Ireland 2001

Having met John at Newark Airport on Saturday, March 17 at 7:30 p.m. in Terminal B, we checked in two hours prior to departure time with nothing abnormal other than the customary two-hour wait before an International flight. We casually spent our time chatting over a few beers, eagerly energized in anticipation of our trip to the motherland, Ireland. I looked forward to spending some quality time with John as the past three years had us interacting together in an environment of anguish over the demise of our parents. We deserved this trip and we were going to relish the time. I believed this excursion would help to facilitate some additional closure.

Vowing not to speak of any of the current family issues during the trip, we boarded Aer Lingus flight 106 bound for Shannon and departed around 10 p.m., one half hour behind schedule. As John and I settled into our seats, we quickly realized that Airbus Industries, the manufacturer of the aircraft, was inconsiderate toward those of us who are somewhat wide in girth. During the flight, both of us endured frequent elbows to the midsection. In fact, during mealtime, John and I had to coordinate eating, as both of us could not synchronize elbow swings needed to get the food into our mouths. We both sampled the Guinness on board and both concluded that paint thinner would have made a better alternative. An acquired taste, the thick black lager was avoided for the remainder of the trip. As we flew across the Atlantic on a direct Southerly route, we noticed a quarter moon on the horizon which was nothing short of spectacular. As we approached the Irish coast, we were met with the rising sun, a strange spectacle, since our bodies were telling us it was 2 a.m. As we started our decent into Shannon, the aircraft unexpectedly revved up and ascended once again. After a short time, the captain informed us that there was a problem with one of the indicator lights, signaling that the brakes on the right side of the aircraft were locked and that the flight crew was discussing the situation with the engineers on the ground. We circled for approximately 45 minutes and were given sporadic updates on the situation. It became dreadfully unsettling when the captain announced that although he was sure it was just a problem with the indicator light itself, he requested the fire brigade be present on the runway. He also instructed the flight crew to review emergency landing procedures with the passengers and when we land to be prepared for a "series of impacts". Turning to John, I curiously apologized for the predicament we were in since I was the sponsor of the trip. The flight crew proceeded to instruct us on how to assume the crash position. Legs together, knees in front of ankles, bent over with thighs touching chest, hands cupped over head, which is placed into the seat in front. Full compliance with the position was impossible for John and I since we could not seem to get the chest far enough over due to our large pouches. We both agreed that we might as well watch while bent over. Sitting to my left was a lone, middle aged woman, ringing her hands with fright. I reassured her several times that we would be just fine and I told her that I would help her through this. Approximately 30 seconds before touch down, we heard chanting from the rear of the aircraft, which initially was thought by me to be some sort of religious mantra. After a few seconds, we realized that it was the entire flight crew, minus the captain and first officer, yelling "brace, brace, brace" from the rear of the plane. As we landed, the aircraft first touched down on the left side, followed quickly by the right side. We noticed the fire brigade falling into a chase position behind the aircraft. During this time, I had broken into a mantra of my own, chanting "were OK, were OK, were OK". I reached over to the women on my left and patted her on the back. After we had come to a complete stop, the passengers exploded into a thunderous applause and the women to my left, had reached over and grabbed my hand with a mighty clasp. We noticed how frightened the passengers looked, some with tears in their eyes. It is strange what runs through your mind when confronted with such a situation. I repeatedly thought about my family. The only fear I had was that of fire since I have already had that unsettling experience in my life. I turned to John and asked him what he was thinking about and he candidly responded "I wondered if it was going to hurt". As we disembarked the aircraft, I said my thank you prayers silently.

