DanMargarita.com

I’d been to the U.K. a number of times, but never to the Emerald Isle. I’ve never been particularly interested in my ancestry, but since I was heading there I figured I’d do what I could to trace my roots. I wasn’t expecting some sort of Alex Haley “Kunta Kinte I have found you” moment like in his novel-turned-miniseries “Roots,” but was warming to the idea of seeing the land from where my roots came.

The furthest I’d managed to go as far back was my great, great grandfather Dennis McGillicuddy, born somewhere in Ireland in 1830. That was as much as I could determine with free sources available on the internet. It seemed like every supposedly “free” website led you to the pay service Ancestry.com.

I kept a running account of my trip and will spend the next few weeks sharing it with you.

Day 1---As he often has, my friend John pick me up to give me a lift to the Logan Express in Woburn to help me save $15 on a cab ride. We pull up at 2:29 trying to catch the 2:30 shuttle. As I get out of the car the bus pulls away. Now I have to wait for the 3:00. John and I have a cup of coffee and chat for a while and then he heads to work. After he leaves I realize that I still have my car keys with me, which in itself isn’t a problem, but they’re attached to my Swiss Army knife which I know will never get past security at Logan.

I inquire at the desk if they can “check” items like a bus station, but am told they cannot. I don’t want to throw this away, as it was a present for being in a friend’s wedding and is a very useful tool. Looking for a place to hide it, I stick it in the base of a potted plant at the Logan Express terminal.

After checking in at Logan Airport, I’m directed to the security line, which turns out to be the longest security line I’ve ever seen. It stretches from the x-ray machines across the terminal, down the hall until coming to an end at the next terminal.

The guy behind me, who looks like a cross between actors Bill Pullman and David Duchovny, wants to chat incessantly with me in between cell phone calls. All things considered the line moves pretty quickly until we get to the x-ray machines where it splits into three lanes.

At this point cell phone guy gets in the left lane while I stay in the center lane. Fifteen minutes later he’s thirty feet in front of me smiling and waving to me---while chatting on his cell phone.

When we get to the gate the ticket agent has some fun with the kid in front of me. Looking at his passport, he tells him “You can’t go.”

After letting the kid’s face turn a tad pale, he informs that he didn’t sign his passport. Not wanting to torment the young man for too long he tells him to sign it on the plane and let’s him go.

All systems are go and now it’s off to Ireland.

No Blarney, Pt.II

Day 2---I arrive at Shannon Airport and as I get off the plane and clear customs, my first destination in Ireland is a men’s room. They don’t call it a men’s room, bathroom or restroom over there, but instead refer to it as a “toilet” which sounds a bit crude to American ears. If you ask most Americans where the “toilet” is, they’ll tell you it’s in the bathroom.

Next I make my way to the Thrifty car rental agency, where I’ve booked a car. The man and woman working the counter are very friendly and polite. Perhaps that’s why I let the woman talk me into buying tons of insurance, which makes the bill jump 150 percent. Well, that and the fact that I know driving on the left side of the road might be hazardous. The guy gives me directions and draws a map emphasizing to the dumb American that when I come to a rotary or “roundabout” that I go clockwise.

Making my way to my car I don’t mind the steady rain considering the previous two days in Boston it was either snowing or in single digit temperatures, and it’s good to actually see grass again, greener than I’ve ever seen it.

I look for a breakfast place near the airport that’s been recommended to me, but can’t find it as I’m more concerned with not freaking out while trying to drive on the left side of the road. Having missed it, I pull into a hotel for breakfast and the waitress asks if I want a “traditional Irish breakfast.”

I ask what that is and she says “bacon, eggs and sausage.”

I’m tempted to tell her that she might do well to include “angioplasty.”

Unsure whether to tip, which they don’t do in the U.K., I ask the hotel clerk if they tip in Ireland and she says “yes.” That’s probably the wrong person to ask, like asking a child if he wants ice cream. They’re not likely to say “no.”

Americans don’t enjoy the best reputation overseas, so I make sure to tip anyway to leave a good impression.

My first destination (excluding the men’s room and a breakfast place) recommended in my Fodor’s travel book is Bunratty Castle, which Fodor’s describes as a “must.” Unfortunately it’s closed so I “must” come back another time.

I then make my way to the nearest major town, Limerick City, which according to Fodor’s has nothing to do with the form of rhyme. None the less, since I’m going to Limerick City, I feel I should write some limericks, so here goes:

There once was a man from Stoneham
who vowed that no woman would own him
He never got married, now he’s single and harried
‘cause he can’t get a woman to phone him

Of course some limericks are known to be risque and I wrote one of those too, but I know I could never get it in this paper.

