Mayo, Take Two

After hot showers, we put back on our less-than-clean clothes and headed off to breakie.  I had boxty! Boxty, boxty, boxty!  It makes the world go round.  I've made it at home and I've shared the recipe in my newspaper column, The Island Gourmet.  I do love boxty, but to eat it in Newport, Mayo, Ireland is a dream come true.  One of the first things I'm going to make when we get home is boxty.  Then brown bread and homemade butter.  Then veggie tart followed by mushroom and onion pie.

By the time we wandered back to our B&B, it was almost 11am.  Joe was waiting for us.  He made a phone call to "Uncle" and then told us to head up the road to speak with him.  No need to pack up/check out.  We could leave our bags right where they were.  Uncle was waiting!  He told us to go up the road and look for the house on the right with all of the steel and iron in the front yard.

We took off, wondering if Joe's directions of "just up the road" would be in true Irish form.  I figured we had about three-quarters of a mile before his homestead came into view.  Imagine my surprise when we came across Joe just up the street from the B&B!  We'd just left him behind at the front door and there he was, standing by a truck in front of a handsome house.  Was he a vampire?  He was at the B&B one moment and then up the street the next.  Odd things were happening, that was for sure.

Joe pointed at the house behind him, claiming it as his own.  A dog in the front yard did his level best to earn his keep by scaring us away.  We thanked Joe for the directions and kept walking.  I looked back every few seconds, waiting for Joe to apparate like a Hogswarts professor.  I can't swear that's what happened, but the last time I turned, he and his truck were gone.  Leprechauns?  Turning back to the task at hand, I was blown away when the very next house sported a yard full of metal.  To his credit, Joe is the only Irishman who can actually measure distance.

The front door was ajar, an indication that the resident was expecting company.  I knocked and waited. Nothing.  I rang the bell and waited.  Nothing.  I knocked louder and shouted, "Helloooo" and waited.  I heard the shuffle of feet and hoped I looked okay/didn't smell too badly.

The most adorable elderly gentleman opened the door.  He reminded me of the human form of Yoda; that's how cute he was.  I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, thanking him for allowing us to bother him. He listened to the introductions and then bade us follow him into the sitting room.  He refused to sit until we'd all made ourselves comfortable.

"A mbaineann tu?" he said.

"Excuse me?"  I replied.

"A mbaineann tu?" he said again.

I smiled.  "What does that mean?"

This is probably a good time to tell you how much I adore the sound of the Irish language.  As if I don't have enough projects, I want to learn to speak it.  What beautiful sounds.

"Who do you come from?" he translated.

I tried to tell my story slowly.  It was clear that he was accustomed to speaking Irish.  He sat directly across from me, perched on the edge of chair.  He was close enough to touch.  He listened, leaning forward slightly to rest on the crook of his cane.  Again, the similarities between him and Yoda were strong.  (I love Yoda, so please understand this is a compliment.  This man was cuter and sweeter than words can express.)

I thought maybe he'd forgotten why we were there, because he took so long to answer.  But eventually, in a thick brogue that forced me to use all of my brain just to understand his words, he began to describe the Lavelle households he knew of.  The details he remembered about who married into which family, the names of sisters and aunts and deaths of spouses were astounding.  He never stuttered or repeated himself.  He was quite clear, although more than once he became frustrated with his memory and suggested that he was too old for such conversation.  I called bullshit and encouraged him to continue, which he did with a twinkle in his eye.

Unfortunately, much of what he remembered involved the death of Lavelle's, although he directed to me to a home on the way to Westport whose inhabitants might have clues about my family.  I held his hand and thanked him.  He was shy and adorable.  He walked us to the door, although I told him it wasn't necessary.

"I want to see you when I come back to Ireland," I said.  We were outside his front door.

"Will ye bring a spade or a shovel?" he said.  His eyes twinkled again, but there was a hint of sadness that time.

"Stop it!  You'll be right here!" I assured him.  Without once considering etiquette, I hugged him tightly.  He was sturdier than you'd imagine a 94-year-old man to be.  There's still a lot of life left in Mr. Kilroy - thank our Maker for that.

As we walked away, I remembered Luke Skywalker's words to Yoda when he promised he'd come back. I realized I must be overtired, if I was drawing parallels between my life and those played out in Star Wars.  I mean, we all know I belong in The Dukes of Hazzard, right?  Unless I was Han Solo's side kick - and by that, I don't mean Chewbacca - then forget it.  Hazzard County all the way.  I belong in a beat up pickup truck more than a star ship...again, unless I'm Han Solo's girl.

