Two branches. One tree.

Tuesday Part 1. Lunch with Cousin Nicola. 

I had a work deadline that I met just in time to join Fred’s long lost cousin (I forget how many — third?) from his mother’s side, the O’Connors/McMahons) for lunch back in Glenbeigh. (Until now, it's been all about Fred's father's side.) Fred and Nicola's shared arduous work on discovering their roots led them to each other, and this meet-up was a long time coming. To see a relation in the flesh — instead of just the rocky remains of their homes — was special, indeed, for Fred — and for Nicola, too, for that matter! She drove an hour and a half from Tralee — where she lives on a farm with her husband and three kids — to meet Fred. Her great grandfather was the brother of Fred’s great grandmother. It was lovely to share stories — or to hear them do so — and look at a stash of photo she’d brought. Fred recognized several relatives from the US who had visited Ireland, and those he didn’t recognize often looked familiar. We enjoyed the delicious lunch and bade goodbye after a couple of hours — too short a time to catch up on three generations, but maybe not the first attempt. 

Tuesday Part 2. The Mass Path. 

Fred’s ancestors who lived on the edge of the world in Roads, Cahersiveen, County Kerry, Island, walked to church every Sunday. Plenty of Catholics all over the world have this weekly ritual, but what was different about these people was that it was five miles each way, over a muddy mountain pass, and they went barefoot, carrying their shoes, so as not to soil them for Mass. The Mass Path, as it is known, still exists, but that Church is long gone, as are most of those people. I just read on line that most Mass Paths in Ireland have disappeared. 

Brian just confirmed with me that the path we did was the Cnoc na dTobar (Knocknadobar) Mountain of the Wells.

And it's rated "Difficult" I'm proud to say!  To learn more: 

https://www.pilgrimpath.ie/pilgrim-passport/cnoc-na-dtobar-pilgrim-passport/

What to say about this walk… It was difficult, steep, rocky, slippery, treacherous, at times, walking over not only gates, but barbed wire barriers — and I have the bruises to show for it. But for all the “suffering,” we had a most memorable time. Pat, as I said before, knows every square inch and was a great teacher and a gracious leader, always checking to be sure he hadn’t lost one of us down the hill. Usually it was Fred lagging behind taking photos of this awesome man. 

 Heather. So pretty against the green.

I love this shot. Irish Lynch to Irish American Lynch. More in common than not. 

At the onset of this walk, I had gotten word that my uncle was dying. Several days prior, we learned he had taken a terrible turn while being treated for lung cancer, and the end was near. So we knew had already known this much; but this day, we learned it was imminent. My first thought was, I’m going to remember this walk for the rest of my life with this heavy heart. Maybe something special will happen, something spiritual or moving. And then there was Skiberreen. 

Leaning against a rock, Pat asked if we minded if he sang a song about a son asking her father why he left Ireland for America. “Just one verse,” he said.  Of course we said yes. And Pat, with his beautiful voice, brought me (us?) to tears with his song — all seven verses. 

Remember Skiberreen!

Here are the heartbreaking lyrics:

O, Father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin's Isle,

Her her lofty scenes her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild

You said it is a lovely place wherein a prince might dwell,

Why have you then forsaken her, the reason to me tell?

My son, I loved our native land with energy and pride

Until a blight fell on my crops my and sheep and cattle died,

The rents and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem,

And that's the cruel reason why I left Old Skibbereen.

It's well I do remember on a bleak November's day,

The landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away;

they set my house on fire with their cursed English spleen

And that's another reason why I left Old Skibbereen.

Your mother, too, God rest her soul, lay on the snowy ground,

She fainted in her anguish seein' the desolation round.

She never rose, but passed away from sleep to mortal dream,

And found a quiet grave, my boy, in dear old Skibbereen.

It's well I do remember the year of forty-eight,

When we arose with Erin's boys to fight against our fate;

I was hunted through the mountains as a traitor to the Queen,

And that's another reason that I left Old Skibbereen.

Oh father dear, the day will come when in answer to the call

Each Irishman with feelings stern will answer one and all,

I'll be the man to lead the van, beneath our flag of green,

And loud and high we'll raise the cry," Remember Skibbereen!"