Preserving The Language; It's More Than Just Words

As you may recall, in June 2012, Lauren, and I walked 200 miles across England – from the west coast to the east coast, from the Irish Sea to the North Sea. You can read about that wonderful, eye-opening adventure on another blog; walkmyfatass.blogspot.com. Last June, we walked 111 miles around the Dingle Peninsula, in Ireland’s County Kerry. It’s about as far west in western Europe as one can be and it’s a world all its own. Like so many other people these days, I’d been tracing my family heritage, searching for information about my ancestors. After months of digging through Ancestry.com's church documents and sorting through faded black and white photos, a trip to the Emerald Isle seemed inevitable. I had an urgent need to walk the land my people had lived on. I wanted to find family. I found far more than I’d hoped for.

Without a doubt, one of the most moving experiences was hearing Gaeilge (Irish) spoken for the first time. It was on the train from Dublin to Tralee, the county town of Kerry. The computerized female voice that came from the train’s speakers gave instructions first in Gaeilge and then again in English. I was enthralled and almost hypnotized by the strange vowels and consonants. I heard it again, spoken more naturally and lively, in a quaint Tralee pub named the Abbey Inn. (Talk about great food, great beer, and atmosphere!) The lyrical language captivates me like none other. Unfortunately, it’s a pale shadow of its former self and restricted to a small portion of only seven counties along Ireland’s west coast.

So why is the language in danger of being lost? Its decline began under English rule in the seventeenth century. The crown viewed its use unfavorable, a serious threat to all things English in Ireland. In the late nineteenth century, Ireland lost a significant portion of its population to either emigration or death following the Great Famine. Thousands of English-speaking families moved onto Irish land and English policies actively promoted the adoption of the English language. I imagine that the most powerful force against Irish was the fact that the wealthiest and most powerful people spoke English. The ability to speak English was a necessity if one hoped for opportunities for advancement. As a result, the Irish language became associated with rural folk and became a sign of poverty and disadvantage. (Those damn Brits!) Between 1700 and 1900, Irish went from being the majority language of the island to a minor tongue spoken by disenfranchised groups in the West. (My people.)

We're truly fortunate that the language was preserved and no doubt have the efforts of many generations of stubborn (or were they tenacious?) Irish people to thank for it. I top my hat to them...and my pint glass, too.

Although the Irish government has instituted programs to preserve the language, the percentage of native Irish who speak it daily continues to decline. To many, the loss of Gaeilge would be a cultural calamity. I unconditionally count myself among them. I’m committed to help raise awareness of the threat facing the Irish language. I hope to see the Irish government dedicate additional resources to education and I hope to encourage travelers to visit Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking regions of western Ireland) to show support for the survival of the language of our ancestors. Two things: please don't go while I'm there, I want it all to myself and please don't go on some crappy group bus tour. Hire a car, ride bikes, or better yet, walk. The best parts of Ireland and the most gracious, wonderful folk can't be enjoyed from a bus window.

My first solo distance walking adventure will certainly be a physical challenge, but more than that, I hope it will become a vehicle to enlighten people regarding the importance of protecting Ireland’s language, and as a result, its culture. It’ll be a true honor and privilege to walk alone among the stones and hills that shaped my ancestors into the hardworking, steadfast people they became. I will glimpse into my past and in doing so, perhaps find my future.

Until then, I'm taking a stab at learning the beautiful language of my people.

Slan.

'Tis Official!!!

Well, then, 'tis official. I'm walking all 135 miles of The Kerry Way solo. Yep, it's true. I'm pretty gull dang excited about it, too.

I spent a few hours yesterday afternoon booking quaint accommodations for each of the ten nights it'll take me to complete the circuit. One of them, the Druid Cottage, dates back to the 1800s. Its name refers to the bronze age druid stone circle found on the edge of Kenmare, which I plan to visit on my way through the village. The heavy stone walls and the traditional half front door are charming and I suspect I won't want to leave once I've spent a night there. There are other accommodations that have just as much charm and others with far less. Since I won't have my trusty walking companion with me, I don't feel the need to stay in the nicer places along the trail. I'm saving euros for evening pints by staying at a couple borderline dumps. In fact, at one of them, I have to rent my bath towel! What do you expect for 18 euro a night?!

