Today, it’s been 100 years since my great-grandmother left Ireland for good. It’s been four months since my mother and I went back. And almost as importantly, it’s been a full month since I started writing about a ten-day vacation. Probably I should wrap this up…sometime.

So, picking up where I left off (parts one, two, three, four, five, and – sheesh – six are here):

After learning about Grace’s descendants and the history of Westport, we turned back towards Louisburgh on a road that runs along the coast of Clew Bay. We stopped once for two sites. First, Croagh Patrick – the mountain where St. Patrick fasted and drove the snakes out of Ireland:

Patrick and his mountain, known locally as “The Reek”

People are constantly making pilgrimages up this mountain. We climbed twenty feet to this statue and found it sufficient. Somehow, I’d never before realized this mountain was in Mayo and my grandfather was born essentially in the shadow of it.

Second, a famous “Coffin Ship” famine memorial at the base of the Reek:

Even the ship looks emaciated

One of the first things I remember learning about County Mayo was the phrase “Mayo, God help us.” As in the response to the question, “Where are you from?” County Mayo was one of the worst hit places of the Great Famine. That’s why this monument is here, but it isn’t the only one in the county.

We’d learned about an event called the “Doolough Tragedy” while on our travels: In 1849, around 600 starving Irish walked from Louisburgh to Delphi Lodge, 12 miles south, in hopes of receiving food or relief from the Board of Guardians. They were turned away, and many died on the walk back – some from starvation, some from falling off the edge of the path. It is said that hundreds died. They were buried where they fell, if they were buried at all.

There’s now an annual famine walk on this road, and a small monument about eight miles south of Louisburgh. Mom and I went in search of it (in our Happy Europecar, not on foot), and somewhere along the way realized it was our second perfectly beautiful day – and that despite its history, Doolough Pass is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.

Doolough Tragedy Monument

This picture is about 1/10th as beautiful as it is in real life

We spent about an hour or so wandering up and down the road, avoiding sheep and steep cliffs and saying little besides “Wow.” Then, feeling exceptionally lucky, we decided to do some grave hunting.

The first graveyard I chose (completely on a hunch) was haphazard, packed, and rocky – at least, I thought it was rocky; it occurred to me halfway through our trek that I was actually walking on fallen headstones whose names had completely disappeared. And we still managed to find an ancestor. The second graveyard was even more of a hilly, discombobulated mess – and we found an ancestor there, too; ancestors who lived in Mayo during the years of the Great Famine.

I still don’t know how they survived it, but I do know that when my family finally left, they were hoping to put hardship behind them. I look at where I am and all the privileges I have today, and I know they succeeded.

Next up: The end. Almost. Probably. Maybe?