After the Cliffs of Moher, we drove north towards through a unique rocky landscape called the Burren.
We also stopped for a rain-soaked fifteen minute visit to Dunguaire Castle, which is pretty much just a castle on the side of the road. But still, it’s a castle on the side of the road. It’s neat.
We spent the night at a B&B outside of Galway, and the next morning started north for County Mayo.
County Mayo had already reached mythical status for me; it is a place I’d been hearing about my entire life from people who had never been there. I should have been very excited to finally reach it, and I was – but more than anything, I was nervous. You see, for every other part of our trip I had pre-booked a hotel or B&B. For this part, I had lined up housing in a different way.
Through my genealogy research and epic Google skills, I’d become somewhat acquainted with a distant cousin in England. She had recently gone to Mayo and discovered a cottage formerly owned by one of our ancestors, and had given me the phone number of the current owners (whom she had not met and who bore no relation to either of us) a few months prior. Being a chicken, I had asked my mom to call the current owners and ask if we could rent the place. Being overexcited, mom did so but forgot to ask what the place was like, what it would cost, or how to get there. And we didn’t follow up until we were already in Ireland. And then, again, we failed to ask the cost or what to expect.
We arranged to meet the daughter of the owner in a parking lot of a Tesco in Westport. A woman pulled up, said “follow me please!” and we did. For about fifteen curvy, country road minutes, during which time we a) wondered if we were even following the right person and b) told each other that if it was terrible, we would find a B&B.
Are you with me so far? A complete stranger from Ireland is leading two clueless American tourists into the middle of nowhere solely on the advice of a different stranger from England. I would say this is the beginning of a horror movie, but even horror movie characters aren’t this dumb.
When we turned down the final lane (no street name, nonexistent to our British-lady-GPS, and marked only by a bike path and yield sign), we were greeted by The Cottage.
I won’t picture it here out of courtesy to the owners, but when you Google “Irish Cottages,” this is the cottage that comes up. When you go to a gift shop and buy a magnet of a cottage, it is this cottage. From the bright red door, the thick white walls, the simple wooden fence and the stunning view of the countryside – The Cottage was exactly as it should be and yet totally unexpected. Once inside, we were not met with the rustic conditions and/or horror movie situation I’d been fearing, but instead a lovely turf fire, classical music on the radio, and brown bread on the counter of an updated and well-furnished home.
Luck does not begin to explain it. This place, and how we got there, was a miracle.
And for the first time in our trip, we knew for certain — our family had been in this place. My great-great uncle lived there; we know his brother, my great-grandfather lived a few miles away. We can guess he visited this home. I’d hope their mother and father had at some point as well. Who knows? Maybe even my grandfather himself, as a baby.
The cottage may be updated, but the scenery has not. Look one way, and see Croagh Patrick, the mountain where Saint Patrick fasted for forty days in 441 AD. Look another and see a field and a simple bend in a river that still holds my family name. A few miles down the road, Louisburgh, the birthplace of my grandfather. And beyond that, Clew Bay and Clare Island – more steps into my past. And all of it – beautiful.
I may not know how my family survived the famine in one of the worst-hit areas of Ireland, but I can see why they did not want to leave.
Next: Tracing our history and chasing a Pirate Queen