In the summer of 2006 I took my father to Ireland. He’s a Montreal-Irishman, son to that classic clan who can be seen running wild in Duddy Kravitz’s St. Urbain Street. Romantically Irish, as the Irish are, he deserved to go to the Old Country. So we packed bags and flew across the ocean.
I shaved my goatee for the week. It was that special.
Our family is from Tipperary, a long time ago. We knew little about their actual stomping grounds, but found many mentions of one branch of the family in Cashel, home of the Rock.
We knew before making the trip that we’d find headstones with our family name scattered around the Rock, and an old, broken monument to one son. We spent a lot of time climbing around the castle, wandering through Cashel, and playing golf on a hill overlooking the ruins.
We also found a bed and breakfast on a sheep farm just outside of Cashel that had been in the family a century ago. Seeing our connections to the area while we planned the trip convinced us that Cashel was where we wanted to stay, in that old farmhouse. It was owned by an elderly couple: she ran the B&B while he ran the farm, with the help of his sheepdogs.
My father learned a little about hurling, the Irish sport, not the Irish pastime (har har), and spent much of the trip in a blue and gold Tipperary hurling jersey.
I kissed the Blarney Stone…
…nearly fell into the Shannon River trying to fill a small bottle with its water…
…watched Riverdance in Dublin…
…and took in show at the last summer of Jury’s Irish Cabaret before Jury’s was renovated and the show sent on the road.
We sat in pubs and listened to musicians, we drove on narrow, winding, rock lined roads throughout the countryside. We got happily lost in the Glen of Aherlow.
One night, sitting in a Cashel pub while an old local sang “Down By the Sally Gardens”, backed by the house band, my father turned to me and confessed: “We’re having another baby.” He had remarried, and already had a daughter, six at the time of the trip. Now I would have three sisters, altogether.
Because of that trip, he gave his newest daughter “Erin” as a middle name. And my own daughter, born nine months after I returned with shamrock blood and a Celtic spirit, is also Erin.
Erin go bragh, and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day.
P.S. I started growing the goatee back toward the end of the trip, so Emily wouldn’t kick my ass too badly when I go home. How’s scruff look on me? Yeah, I thought so. I’m never shaving again.
12 thoughts on “Erin Go Bragh: Ireland is About Family”
You look better with the scruff. Just my opinion.
Aw, handsome either way! Someday I need to take my part-Irish husband to Ireland; he's never been.
Looks like it was a great trip. I'd love to go back someday and take my kids, so they can see their roots.
Good to see they got a new guy to work the Blarney Stone. When I kissed it in '99, the guy there holding me had to be at least 80. We were all sure he was going to drop us.
It was way more awkward than I expected.
wow, lovely pictures. i hope your dad enjoyed.
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Irish-Canadian? Me too. You've inspired me: I want to visit Ireland now. Strangely never gave it much thought before. Our family is out of Dublin. Can I just say envious that you got to see Riverdance? My husband promised me this summer…. we'll see.
Riverdance was okay. We enjoyed the smaller shows more: kids from town,
production companies from a general area. Riverdance was too cheesy to feel
Just stumbled on your blog a few days ago. Love the Ireland pictures! I wish I had an excuse to go.
How about….you only live once?
Love the Ireland pics and the story:) Like the scruff on you…but not on my own guy:) Too scratchy!:)
Scratchy on me too.
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