Shannon Airport is a relatively small facility with 1970’s decor. We proceeded to the Irish immigration counter to get our passports stamped and then on to pick up our luggage. While waiting, I reviewed a display stand on the foot and mouth dilemma Western Europe was confronting. A gentlemen who introduced himself as Tom McCarthy, the chief veterinary officer of the Country, informed me he was not targeting Americans, only Europeans. John had then inquired where he could smoke. Tom McCarthy quickly proclaimed the airport to be smoke free and that the habit was bad as he had recently beaten cancer. He admitted to us he "enjoyed a good fag from time to time". Noticing John’s eyebrows in an uncomfortable state, I quickly cautioned John that Western Europeans refer to cigarettes as "fags". Collecting our luggage we made our way to the Bureau of Change to exchange Dollars for Irish Punts. The exchange rate at the time was .81 Irish to one dollar American. After relinquishing 19% of our exchange value, we proceeded to the car hire booth where we were instructed to wait outside for a bus. After about a 20 minute wait, we crowded into an Avis mini van and taken to our car. We were assigned a dark blue Opel, given instructions for exiting the airport, and sent on our way. Climbing into the driver seat, (the passenger side on North American vehicles) I was hesitant to begin our overland journey to the hotel in Limerick due to the unfamiliarity of driving from the right side of the car, on the left side of the road. Of course my first decision to make a left or right, only got us deeper into the airport. As we found our way out of the airport, we met our first roundabout, which gives directions in both English and Gaelic. On the way to Limerick I had to stop at least three times to get directions which the locals seemed only too happy to provide. We finally arrived at Jury’s Inn in Limerick and were given a card for the parking garage in back of the facility. After circling the building four times, sensing my frustration, John quickly exited the car to ask the Garda (National Police) who instructed us how to get into the building (John initially thought that the Garda was a local security patrol). The decision to stay in Limerick the first night was a good one seeing that we were emotionally and physically depleted from our flight. Limerick is only about a 20-minute drive from Shannon Airport. After securing the car, we checked into the hotel but were told our room would take an hour to prepare. Having explained our flight experience to the manager, she immediately opened the on-site pub early for us where we proceeded to celebrate our newfound extension of life. While in the pub, we met some local lads and exchanged pleasantries for hours.

After a few hours of story telling, I thought it time to check into the room and quietly slipped away to stow our luggage. I was pleasantly surprised to see that room 140 had a magnificent view of the Shannon River. I quickly took notice of the high water mark on the rocky shore and was again reminded how much the tide must fluctuate here.

Our room was poised near the local roundabout and commuter traffic was bustling with small motor cars jockeying for position amidst large commercial trucks in route to their destinations. I was glad not to be a part of it.

Soon after arriving into the room, John followed to see if I had "bailed" from the pub. Having discussed the view that we were bestowed with, we proceeded to make phone calls to our families. At the time, I was told that I should be able to use my calling card to escape the punitive telephone charges that are customary with overseas dialing. With phone calls made, we headed out to catch up with the locals we met in the pub that afternoon, at yet another local establishment. Having wondered around for a bit, we came across a local pub across the street from the Shannon and decided to try our luck with the local fare. I opted for the "Shannon salmon" while John ordered a pasta primavera. Our meals were surprisingly delicious given that the pub seemed dark and dismal although it possessed an eloquent charm so characteristic of traditional Irish pubs. On our way out, we were summoned by a table of locals and stopped to chat. I quickly assumed that we were speaking with a group of Irish gypsy’s, or Tinkers, as they are commonly called. My observation was based on the fact that these lads were not too bright as some didn’t even respond to my questions. Although it was a long day at best, I thought that one of them had placed his hand too close to my wallet. I nodded to John to exit and we headed back to the hotel without incident for a good night’s sleep.

The morning came all too soon and I was quickly reminded that if I was going to fully experience any part of this trip, less time in the pubs was in order. I personally felt as though the plane did indeed crash and I was just beginning to feel the effects of the disaster. On checking out, I was presented with the room charges and phone charges that totaled over $100. My lame physical condition soon became a mental one and I quickly voiced my displeasure of what I was witnessing. The hotel manager said she would look into it and advise me of the outcome on our return trip to the hotel on Wednesday. We collected our luggage and headed out for Galway, about 90 miles to the North. I handed the car keys to John and we were on our way, following N5 towards Galway.