There doesn’t seem to be much on street parking so I opt for a garage and walk down to a pedestrian area where there’s a small outdoor boutique amongst the shops. One table features knit stocking caps in various colors with the New York Yankee “NY” on them. There’s also one Chicago White Sox hat.

I go into a church and see a man with a Michigan State Wolverine jacket and a woman with a Miami Dolphins hat.

There are apparently no leash laws in Ireland as numerous wet stray dogs roam the streets. I know that my coat has a hood tucked into it, but I’ve never had occasion to use it, but tired of getting wet I finally figure out how to get the hood out. Hey, I’ve only owned the coat for a year. I figure no one in Ireland knows me, so I don’t care if I look like a geek.

I pop into a used book and record store and strike up a conversation with the owner who, when I ask where there might be galleries and museums not only writes down a list for me, but lists the order of the easiest route for me.

After checking out the galleries I stop into St. Mary’s church where I’m admitted after a two euro donation. Whether or not they’ll let me in without the donation, I don’t try to find out. The next stop is King John’s Castle. Built originally in the 12th century by King John (hence the name) who never actually set foot it, and in fact only set foot twice in Ireland, it provides an incredible view overlooking the town and the Shannon River.

King John was not very popular among his subjects and was eventually forced to sign the Magna Charta, probably at sword point.

Looking for something to eat and wanting Irish cuisine, I decide to pass up the McDonald’s and ask a local to recommend someplace and he directs me to a Texas steakhouse. Instead I stop into a cafe for a cup o’ tea and some cheesecake.

Leaving the garage I don’t realize that your supposed to pay before you put your ticket in the machine that lifts the gate. The attendant comes over and explains it to me and looks at my ticket and figures I owe about 7 euros. I give him a five and pull out a handful of change, both U.S. and Euro. The one and two euro are coins, not paper. He sees a U.S. quarter and excitedly asks “What’s that?”

I explain what 25 cents is and stating that he is a coin collector, he offers a deal. If I give him the quarter along with the five euro, I’ll be settled up. I gladly accept and give him a nickel, dime and penny for good measure.

Looking for lodging, I figure it’s cheaper out of town and find a bed & breakfast near Bunratty Castle called the Cratloe Lodge. Run by a sweet elderly couple Maura and Tom, it’s not fancy but it’s clean and reasonably priced.

I’m intrigued that the room key is an old fashioned skeleton key, the kind where you can look through the keyhole like in the old movies. Also, the sink like all the sinks I’ve seen is a two-faucet sink. You can’t get warm water. It’s either cold or hot, and that’s not always guaranteed.

After a much needed nap, I walk over to the pub next door to get something to eat, but the dining room isn’t open and the small pub is filled with cigarette smoke. Not wanting to offend anyone, I pretend to look at pictures around the room as I discreetly make my escape.

Then I hop into my car and drive down the road to Thady (Pronounced TAD-EE) O’Neill’s restaurant. The first thing I notice is that the people at the three tables around me are all Americans.

I didn’t know what to expect for Irish cuisine other than corned beef and cabbage, so I’m surprised to have a chicken stir-fry in a delicious curry sauce.

After dinner a waiter gives me direction to a club for some live music in Limerick. I’m hoping to hear some traditional Irish folk music, but find a rock band. Nonetheless, they’re pretty good. They play for an hour and then I call it a night.

No Blarney, Pt. III

Day 3---I wake up at 8:30 in Maura and Tom’s B&B. I don’t like to sleep late on vacation because I feel I should be exploring instead of sleeping, but I’m still exhausted from my transatlantic journey and I figure I’ll roll over and get a few more minutes of shut eye. The next thing I hear is the sound of vacuuming and instinctively recognize it as a not so subtle hint that I’ve overslept. I look at my watch which reads “10:30” and jump out of bed and into the shower.

I emerge and apologize profusely to Maura for oversleeping. She’s very gracious about it and still offers to give me breakfast which was supposed to be from 7:00-9:00 am. During breakfast Tom asks me where I’m headed and I tell him the Cliffs of Moher. He mentions that he and Maura were headed towards there but have canceled their plans. I take it as a dig at my oversleeping.

Getting in my car I put on the radio for the first time and the song playing is Ray Stevens’ 1974 hit “The Streak.”

After driving through the countryside I come into the town of Ennis. Pub’s abound everywhere, even in the smallest villages. For that matter, one can be driving in the middle of nowhere and come upon a roadside pub. The Irish don’t seem to take the problem of alcoholism that seriously, judging by the name of one liquor or “off license” store, “Tipsy McStagger’s.”