Once the accommodations were well in hand, I set to finding the least expensive airfare. Not easy. Although there are four airports closer to the Kerry Way than the one in Dublin (Kerry, Shannon, Waterford, and Cork), Dublin is slightly-to-significantly less expensive, depending on the carrier. Not to mention that the layovers through an airport like Shannon can be as long as eight or nine hours! It's only a four hour train ride from Dublin to Killarney where the Kerry Way begins and I look forward to the trip. Watching the countryside slowly morph from bustling city to the suburbs to farmland to mountains is stunning. And exciting. I truly savor traveling by train.

I booked a flight from Fort Lauderdale (20 mins north of Miami and far less crowded) to Dublin on Aer Lingus. Because you probably won't find this information on your Word of the Day Calendar, I'll tell you that the airline's name is an anglicisation of the Irish Aer Loingeas, which means Air Fleet. Try to work that into a conversation today and leave those around you absolutely unimpressed. I leave FL at a leisurely 3:45pm, which means I don't have to force myself from bed before dawn to fight traffic into Miami. Arriving at JFK just three hours later, I'll have a three hour layover before heading to the Motherland for the second time in my life. I'll hole up in a bar while going over maps and route plans for the umpteenth time. On the return flight, I sprang for the airline's private lounge, because after spending nearly two weeks alone on the trial, I won't be able to tolerate American tourists. I frequently pretend to be British while traveling abroad (something Lauren originally found endearing but now finds annoying) just to avoid being characterized as American. They're loud, rude, and ignorant. Yes, I know that's a generalization and unfair, but it's also true so there you have it. American tourists in Europe are total dicks. Except me. Duh.

I land in Dublin at 8:40am, leaving plenty of daylight for a pre-trail adventure. I plan to catch the first train to Killarney that I can connect with and once I arrive, I'll walk to my inn. It's not far from the station. (This is, of course, suspect. The Irish are notorious for being terrible at measurements. Never trust an Irishman who tells you something is a "short walk" or "just beyond the ridge". Likely as not, it's miles away.) Regardless of the distance, once I check in and leave my bags behind, I'll set off on foot to find Ross Castle, which is two km from town. It's a 15th century tower house on the edge of Lough Leane. I love castles and can't wait to step inside and press myself against it's stone walls. I wonder what it will tell me. From there, I'll set off to find St. Mary's Cathedral, which was built in the early 1800s. Its a neo-Gothic revival cathedral and is certainly worth a visit. After I've satisfied my curiosity about those two sites, I'll find a pub, enjoy a meal, and get to bed early. My first day's walk will be 15 miles and I want to allow time to stop and check out the ruins of the Muckross Abbey along the way. I can't pass up the chance to wander among ruins, even if it adds another hour onto an already long day.

Although it seems like I've got a good start, there's much to be done:
  -  I have to buy real maps. I've never used real maps on a walk; I relied on the good navigation sense of my girl or her dwarf. Since I will be alone, I would be foolish not to invest in real maps.

  - I need to learn to use a compass. It's not as easy as one would think. Maps are fairly useless if one can't use a compass.

 - I need to start training. I'll be faced with two twenty-mile days. (The trail actually has three, but I was told about a small pub with a few rooms for rent on the outskirts of a town almost halfway between Glenbeigh and Cahversiveen.) The shortest day is 8 miles, but most are 15 or 16....and they won't be flat like Islamorada. I'll be crossing mountains and farmland and moors. I need to be ready.

 - I need to practice drinking Guinness. It's an important skill. Ordering a Smithwick's or a Peroni would be an insult to my Irish ancestors. I've gotta drink the black stuff.

