|
Ireland Roots Trip, 2002
 
We went to dinner that
high at a chic place in Temple bar, not too far from our hotel. The wait
was long, the food was mediocre, and we were worn out. We got our second
wind as we hit the streets the evening. The neighborhood was pulsing, and
waves of twenty-something kids all yelled in the streets. We pulled into
a crowded bar and posted for some time, enjoying the scenery. Everyone,
and I mean everyone, was singing at the top of their lungs. The Beatles
were the big hit, and everyone hugged and kissed each other as they sang
every word with passion.
From that pub we wen’t
back over to the second story folk bar where we visited the nigh
previous. We wanted to show Billy how cool it was; what a change, the bar
had a different landscape that evening. As we interacted with the local
drunks, three British batchlorette parties, and a few cute waitresses, I
decided it was time to celebrate humanity. So I drank, drank, drank until
I was waltzing with some of the ugliest women on the planet, and the
bouncers chased me out. We parted with Bill in the streets around 2:00
a.m. and headed to another crowded bar. There we met a few Chico grads
from the States playing with the night. We got mixed up with a drunken
group, and apparently I almost got my ass kicked by a group of unhappy
Irish men. I still don’t know why.
At around 2 a.m. it
was time to go. Amy and Andre made me swear I’d stay alive when I left
them in the elevator back at the hotel. I was too wasted and too full of
curiosity to lie down. Back out into the blur, fumbling through the
streets, I went looking for trouble, or fun, or something. I roamed the
departing crowds of Temple Bar for some action, and found a closing
late-night club at the last minute, then found my way swept under the
carpet of another late night party just getting under way. Ewin from the
Pogues, a very famous Irish rock band, was wheeled into the crowd right by
me in a wheel chair. “Ewin from The Pogues is playing tonight,” someone
yelled. Then the doors started to slam. A bouncer feeling sorry for me
scurried me in at the last second, then ba-boom, I was in. Then things
got weird.
I meandered through
the tavern-party for 2-3 hours trying to make a connection. All I got was
a handful of no thank yous. No one would even exchange hellos with me. I
either looked out of my head drunk, or the Irish are not really that
outgoing in late night bars around 4 a.m. – both entirely possible.
The walk home was a
blur, and so was the sausage sandwich I had for breakfast. Next thing I
knew, we were on the road, without Andre, to the countryside. Billy and
Amy were yelling about something, a lot of things, but I was so drunk
still, all I could do was focus on keeping my stomach together. I passed
out for most of the 5-6 hours it took to get to Cashel. I think Amy
passed out for a little while there too. Poor Billy had to brave the first
leg on his own. He did a fine job though, and got us to the parking lot
of the Castle Rock in the early afternoon.
 
After a quick look
around and a cheese sandwich at Granny’s restaurant, we wandered down a
long road that took us into the country.
Sheep bhaed at us as
we stumbled through a light rain, looking up at the monster megalith, a
church built at the top of a beautiful hill, overlooking miles and miles
of green country.
“C’mon,” Billy kept
calling as I slobbered, and Amy stumbled, over her high heels along the
way. We got to the O’Brien Farmhouse Hostel, situated directly below
Cashel Rock and Whore Abbey, just in time. Got to love those names.
There we met our first cousin, Tom O’Brien.
He is a beautiful man
that took us in with open arms. He showed us his farm, talked about his
family, spoke of our connections, and last time he saw Billy. After about
2 hours with him, he sent us on our way to a friend’s B&B down the road in
Mitchell’s Town, the first of few planed cities in Ireland.
After we checked into
Coolacunna, we met up with cousin #2 at a restaurant down the road. There
we ate well and caught up with Connor, a quite and simple man who had lead
the change in family origins from the O’Brien end. He spoke quickly of
patchy connections between our clans. Between he and Billy, a lot of
holes filled up and by the end of the night, a time and place was
established to look at his genetic map.
Connor called early
the next morning and offered to give us a tour of Mitchell’s town. We all
piled into his VW and toured the planned city. We went to the graveyard,
the site where the great castle once stood, found out which relative lit
the match that burned down the great castle, and pushed on. Can you say,
IRA? We looked from the green hills over the farmlands, and walked by the
tinkers living in caravans by the road. Tinkers and a breed of Irish
gypsies that claim they are a different ethnic origin.
 i
At Connor’s house,
also Elizabeth’s house, (cousin #3) we saw the genealogy map and talked
about their now diseased parents. From what I can tell, there was a huge
hole left by those folks passing. Both were quite dynamic. They clearly
held the family together, and roots/family were at the center of their
lives.
Ned arrived, (cousin
#4) as we learned that Uncle Tim (1980), Nana and Pa (1981), and Billy
(1988) had all been there once before. From there we went over to the
old house. This was the old Glavin farm when their grandparents, and
who knows how many more generations of Glavin’s lived.
 
The place was ancient,
with mud walls and a thatched roof. Their father, Patrick, spent the last
years of his life restoring the old house morning the loss of Betty
who died 4 years earlier. The story was sweet and sad. Ned told me in
confidence, “those were happy times,” he father confessed to him just
before his death. He was referring to the years when they lived there
together, Patrick and Betty, raising a family in the comfort of the old
Glavin farm.
We had to leave around
1 p.m. that morning to meet Patrick, (cousin #5) and his wife Barbara, at
their house for lunch. They own an apple farm down the road from Coracoona.
Oh, just for the record, Tom owns a farm growing grain and sheep, 140
acres, Conor is a pig farmer at 110 acres, Ned is a dairyman at 120 acres,
and Pat owns an apple farm at 120 acres. Elizabeth now lives at their
parent’s house and is a pharmacist for a pharmacy.
Lunch was spread out
all over the table when we arrived. Patrick and Barbara have 5 kids,
let’s see, Amy, Marcus, Paddy, Brewer, Connor, and Shoot, can’t remember
that last one. We had fun there, catching up and retelling the genealogy
story, again, to compare notes and get it all straight. Turns out we’re
Irish all right.
We hung out and had an
excellent meal. The kids were a blast, and we got to see championship
hurling match on TV. Patrick was kind enough to tape it for me.
After I got my own
lesson in hurling from the children, Ned arrived with his 6 kids! Another
Amy, and ah, can’t remember their names. We chatted into the night until
we could stay no longer. We waived farewell reluctantly and headed off to
the Glen of Arehlow around 7 p.m.
Next
|