The trip to Galway took about 2 hours. The roads in Ireland are mostly single lanes, which can be narrow at times. Most of the scenery is of rolling landscape occupied by livestock, mostly sheep, cattle and an occasional horse. Every so often we would pass the ruins of an ancient castle. The landscape is an incredible shade of green, no doubt due to the amount of rain the island receives. Occasionally, you will see a Palm tree. Oddly enough I was told by a reliable source that this was due to the island’s proximity to the Gulf Stream which can wonder this far West. I had again inquired about this to the lads we met in Limerick however they claim many of these trees are merely reproductions. Notwithstanding, I choose to believe my original source, as there were just too many Palm trees on our route. What is interesting about driving in Ireland is that you happen on a village every 10 miles or so. Posted speed limit signs (in mph) combined with "rumble area’s", areas of uneven pavement, alert you to an upcoming village.

These villages are filled with what most resemble row homes, but all are commercial entities. Each building takes on its own unique characteristic with brightly painted facades and signs that beckon the weary traveler with food and drink. It seemed that every third establishment housed a pub.

Empty kegs of Guinness lined the front of the buildings awaiting the daily Guinness truck for new stock.

Traffic through these villages usually crawled, as this was a good thing due in part to the aggressive nature of the Irish driver. Rest assured that mere inches are enough for the Irish driver to pass or draft another car. We had all we could do not to tear the mirrors off of cars parked on the side of the road. We concluded that the Irish take their motor sports too seriously as everyone thinks they are participating in a road rally. Also interesting is that with all the pubs available to the driver, one would assume that to be a problem with drinking and driving. We came to understand that there is no sobriety test in Ireland, only the smell of alcohol on ones breath is enough for an immediate, on the spot, conviction. Although unconfirmed, our friends in the Limerick pub told us that a 5-year jail sentence could be imposed for violating the drive-drink laws. Sobering indeed.

It was about mid-afternoon that we found our way into Galway City and struggled desperately to find our hotel. We must have stopped 3 or 4 different times to get directions. Not uncommon, as we did not have a road map. On our last stop for directions to Jury’s Inn Galway, we were told to look straight ahead as it was a mere 500 yards away. Trying to look dignified, we proceeded along to yet another parking garage, which thankfully, had an open door and clear directions to its entrance. We entered and cautiously made our way to parking level 2A, 4 flights above ground level. Maneuvering through this garage was a feat in itself. Bumper marks on the walls signaled how tight it actually was. Having squeezed into a parking spot, we attempted to check in but were told we would have a 2-hour wait.

We immediately took to walking Quay Street which is a busy pedestrian path through endless narrow streets filled with restaurants, stores, and of course, pubs.

About half way up Quay Street we happened on a street performer. In no time at all, John found himself part of the show as the performer was building a story on words given to him by the audience. John was the first to be summoned for his contribution, in which he offered the word "dog". The performer then asked John where he was from and the words New Jersey quickly filled the square. Curiously enough, there was several other Jersey natives in the audience. Having watched the show for 15 minutes or so, we made the customary contribution to our entertainer and stopped to chat with him for a bit, sharing our story of the flight into Shannon. We spent the rest of the day shopping and exploring the city as well as Galway Bay.

This area tends to be extremely windy and this day was no exception. We walked out to the front of the bay, past the famous hookers, (what the local sailing boats are called) to experience the view up close.