Let's start with the Guinness. That sounds like the perfect place to begin.

To Be Continued....

'Tis back to the Motherland I'm wanting to go. I left the Emerald Isle six months ago and I've thought of it almost every day since, at least in passing. It really grabbed my heart and I am compelled to go back to continue my story.

I've decided to walk the Kerry Way. It's about 135 miles of semi-marked trail through Ireland's most spectacular mountain landscapes. It passes the foot of Carrauntoohil, the country's highest peak. I'll wander around dramatic peaks and glens, desolate moors, windswept passes, and mountain lakes. The biggest difference between this adventure and previous walking journeys is that one will be solo.
I'm doing it alone.

You're wondering why Lauren isn't going with me, right? Well,I'm pleased to tell you that our amazing girl has been selected to represent the State of FL at a Youth Summit in Washington DC, which is sponsored by the Smithsonian, The National Zoo, and George Mason University. It's an amazing opportunity for her and I'm beyond proud that she was selected to attend. What an honor! Then there's the ugly truth that she just doesn't want to do another walk. She's more than happy to join me Ireland...after the walk. Distance walking is just not her thing and if someone isn't stoked about walking 135 miles, you shouldn't try to convince them otherwise.

Successfully circuiting the Kerry Way will be a huge personal accomplishment. When we walked across England and around Ireland's Dingle Way (it's okay to laugh when you read the word "Dingle"), it was almost always Lauren who navigated us back on track when we got lost. I learned to just hand her the reigns and wait for her to figure it out. She always did. This time...I'll have no one else to rely on. It will be a monumental challenge and one that I'm eager to meet.

There's much to be done, but I'm already daydreaming about being there.

Lauren and I are mostly quiet walkers, except for when we break into a rowdy rendition of "The Bare Necessities", but I'm never really completely lost in my thoughts because I'm watching to make sure she doesn't slip/fall or I'm asking her if she needs food/water. I can't turn off my Momma Bear switch. While walking alone, I wonder how differently I'll experience the landscape, the scents, and the sounds. I like to imagine that I'll feel the presence of my ancestors around me as I climb mountain passes and trudge across lonely moorland. No, I haven't been drinking. That's just the way my mind works.

I hope you'll accompany me on this next big adventure. As always, I'll blog daily (when possible) and keep you apprised of the planning process until liftoff - which should be late June 2015. Rather than start a new blog, I'll journal about The Kerry Way right here. Although it was my original dream to walk across Ireland, I'll guess I'll just have to take it one chunk at a time. I plan to chronicle each of those journeys on this blog. Someday, I'll have walked through every one of Ireland's beautiful countys and found countless Lavelle's.

Imagine all the pints!

Time Travel

We're back in Islamorada, attempting to get our body clocks in sync with our surroundings.  Going East is always easy for me - the beginning of every trip always is - but coming back West is a bitch.  Reliving five or six hours (depending upon the time of year and if it's daylight's savings time) after being awake for eighteen hours is not fun, especially if those hours include flight delays and annoying American tourists.

I won't bore you with the details of our lengthy trip home because I'd come across as an ungrateful brat. Suffice to say it was typical airport stuff, but we finally caught up with each other in Miami (we were on different flights out of Dublin) and rented a car to come home.  I drove while Doug slept and Lauren talked/texted with the friends she missed while we were off trekking.

I wanted to drive on the left, but resisted the urge.

The highways were bright and busy.  I miss the twisty, green canopy-covered country roads of Kerry and Mayo.  There are no cows, sheep or donkeys for many, many miles.  I miss them, too.

At some point yesterday, after taking out the dogs - who are so happy we're home that they never leave my side...which makes for a very crowded bathroom - I needed to write.  I pulled my wheeled computer bag that I'd carried for three weeks over to my desk and unzipped the compartment that stores my laptop.  It was empty.  Frantically, I searched every compartment, finding all of them sans laptop.

