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Revolutionary Countess: Travel Goals Ireland
We visit Lissadell house on a warm summer afternoon. The family home of the Gore-Booths, Lissadell sits outside of Sligo, Ireland. It is now owned and lived in by Irish attorneys who allow tours to offset the upkeep. The estate had a great location with both Ben Bulben and Knocknarea mountains in view as well as the beautiful sea.
As we enter the old stables, now a cafe/gift shop/ museum we encounter two older Irish men having tea. One was chatty. He followed me and clearly wanted to talk. I indulged him as we had plenty of time. In a very Irish way, we find out that they know the family we are renting from. This leads to family stories of business ventures and ancestors. They could have talked all day, but we had a house to visit.
In the small museum, we learn about the Booth-Gore sisters, Constance and Eva. Their father was an Anglo-Protestant landlord who reportedly provided free food to tenants during the famine and was an arctic explorer. His daughters were forces of nature. They were friends of Yeats who memorialized them in verse. Eve went on to be involved in the women’s suffrage movement. Constance helped change a nation.
As I walk through the house and grounds, I see her artistic talent on display. She met her husband, Count Markievicz at a Paris art school. As an Irish socialite she turned heads. But her life changed as she began to meet Irish people who dreamed of freedom for their country. I look at paintings, drawings, and writing. There is no shortage of revolutionary material in the collection.
She went to meetings advocating Irish independence and actively campaigned against a young Winston Churchill. She was arrested for throwing stones at a painting of the king and queen and for speaking at rallies. She sold off possessions to feed the poor and ran operations to shield protestors from the police. I am learning that this woman was courageous and passionate about the Irish people.
She participated in the Easter Rising including the fighting at St. Stephen’s Green. She was tried and sentenced to death, but was given a reprieve because she was a woman. When told she said, “I do wish you lot had the decency to shoot me.”
Inside the house, I see the carvings she and her sister made on the woodwork. I imagine little girls full of dreams. Constance could not have dreamed she would one day be the first woman elected to British Parliament or that she would serve in the Irish government as a cabinet officer. And yet she made history. Not in a loud or self serving way, she served others.
She grew up in luxury, yet she lived for the people. At her death she had given her money away. She died in a ward among the poor where is “where she wanted to be.” A revolutionary countess indeed.
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Home Away From Home: Travel Goals Ireland
When we travel, we try to rent locally. Ideally, we find a property that has been in the family for awhile. I look for local hosts who have great reputations. We avoid corporate rentals.
I love spaces that feel lived in. I want local connections. But it is hard to make a selection from photographs and emails when we will be staying on the other side of the world in a place where we haven’t been. We factor cost, location, house layout, and hosts. But eventually we have to just make a choice.
Part of the fun is traveling to the house and stepping across the threshold for the first time. On that first day I question whether we picked the right neighborhood and whether the house will meet our needs. By the last day, it almost always feels like home. We have been lucky in our selection.
In Ireland, I am deep in farm country. The smell of peat hits me as I open the front door. I notice that there is firewood and peat stacked by wood-burning stoves in both the dining room and the living room. Wood smoke always makes me feel content as there is something calming about a fire.
The farmhouse is quirky and lovely in its imperfections. It has clearly seen a lot of life and love in its walls. Decorations are tasteful yet authentic. Generations of objects on mantels and walls. Each has its own unique story.
The floors slope from decades of use. The electrical boxes are jumbled above the front door where they were added over time, based on each technological advancement. The couches have lumps in just the right places. A large dining room table with chips and dings from frequent family gatherings offers a place to work and regroup.
The house is clean and functional. It sings of family. Maybe it reminds me of my grandparents house. The rooms are small but plentiful. Upstairs bedrooms under the eaves, remind me of the many times I snuggled into a feather bed in an upstairs attic. I can almost imagine grandma puttering downstairs as I drift off to sleep.
I will have to remember to flip the switches to turn on and off the electrical outlets. The stove and microwave won’t work until the electricity is turned on. Even the heating system runs from a timer that must be activated. So much to remember that is different than our usual existence.
On this trip, I already know how to operate the washer. I am not surprised that the dryer is simply a clothes rack. I am intrigued, however, with the choice to put the dishwasher in the laundry room. I will do the dishes in the kitchen sink because carrying them back and forth across the house is nonsensical to me. But people make choices for reasons that are logical for their situation and I am just a guest in someone’s home. They are allowing me the privilege of living in their space for a short while.
