drive back to Dublin on the other coast. The attendant on duty had me by the arm before I could get over the rock fence.  Good thing thought, Mary probably would have sold my guitars for about half what they are worth.  Gotta learn how to play the Irish whistle which I bought.  Love makes you do 'strange' things!"

Note Joe wrote in my travel journal the morning after the trip to the Cliffs.

The Cliffs at Last!

Spent the night at the B&B.  I think.  Joe carried me back to the room!  The B&B's are so cool and informal.  Only bad thing is that they wanted cash, Euro's, and I wanted to save our Euro's for...well, the obvious, the pubs!  The breakfast was wonderful.  I had no idea that sausage could taste like this.  No filler at all, just wonderful unadulterated pork.  Joe liked the blood pudding, not me.  

We ate with a silent Japanese couple.  I believe it was a son and his Mama-san.  Joe left the table before I, because I was savoring the robust coffee and lingering over the last drops. Joe is not a coffee drinker.  It was then that the son began to talk to me.  He was so polite and spoke to me in a sideways manner, not making direct eye contact and very soft spoken with carefully pronounced English.  He is an engineer with Honda visiting from London.  They were going to the Cliffs.  They left the dining area before me and as she exited she bowed to me several times.  

The luck of the Irish faded this day.  It was raining and it was a cold dreary rain.  The trip to the Cliffs was harrowing due to the rain slick roadways and sharing the way with the tour buses. The rain itself was harsh and rushed into your rain gear and slapped your face!  On the wet whipping wind was decorated with tiny white flowers.  At first I thought it was snow!  But upon closer examination I decided it was wild flowers from the trees.  

The cliffs themselves were magnificent, breathtaking and no amount of gray rain would diminish their majesty.  Look at the picture....up on the top left cliff in the middle of the pic. You can just make out cattle.  Yes, they are like ants.    

60 Pubs in Ennis

Reaching the main road it is a short trip to Ennis.  Arriving in the city limits we find a B&B and head into town on foot.   

It was a fairy tale town.  The intimate old shops line the streets in a colorful display of the best in food, crafts and pubs. It had the feel of a medieval town under the shadow of the 13th century friary.  The narrow and twisted streets snaked their way towards the town center where a music festival was winding down for the evening.  The luck of the Irish!  We had arrived during the most famous and best musical festival of traditional music, the Fleadh Nua.  People were everywhere, spilling onto the small tunnel passageways that linked the narrow one way streets.  It was a celebration that involved dancing, drinking and making merry!  

We immediately found a pub to stumble into.  We were squeezed into places at the bar and immediately made to feel part of the celebration.  Ten or so musicians, ending their day together sat around a long table making music.  I could not believe our good fortune.  The musicians would finish one song and begin another.  They would sit and drink and be quite for a moment and then one of them would pick up their instrument and begin anew.  The rest falling in or just listening.  

It was traditional and at times so sad I felt tears falling down my cheeks.  

Then it would change and become a foot stomping ruckus free for all with the whole pub taking part with singing the lyrics.

Not knowing the words did not keep me from singing that night.  

The pub was called Brogans.  The town was called Ennis.  The music was called mystical.      

The way to Ennis

We head down the lane towards the larger road that will lead us to Ennis.

The light in Ireland is different. It is soft and translucent. The sheer glowing greenishness of the surrounding countryside holds you in a moist caress. One does not need sunglasses. The roadway gives way to the fields that stretch towards the horizon. Scattered are low trees that are in full bloom of white flowers. Yellow bushes dot the scenery sometimes in concentrations of a brilliant masterpiece. Violet flowers hang from trees as if ornaments. Lone tulip like red flowers stand alongside the roadway.

Everything is different and everything is magical. Fairies could be hiding in this beauty.

I gaze out the car window and cannot find words to express what I am feeling. Is it possible to be part of a collective consciousness that my ancestry has provided me? I do not feel like a stranger, I do not feel like a visitor.

I feel as if I have come home.

Past the Crossroad

Better yet, send them to see Paddy Gleeson.  And so it was.  The directions went like this.  Take the road out front, go to the right.  Bear to the right at the fork. Go through the crossroads and Paddy’s house is the eighth one on the right. It is yellow.

 

We finished our pints and thanked the gent at the bar who had spoken to us through the barmaid and entered back out into the golden yellow light of the Irish sun.  We encountered no problems to find  Paddy’s.  We counted the eight cottages and were only thrown off by what appeared to be an attached structure.  We parked in a small lane shared by the possible eighth and ninth home.  Looking to my left I saw a person standing in his open door way looking at us with curiosity.  “Are you Paddy Gleeson?” I asked.  He nodded and waved us in.

 

We entered into a one room living area.  A worn and thread bear chair was in front of an open hearth.  A peat fire burned and warmed the small quarters.  The floor was stone and the furnishings Spartan.  A cupboard, a table, a dresser and a small refrigerator were the only comforts he had.  Two more chairs were pulled from the table and he positioned us in front of the fire with him.

 

He waved his arm around the room indicating the string of cards that hung from all four walls.  Testimony that on May 20 he had turned 100 years old.  Cards came from all over the country.  He proudly showed us the article in the paper, the card from the President of Ireland.  He also confided that he was given 2000 Euro for his accomplishment.  He had many more cards, too many to string up with the others!

 

He offered us whiskey or wine.  We accepted the wine.  He poured the remains of a bottle into two small glasses, having none for himself. We drank to his heath and then he asked if I wanted to hear his memories about my family, the McGraths.

 

Unfortunately, he remembered another clan of McGraths who are not related to me. Yet the stories were interesting.  This family had sent a son to the Scotland Yard.  They also remained in the area and have a cement business.  This was not my family.

 

Paddy Gleeson was a testament to righteous living. He never married being the quintessential Irish bachelor.  Living simply with the whole community looking out for him.  Having visitors arrive and sit in front of his fire finding their pasts.

 

We entered  back into the soft yellow light and headed towards Ennis.

 

The trip of a Lifetime

I have returned from the land of the gentle rain.  I have so much to tell that it is hard to know where to begin.  I shall just jump right in with the most magical parts.

My mother asked that I travel to O'callaghansmill in County Clare.  This is the home of her mother's people, the McGraths.  She told me that on the wall of the pub was a photo of her Uncle Thom.  He was a member of the Hurling team that was the national champion in 1913.  She wondered if is still was there.

We somehow found O'callaghansmill. It was not easy. Far off the main road, in the middle of the most beautiful country side imaginable.  We stopped in a pub called Danny's in Broadford Sunday afternoon.  Not realizing there was a major soccer match being played that afternoon, the entire focus of the pub was on the match.  We found two kind souls who took interest in the Americans who would venture into a dark pub miles and miles off the tourist path.  We were pointed in the right direction and after a shared pint, we were off again.

Another half hour of harrowing driving on the left side of the road on the most narrow of narrow country roads, we stumbled upon a pub atop a hill, Mill Tavern.  This was it!

We entered and found another group, this one much smaller, watching the same important soccer match (Ireland vrs. England?). The bar maid was very kind and intervened for us by gently asking one of the men about the McGraths.

He knew of the family, my family who left so long ago.  He gave her directions for us to find the old family farm house.  Then on second thought he had another plan for us.............