Aw feck and shit, too!  I must have left it in Customs.  At Dublin Airport, I had to remove the laptop once while going through security and then a second time while going through Customs.  I must have forgotten to put it back the second time.  What if some bad guy took it and is savvy enough to pull personal information out of its memory?  Credit card numbers, our home address, information about the kids, SSNs?  The list running through my head was endless.

Dougie and Lauren were still asleep, doing a better job adjusting to the time change than me.  I knew I needed to call Dublin's Customs and Immigration Office immediately.  I sat down at my desk to look up the info online...but my laptop wasn't there.  I may have had tears in my eyes.  Thankfully, Dougie recently allowed us to upgrade to big girl phones, so I grabbed my iphone and found the number.

I spoke to a very kind man who said my laptop hadn't been turned in, but suggested I call at a more civilized hour.  I'd failed to consider it was 2:30am in Dublin.  I filed an online report for my missing laptop via my phone and waited.  I needed to stay busy or I'd go crazy.

I decided to make an Irish-inspired breakie.  I started with a vegetable tart and while it baked, I made boxty. While the tart cooled and the boxty fried, I made bacon, too.  As is always the case, just as the food is almost ready, the family woke and joined me in the kitchen.  Two nieces were with us - they'd stayed with Bear and Boozer while we explored Ireland.  It was a nice meal and helped to keep my mind off how bad things could be regarding my lost laptop.

Once Doug's belly was full and he'd had a cup of coffee, I broke the news.

"I've something to tell you and you're going to be really pissed," I said.

He waited.  He hears things like this from me often enough that he waits for more before getting excited.

"I left my laptop in Customs at Dublin.  I've already called to report it missing, but no one's turned it in yet."

I waited for a string of bad words and a few fist poundings on the counter, but instead he smiled.

"No you didn't.  I have it."

What!?!?  It was true.  The night before, he'd removed it from my laptop bag so he could order me a new battery.  (As of late, if I'm not plugged into a socket, the battery is good for only forty minutes or so.)  Talk about relief!  I hugged him tightly and sighed.

My laptop was safe at home.  My personal information was, too.  Do you know what else I was worried about?  I've begun two new novels, each one is upwards of 200 pages already, and I don't have them backed up on anything.  If my laptop had been lost, so too would those two books.  There's absolutely no way I could recreate them.  They'd be gone and I'd have been crushed.

As you can imagine, I'm so relieved and plan to back up both novels on multiple drives today.  Without delay.  Also on my list of to dos, is to mail a rum cake to Mr. John Doyle and his sister, the wonderful people at Camp Junction House for their extreme kindness to me and Lauren.  It's a small gesture and certainly doesn't repay them for all they did.  I also need to send off some thank yous to others who made our trip such a delight.

Between you me and the lamppost, I've begun to look at small farms for sale on the peninsula.  Just out of curiosity, sorta.  My head is still full of dreams of living on a small, clean farm with a few milkers, chickens, a donkey or two, goats and sheep.  I don't want a full-blown agricultural production, just enough of a farm to keep me busy and surrounded by hairy, four-legged beasts to love.  Imagine the fun Boozy would have with a donkey!!  Bear is a bit of a herder with us, so he'd probably love to boss around a few goats and sheep.

There are, of course, rules to be dealt with regarding Americans moving to Ireland to live and Americans buying property.  I've only just begun to research them, but I'm confident it can be done.

It's just a pipe dream for now, but one that makes me happy to chew on.  I'd love to return to the life my ancestors enjoyed - except I want indoor plumbing and heat.  Since there aren't many living, it's the best way I can think of to stay connected with those who've already moved on, including my Dad, who was also a farmer.  I don't need a lot.  I have more than I need.  I love Islamorada and its marine mammals, but Kerry and Mayo have a different kind of hold on my heart.

You can't escape your roots, I guess.  As a kid, I swore I'd never live on a farm or step in cow shit again. Forty years later, I can't think of a more wonderful way to live.  Convincing Dougie may be difficult, but I've done it before.  He understands how I feel about the Emerald Isle, at least to some degree.