The Cliffs of Moher are far from any populated areas and a surprising number of people are out walking. To or from where I can’t imagine.

I park in the lot and make my way to the cliffs and notice that it’s a near gale force wind. If the idea of going up on the roof of my single story house to watch Fourth of July fireworks makes me uneasy, the notion of standing at the edge of a 700 foot cliff during extreme winds is not overly enticing.

Nevertheless, I summon up the courage to crawl out to the edge, which has no railing or barrier of any sort, along with others and peer down into the abyss, which at that point is approximately 500-600 feet.

The cliffs provide an astonishing view of the Atlantic Ocean, and the waves crashing into the rocks below make you realize the awesome power of nature.

Then I walk along the cliff up a muddy path that is very slippery and also has no railing. Between the precarious footing and the high winds it’s not inconceivable that you could go tumbling over the edge and truly become a part of the Irish landscape.

After the cliffs I drive south and hop a ferry and continue driving. The weather alternates between sunny and rainy. At one point it’s both sunny and rainy.

It starts to get dark and the narrow roads are harrowing enough in the daylight, so I decide that it’s probably best not to be negotiating them in the dark of the country night and head for the next town to look for lodging before nightfall.

I pull into Tralee, famous as the inspiration of the song “Rose of Tralee.” OK, most of us under 60 have never heard of it, but it seems to be a point of pride for the locals.

I check out a few B&B’s, one over a pub not being “en suite” with a private bathroom and looking like a seedy motel room is not to my liking. Finally I settle on a more expensive one which seems nicer, run by an elderly couple, as most of the B&B’s seem to be.

The pub is the center of social life in Ireland and it’s the best place to meet people. The only problem is that many of them are small and smoke filled.

I have dinner at The Brogue and then stop into their pub. It’s big and there are no customers and thus no smoke. The bartender is a young man named Gerry, in his second year at the university. He thinks that non smoking pubs will be mandatory in a few years and mentions that a couple of the bigger pubs in Dublin have gone to no smoking nights on Tuesdays and Wednesday resulting in their most successful nights of the week. We talk about football (soccer), rugby and Gaelic football.

Then an absolute must watch that’s riveting the nation is the TV show “Your a Star” which pits finalists Mickey Joe Harte and Sean Casey battling for the Irish championship. Mickey Joe’s pop tunes win over Sean’s syrupy ballads and Mickey Joe will go on to face the European champions.

Looking to meet more locals I find another pub which isn’t overly smoky. I manage to strike up a conversation with Tom by asking him about the poster of Michael Collins on the wall. Unfortunately Tom doesn’t know history that well and can’t tell me much other than that Collins was a freedom fighter (or terrorist depending on your point of view) who fought against British rule in the late teens and early twenties. I already knew that, but it leads to him asking others about Collins and I wind up talking to a variety of people who all tell me different places I must see in Ireland.

Day 4---I wake up to the sound of thunder. How far off I sit and wonder. Started humming a song...sorry, just a brief Bob Seger flashback.

I go into the small bathroom for a shower and discover that the shower has two temperatures.---ice cold and not quite ice cold.

After breakfast I drive to Dingle, a popular seaside resort in the summer that is an off-season favorite of such celebrities as Julia Roberts and Dolly Parton. There’s surprisingly few art galleries and I contemplate going to see the local tourist attraction “Fungie,” a dolphin who resides just offshore. Since it continues to alternate between rain and sunshine, I don’t want to go out on a boat and get soaked just to see a dolphin.

An older woman at one gallery agrees, saying “I tell people on a day like today to go to a pub, have a pint and turn your back to the window.”

With little to do in Dingle I decide to drive down to Killarney, a lively little college town. I book a B&B that’s a two-minute walk to the center of town and head there right away. As I walk down the main street thunder and lightening erupt and I decide that the doorway that I’m in front of is as good as any to enter, so I do and figure I’ll have dinner there since it’s an Italian restaurant. The service is good, but it ought to be since I’m the only customer.

Then I continue my quest for live Irish music and stop into a pub to see if they can point me in the right direction.

An American guy ordering at the bar is asking the bartender all the questions as to where there’s live music that I was planning to ask. The bartender, an Australian woman, tells him of a place around the corner that might have music. He sits down with the three other people from Chicago that he’s with, and I learn that of the other two people in the bar, one is from Toronto and her companion’s nationality I’m not able to discern. There wasn’t an Irishman in sight.

I walk to the club that the bartender has recommended but it’s not open yet. The band is rehearsing, but they’re playing American rock songs, not Irish folk music. Then I have the bright idea of taking a nap and going back later to see the band, but I never make it.

