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.