A Little Fam in Ireland

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
– Leo Tolstoy, first sentence of Anna Karenina

A family is somewhat of a fixed entity. You can’t choose your parents or your siblings or your cousins. Yet every family changes over time and each stage comes with its own challenges and opportunities.

I’ve always considered my family a happy family. Yet without my Mom, who’d been the connective tissue that held us all together, it’s been harder. My Dad, as a single parent, has had to take on some of her former roles.

The last time my Dad visited Ireland was 1999. My Mom had come along, pregnant with my brother Johnny. It was a family trip, his parents & siblings all coming along. Everyone except for his two sons. (At 4 years old I was quite the big boy — where was my invite!?!?)

23 years later, my Dad returned to Ireland, without his wife or his mom. Instead he brought three of his kids with two of their girlfriends. It was the first time this group came together.

Corey & I arrived first to Dublin and our Airbnb, secluded by trees and filled with pictures of a young married couple and their redheaded kids. It was a sleepy day (given we’d slept little on the plane) and it was a short day (given the time difference).

The next morning, the sky grey and heavy, I walked outside to seagulls mewing overhead. Henry & my Dad arrived that afternoon, at which point we headed pretty much directly to the Guinness Storehouse.

We learned a fun fact or two — such as that the beer is so darkly-colored because they burn the barley — but really we were there for the tasting. Our guide urged: “No little sips like you would in a wine tasting. If you don’t take a big gulp, we’re kicking you out!” Thankfully they didn’t see Corey’s sips.

The real prize of the tour, other than gulps and the Whistling Oyster, was the view from the top. From the Gravity Bar we could see all of Dublin, from the historic downtown and the Irish Sea to Phoenix Park and the Wicklow Mountains.

Beers swilled, we hopped over to the Jameson Distillery, just on time for our tasting, during which our guide implored us to swirl the whiskey around the glass. “See the drops running down the sides? In wine tasting those are called the Legs. But what do we call them in Ireland? We call them the Tears.”

When we finished at 7pm, the sky was as blue as if it were noon. We crossed the River Liffey and popped in to the first pub we could find: The Brazen Head. Imagine our surprise when the bartender told us it’s the oldest pub in Dublin, having opened its doors over 800 years ago.

Full of stout and, in my case, bangers & mash, we strolled back home along the river, stopping once at a public house certified with the James Joyce Pub Award for being “truly authentic.” I wonder what Joyce himself would have thought about the matter. How touristy would a place have to get for its award to be rescinded?

Our touring continued the next morning, when we met a lady named Marianne outside Trinity College. Marianne had known my late grandfather, and had been referred to us when my Dad, out to dinner in Chicago, ran into a friend of the family: “Oh you’re going to Ireland? You have to link up with Marianne Gorman — knows Dublin like the back of her hand. She’s 90 or something.”

Well, I don’t think she was quite 90, but she certainly had a stately presence. We began by walking the main plaza of Trinity, following in the footsteps of my cousin who’d spent a semester abroad there. “Your cousin! Yes, he worked with my son,” remarked Marianne.

We soon found ourselves at the library. Certainly it was quite a historic library. It held the Book of Kells (“one of the most important books in the world”), busts of Shakespeare and other luminaries, and a large wooden harp in a glass case, in front of which Marianne reminisced that “I’ve heard that harp played.”

Along our way towards the National Archaeology Museum, Henry & Marianne exchanged a few words in French, prompted by our passing the Alliance Française building. Apparently it used to be a drinking & gambling house, “for debauchery” — and back then even the monkeys were debauched, according to the building’s stone column.

The highlight of the Archaeology Museum was certainly the Kingship & Sacrifice exhibit, featuring some rather repulsive Bog Bodies:

I also appreciated:

• A head with three faces, representing that when you’re born you’re living and when you’re living your dying.

• Tombs, built 5000 years ago, that on a single day each year (the winter solstice) allowed a shaft of light to penetrate 19 meters deep into the tomb so spirits could rise and follow it out.

• That you shouldn’t use a Cursing Stone lightly. If you use one to put a curse on someone and they deserve it, they’ll be cursed. But if you’re wrong, and they don’t deserve it, you’ll be cursed.

• The pagan influence — Kildare derives from “Church of the Oak Trees”

We lunched right off St. Stephen’s Green at Peploe’s. While they aren’t quite Irish delicacies, I couldn’t resist the arancini and bouillabaisse. Henry opted for dessert with a little jiggle.

In the park we learned it’s Irish Flower Week, as a few ladies interrupted Henry’s bromance with the Oscar Wilde statue to put some flowers around its neck. The statue, mind you, had no time for Henry; it was too busy ignoring its pregnant wife to stare at the ideal male torso.

“I can resist everything except temptation”
– Oscar Wilde

In the National Gallery of Ireland, Corey came across a painting set somewhere in Holland. “Lyle we’re so close to Amsterdam. We should goooooo.” She’d gone abroad there and dreams of a return. It was only a short flight away.