Time travel is a funny thing.  I traveled through time zones and into the past.  I'm back in the present, but my mind is ever revisiting Ireland's old fashioned ways.  Before long, I'll have to answer that call to keep alive a way of life that may someday be gone.  For my Dad and all the Lavelle farmers who came before him.  For me, too.

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.

A Day in Mayo

We woke late, nearly 9am, which is much later than we were used to doing on the peninsula.  It was nice to linger under a heavy tick while the chilly morning air blew into our room.  Getting out of bed wasn't so nice, but after a hot shower, we stepped into the cleanest of our dirty clothes and headed into town to find breakie.

We discovered a great secret!  If you walk around the back side of a pub, where they store empty kegs, you may find the door open long before the pub is actually open for business.  If so, sneak in like a tom cat and wind your way through the back halls by the toilets (this is what the Irish and other Euros call the restrooms) and make your way to the bar.  Pretend you know exactly what you are doing.  When approached, ask for breakie.  Within minutes, you'll be served a wonderful breakfast with coffee or tea that's guaranteed to keep you going for hours.

Once our bellies were full, we jumped back into the car and headed out of town on the Mulranny Road in search of Carrickahowley Castle - known as Rockfleet Castle by the less-than-cool.  We are cool, so Carrickahowley it is,

The road we took in search of it seemed very castle-worthy.  Lauren and I discussed how unsurprised we would be if our car magically turned into a carriage.  (She mentioned it would be helpful if the engine turned into a horse else I'd be pulling it whilst she wiped me.)  She's such a sweet child.

As we rounded a sharp bend, BOOM!!!  There stood a castle - a tower house much like Minard Castle on the peninsula where I had my "moment".  It was on the edge of what was once deep water, but it's now shallow with rocks breaking the surface.  The castle was....well,...wow.  I came to a screeching halt and out of the car we bolted.  Right to the side of the tower we went to touch the stone and press ourselves against it.  Cold and hard and full of stories it was.

On the door was posted a sign indicating it had been closed for safety reasons.  Our passage inside was blocked by a heavy wooden door and padlock.  While I regretted the inability to get inside, I was grateful for the opportunity to walk all around it, touching each wall and all four cornerstones.  The castle was built in the 1500's and was once home to Grainne O'Malley, the pirate queen.  She and I'd have been fast friends, if I could find her.

In the recent past, if visitors to the castle found the front door locked, they went to the farm next door and borrowed the key from the farmer.  We met that farmer's niece, but sadly her uncle has passed on and the castle is no longer open for visitors.  While I'm sad to be kept on the outside, I'm so happy to be able to touch it.  More than once, I laid my face upon the stones and pressed my hands to them...listening.  What would this castle say if I listened long enough?  The sound of a car engine disrupted our conversation.  Two visitors from Germany arrived, who had been inside the walls of the castle just a few years back.  The husband claimed to belong to the lineage.  That's what they all say.

After another trip around the castle, touching and listening, we went on our way.  I'll come back again during a rain storm, when the chances of other visitors interrupting my castle-time are slim to none.  Until then, Carrickahowley, I'll see if there's a way to buy you and have you for my own.

Lauren and I had seen a sign post for an abbey on our way to the castle, so we made our way back and I'm soooooo very glad we did.  What a treasure! Burrishoole Abbey is a place everyone should have the pleasure to visit.  Hell, maybe it should be an obligation.

Where to begin?  At first glance, you see the remains of a church, which is surrounded by a graveyard (the Irish don't say cemetery) packed with huge Celtic crosses.  The grounds are on a small hill, the Abbey is at the summit with headstones all around, some of them about ready to fall into the water.  There was no one at the Abbey besides me and Goo, and we were free to roam at will.  Words can't do it justice; I doubt the photos will either.  Suffice to say, the Abbey is breathtaking to those of us who love old churches, forts and castles.  Those walls have seen so much history, it would take years to sit and listen to all of it.  I stood against the walls and listened anyway.