After roaming around a bit, we ducked into one of the magnificent churches that surrounded the City. Deciding to light a candle for our parents, we were met with an appeal for help from an elderly beggar women who was sobbing that she had 8 children to feed and medical bills to pay due to breast cancer. There is something to be said for begging inside of a church. When you think about it, it’s a powerful marketing concept since the audience is captive and well targeted. Not wanting to be hypocrites, the needed donations were handed over to the women. We then quickly moved on to Donnagals Seafood for a hearty helping of fish and chips before the regular dinner crowd set in for a night of feasting. Personally, no trip to Ireland is complete until a visit to Donnagals for fish and chips is made. The portions here are just amazing. After consuming our share of food, we retired to the hotel for a bit of rest. After a short rest, we made our way up Quay Street to an Internet – phone store, where for a very small fee, overseas calls can be placed. One can even check their email on one of 10 computer terminals. A 15-minute phone conversation that would have cost $30 back at the hotel, was only $1.50 at this shop. Most of our contact back to family for the next two days occurred from this shop.

During the day, John was advised that a pub off Quay Street was a local "cop shop". Feeling the effects of the previous night, I opted to check in early as John made his way off to the pub, frequented by police officers. Shortly after my retirement, John returned to the hotel and summonsed me to DeBarto’s pub, the local cop-shop. Slowly, I made my way back with him to find representatives from the local Garda, Connecticut and Massachusetts State Police, in full dress uniform. Obviously this pub is well known internationally for its clientele. Feeling confident that John was indeed in his element and in good company, I again retired to the hotel. After a short stint of blissful sleep, John returned to the room with a hearty portion of, albeit, Turkish food. The heat and spices alone were enough to raise the temperature in the room by a few degrees. Although I did not partake in this meal, I did experience its after effects through John for the next several days.

Morning came early, especially for John, (now it was his turn to suffer from what the locals call too much of "the cure") we made our way to the car for the trip to Tullamore to visit Mary Jo Commins, the wife of our grandmother’s (Bridie) brother, Peter. As I had made arrangements for a noontime visit with Mary Jo, our journey to Tullamore began around 10 a.m. Expecting a 2-hour drive, we made it to her village, Mount Bollus, in about 3 hours. Mount Bollus is off the beaten path and seems to be largely a farmland community. Again, we must have stopped 4 or 5 different times to inquire about directions. I knew that if we got close enough, the locals would know where Mary Jo resided. It just happens that way here. Sure enough, we circled her neighbors, stopping to gaze at the cottage in which my grandmother was raised, and finally arrived at our intended destination. Although we were excited at the prospect of exploring the old cottage, now abandoned and in ruins, proper protocol dictated that introductions be made first. Mary Jo met us at the front door of her home in which she shares with her son Peter, with a hearty hug and welcome. We entered into the main room of her residence, which consisted of a kitchen, small table, and cast iron stove. An electric heater was hard at work on the floor. As soon as we sat down, Mary Jo began to relay stories of the old home and its inhabitants. She told us of her husband Peter and how he came to enter into the hospital with throat cancer only to succumb to a heart attack before beginning treatment for the cancer.

It was interesting to note that she almost always followed his name with "God have mercy on his soul". She stated that our great grandparents, John Commins and Mary Delahanty are buried in the same plot as Peter, however due to the expense of the headstone, their names are not mentioned. Only references to Peter’s parents are.

At times it was difficult to understand Mary Jo as she displays a thick Irish brogue. She was jovial at all times and is quite the storyteller. Of course we were offered the customary offering of tea and brown soda bread, along with lunchmeat and vegetables. We were also offered the customary nip of whiskey but quickly declined. A diabetic, Mary Jo must watch her diet closely. Funny enough, she said that she was going to smoke and that it was tuff $#@* if we didn’t like it. At 76 years of age, I guess it doesn’t matter much. She was curious about John’s Marlboro’s and quickly took one when offered, admitting that she liked a good strong fag now and then. While Mary Jo prepared lunch for us, John and I walked across the street to the old cottage that our grandmother called home in her youth. Not much larger than a modern two car garage, it is impossible to image that 17 children were reared here. As we entered the empty shell, we took note of the pealing paint on the concrete and stone walls. There was a bit of graffiti on one of the walls. The entire area of the cottage, made up of three equal size rooms, could not have been more than 500 square foot. Two of the rooms contained small fireplaces which no doubt was the sole source of heat. We walked around the exterior of the cottage and I proceeded to fill a vile with dirt from the front yard. The premise for this was to spread the dirt on our mother’s grave when we arrived home. We did this because she never got the chance to travel to Ireland, so we would bring a little bit of Ireland to her.

