Retirement blog about dear old Ireland : Part 1

‘There’s another boat in our berth and it shouldn’t happen’. So said our captain as the ferry went round in circles in Dublin’s outer harbour. How’s that for a start to a retirement blog? Welcome to Ireland (nearly) and this, my first retirement blog from the old country. The only good news was that very few people were affected. Given this was a bank holiday I was surprised, to say the least, as to how empty the boat was. Is this something to do with Brexit or do people not bother going so far for a short holiday?

I had plenty of time to consider explanations as we circled round and round like a toy boat on a park pond. The Irish Times was in no doubt – tourist numbers, particularly from the UK were being affected by the B threat. The crossing itself was not without interest. For example, if there’s one thing we’ve come to recognise, it is the sound of a Land Rover Defender car alarm. It’s a frequently stolen vehicle and we’re fairly paranoid about it. Hence as we sat enjoying our free food and the view from the front of the boat (an undulating horizon) Mrs Summerhouse said, I can hear our alarm.

It wasn’t that we thought it was being stolen. You’d have some difficulty getting it off the boat, but we were worried that the dogs would be traumatised by the noise. I wobbled (even more than on dry land) my way to the information desk and shared my concerns. The lady explained they could not enter the car deck because they were still in the red zone – no, me neither. Anyway she said, give me your keys and I will check as soon as is possible. I wobbled back to my seat and waited for news.

About ten minutes later it came over the loudspeaker – would the driver of a black, Land Rover Defender – here it comes we thought and waited for the inevitable voicing of our registration – except it wasn’t ours. What chance of there being two black Defenders on the same boat, especially given so few vehicles on board? Strange things happen when we’re in Ireland and even heading for it, in the middle of the Irish Sea.

A little bit later the lady, to whom I had given my keys, came to my seat and said, it wasn’t yours (which we now knew) and your dogs are asleep which we didn’t know but were hugely relieved to hear, given we have no idea of what they get up to while we’re in our First Class seats and they languish below. Now we know, even with a Defender car alarm going off, they go to sleep. That’s nice.

But what a coincidence. Almost as big a coincidence as, on this very empty boat, sitting next to an Australian couple who had lived in Palmerston North, New Zealand about the time we were there. If you’ve not heard of Palmy, as the locals call it, (true, there was a song about the place but the title was – Palmerston North, where the f— is that?) that’s because nobody goes there, it’s not on the usual tourist route, and it’s not that big. Which goes part way to explaining our surprise when they told us where they had lived. Not for the first time Ireland weaves its mystical spell. Or that’s my take on it.

We disembark and, instead of heading directly south and west to Kerry, drive west to find the place I’d been hoping to buy an oak barrel for our wine. I’ll write more about it in a vineyard blog. Suffice it to say my cunning plan did not work – no barrels. So I reset the Sat Nav (our old one with no Irish post codes) to head for a place called Mohill in County Leitrum, birth place of Mrs Summerhouse’s late father and the town where several of her cousins still reside. Our last trip to Ireland was about trying to track down my father’s family history. This one was to be about Mrs SH’s.

Which is why we ended up in the graveyard. with one of Mrs SH’s cousins and his wife, as in photo above (correction owing to technological problems I had to substitute the intended photo with one of our hotel near Galway – Ashford Castle, the perils of life on the road), looking at the double grave of two of her uncles, one who died of alcohol-related illnesses and the other who was kicked or trodden on (the story varies) by his cow and died – obviously.

It sometimes feels, especially in this part of Ireland, that things have not changed much despite the Celtic Tiger years and all that has happened since. But that’s not quite true. What definitely has changed is that Mohill has become a town with only 4 pubs (none of them open in the day)* from one that had 21 pubs when we were last here (2004). A result we were told of the economy and stringent drink-driving laws. Progress. Hmm, not sure.

So far the trip, and Mohill particularly, has featured many stories about Mrs SH’s parents with many visits from existing cousins etc. The only ‘missing link’ was any information / news / stories about Mrs SH’s grandfather and of course the father of the two uncles whose grave we were admiring. They like a big burial plot in Ireland with as much bling (like the newer houses), as they could afford. This even though the local priest (buried over the way) stated that all should have the same size headstone and lived and died holding true to this belief. His was a modest headstone.

But back to the rellies. No grave site of any sort for these relatives / grandparents. Her cousin, who had taken us easily to the uncles’ grave, was embarrassed to report he knew nothing of the uncles’ and Mrs SH’s grandparents and, in fact, got the impression the uncles did not like to speak of their father (and mother?). Perhaps there’s a story here not to be made public. A bit like the story about my own great grandfather who, our researcher was delighted to be able to reveal to us, had been tried (and acquitted) for the murder of a pupil in his class. Beat that for skeletons in the family closet. Her cousin promised he would try and find out more. We will see.

So that’s where we’re up to with the first of our Irish blogs. The day this gets posted (hopefully) we’ll be heading due West, towards our posh hotel near Galway (see above photo). This happens to be the birth place of Mrs SH’s mother (Galway not the hotel). No mystery here. Her house was flattened to make way for the cathedral. There would have been a time in Irish history when everything made way for religion. No longer, and all the better for that, with sort of apologies to my brother-in-law, ex-priest. Now it’s bloody Brexit that they’re worried about. At least in this area of the country. We will see how the rest of the country (at least the parts we’re visiting) feel about it all.

*We went for a drink with one cousin, he suggested we meet at 8.30 for a drink. I said could we make it a little earlier as we went to bed about that time. No, he said, they don’t open until 8. I could not believe what I was hearing, the pub doesn’t open until 8 o’clock, in Ireland?? Something not right here. Thanks be to God you inherit your pub here rather than have to buy it with a mortgage and hence debts to pay off every month.

PS. This retirement blog may be a little late being published on account of no internet connection in the house where we’re staying.