After we'd scrambled through all of the Abbey's rooms, we began to search the church yard for Lavelle's. We found some here and there, but none of them obvious relations.  Then my eagle-eyed girl made the find of the century.  She found an old grave near the back left corner of a Patrick Lavelle and his son, Thomas.  I've no proof, but I think these two boys are the real deal.  I raised a few pints to Lauren that night for her terrific find.

We searched the entire graveyard, finding five or six Lavelle graves in all.  After an hour or so, we moved on, knowing we needed to pick up Dougie from Westport traing station at 5pm.  Westport was our next stop.  Can you guess where we went first?

Lavelle's Bar.  The place is owned by the very humble Christopher Anthony Lavelle.  We don't know whether we're really related, but we agreed that I'd tell everyone we are.  So there you have it.  He's a soft-spoken man with a kind heart.  The moment Lauren and I crossed the threshold, we were greeted by Mr. Lavelle.  He can spot a Yank at a one hundred paces, that's for certain.  He asked how we were enjoying our visit.  I told him that I'd come all the way from the States to visit that particular pub, because I am a Lavelle.  Well, let me assure you, that's when the conversation got interesting.

We spent an hour or so talking about lineage and history, looking at pictures on his pub's walls, and showing him the pix we'd taken at the Abbey.  He made a call to a friend named Joe, asking about Lavelle's down thattaway.  (The grave of Patrick and Thomas mentioned a town called "Furnace", and Chris obviously thought his friend Joe might know more about it.)  He asked Joe about each and every name we gave him, happy to try to help us connect with living cousins - not just the dead ones.

I mentioned that we were staying in Newport and he asked where.

"The Black Oak...something," I said.

Chris smiled and pointed at his phone.  "That's Joe's place."

"Joe Reid?" I asked.

Turns out, the Joe that Chris had called was the very same Joe who was the proprietor of the B&B that Lauren and I had booked for two nights!  The man who could probably answer many of my questions was our innkeeper!  Small, crazy world.

Not wanting to make a pest of myself, we left Chris to his business, but not before a long hug and a photo.  I promised to bring Doug in for a pint when/if his train ever arrived.  Chris said he'd be waiting and when we returned three or four hours later, he was!  I introduced my husband to Chris, we had a quick pint, said another goodbye and we were off.

The next time I come to Mayo, Lavelle's Bar (Father's it's also called) will be my first stop.

We headed back to Newport, had dinner in a pub and then hunkered down in the lounge of our B&B for a night nap.  As I sat pondering the past two and a half weeks, out walked a man I knew - although we'd never met.  Joe Reid in the flesh and blood came to welcome us.  After a hearty handshake and a round of introductions, I invited him to sit.  (Some balls, right?  The place is his and I invite him to pop a squat!)  He asks what I'm after and after I explain it, he gives it some thought.  A quiet man, Joe is.  Reminds me of my Dad in a way.  Doesn't say much until he really has something worth saying, and even then, it's quiet.

Joe excused himself and made a few calls, consulting one of the local boys sitting at the bar.  If you remember the tombstone I posted of a Ceilia Lavelle, that was the grandmother of one of the boys he called. Pat's young and not interested in finding Yankee family.  He tells Joe there's no way we're related and I let that go, although we've a Ceilia in our tree that looks suspicious.  You can't force this sort of thing on people. Not everyone has the drive or the desire and for those that don't, people like me are a nuisance.  I let it go, making a mental note to buy the kid a pint the next time I'm in town.  I'll get him good and liquored up and then we'll give it a go.

Joe tells me of a man he calls "Uncle", who is 94 years old and knows everything about local families, where they lived, and who they married.  It was well after ten and, no surprise, Joe suspects that "Uncle" is in bed. He tells me to check with him in the morning and hopefully, "Uncle" will come to the B&B or we can to see him.  It sounds great, but I don't expect it to happen.  I'm grateful to Joe for going out of his way to help me connect with family.  What a great guy.

