The history of Ireland runs deep and I wish I would have paid better attention to my father when he attempted teaching it. But as a child with a world of temptation just outside the back door, the last thing we wanted to do was listen to him. It was also wise not to voice or express any discontent, better to just let him ramble on while your mind wandered elsewhere.
And no matter the country of your ancestral origin, a look back into the roots of an individual’s fabric is fascinating to me, regardless of wherever that might be. The mannerisms, traditions, beliefs or stigmas all hail from somewhere – someplace, long ago. It’s in your blood.
Before the old man passed away, he told us all to take our mother on what would eventually be her last trip across the pond. A year and a half later, we did exactly that; 17 of us, siblings, spouses and a couple of cousins.
I made an earnest effort before the trip to educate myself, or re-educate myself, on how the island has evolved through the centuries. The tales of the sorcery of the Druids, the numerous invasions from Icelandic and European invaders, the potato famine, the conflicts and most recently what is known as “the Troubles” in the 1970’s when the Irish Republican Army was wreaking havoc against the English.
There is still some degree of angst and strife in the underbelly, but it is mostly an unspoken sentiment that isn’t openly discussed lest your opinions fall on the hearts of minds of those with a differing point of view. Past resentments have been resolved and compromises made, better to focus on the economic impact of tourism than to continually rip off the bandage and rehash old wounds.
The entire land mass is beautiful, surrounded by cliffs and rocky beaches, the cold waters of the Northern Atlantic and the Irish Sea either softly kissing or furiously pounding the shoreline. The ruins from ancient castles or crude fortifications remain in both secluded valleys and high atop the rolling hills.
As we settled in to the rented house on the outskirts of Killarney, each couple picked their rooms and we prepared for our 10-day adventure. No one felt like a stranger in a strange land, it felt as if we were truly back from whence we came.
I had a small incident on a previous visit while behind the wheel, driving on the opposite side of the road, and was relieved we had a bus and a driver. Our only task was to sit back and enjoy.
Pubs are practically on every corner with the beverages of choice usually being Guinness Stout beer or Jameson Irish whiskey. As you entered the taverns in between numerous stops, a simple shout of “eight pints” or “nine whiskeys” was all that needed to be said.
And no matter the town, no matter the proprietor, every establishment had the same glasses. If you weren't finished with your beverage by the time the entourage was ready to roll, you took it with you – no questions or accusations of stealing; the empty glass would be dropped off at next stop and you would refresh and refill, repeating the process over and over again.
Margaret and I, along with my youngest sister Angela – the rebel, were shopping in Kildare one day when someone became thirsty. Squeezing up to the counter in the bustling bar while the locals continued talking and laughing, I requested three pints. Angie interrupted and asked the bartender for a Margarita instead. Instant silence.
The barkeep was stunned, but yet she continued. “You know, a blender, some ice, some sweet and sour mix with Tequila, salt on the rim.”
I thought I was going to crack a molar I was clinching my teeth so hard. “Angie,” I said, “we’re in Ireland, its beer or whiskey,” sweat dampening my collar.
God how I love that girl, but she would try to order Italian food in a Chinese restaurant. I wanted to explain the expression “when in Rome” to her later on, but 60 years of experience told to let it go….just let it go.