While back in Mary Jo’s home, she explained to us that the old cottage was going to be refurbished and inhabited by a cousin, a Delahanty woman. It was learned that the local council gave our great grandparents this cottage. These bequeaths were common and were based on need, children, etc. Apparently, the cottage has remained in control of relatives ever since. It was good to learn that the old cottage would once again be restored. Mary Jo once described this cottage as a "bobby house" which apparently is an endearing term for a home that is well presented. Apparently, our great grandmother was a skilled gardener as the landscape was adorned with colorful flowers that beckoned the compliments of all who passed by. I have heard stories that our grandmother Bridie was also a talented gardener, no doubt getting her start here at the cottage in Tullamore.

After lunch, Mary Jo’s son Roger and his wife arrived to greet us. Having never traveled to America, Roger seemed very interested to visit the States.

Our meeting with Roger was short as he was scheduled to work the third shift in the local peat factory where he operates the boiler to make steam. Apparently, the plant produces its own electricity. Before he departed, I solicited Roger for directions back to Galway. He drew a crude map, which only made me more anxious to leave before dark as I quickly concluded that if we were not on a main road before sunset, we would wonder the Midlands countryside aimlessly until sunrise. After Rogers departure, Mary Jo accompanied us to the old Mount Bollus cemetery where our great grandparents were laid to rest. My intentions to return home with a tomb stone rubbing were unsuccessful so I opted for a photograph instead. The day was winding down and the cold wind cut through us like a hot knife in butter. We toured the church and returned to Mary Jo’s house to begin our journey to Galway. Before we left, we met Mary Jo’s other son Peter. Only chatting for a few minutes longer, Peter agreed to drive us out to the main road on our way back to Galway. We said our good-byes and headed West back to Galway. John and I departed with a tremendous sense of satisfaction that we had connected with some of our family history. Not many people have that opportunity and we were certainly thankful for the experience. After all, meeting relatives for the first time is indeed extraordinary. The journey back to Galway took about 2 hours and we made it back to the hotel with relative ease compared to our first attempt. Again, I opted for an early night as John made his way back DeBarto’s to bid his comrade’s in arms, a final farewell.

Wednesday morning came soon enough and we decided not to have breakfast in the hotel, as the Limerick experience of a hotel breakfast was substandard at best. Watery, greasy eggs and bangers (sausage) was replaced with a hearty breakfast from, of all places; a McDonalds located on Quay Street. From Galway, we proceeded South through Limerick on our way to Castleisland, County Kerry, the home of the Prendeville clan (Prendiville is the predominate spelling here). All Prendeville’s worldwide originated from this area.

Castleisland is a thriving modern market Town situated on the river Maine. It was once the capital Town of County Kerry. Castleisland derives it's name from "Castle of the Island of Kerry" which was erected in 1226 by Geoffreyde Marisco. The castle was captured in 1345 by Sir Ralph Ufford lord-justicer of Ireland from Sir Eustace De La Poer and other knights who held it for the Earl of Desmond. In 1397 Gerald, the 4th Earl of Desmond was assassinated. Elizabeth the 1st. of England was later to grant Castleisland and lands adjoining to the Herbert family under the designation of "The Manor of Mount Eagle Royal". The Irish destroyed the castle in 1600.

Following N21 into County Kerry, the journey to Castleisland saw the landscape turn into magnificent rolling hills, dotted with majestic farms. The view seemed endless at times and was indeed inspiring.