After unpacking on move in day, I sit and take in the views from the patio. The mountain is spectacular in the afternoon sun. I wonder what the month will bring?
On our last day in the farmhouse, I sit in the same place and breathe in the smell of sweet grass and sheep. This place has become part of me. It feels like home and is rooted in my being. I am attached. This time we picked the right home away from home.
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The Shearing: Travel Goals
When we travel, we prefer to stay local. We found a family farm that was willing to rent us the old homestead for a month. Our host and his father Desi, were wonderful “neighbors” and kept us connected to the community.
So when Desi invited us to the annual sheep shearing, I assumed that it would be an opportunity to take some photos and experience a slice of life far outside my usual routine.
I heard Desi giving commands to his dog Twee before I crossed the road to the field. I called to my husband and headed over to take photos. But Dese waved to me from on top of the hillside and indicated that he needed help. They were trying to move the herd to the shearing pens, but both he and the dog were exhausted.
A small group of acrobatic sheep would not comply. Instead they scattered and balked. The dog was clearly exhausted. Desi didn’t look much better. We were reinforcements.
We walked slowly down the hillside, driving the sheep ahead. Tightening our circle as we walked, we were able to get them into the pens without difficulty. Desi expressed his thanks and Twee jumped into the water to cool off.
We stood talking and waiting for the shearers. I noticed Desi sigh. He pointed back up the steep hill. We missed one. I walked back up, careful to swing wide and behind the sheep hiding in the dense undergrowth. When I got close, I could see there was a newborn lamb.
It was such a pleasure walking the mother and babe down the hill. The reeds looked greener and the sky bluer than humanly possible. The ewe’s bleating was soft and reassuring like a lullaby. Time seemed to stand still.
At the pens, chaos ensued. Sheep jumped on and over each other looking for an exit. The shearers wasted no time setting up shop. They put on their special shoes and grabbed the clippers. Sheep were hauled out and thrown on their back. They were shaved head to toe.
Some sheep fought back. Their twisting and turning caused bloody nicks and cuts. Other older sheep wisely laid completely still and trotted away in their naked indignity.
Thanks for the craic, Desi (and Twee). It was an experience I will not soon forget.
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Origins: Travel Goals
I like to dabble in family history. I have heard and sought out the stories where I could. Scots Irish traders settle in Appalachia and meet Cherokee women. English settlers meet somewhere along the way and mingle in one twisted tree. Some branches dry up as written record and oral traditions meet. I have traced roots to Tennessee and North Georgia Cherokee communities. I have visited graves in the Cotswolds and read records in Antrim, Wexford and Cork.
I have stood on docks and wondered if this is where someone took their last look of home. I walked sections of the trail of tears and wondered what it must be like to be forced from the forests and farms. I have read famine stories and heard of desperate ancestors stowing away on ships bound for America.
Today I stand in the parking lot of the Ulster American Folk Park in Omagh, Northern Ireland. The first thing I see is a bronze sculpture linking the Scots Irish community that immigrated from here to the Cherokee. I am intrigued. I thought I was visiting a living history farm and now I am confronted with my heritage.
The park is well kept and documents the immigration of countless Irish to the U.S.. The park centers around the boyhood home of Andrew Mellon. He grew up in modest means and immigrated with his family to America. There the family became ridiculously wealthy in the banking industry. He is atypical.
Most settler’s stories mirror my own family. Leave Ireland. Find similar land in Appalachia and try to farm. Move west. Try to farm. Find jobs as domestic help and day laborers. Work in mines and on the railroad. Find factory jobs and shop keeping positions. Work hard. Protect the family and educate yourself.
The park does a great job of grounding the immigrant’s experience. I first visit period Irish farms, cabins, churches and town. There is even soda bread fresh from the coals. (Pro tip: Never turn down freshly baked soda bread.) Donkeys beg for attention. Flax fields wave in the breeze. I think I would be content in this older way of life. Possibly hungry, but industrious, grounded and content.
I exit the Irish town through a tunnel that leads me into an infamous coffin ship (there is also a replica of a steamer for comparison). When I leave the ship, I exit directly into a recreation of an American town. I am now in America and the remainder of the park has cabins and farms from the American countryside.
I have visited many country cabins and farm sites in Missouri, Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Georgia. This history teacher loves a good living history site. Today I feel just like I am standing in Appalachia, even though I knew I am in Ulster. I could be somewhere in the Smokies by the look and feel of the place.
