A Journey to Ireland: Finding Peace and Family
The news seemed all bad: shootings, wars, politics. It’s enough to give anyone a headache. I put down the newspaper, turned off the news, took a Tylenol and headed for Ireland. Ireland is a hotbed of tranquility these days, prosperous and welcoming where a notably civilized campaign for the ceremonial position of president is underway.
The election seems low-key, but under the surface there’s concern about Ireland’s immigration policy. The government has welcomed new immigrants, but there’s a backlash. There’s a sort of unease, a feeling that the sense of what it means to be Irish is being diluted by new people. Irish hospitality continues to be famous, but you hear things.
I tend to forget all that when the coast of Ireland comes into view after a 10-hour flight. Even from the air the countryside is distinct: like a green checkerboard, fences, fields, small towns. It’s surprisingly small, only 15 minutes to fly all the way across the country, from the Atlantic to the Irish Sea. Dublin Airport must have been designed by people who like to walk – long, almost endless corridors, around corners, down stairs until you are finally out in the air. It’s chilly with a promise of rain. Dublin autumn weather.
A long taxi ride to the hotel, a nap to shake off the jet lag, a cup of tea, then out for a walk. Ireland is one of those rare places in the world that gets better with time. The streets are clean and lively, the food is much better. Grafton Street, Dublin’s main shopping street, is crowded day and night. It’s a literate country; storytelling is a national pastime.
Every writer with even a touch of Irish – even newspaper hacks like me – wants to check out literary Ireland, particularly the pubs where James Joyce used to hang out. There must be a dozen of them. I tried two.
“I always write about Dublin,” Joyce wrote, “Because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.”
Supposedly the most Joycean pub is Davy Byrnes at 21 Duke St. Leonard Bloom, the hero in “Ulysses,” stops by Davy Byrnes on his famous walk through the city and orders a Gorgonzola sandwich and a glass of burgundy. He’s a regular there. “He doesn’t chat. Stands a drink now and then … cashed a check for me once.”
Davy Byrnes still has burgundy and a Gorgonzola sandwich on the menu (20 euros), and a picture of Joyce flashes on an overhead screen now and then, but the winds of change have swept over the place. It’s a modern restaurant, kind of ordinary in a 21st century way. But it’s a shrine, the starting place for the annual Bloomsday celebration held around the world every June 16.
Joyce and his literary friends, Samuel Beckett among them, might feel more comfortable at the International, down the corner and up the street. The International, founded in 1838 as Ruggy O’Donohoe’s, is a bright, old-timey pub in one of those old Victorian red brick buildings that give Dublin a distinctive look. It’s on Wicklow Street, not far from Trinity College. A long bar, dark wood, big old gilt mirrors, a dozen taps to pour a proper pint. A chatty publican ready to banter with visiting Americans.
It’s a place for music, strong drink and plenty of it. It’s a place of memories, too. On some days it’s the starting point of a walking tour of places that played a role in the 1916 Easter Rising, the revolt against British rule that marked the birth of modern Ireland. Every night of the week, the International also hosts a comedy show upstairs – an Irish show advertised as “all things funny.” That’s Ireland for you – history and comedy over a pint of beer.
I had a pint myself, and walked around the corner where there was a crowd around the statue of Molly Malone, the fishmonger who is said to represent the spirit of the city.
A street busker stood a bit apart and sang:
In Dublin’s fair city
Where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive-o!
I left Dublin’s fair city the next day, headed south to County Kilkenny for the real purpose of my trip: a family reunion in the small town of Callan. My mother, Mary Roche, was born in Callan and, like millions of Irish people, immigrated to the United States.
Over the years our own Irish and German American family had lost touch with our Irish roots. But family histories are big in these internet days, so not long ago we connected with our Irish cousins; we’ve made a trip to Ireland a fall tradition.
Last year it was a birthday, this year a family gathering in Callan’s best pub, the Steppes Bar on the town’s main street. Cousin Patrick Roche and his wife, Betty, came from Upton, Mass. I persuaded my younger daughter, Lynn Murray, and her husband, Ken, to detour from a European trip to stop by Ireland on the way home to San Diego. And we had Irish cousins Paul Roche and his son, also named Paul, along with Paddy Roche, Paul’s brother. A grand gathering.
My faithful companion, the Sailor Girl, stayed behind in San Francisco with a cold. But we toasted her nonetheless. We talked, showed old pictures, told old stories and heard about people we never knew.
It’s the old country, as my mother called it. It’s pretty, it’s tranquil, it’s welcoming. And it’s also family, and that makes a difference. We’ll be back.