After one drink, we get Dougie upstairs to put him to bed.  Within a minute of laying his head on the pillow, he began talking in his sleep.  It's something he does often, but it freaked Lauren out!  He snored and snored while Lauren and I tried to adjust to our new situation.  We'd developed a routine after three weeks, and a lifted toilet seat and deafening snores had never been part of the equation.

If only we could cram Zak and Kaley into this room, my family would be complete.  Oh wait - Boozer and Bear, too.  And Momma and Baby Kitty as well.  Perhaps we need a bigger room.

County Kerry to County Mayo - I'm driving!

Our last sleep in Camp (until next time) wasn't great because my mind kept practicing how to drive on the wrong side of the road in a standard with a gear box in the wrong place.  Top that with a sore throat and stuffy nose and you've got a rather unpleasant night.  I don't get sick, but my body sure has been trying to do just that since before we left the States, but I refuse to give in.  However, my insides seem to know The Walk is over, and they are losing the ability to fight back.  So be it.

We showered and hustled to the dining room for breakfast to be greeted by gregarious John Doyle.  The man is a charmer, that's for certain.  He inquired after "our patient" and fussed over us.  I had only toast and coffee (but the toast was slathered with Kerry butter - pure gold that is) because we're not going to be burning hundreds of calories in the car.  I can't afford the extra calories of rashers.

Back in our room, we pack in a hurry.  As I'm reorganizing - our boots and walking poles are no longer needed - I get a text from Dougie.  His flight out of Miami had been delayed because of weather.  When he finally got to Philly, he'd missed his connecting flight by ten minutes.  They put him up in a flea bag motel and told him to wait.  We were planning to pick him up at the Westport train station that afternoon, but he wasn't going to make it.  Poor Dougie.

No sooner are we packed when John announces that our ride to Kerry Airport has arrived.  We exchanged a great big hug and he wished us well on our quest to find family.  A little piece of my heart stayed behind in Camp.  It will be happy there until I can go back to collect it...hopefully next year.

Should you be so lucky as to find yourself headed for the Dingle Peninsula, you must go directly to Camp and visit John and his lovely sister; you'll thank me later.  www.campjunctionhouse.com

Waiting behind the Camp Junction House was a van labeled "Paddy's Bus".  Below that it read, "He will drive you to drink"  You can find Mr. Paddy at http://kerrytourist.net/, but the site is currently under construction.  This is an idea that could easily be translated to the Keys, but I'm never going back so someone else can run with it- but please give the man credit.

Paddy was fairly quiet on the drive from Camp to Tralee, where we were to deposit the dwarf.  At the train station, Lauren and I got out to hug Own and take pictures.  We wished our friend God Speed and good health, promising to keep in touch.  In spite of his grumpy disposition, we love our dwarf and were sad to part company.

I don't know where you are now, Owen, but we wish you safe travels in your magic underpants and much happiness.  Be well and stay grumpy until we meet again.

Back in the van, I struck up a conversation with our driver.  Paddy was a character, to be sure.  Turns out, he assumed the dwarf was my husband and that he didn't trust my driving so he was taking the train rather than risk his neck in a car.  I may have given Paddy an ear full.  Speaking with a thick brogue, he advised me how to drive in Ireland.  Throughout the three-quarters of an hour it took to get to the airport, our driver educated me on safe driving practices.  His help was truly invaluable.

When we arrived, I paid him far more than the going rate - he'd charged us next to nothing and gave us much.  He insisted on waiting outside in his van until we had our car and were ready to go.  At that point, he directed me to follow him - it was in the opposite direction of where he was heading, but he said he'd turn around later.  I did as I was told and once I figured out the gear box, we followed along.  A couple of cars snuck between our car and his van, so he pulled over, waving on the offending motorists, and then pulled back to lead us like a momma duck with her babies.