I am unexpectedly moved by this experience. As far as I know, no one related to me is connected to County Omagh. Yet the story told here could easily be my own family story. Old world meets new. New places, old traditions. Echoes and glimpses of things that stir family memories. Songs, words, smells, and artifacts. Origins. I am humbled. I am connected. I feel lost and found. Ireland is like for me sometimes. Some say memory is past down through generations. Today I feel a resounding echo of places I have never been yet have always known.
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Some Days Are Just Beautiful: Travel Goals
Some days are just beautiful. The sky is unbearably blue. The air is cool but the warmth of the sun kisses your cheeks. A slight breeze teases your skin and all seems well with the world.
It is an impulse stop. I am on my way to a work related training. We are headed north after leaving my daughter’s house in Chicago. I see the sign for the Botanical garden and have to stop. My husband is less enthusiastic, but we try to be gracious to one another. It is clearly something I am excited about.
The parking lot is full. That’s strange as it is a Tuesday morning in May. As we enter, we learn it is a free admission day and the tulips are in bloom. That combination explains the crowds.
Nature never disappoints. Each green leaf and colorful bud generates a burst of endorphins. I breathe deep and wrinkle my nose at the slightly sour smell of mulch. The garden smells of earth and lake water. . . cut grass and sweet nectar.
The people disperse as we walk farther into the garden. A carillon sounds at the hour. Dozens of bells play a happy tune. Under the tower it is quite loud and jarring. From afar, it sounds light and airy. A perfect metaphor for the power of distance and perspective.
We take our time among the tulips. So many colors and variations to take in. The diversity is beautiful. Each plant enhancing the other. My brain struggles to process the beautiful blooms and the riot of color.
Children run and play. Couples take photographs of each other in a sea of plants. Elders stroll arm in arm. A sea of people amidst a sea of flowers. The beauty of the Earth laid out like a blanket.
The flowers are breathtaking and fleeting. But I am drawn to the trees. I touch their sturdy trunks and ground myself. The flashy petals will fall. Summer heat will wilt the fragile plants. But these giant, rooted sentinels will shade and protect. I breathe deep and give thanks for my roots. I am ready to leave the garden, refreshed. Some days are just beautiful.
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Feast or famine
Inequities. The rich get richer and the poor get the scraps. Until the chasm gets so wide the system collapses. It is a tale as old as time. People get richer and over time they lose sight of the labor and infrastructure that supports them. They want more for themselves and take more from those that have little. Scarcities occur, in turn making everyone less willing to share. But it is cooperation that communicates thrive. Conditions for economic success are well documented. But many humans are a suspicious and greedy lot. Many are also exceedingly generous and self-sacrificing.
Strokestown Park and the National Famine Center in Strokestown, Ireland tells the story of starvation and plenty. A grand mansion. Starving tenants. Murder. And mass deportation.
The estate was given to the Mahon family in 1666 and grew over time to 26,000 acres in county Roscommon. A great house was built on the foundations of a ruined castle at the end of the 17th century. Over time, the operation of the estate was turned over to land agents who subdivided plots into smaller and smaller sections making it impossible for tenants to farmers to make a living. It did however increase rents for the land agents and the family in the great house. .. at least in the short term.
The rich got richer and the poor got poorer. Entire families were subsisting on water and potatoes. And then even the potatoes failed. The workers petitioned for reform. Over 3,000 were evicted. The Mahons, realizing that the estate could not support the number of tenants now on the land, offered to pay for the poor to immigrate. Documents reveal this was an economic decision as it was cheaper to deport than provide assistance to people who could not pay rent.
So while life in the big house moved on, 1,600 people prepared to immigrate. While their ticket was paid, the overseer determined that it would be best if the sick and starving tenants walked the 100 miles from Strokestown to Dublin. No need to waste any more money. Once in Dublin, the poor were shuttled to Liverpool to await transport to the America’s. Unaccustomed to city life, the tenants turned immigrants were easy prey. Many lost what little possessions and supplies they had before they ever set foot on the boats secured for crossing the Atlantic.
The ships procured were bare bones and designed for profit. More people meant more money for the captain. Conditions were so bad, they earned the nickname of “coffin ships”. One vessel carrying Strokestown tenants, the Virginius, left the quay with 486 people. Upon arrival in Canada, 158 had died on the crossing. Another 106 were gravely ill with many dying in the months that followed.