Back at the B&B, we found Joe outside with a friend, sitting at a  picnic table and shooting the shit.  When he saw me, he waved me over to inquire.  After a few minutes, I learned that Mr. Kilroy (Yoda) was really and truly Joe Reid's uncle.  In fact, he was also the uncle of the man Joe was speaking with.  They described how Mr. Kilroy had suffered a heart attack two years earlier.  Rather than call for help, he got on his bike and rode to the doctor's office.

I stood with my mouth hanging open at the image of Mr. Kilroy (who was then 92), biking to the doctor's office as he suffered a heart attack.

"It was all downhill," Joe explained with a laugh.

Those Irish boys are made of strong stuff.  Strong and squishy at the same time.  It made me want to run back to his house, let myself inside, and hug him again.  I treasure the chance to sit at length with him and just listen to whatever it is he might want to tell me.  I know I just met me man, but I'm tempted to use the "L" word.  Very tempted.

I wanted to take Mr. Kilroy's picture, but I felt like I'd imposed enough.  I was afraid to appear disrespectful, but next time I see him, I will ask his permission.  I want you to see just how adorable he is.

We settled up with Joe and I wrote down the names of my ancestors (upon his request) so that should he have the opportunity to talk with anyone who had knowledge of the Lavelle's, he could try to help me out. I'll tell you what, Joe Reid is a damn fine man.  The next time I go to Newport, I'm staying at the Black Oak Inn.  In fact, I think I should plan a family reunion and we'll all stay there!

Regretfully, we left Newport in the rear view and drove to Castlebar.  There was another large graveyard I wanted to check out.  As luck would have it, the cemetery was directly across the street from our hotel. How convenient.  Dead bodies outside my bedroom window.  Just like on Canal Street.  Perfect.

I was very surprised that, although we found a couple of Lavelle graves, none of them belong to me.  Sadly, we moved on.  We had to drive to Knock Airport to return our rental.  I treasured every mile between in Castelbar and Knock...not just because they were my last moments in Mayo, but I really LOVE driving in Ireland and, if you don't mind me saying so, I'm damn good at driving a car on the wrong side of the road with a gear box where it doesn't belong.  It was pure fun.

It was an uneventful trip to Knock.  Lauren was in the backseat with her ipod.  Doug was in the front seat, tired and quiet.  I was left to my thoughts of Ireland and cows and family.  We cabbed back to Castlebar, walked to a pub for some chow and then locked ourselves into our room for the night.

I didn't shut off my laptop until well after 1am, because I was trying to get caught up on this blog and it took seven or eight minutes to load each picture.  I don't know why the damn thing was so slow, but it was and there was nothing to do but be patient.  While I waited for pictures to load, I looked out our hotel window to the expanse of graveyard below.  My favorite views often include a graveyard,so that one made me happy.

Many moons ago, I felt drawn to Castlebar.  I was confident I'd find relatives there - living or dead, but hopefully both. However, I found either.  Newport and Westport (each only about fifteen kilometers away) were far more fruitful.  However, I've not given up.  I have this feeling for a reason, and next time I come back, I'll spend some time with the local pastor and ask for help locating relatives.  If I'd had more time, I would have already done that.

Castlebar was once a market town and a popular gathering place.  Farmers brought produce and cattle to sell, women made their rounds to gather provisions for a few weeks, and men congregated in the pubs to swap crop stories and share information.  That's the Castlebar I long for.  Today, it's more congested and built up than I'd like, but the graveyard across the street houses some very, very old headstones.  They are so old, in fact, that their engravings have rubbed off. There's no telling who is buried in many of the plots, and call it wishful thinking, but I believe there are Lavelle's out there.  I just don't know under which of the worn out headstones they lie under.

Tomorrow we train back to Dublin.  I don't want to.  I want either to return to the Dingle Peninsula, buy a farm, and raise cows, sheep and donkeys or I want to be instantly transported back to Islamorada.  I don't want to deal with Dublin and airports and tourists and baggage and tired, cranky assholes.  I want to go back to the Dingle and gaze upon Minard Castle, where I heard people talking and smelled meat cooking over an open fire.  I want to return to days of old.  I want my Irish family around me.

I fell asleep gazing out the window at the Celtic crosses of hundreds of dead below.  I'm sure that somewhere down there, is a Lavelle that I belong to.  And they belong to me.