EXPLORING IRISH ROOTS
Millions have left Ireland, but its pull is as strong as ever — even for those born elsewhere
Is it possible to go home to a place you’ve never been?
For 47 years I have carried my Irish name around with me. It was my great-great-grandparents, Jeremiah and Margaret O’Donoghue, who 150 years ago boarded a ship for Canada.
I know little of his life except he settled in Hamilton, where he had a farm. We were the O’Donoghues then, but my great-grandfather dropped the ‘O’, perhaps to fit in. Later, my grandfather changed the name again and dropped the silent “g.”
They weren’t alone in leaving the Emerald Isle. War, famine and uncertain economic conditions forced millions of Irish to set off for distant lands. There’s a reason you can find an Irish pub in places all over the world.
Now for the first time I was returning.
I’m convinced Ireland was created by a painter. Every shade of green you can imagine — and then some — has been brushed across the countryside.
Towns and villages are splashed with brightly coloured buildings— blues, reds, yellows, pinks, and a palette bursting with other hues. You’ll pass castles, and the ruins of castles, that look as if they have been placed in the scene of a fairy tale. And everywhere, flower baskets overflow.
East to west, we first crossed the country from Dublin to Galway, a city recently made famous by Ed Sheeran’s song, Galway Girl. If you’re in a hurry, it’ll take two-anda-half hours to drive, but we spent the day ambling toward Ireland’s fifth largest city, which opens its arms out on to the Atlantic Ocean.
The following day, we explored the Connemara region, northwest of Galway.
Waterfalls ran down dramatic, mossy green mountains of granite, where fences of stone, some likely hundreds of years old, separated farm from farm, and where the sheep population outnumbered people.
Driving on, I spied our destination across Pollacapall Lake — the picture-perfect Kylemore Abbey, nestled among lush forest. Built by Mitchell Henry in 1867 as a gift for his wife, Margaret, the castle is one of the most iconic and photographed in Ireland. Since 1920, Benedictine nuns have made Kylemore home. Visitors today can explore the castle, a walled Victorian garden, and neo-Gothic church.
Hugging the western coast of the Emerald Isle, we made for the Cliffs of Moher. It’s here where Ireland ends — quite literally, as near 400foot cliffs drop precipitously to the Atlantic Ocean.
Pushing further south toward County Kerry, a fantastic playlist of contemporary Irish musicians played on the radio. I felt my ancestral spirit welling inside of me.
Killarney is billed as Ireland’s tourism capital, and for good reason. Near the town sits Ross Castle, built by the O’Donoghues in the late 1400s. My early “relatives” were the ruling clan at the time in Kerry, and the castle they built on Lake Leane was one of the last to fall when Oliver Cromwell, and his English army, invaded Ireland in the 1600s.
Not successful in gaining any misplaced inheritance or title to the castle, we left for the Ring of Kerry, and let the 190-kilometre loop of road unfold before us.
You will run out of words to describe the diverse beauty of this region. Unspoiled lakes and mountains, colourful villages that appear out of nowhere, flocks of sheep that plod along the road, and fields of vibrant green that fall off into the sea.
On the country’s south coast, we passed through Cork, Ireland’s second largest city, and stopped nearby in Cobh (pronounced Cove). Once known as Queenstown, Cobh has a long maritime tradition.
It was here that millions of Irish, my own ancestors, likely, left Ireland seeking a better life elsewhere. It was also the last place the Titanic stopped before its ill-fated journey. I meandered along the harbourfront, and paused to reflect at the Titanic Memorial Garden, which sadly doesn’t do justice to one of the greatest maritime tragedies of the 20th century.
Cobh is hilly, and the intrepid will be rewarded with a majestic view, punctuated by Cobh Cathedral that sits divinely atop the town. I charged up the steep incline of the street known locally as West View, my legs asking — why? In only a way an artist could have imagined, the cathedral is framed perfectly behind 25 crayon-inspired row houses, known as the Deck of Cards that rise colourfully with the elevation of the street.
Deep in County Wexford, we turned on to ever smaller roads, as if searching for a portal into Ireland’s history. Suddenly, we came to Wilton Castle. A horse-drawn carriage would have been more apt than our rental car, as we rolled along the estate’s long drive.
Wilton Castle dates from the 1300s. One half of the castle has been painstakingly refurbished. It oozes the kind of timeless grandeur you expect from a centuries-old castle, yet with contemporary comforts that make it hard to leave.
The other section of the castle is still in ruin, a sad reminder of Ireland’s painful history. In 1923, the castle was burned and ransacked by a gang of marauders during the Irish Civil War. Anything connected to the moneyed elite was targeted. The current owners, who also operate a small dairy farm, spent 15 years returning, if only partly, Wilton Castle to its former glory.
Have you ever wanted to live like a queen or king for a day? The large suites, with multiple bedrooms, living rooms, and modern kitchens will make you feel regal. The gracious hosts will even make breakfast for you in your suite. We wished to have stayed longer, but Dublin was calling. If Ireland’s history is spread like a beautiful tapestry across the country, then it all comes together in the island’s largest city, Dublin. I walked down Grafton Street, one of the city’s main shopping areas, and breathed in the show of street musicians and performers. I passed Trinity College, which opened in 1592, and statues paying homage to Ireland’s literary giants — Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, and George Bernard Shaw, to name just a few.
My journey ended at my namesake pub, O’Donoghue’s, on Merrion Row, overflowing with people. Originally built as a grocery store in the 1700s, the pub has a long history of cultivating Irish musicians.
I found a stool near a quartet of musicians, setting up in a corner. Soon, the lively sounds of an accordion, the rhythm of a small Irish drum, and the strumming of a guitar had me tapping my foot.
After a few songs, one of the musicians, an old soul, sang Galway Bay, bringing to life the song’s lyrics — a tribute to the unique and independent spirit of Ireland. I felt a shiver. And knew then that I was home.