As we entered into Castleisland from Limerick Road, we saw Prendiville's pub. We quickly parked and readied our cameras for snapshots. As we entered into the pub, Tadhgeen Prendiville, the owner and head bar keep, welcomed us. John announced that we had traveled 3,000 miles to have a beer here.

Amazingly small, the pub seemed to have a capacity for about 20 patrons however aside from one other customer quietly reading a newspaper in the corner, we were the sole customers. We sat down and Tadhgeen gladly shared some of the history of Prendiville’s in the area. He instructed us on locations in the town that we might be interested in. After a short stint, we proceeded to walk through the town, stopping at Mary McGaley’s house, the local church secretary, to inquire about historical records. Although she was not in residence at the time of our arrival, a young man who answered the door gladly supplied us with her mailing address.

We ducked into the church across the street to have a peek at yet another magnificent cathedral. From here, we passed some local teachers picketing outside a school for higher wages. John engaged in a brief conversation with them only to learn that the local parish priest had labeled them terrorists.

Looking across the street, we noticed Sheila Prendiville’s establishment. John was the first to enter the building, which turned out to be even smaller than Prendiville’s Bar. There were 3 patrons in this store, which seemed to be an odd combination of a general store and pub. We met Sheila Prendiville, a delightful 90 year old women who entertained us with more stories of the Prendiville’s and places to go.

Oddly enough, we met a gentleman from New York who came to Ireland 30 years ago and stayed. Afterwards, John and I concluded that he might have come to Ireland simply to escape the Vietnam draft. Leaving Sheila’s establishment we walked through a church cemetery just a few yards away. We happened on a handful of Prendiville gravesites. In the cemetery we attracted the attention of several young boys coming home from school. They were curious about our presence there and more curious that we were from America. We then moved on to a restaurant to have lunch.

After lunch we headed just past the edge of town to the old Killbannivane cemetery to look for more Prendiville’s. There were certainly many Prendiville’s here. Both John and I were amazed at the number of children buried in the cemeteries in Ireland. We were also somewhat taken back by the lack of care this cemetery had received.

Readying ourselves for a departure back to Limerick, we happened on the fresh grave of a young man in his 30’s and his young niece. John concluded that it must have been a motor vehicle accident. Sad indeed.

Our trip back to Limerick was uneventful. I think we were both getting somewhat tired of all the driving we were doing in such short order. For our last night in Ireland, we dined at a small, but sophisticated bistro, located in a back alley. Interestingly enough, we had to knock to gain entrance. The staff told us that this was to keep undesirables out, yet we were still granted access. After diner we walked O’Connol Street, the main thoroughfare in Limerick. We were somewhat cautious on where we walked as we had heard from several sources that Limerick was the capitol of stabbing’s. My attempt to gain access to a store where I had to be buzzed in was unsettling. We opted to retire early and bid the streets of Limerick a fond farewell.

Thursday had come all too soon, it was the day to head home. I decided that I would pursue the phone bill issue from the States as I would take issue with the corporate offices in Dublin, rather than harass local management. We spent the day at Bunratty Folk Park, just a few miles outside Shannon Airport.

We explored a castle built in the 1400’s and were quickly exhausted from climbing the spiral, narrow stairs to the castle’s towers.

We had lunch at a restaurant called the Creamery and toasted our mother at 8:22 EST, the one-year anniversary of her graduation to the other side.

The trip home was uneventful and gave us time to reflect on what we had experienced. One prevailing thought that we shared was the fact that our ancestors must have been very brave people to cross an ocean for another way of life. Our plane ride was a mere 7 hours while these people spent weeks of arduous travel, facing extreme conditions. Who were we to complain about a flight that was bumpy or unnerving at times? We concluded that our trip was a complete success. We accomplished several objectives including spending quality time together while making a real connection with our history and ancestral identity. In a way, this journey helped us to heal some of the wounds of the recent past and prepared us to look into the future with a renewed sense of optimism, an attitude that our ancestors must have certainly embraced.