When Paddy figured I was comfortable and could be trusted, he turned off, waving us on straight and was gone from sight.  I will forever be grateful for his fatherly words of wisdom and the care he took to be sure we were safe.  Like so many others we've met on this adventure, I wish I could repay his kindness.

If you ever find yourself in Kerry in need of a ride or a tour guide, please call Dear Paddy.  (I feel like an infommerical.)  His email is: jobie62@hotmail.com and his phone is 0877538679.  Please tell him the red-headed American walker and her daughter who were headed to Mayo to find family sent you.  He'll remember, I've no doubt.

Lauren is a kick ass navigator!  I handed her a map and told her where we needed to go.  She was spot on in her directions.  I'd never have made it as easily as I did without her there to shout and point.  She's a terrific pointer.

What should have been a four hour drive turned into six or so, because every time there was a symbol for a castle on the map, we drove off course to find it.  Ten minutes, forty minutes, we didn't care.  However long it took to find each one was absolutely worth it to us.  I'm so happy we drove instead of taking the train, because we never would have seen some really great castles and met some cute gas station attendants when we needed to replace our stores of baguettes, apples, and waters.

At some point, we realized we needed to buckle down and just get to Newport or we'd never make it.  It was actually easy to do, until Lauren fell asleep for five or ten seconds and I veered off our route.  She still hasn't forgiven me.

"I repeated what we needed to do at least twelve times and then I fell asleep for five seconds and you go the wrong way!"

The dwarf's disposition must have rubbed off, because she couldn't let it go.  We eventually got where we were going, so I don't understand why she was so pissy.  It could have been that her tape worm needed to be fed.

We checked into the Black Oak Inn, across from the Black Oak River in Newport, Mayo.  It's not the Ritz, but the owner - Joe Reid - has a heart that makes it much classier and homey than the Ritz could ever be. After dropping off our bags, we walked a few doors down to a pub and tucked into a hot meal accompanied by a few pints.

I felt restless and asked our server if there was a graveyard within walking distance.  (My gut told me that most of the Lavelle's I'd meet would already be dead.)  She said that there were a few graves in the church yard, but there was a bigger one about a five minute walk from the pub.  Yes!  Lauren agreed to walk there with me.

As with all Irish measurement, it wasn't anywhere near a five minute walk, which Lauren pointed out to me again and again on the way there.  About a mile from the pub, we found a very old cemetery tucked in a gully off the road.  Like the cemeteries we'd seen from the road, the tombstones are tall Celtic crosses in front of a large burial plot marked off with a short cement lip.  We split up and found four or five Lavelle graves, none of them obviously part of my family tree, but there's really no telling.  Once we were good and sweaty, we headed back to our B&B, while Lauren pointed out again that the cemetery was more than a five minute walk.

The sky was turning pretty colors and the hills were green.  I was happy and thankful to have a daughter who understands how important this search is to me.  Never does she complain.  I am lucky to have such a wise and generous girl as a travel partner.

Back at the B&B, we discovered the wifi didn't work in our room, so we headed down to the lounge/pub to sip another pint while Lauren talked with friends and I watched Ghana and Germany go at it during that night's World Cup game.  While I sort of watched the game, I studied the old photos on the walls and listened to the locals gossip, just waiting to hear something about a Lavelle.

As we settled into our beds for the night, with our windows wide open, we heard the sounds of the pub's patrons below.  They were smoking and talking, enjoying the night air.  We didn't begrudge them their fun. Another brief text from Dougie told us that he was enroute to Frankfurt.  Hmm, I didn't realize that was in Ireland.

I fell asleep happy for driving us all the way from Kerry on the wrong side of the road without killing us.  In fact, we didn't have a single white-knuckle moment.  I felt bad for Doug who left home two days ago and still hadn't arrived.  I'd hate to be the United Airlines customer service rep he deals with when he finally gets to Dublin.

Good night, Mayo.  I hope to find family within your boundaries and hopefully, some of them on this side of the grass.