To the Emerald Isle

 

Aran Isle Farm-house

Our trip to Ireland in 1984 was more than a tourist choice. It was a real attempt to visit the birthplaces of our ancestors in Cork and Sligo. But little did we realize just how much the whole month in the Republic would endear us to the Irish people, and what great memories we still have of that green and pleasant land.

We had flown from NZ to Greece, where we lived for three weeks on Skiathos before travelling overland via Volos, Trikkala, Meteora and Corfu, where we activated our Eurail passes. These took us to Italy, Switzerland, Austria and France, and so on the last day of the passes we boarded a ship at Le Havre bound for Ireland.

Dolmen at Carlow

When I first met my wife Norah's parents, Charlie and Isa Donald, I imagined that they were both totally Scottish, judging from their accents and the stories of their birth and young life in Glasgow, but little I knew about her mother's interesting history and lineage. Her father was John Orange, probably from Londonderry originally, and her mother Elinor Murphy, the oldest of a Cork family. So to say that Norah was half-Irish and half-Scottish is as correct as you can be, for her whole maternal side is from Cork, and her paternal side Donalds of the Isles. 

The Old Cork Asylum

 

 In the early 1890s, Hanora and Timothy Murphy moved to Glasgow, where the youngest of their children were born, and when Elinor was hardly a teenager. But she was to die when only 20, leaving her only child, the 2-year-old Isa, who was then brought up by her grandparents Hanorah (aka Norah) and Tim. Isa was loved and treated by that family as one of their own, as indeed she was, and her uncles, more like brothers in age, would look out for her and protect her no matter what. She always said she felt safe in the Gorbals, and everyone knew her. Her father, John Orange, was a seaman, who in later years took up his mother's maiden name of Laverty, which even appears on his funeral record. Isa often accompanied her grandmother back to Cork on holidays, and Hanora actually died there around 1910.

From Killarney to the Gap of Dunloe

 

My paternal grandmother Sarah Tooey came from Sligo to NZ around 1880 “into service”, and spent the rest of her life in Dunedin. So though we were bound for Cork and Sligo as essential calling-places, we went north to Dublin to begin our Irish ramble. We may have imagined it, but from that very first day Norah seemed to be accepted and recognized as Irish, people often being surprised to learn that she was a New Zealander. We must have walked miles around Dublin in those first few days, and one of the wonderful days we spent watching the grand final of Gaelic Football at Croke Park. We had invited an Australian girl to join us, and she knew nothing about the game, except that it was something like Australian Rules. Two friendly locals stood right behind us, and focussed their attentions on our attractive companion, explaining in detail every move on the pitch. The ground was sold out, and reminded us of the boisterous Lancaster Park crowds back home.

Our next aim was Waterford, and a possible visit to the crystal factory. We had bought in NZ Irish Rambler tickets, which gave us prepaid travel on any bus or train in the country. We had heard that Carlow, on the way to Waterford, was the locale of an ancient dolmen, and there we alighted, leaving our luggage at the station and walking .. walking .. walking.. the several kilometres to Browne's Dolmen, and it was well worth the effort. On the way back we were treated to a first-hand view of that marvellous Irish contest, where the contestants throw underarm a solid ball from point to point across country, the winner being the thrower who gets there in the smallest number of throws. We had seen a demonstration in our own backyard by an Irish friend a few years before when his underarm throw of an old tennis ball almost caved in the door of our toolshed! It is done with some kind of timing like karate, and it is almost impossible to believe the speed they generate.

We eventually got to Waterford, the home town of one of our best friends, and so enjoyed our factory tour. We bought three beautifully cut decanters, and trusted the factory people to freight them home to our family, which they did without fault.

The Rock of Cashel

 And so to Cork, of which we had heard so much from Norah's mother, where we settled in to a B & B on Military Hill, very much in that part of the city known in the 19th century by Norah's Murphy ancestors. Further up the hill we found Gardner's Hill and the Old Youghal Road, even closer to where they all lived. Another happy discovery in Cork was Kelly's Kitchen, in one of the main streets, where we joined masses of the ordinary people at lunch on long tables with white cloths. It was a great working-class restaurant, where you could sit beside anyone, and enjoy not only the wholesome meal, but as well the lively chat and conversation that seems typical of this country. One woman we met more than once had explained that she worked “at the macket”, and hoped that we would visit her there in the street later in the week. That we did, and got two huge red apples for our pains. She was delighted that we had thought her important enough to seek out, and so she was.