No Blarney, Pt. IV

Day 5---When I reach the parlor for Breakfast at my B&B in Killarney, there is a couple speaking a language that I, thinking myself as having a discerning ear for dialects, believe to be German. Fans of the classic British TV sitcom “Fawlty Towers” will know what I mean when I say I kept thinking “Don’t mention the war!”

It turns out I’m wrong as I’m later informed by one of the two American women who later join us that the couple is from the Netherlands. Eerie organ music, sounding like it belongs from Phantom of the Opera plays in the kitchen giving the scene a surreal quality.

I stop at the Killarney library to check my email and discover that the keyboard is just a little bit different. Most of it is the same but the quotation marks key is different and I have trouble quoting anyone in my messages.

Next it’s onto the highly recommended Ring of Kerry, a road which encircles the Iveragh Peninsula in the southwest of Ireland.

The rocky hills and mountains fit well with the ocean views that they oppose. There are numerous sheep on these hills and how they don’t go tumbling down the steep hillside is a mystery to me. A few of them may have, since there are a smattering of sheep wandering around unescorted on the road.

The economy is supposed to be booming in the Irish countryside and that is evident by the new townhouses dotting the landscape by the sea.

I can’t resist stopping in the upper class seaside resort of Waterville, and taking a picture of myself giving an “arse kick” to the statue of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character which resides on the side of the road along the beach. Apparently the film legend spent much time here and thus was honored by the locals.

I decide to get off of the ring of Kerry to drive closer to the MacGillycuddy Reeks (perhaps named after my ancestors?) despite the name sounding like an insult.

I can’t drive all the way through it because that’ll take me back to where I was and away from where I want to go. The back road is even narrower than the regular roads. At one point a young man in a red car comes barreling around a curve. I hit the brakes and have to back up to where I have the most room possible to let him by. I can only go so far over though, or I’ll slide down the hill into a small creek.

I eventually get back on the Ring of Kerry and pull into Kenmare at 5 pm. I stop for an ice cream and ask where I might find live music in town. She points out “The Square Pint” and a walk there turns into a let down when the manager tells me there’s no live music tonight.

I make my way to Foley’s nearby for a delicious salmon dinner. There’s yet another table of Americans sitting next to me and the mom, son and daughter are all smoking. Later, a man wearing a Bruins hat walks in.

An elderly Irishman wanders in and it’s clearly not his first stop at a pub this evening. He asks the bartender for one of those “red drinks” and the barkeep deciphers that he means a Bloody Mary. After a while the man decides to chat with the smoking family by walking over and telling him that he’s going to a play that evening. They feign interest for a while before the father suggests that the man come back after they’ve finished eating. His pride wounded, the Irishman walks out of the place without saying a word.

After dinner I take a stroll to another pub where a polite young man keeps calling me “sir.” Though most of Ireland is carpeted with rich, green grass, I’ve noticed that in some places there is brown grass and ask him if they’ve had some sort of drought. He laughs and explains that the brown grass is old grass, which is brown from the trampling of livestock, and that droughts are not very common in Ireland. He is soon replaced behind the bar by an Australian woman, the second to serve me on this trip so far.

I then find a lively spot where everyone is engrossed in the Arsenal-Roma football match and the bartender asks me if I’m an Arsenal fan. I tell her no and am impressed that she’s heard of the N.Y. Yankees, which she mentions in our conversation.

Unable to strike up a conversation with other locals there, I find a quiet spot with just two customers at the bar. The woman tending bar is British. I jokingly suggest that she’s much easier to understand than the Irish before realizing that I’ve probably offended the two locals at the bar and have likely ruined any chance to strike up a conversation.

Day 6---After breakfast, in which the only other diner is British, I grab a cup of coffee and the only edition of the USA Today that has arrived in town.

There’s a bookstore, which I’m hoping can provide some insight into my research of my roots. Indeed, one book gives the history behind various Irish names, but I can’t find “McGillicuddy” in it. Instead I find a spelling for “MacGillycuddy” and figure that the name changed in the New World. It also tells me that the name first appeared in County Kerry in the 16th century and came out of the O’Sullivan clan. I then find other books with spellings of “MacGillacuddy” and “MacGillicuddy.”

Someone has recommended driving the ring of Beara, which circles the Beara Peninsula. The ring of Kerry is very touristy and is becoming more developed but the ring of Beara is very remote. There are houses every now and then but a surprising number of pedestrians.

People are so friendly here and everyone waves as you drive by them. It’s a beautiful day, the first great day I’ve had, and I see an elderly man with a cane wearing a tweed jacket, a tweed scally cap and thick glasses standing with his hand out.