With stories of the horrors making its way back home and conditions slow to improve, Strokestown tenants became increasingly agitated. Mahon was murdered as he was returning to the estate sending shockwaves throughout Ireland.
Tragedy abounds in this story. Where should we go for answers? Did the tenants mismanage the land? Were the land agents too greedy and sub-divide the land into plots too small to farm? Did the landowners ignore the estate and fail to turn profits into improvements to benefit the estate and its workers? Did the owners deport inconvenience? Did the ships captains exploit the helpless? Did the government turn a blind eye on a national problem? Did God ignore the cry of the hopeless?
There are no definitive answers at Strokestown….only questions. There are thousands of preserved documents that allow a brief glimpse into a time of despair and turmoil. It is a cautionary tale of what happens when greed and self interest over takes empathy and compassion. The truth is that when everyone has enough, economies are self sustaining. We thrive together. Rampant self interest always leads to societal decline. Perhaps we will never learn.
“The [consistently] righteous man knows and cares for the rights of the poor, but the wicked man has no interest in such knowledge.”
Proverbs 29:7 “For the poor will never cease out of the land; therefore I command you, You shall open wide your hands to your brother, to your needy, and to your poor in your land.”
Deuteronomy 15:11“He who oppresses the poor to get gain for himself and he who gives to the rich–both will surely come to want.”
Proverbs 22:16 -
Arigna: Travel Goals
We arrive at the Arigna mine without preconceived ideas. It is something to do while staying in County Leitrim, Ireland. The woman at check in shows us to an area where we see a brief film that explains the history of the mine which was shut down in the 1990’s. We look at photos and I browse the small gift counter.
Eventually we are taken into a room at the mine opening and asked to put on hard hats. We are the only people on the first tour of the day. Our guide’s name is Michael and he was a former coal miner at the site.
Michael has a shy smile, a miner’s cough, and a thick local accent. He is soft spoken and therefore (to us) often hard to understand. He pauses at the photo of Jesus at the mine entry and blesses himself, telling us it was the first and last thing every miner did upon entering and leaving the mine.
He tells us he left school at fifteen to go underground and that his father had begged him not to. But he hadn’t liked school and the miners seemed larger than life. He wanted to make money and the larger amounts of money went to those who worked the most dangerous and difficult areas of the mine. He volunteered for jobs with increasing risks.
We walk into the shafts. I share that my grandfather had been a lead miner as he shows us the coal car system. He shows us the thin seams of coal and describes how you had to lay on your shoulder in cold water to work the seam and extract the coal. He grows a little pensive as he remembered the dark and the endless dust.
I ask lots of questions as I want to understand his experience. Though he always answers, at times he seems lost in the past and reluctant to talk about the hardships. When I ask if he was in any of the photos of the working mine in the small interpretative center, I finally got a full smile. After we leave the mine, he takes me to his photos and shares the names of his mates between the constant coughs. A light returns to his eyes, ever so briefly. The mine has closed but the memory of friends lives on.
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Country Roads: Travel Goals
Detours are what you make of them. My husband has a no back track rule. He doesn’t like out and back journeys. I don’t know why. In his view, we can go out of our way as long as it leads to somewhere we haven’t already been.
I, on the other hand, am paradoxical. I hate detours if I am trying to get somewhere on a time schedule. They are stressful if your day is full of meetings and deadlines. And my life used to be full of both. But…..if time is not an issue and you have a sense of adventure ….a forced or planned detour can actually be delightful.
As an example….when we were driving in Ireland, we experienced road closures in several areas. When the N or R roads (think state and county) are closed, you are automatically on an adventure whether you want to be or not. L (local) roads that you are forced to use can be winding, sunken, one lane adventures. You may find yourself traversing blanket bog or thick woods. Part of the fun is figuring out what comes next.
Occasionally, I force a detour….just because. There are forest parks to hike and waterfalls to see. I may notice a sign for a garden center or animal sanctuary. There could be a church to visit or ruins to explore. If it makes you curious and you are close, why not visit? “Why not detour?” would make a great bumper sticker.
Most of the time, detours and delays are out of our control. Now that I am retired (at least from my first career), I am more apt to lean into the occasional traffic jam. If it is caused by the local farmer moving an extremely large herd of sheep or cattle across the highway, I take pictures. If I am diverted onto a side road, I try to enjoy the road less traveled and notice things I may not otherwise encounter. (Don’t get me wrong…. I still want the department of transportation to finish the project that has messed up my commute to the office for the past year. I have had all the zen moments I can manufacture in that situation.)