As we finished up at the gallery, Marianne left us to attend a showing of Girl from the North Country. So the four of us walked to Davy Byrne’s. At first it seemed like there would be no room at all, but the hostess found us seats at the bar, and a few whiskey cocktails later we were chatting with the manager. “Any of you read Ulysses? You know Joyce mentions Davy Byrne’s by name!” As the only one in our group who has read it, he pulled me into Molly’s Room at the back of the restaurant to show me their first edition encased in glass. “You shoulda seen it here on Bloomsday!”

Soon enough, we found ourselves seated at a table, and the owner swung by for a chat. “…Recently redid the whole place. You see this painting behind you? It was all covered up, black with smoke. I got experts from the museum to come restore it, and we had people who’d been drinking here 30 years saying ‘Did you guys get a new painting?’ Nope. It was painted in 1942 by a guy who sat at this very bar and would sketch while he drank whiskey.”

Returning back at night, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed a fox, scurrying in & out of the bushes, debating when to make its move on a dead chicken.

At Marsh’s Library the next morning, the librarian Sue showed us books ranging from astronomy (feat. hand-drawn comets), to fiction (another first edition of Ulysses), to ornithology (colorful illustrations including a Kingfisher from Bengal, the State Bird of Illinois, and an elusive Hummingbird). She also pointed out a few books featuring bulletholes that dated from British occupation.

A map of Ireland highlighted the social strata of yesteryear: the Irish Gentleman, the Civil Irish Man, and the Wild Irish Man. A map of the world featured sea monster after sea monster, one having quite a humanoid face.

If you thought a stone column depicting monkeys playing pool was interesting, I daresay this concrete representation of Gulliver being tied up by the Lilliputians is even better. Jonathan Swift may be a satirist, but he held more serious jobs as well, such as Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where we briefly stopped and heard the choir sing.

My brother Johnny had arrived that morning from Chicago. For him, a recent college graduate, Ireland merely marked the beginning of a monthlong trek throughout Europe. As we ventured below Dublin Castle to inspect the old moat and tower, the constant movement and capturing of photos kept him awake.

We capped that day’s touring in the Dublin Castle staterooms and then in Chester Beatty’s collection before taking a taxi out to Sandymount.

For what reason did we visit Sandymount? None other than that our good friend Marianne from the day before had invited us to her house for wine and hors d'oeuvres. We sat in her garden, but not before wandering through the brush and eating fresh fruit right off the branch: raspberries, gooseberries, and red currants. Corey smelled as many flowers as she could, including poppies all the way from California. Henry, on the other hand, was busy making acquaintance with Marianne’s cat, who just so happened to be named Henry.

We walked into town for a dinner of prawns, pasta, and red wine. I recall reminiscing over photos & stories of my Mom.

We retired fairly early and woke up early the next morning to head west. But not before heading to the Aerfort to pick up Johnny’s girlfriend, Rae.

Yes, Aerfort. For accuracy’s sake, it’s actually the Aerfort Bhaile Átha Cliath, which is Gaelic for Dublin Airport.

Driving through downtown Dublin for our last time this trip, I realized just how cute its bridges are. Lots of variety from the cast-iron Ha’penny Bridge to the cable-stayed Samuel Beckett Bridge, which resembles a harp.

On our drive across the island, us group of “kids” played a variety of card games, including Gin Rummy, Hearts, Pot Limit Omaha, President, and, last but not least, Go Fish.

Right about in the center of the island, we stopped at a gas station in Moneygall. But this was no ordinary rest stop — this was Barack Obama Plaza, dedicated for his visit to Moneygall in 2011. Now, you might ask, why did the President of the United States visit a small village in the middle of Ireland? It turns out Moneygall is an ancestral home of his, from which his great-great-great grandfather from his mother’s side emigrated to America in 1850. If you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe The New Yorker.

It’s through his mother’s side too that Barack Obama is a distant kinsman of mine — seventh-cousin to be exact:

Not that that means much. Another way of thinking about it is that of my 256 great-great-great-great-great-great grandparents, I share two of them with the former president. 2 out of 256. That’s less than 1% of my lineage.

Sometimes it feels as if everybody has Irish roots — nearly half of all US Presidents, my family through (mostly) the Scotch-Irish, and even Corey, whose name derives from Gaelic.

By 3pm we’d finally made it to the west coast for lunch at Vaughan’s Anchor Inn. I was ready to indulge, making quick work of a seafood chowder, a couple red ales, and a massive plate of fish & chips. My stomach was not overly pleased with me.

We attempted to walk off our meal at the Cliffs of Moher, but it was too foggy to see much of anything. We were able to smell the sea, hear the waves, and climb a watchtower.

At our B&B in Doolin, we got a quick rest while the host family’s redheaded children ran around and played outside, then set out for the pubs in town. First the Fiddle & Bow, which featured a live band sporting a banjo and an accordion, but surprisingly not a fiddle. We did a little tasting of Irish Whiskey: Redbreast, Green Spot, and Writer’s Tears — the last an ode to the country’s alcoholic authors.