I don’t know if he’s waving or needs help. Just in case I stop and ask if I can assist him.

“Would ya mind giving me a lift up the road” he says with his classic Irish brogue.

“Sure, hop in.”

I introduce myself and he tells me his name is John O’Sullivan.

“It’s just about a hundreds yards up the road” he tells me.

We arrive at his home and he asks “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

“Why not?” I figure. I’m looking to meet the natives and I’m not on any time schedule.

I tell him that coffee, tea or soda will suffice.

He disappears into the other room where I see numerous bottles on the dining room table. He emerges with a bottle of Sprite, a glass and a bottle of Whiskey.

“Help yourself” he tells me, placing them in front of me. He’s not drinking due to a medical condition.

I find out that he lived in N.Y. City from 1947-60 where he worked for AT&T. His siblings had already moved there to find work which was in short supply in Ireland in the ‘40’s & ‘50’s.

I summon the courage to ask him how old he is.

“Oh, near 80 now.”

We chat for a while but when he tells me that N.Y.C. was safer back then because they didn’t have the “coloreds” I decide that it’s time to make my exit.

I tell him that I have to go and he replies “Oh, fine Dan, fine. Run on, then. Run on.”

As I continue to make my exit he wishes me a “safe journey to you, now.”

He then hits me with a question that I don’t expect and frankly throws me off balance.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” he enquires.

“Uh..no. I’ve really got to get going.”

“Oh, fine Dan, fine. Run on, then. Run on.”

As I drive away I ask myself “Was he hitting on me?”

I can’t help but laugh hysterically at what had a occurred. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt in that he was obviously very lonely, particularly being in the middle of nowhere, and perhaps just wanted to give me a tour of his place. My only regret was that I didn’t think to get a photo of him.

As I continue my drive I’m starting to get hungry. The towns are few and far between and although even the smallest town has at least three pubs, there’s no place to have a good meal. Somehow I get eventually get turned around and wind up heading back in the direction I came. The ring of Beara is a long drive and if I turn around to continue on it I’ll starve before I circle back towards Kenmare where I know I can get a good meal.

As I pass John O’Sullivan’s place I know that if I don’t stop to get a photo of him I’ll regret it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of my life. If he was in fact hitting on me, I’m not too concerned, figuring that I can handle the unwanted advances of an eighty year old man if need be.

I knock on the door and as he opens it I announce “I’m back.”

“Oh, Dan. Cup o’ tea?”

I decline and ask him if he’d mind posing for a photo in the outfit I first saw him wearing. He agrees and as he puts on his jacket, my suspicions seem to be proven correct.

“Were ya ever married, Dan?”

“No.”

“Oh, single. Got a girlfriend, then?”

“No. I was seeing a woman, but that ended” I informed him, adding “I’m sure I’ll be dating another woman soon” in an attempt to emphasize just which side of the plate I bat from.

He posed for the photos and he bid me adieu again, noting that was “a glorious day, glorious day.”

After lunch at the upscale Mickey Ned’s in Kenmare I hit the road and pick up the N22, one of the few major highways in Ireland. Mind you, a major highway in Ireland seems to have a maximum of three lanes total at occasional points.

Getting on the N22 I notice two teenage girls sitting on a railing chatting, while across the road a boy walks with his book bag in his hand. You wouldn’t dream of letting your kids to this in the U.S.

The N22 moves past some upscale suburbs into Cork City. It is Ireland’s second largest city behind Dublin, but pales in size by comparison. After checking into a B&B I make my way to an Italian restaurant, Ciao Ciao’s. The food is good, but the portions are small especially considering the price.

After dinner I decide to take in a movie, the Jack Nicholson film “About Schmidt,” which I give a thumbs up.

On my walk back towards my B&B I hear live music coming from a club and figure I’ll check it out. Before I can ask what the cover charge is, the doorman points to my sneakers and says “Sorry sir, no trainer’s.”

“No, problem” I respond and continue down the street where I hear the sound of a guy with a guitar emanating from a pub.

I enter and find a guy singing a blues tune to a room of about six people. There are more patrons in the back drinking and playing pool.

At some point an inebriated young man staggers up to the singer and asks to sing a song. The singer, a man named Paul who hails from New York, tells him no and puts down his guitar and stands at the bar until the kid exits.

After the drunk kid’s friends get him out of the place, the singer resumes for a while before another drunk comes up and stands in front of him while he plays. The drunk then turns around and heads back toward the pool table before feigning a kick in my direction. He’s not that close and can barely stand up and poses no real threat. That seems as good a time as any to call it a night.