Our last full day in Mayo took us on a few rainy-day adventures, starting with a trip to Rockfleet Castle, one of Grace O’Malley’s homes. This is how you find it:
Rockfleet was one of the last places Grace lived – and probably where she died. It is pretty much in the water, too, because of course it is. Grace loved the sea.
I put that slightly romantic (via instagram) picture first – here’s what it really looked like on the day, construction and our Happy Europcar included:
Anyway, after climbing all over things the signs specifically warned us against climbing, we drove on from the castle to the city of Castlebar and the Museum of Country Life.
The museum hosts some really excellent permanent exhibits about day-to-day, er, country life. (Eight posts in and the quality of description is just as sharp as ever, folks.) My favorite part was a fascinating and horrifying Irish ‘headhunter’ exhibit. It is a stunning set of photographs of the native people of the west coast of Ireland in the 1890s (including some from my Clare Island, so of course I loved it). But they were taken for the gross reason of documenting a “primitive” race (the Irish), measuring their skulls to determine what made them lesser, or more likely to be criminals. The exhibit also talked about eugenics, and the portrayal of the “wild Irish” as far up as the late 20th century. Fascinating and horrifying.
We didn’t really get to stop in Castlebar due to the rain, which is too bad – I know my great-great grandparents spent the last part of their lives there, and are buried somewhere nearby. Castlebar was the return address on all the letters from g-g-grandma Bridget (aren’t they all) to her daughter Mary (yep, that’s the other name Irish women can have) in the states, letters made up almost entirely of heavy-handed hints that one of her sons should enter the priesthood. Luckily for us descendants, none of them did; they fought that Irish Catholic sterotype by living in Massachusetts and having lots of children with names like Patricia (and the trifecta is complete).
We spent the rest of the afternoon in doing a bit of shopping in Westport before heading back to our cottage. The owners of the cottage – who we had yet to meet – were going to come by, and mom and I were nervous. We built up a fire out of bog turf and kindling – something we had tried to do for hours our first day at the cottage and had yet to master – and waited for J & M to arrive. We hoped they wouldn’t stay long.
Then they arrived, and we wished the would never leave.
First of all, they finally got a roaring fire going for us. Making heat out of logs of dried dirt is not something one learns in Minnesota, but it was second nature to our hosts. Then they chatted with us about everything we’d done, our connection to the cottage, their connection to it, and what they remembered about our relatives. They didn’t know my mother’s grandfather, being only in their sixties themselves, but thought maybe one of the neighbors might.
“The O’Malley girls?” M asked her husband.
“Yes, or maybe Seamus Balls,” J said.
“Oh, Seamus Balls, yes,” M agreed. “He knows all of that, he’s very old.”
“Yes, and is he 4 foot?”
“Four foot, he never grew,” M said. “You know? His arms are in proportion, but he never grew.”
At the tail end of a nearly perfect dream vacation, warmed by the fire and my nightly Guinness, I slowly became aware that these two delightful strangers with thick Irish brogues were speaking of an elderly Irish little person who might hold the answers to my family’s history – an Irish little person named Seamus Balls.
I AM GOING TO MEET A LEPRECHAUN, I thought.
“”But he’s in hospital now, so you can’t see him,” M said. “It’ll be the O’Malley girls, then.”
J placed a call, got the “address” (aka end of which dirt road) of the O’Malley girls’ place and arranged for us to meet them before Mass the next morning. The evening ended with J and M refusing to accept payment for our stay. We’d been wondering all week what the charge was going to be (because, true to our ‘this will work out without any planning’ style, we hadn’t asked before), and had been anticipating a high rate because our stay could not have been better. And yet it was free, because we were, vaguely, family of someone they used to know.
After J and M left, my mother and I collapsed into giggles. Seamus Balls? Free stay? The delightful J and M and soon, the O’Malley girls? Our luck is beyond measure.
The next day, we had tea with the O’Malley girls, who were, of course, in their eighties or nineties. They also remembered more about our distant relatives than direct ones – those truths are with the small-but-proportional Seamus, I guess. We returned home to pack and take a trek out to a bend in the river just beyond our cottage that still bears our family name. We cut through a field (also “ours”) and visited the pool.
The wind chased us back inside, where we we packed up and said goodbye to our cottage, our path, our road, and our Irish home.
After one last stop – the church where my great-great-grandparents were married and my grandfather was baptized – we set out on the road. Our last day we simply cut across the country, stopping at a very nice but impersonal hotel outside of Dublin. There, I had another Guinness and my mother a cider and we got sadder and sadder as we realized it was over. And it was – the next day was just car return, bus, airport, very fast Guinness, plane, airport, plane, taxi, home.
We’ve been home for six months. It’s a year since I asked my mother if I could take her to Ireland. And it’s only, I would wager, about one or two years until our next trip back.