Its a Longest Road to Tipperary, Part I

*blogging is somewhat touch and go as far as reliably uploading pictures and stories before the next adventure or the need for at least 4 hours sleep happens. Will try to add pictures as soon as possible.


Sitting in the large and empty lounge of the Castleconnel Hotel, otherwise known as the Castle Oak House Hotel. The hotel is large, estate-like, ornate and empty, and I half expect Jack Nicholson to come down to the pub at any minute to emote some of his stir crazy energy on a Corona.

Discussing traveling from one end of the country to the other in one day with an Irish is a bit like discussing your plans for space exploration.


"Limerick? A long trip. And fer sure now, there isn't much there," offered my cousin Philip.


We have great plans for making great time, and figure that we should be in Limerick by 4 pm at the latest. We leave Bellarena around half eleven with Joan driving and me playing DJ with the iPod, listening to what has to be the saddest song ever, The Town I Loved So Well, as we pass through Derry.


There is a shift-in-your-seat uncomfortableness to the sight of a union jack flying in a town square or at bridge curbs painted in bars of red, white and blue. It is a bit surprising that instead of a feeling of melting pot diplomacy, one feels indignant and annoyed at what (probably unfairly on my part) seems like a need to advertise authority in a place with such a history of trauma. Road signs marked "Londonderry" alternately have the "London" or the "derry" obscured with spray paint.


We cross into Omagh and stop at the first pub we come to for a break. "The Hogshead" is inviting and empty, except for the affable publican who waits on three men at the bar. The men's conversation is pretty loud and I have a feeling that they are swearing every few words, but the combination of their accents and their alcohol makes it unclear. When the bartender approaches our table, Joan asks about the best route to get to Limerick.


"Limerick?" He stares out the window with a confused smile on his face. "Ah no, I wouldn't be able to tell you that. And ting is, stop anyone on the street and their tell you the same thing."


Getting an idea, he tells us to hold on a minute and quickly heads to the bar to ask the two older gentlemen what they think. After they get over the initial shock associated with the idea of a person wanting to go to Limerick, there is a lot of back and forth and lively debate. "Watch them say, 'Go to Dublin first,'" Joan whispers while watching them. The publican returns.


"The gentlemen suggest you go to Dublin first."


Joan thanks him but says that we aren't going to Dublin first, so the publican suggests that we inquire at the Information Center because surely, someone there will know how to get to Limerick.

The publican is dropping off our food when Joan returns and so he asks what Information suggested. When Joan says that Information suggested a route via Galway, the publican lights up. "Right. Hold on a moment now. Got a bit of a bet going." He returns to the bar and there is animated whispering before the oldest man turns on his stool to look at us in disbelief.


"What is this now? Which road they be telling you to go?"
"They said to go to Galway first," Joan yells over to him.
"Galway?"
"Yes," I yell back over, "She said, 'You'll go via Galway. If you're smart."

The publican is bent over laughing and our man on the stool is on his feet and at our table in a few seconds.

"Hold on now and I'll tell you," he says pulling up a stool and inviting himself for a seat. "I don't know about that. Sure it'll be all day if you go to Galway first." He has a point: all roads actually do lead to Dublin and there is no direct north to south road. Going to Limerick via Galway looks shorter on the map but there are many towns and single carriageways along the route. As Joan and I have discovered, we have to several laps around and through each town in order to get turned around the way we came and actually see a posting for the route we need. It is all about confusing any invaders who arrive via Viking ship and then rent small Japanese cars in order to explore and then conquer the country.

Our man stays purched on his stool at our table, shaking his head and truly troubled by what we have told him, one hand on his hip and the other tracing an imaginary map on the table top.

"Sure, you should go to Dublin. If not, ye's should stay in Donegal fer the night. It is a terrible long trip."
Everyone is laughing and wishing us luck when we finally leave the pub.


We were to meet Rob and Mike at the hotel for dinner around six. Mike is Michael Coffey, the son of Jim Coffey. The story we all know is that Jim Coffey and his brother (my grandfather) Jack Coffey, were members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood during the 1920's in Limerick. Their jobs were primarily to hang out in the pub and eavesdrop on British soldiers and report back to the other members of the IRB, many of whom were doing the same thing, some of whom were reported to take the occasional Black & Tan up into the mountain for a last walk. While walking home one night, Jim and Jack encountered some British soldiers along the road who had been drinking and who recognized the two brothers as spies for the IRA. Jim and Jack were told to stand against a haystack, and it was only through providence in the form of the appearance of the soldiers' superior officer that Jim and Jack kept their lives that evening. Soon after, it was decided that Jim and Jack needed to leave the country. A coin was flipped. Jim got Australia, Jack got America. It was the last they would see of each other.


While visiting my sister Sarah during her 1998 year abroad in Australia, my mother tracked down a man by the name of Tony Baines who apparently knew her Uncle Jim. With little hope and several previous dead ends, she scheduled a last minute visit with Tony at his hotel, The Dolphin. When my mom pulled old photographs out of her purse to share with Tony, Tony smiled and pulled the same photographs out from his desk. He put mom in touch with Jim's elderly widow, who then put mom in touch with Michael, Jim's only son who lost his father at the age of five. Mom and Michael would eventually meet in Ireland in 2005. When they see each other during this trip, Michael will hug his closest living relative Helene and keep her safely tucked under his arm in a hug for several minutes.