But life is short. Take the detour. Visit the forest. Laugh at the cows. Slow down. Your work will always be there. The things that must get done, get done. Take time to roll down the windows and drink in the scent of pine or fresh cut hay. If exhaust fumes make that impossible, notice the sun on your face or the way rain drops roll of the window. Life is beautiful if you allow the detours to become part of your adventure.
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Neighbors come calling: Travel Goals
When you rent a farmhouse in county Leitrim, Ireland you expect a fair amount of pastoral beauty. The iconic green hillsides, the wild flowers and of course lots of sheep are part of the experience. Having been in Ireland several times prior, we knew what to expect. On our last adventure we spent a month in a 250 year old farmhouse on an Irish estate.
This time we opted for a working farm in the mountain country near the border with Northern Ireland. The farms were interspersed with forest. Mountains and valleys and lakes and streams made it hard to tell where to boundaries of farms and countries began and ended. The roads were narrow and curvy. And the livestock could care less about any of it. They went where they wanted.
The first morning I was up early. I went into the kitchen to make my coffee. When I turned around a little face was looking back at me from the picture window. A sheep was standing at the window watching me make breakfast.
As we settled in, I became more aware of the telltale crunch of gravel and the subtle bleating that announced visitors. There were sheep in the front garden helping themselves to the shrubbery. Sheep in the driveway, licking the salty ocean spray off the car doors. Sheep in the backyard, knocking over the starlink receiver. Sheep on the patio. Sheep in the fields.
Some days they would disappear on the mountain and it was too quiet. Other days, they kept up a steady chorus of bleating. Every day, we were entertained by prancing, jumping, munching, and head butting.
They made it quite clear that the area would be shared on their terms. My sidewalk was a convenient sheep latrine. It was a perfect spot between the sweet grass of the pasture and the tender shrubbery of the garden.
Blehhhhhhh. Blehhhhhhh. Blehhhhhhh. Look in window. Munch flower. Relieve bowels. Blehhhhh. Blehhhhh. Knock over pots. Munch flower. Lick car. Return to field and lay down. Blehhhhh. Jump through hedge.
I started opening the door to say hello. Being careful where I stepped of course, I could walk along and have a conversation. Blehhhhh to you too. Come again soon. Hospitality is important when your neighbors come for a visit.
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Echos of the Past: Travel Goals
As a person completely fascinated with history, Ireland is a treasure chest waiting to be opened. Every town and field has a story to tell. People care about their past and work to preserve the historical record. Nowhere is this more evident than in the town of Ballina, where we experienced the Jackie Clarke collection.
Jackie Clarke, at the age of 11, started a scrapbook of articles about the Irish independence movement. Over the years he collected thousands of papers, articles, posters, and books. Today this vast collection is curated and displayed free of charge to the public. Because people should know their history.
A wee bit further down the road is the Ceide fields visitor center. Under these wind swept bogs, 5,000 year old farms were discovered. Stone walls, standing for millennia, are being mapped by scientists and local volunteers. This is the largest known Neolithic farm site in the world.
My brain can’t process time so distant. After reading the interpretative panels , I walk the bog. Raised platforms keep me high above the water and grasses. Every now and then, I see the stone walls peek out of the ground. Climate change and time buried the dwellings and erased the people who once lived here.
Only the stones remain. I look out from the field to the sea over a flimsy barbed wire fence. What will be left of us? What will bear witness that we were here?
Leaving the fields, we head to Belleek Woods. As we walk along the water and through the trees, we pass an abandoned mill. Its ruins are pretty against the green of the forest. Obsolete yet ornamental. We no longer build with a craftsmanship to withstand time.
Through the woods, school children have painted fairy houses and placed them among the trees. The legends live on. I think about Irish tradition and folklore as I walk. Until I am confronted with a fantastic circular pagoda like structure along the path.
Pre-internet/cellular data, I would have spent a lot of time trying to determine what it could be. Today I just whip out my phone and with a few keystrokes determine it is the final resting place of Sir Francis Knox Gore. He created a mausoleum that demands to be remembered.
Humans are so fragile. We live and sacrifice. Our life’s work is often left to scraps of paper and mentions in media. Our toil whispers in ancient walls and derelict buildings. Graves memorialize who we aspired to be. The past is accessible, if we care to stop and notice….. the traces …..the messages….. the echoes….
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Prisoner of Hopes 