Next we walked down the street to McGann’s, which felt more like a genuine Irish Pub than any other place we stopped throughout the trip. A group of young adults played cards at the table across from us, a shot and a Guinness in front of each. The room got quiet and then clapped along as a grey-haired lady took the open mike. Henry speculated as to how he’d open a standup bit if he were at the mike: “Ummmm… ‘Airplane food… amirite?’”

Everyone of course speaks English in Ireland, but sometimes the accent can be difficult for us Americans to understand. Take this bathroom encounter for instance:

“Anyoya chaps knotha tayme?”

It took his repeating himself before I realized that ‘tayme’ means ‘time’ and responded with “midnight.” He nodded thanks, looked in the mirror, reached into his pocket, and began combing his hair.

We walked home single-file in the darkness, Johnny & Henry wearing reflective vests to catch the attention of passing cars. Wish I could say we saw the stars, but it was still overcast. Yet by the morning, it cleared up just enough for us to see the Cliffs of Moher. This time we took a boat.

Towards the end of Cliffs proper, there’s an archway carved by the sea. One day the archway will collapse, leaving a pillar of stone standing alone amidst the crashing waves. That’s how I felt one year ago, like that pillar of stone. I was by myself, adrift on my trip across the country, hiking alone in the Mountain West. Yet now I feel more tethered to land.

We could see a lot of life from our boat, but it all looked tiny. Tiny people atop the cliff, tiny cars weaving throughout the hillside, tiny cows milling about. All moving in silence. In the distance, tiny birds seemed to float about like dust motes. A few puffins flew close to our boat. Even they were smaller than I’d expected, flapping their wings fast like Flappy Bird.

On our way back to shore we had rolling hills to our right and a chain of islands to our left. The Aran Islands, not the Iron Islands.

For some reason, as we drove off, I began to feel rather carsick. Maybe it was being on the boat, maybe it was the winding roads of aptly-named Corkscrew Hill. It was bummer though — couldn’t enjoy that gorgeous landscape. Everyone even got out and took a picture without me.

Thankfully I felt well enough to get out when we stopped to visit a castle. Perhaps all I needed was some fresh air and stable ground.

Dunguaire Castle sure put today into context. Its map of 17th-century trade out of Galway evoked the reality of living on an island. A mural depicted the castle over the years, including 1968 which proudly sported a tour bus.

Have you heard of Lady Christobel Amptill? No? Well I’m surprised. She was one of the best judges of horseflesh in Europe.

For another late lunch, we stopped at Moran’s of the Weir. Our table overlooked the Kilcolgan River, across which horses grazed in the meadow. We read the first sentence of the menu — “But First, Oysters!” — and that was enough prompting for us to down two dozen of them, as fresh & fleshy as can be.

A sign warned people not to drive their car into the river. So it’s been done before…

We spent the rest of the afternoon driving back east. Most of the car slept as I gazed out at the greenery—the trees with tangled roots, the bushes to hide behind, canopies to run beneath. I could imagine living a childhood summer here, dirt underfoot. Sunlight shone golden on the leaves.

After dropping our bags at the hotel, we sampled a few spots along the Bray Seafront before resting up for the next day’s festivities. It would be our final full day in Ireland.

Now what do I mean by festivities? And for that matter, why did we even come to Ireland in the first place? Not that you really need a reason to go anywhere. Yet we had one: a friend of the family, Kaitlyn, was marrying an Irishman named James. The wedding was that afternoon at the groom’s parents’ house, high on a hill in Enniskerry overlooking the Irish Sea.

We know Kaitlyn because of her sister Amanda, who used to babysit us. At the time, she was as much a part of our household as anyone. We even called ourselves (sans parents) the “Little Family” or “Little Fam”

Back when my Mom passed away in late 2019, Amanda flew all the way from Australia, where she was living at the time, just to be at the memorial in Illinois. Kaitlyn met her there from Philadelphia. We’d seen them in the meantime in San Francisco for Amanda’s wedding and in Chicago. Now we saw them again, side by side, as the older sister toasted the younger.

People came from all around the world for this wedding — from America, Australia, Spain, and Italy. And I’m sure a few others I’m forgetting.

As for the festivities — we sipped champagne, we mingled, we ate steak, we drank Irish Coffee, we mingled, we nibbled on cake, we danced. What more needs be said?

The next day, we woke up, drove to the airport, waited in a few long lines, and went our separate ways. Johnny & Rae continued on to Scotland, Dad & Henry returned to Chicago, and Corey & I flew for LA.

Like my trip to Morocco over spring break, this trip felt fast & crazy, like a blur. I suppose one week isn’t enough to feel immersed in a place. Yet we got some good family time. We missed my brother Ray (working in Chicago) and as always we miss my Mom. But this time we had Corey with us. There’s no feeling like seeing her walk arm in arm with my Dad, who’s father of four boys but has never had a daughter.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past future”