Ireland Part VIII: Irish Roots—Family and Potatoes

After bouncing around between one Bed and Breakfast to another for the first few days, we spent a week residing on the small peninsula jutting into Castlemaine Harbor, south of the Dingle Peninsula and north of the small village of Cromane. For a reasonable sum, a person can rent a “cottage” in Ireland. The one we inhabited wasn’t as quaint as I would imagine an Irish cottage to be, but instead was a very spacious newly built home. It was also a symbol of the rise and fall of what is known as the Celtic Tiger economy. A surge in the technology and pharmaceutical industries created an economic boom prior to the new millennium, the effects of which continued until the Great Recession in 2008. Our cottage was built on the tail end of the Tiger. After the real estate bubble burst it never sold.

Weeks ago I started this column by referencing my Irish ancestry. Quite a few branches trace back to communities across Ireland. It is probably not much of a coincidence, therefore, that our primary place of lodging, we later learned, happened to be near the town in which the McKenna branch purportedly originates—Killorglin in County Kerry.

Despite my failure to adequately research our family history in advance, we thought we would wing it and see if anyone knew of any locals with the last name McKenna. The inebriated patron we consulted at the nearest pub in town hadn’t heard of any, until he thoughtfully pondered it another couple of minutes and then remembered his wife’s maiden name was McKenna. Without our prompting he dialed her up on his cell phone and then handed it over to allow us to do the talking. I’m not sure what that says about the status of their marriage. Regardless, she was friendly and suggested we stop by the church office and page through their records.

The next day we did exactly that and found the church secretary, like most Irish, was very accommodating. She pulled out the books and quickly gave us the Genealogy 101 lesson I am certain she is accustomed to giving tourists like us searching the country of 4.5 million people for a relative from six generations back.

We began scanning the relevant pages for McKenna when she interjected and warned us that it would be improper to only search for the spelling we were accustomed to. Variations of McKenna could also include Kenna, McGenna, Genna, MaKenna, MacKenna, MacKennagh, MacKinna, MacKena, or even Ginna. We would have to search them all. 

As we narrowed it down by name we began to look more closely at dates when again she interjected and urged us not to put too much faith in the accuracy of dates either. If you can’t rely on the spelling of the names or the accuracy of dates, then you don’t have much to go off of, in my estimation. We did have one thing playing in our favor—we were searching for McKenna rather than O’Sullivan. The inflection in her voice took on a sober tone when she stated that the hair on the back of her neck raises high when someone walks through the door announcing they are searching for an O’Sullivan. Our survey of the local cemetery confirmed the frequency of the O’Sullivan name—nearly one in every three stones appeared to bear that moniker.

Despite these inherent challenges, some folks are able to successfully place the pieces in order, but it became clear we weren’t going to do so that morning. Never mind that anyway, as she then came forth with the most critical information of the day—these exact records are all online at www.irishgenealogy.ie/en/ and paging through the books, as romantic as it might seem at the time, was completely unnecessary. Just then the office phone started to ring so we quickly thanked her for her time and assistance and departed.  

I also started the column by giving a brief history of the infamous potato famine. I can assure you the famine is no longer, and potatoes persist in abundance despite the absence of widespread poverty that originally made potatoes a staple in the diet many years ago. Dining at a pub one evening I ordered some species of local fish of which I was not familiar and can no longer recall. Like any good Irish meal, it came with some mashed potatoes and a vegetable as advertised on the menu. I was a bit surprised when the waitress delivered a side of French fries with the rest of my meal. This happened again later in the trip. It wasn’t an extra side I had requested, nor had it been indicated on the menu they were included. Bonus fries, I call them, and they seem to be given away like water.

To be more accurate, these fries are technically called “chips” in Ireland. Meanwhile, what we call chips are called “crisps.” Pudding as we know it is nothing like pudding in Ireland. Irish pudding is a breakfast food composed of pork meat and fat, suet (beef or mutton fat), bread, oatmeal, and sometimes blood (from what, I didn’t ask). Pudding is an essential component of the traditional Irish breakfast served by most B&Bs. Soup in Ireland doesn’t have chunks. It is puréed. Stew is more like our soup. Chicken goujons are chicken strips. The Irish do not say they are “hungry.” Instead they announce they are feeling “peckish.” The list goes on.

When it was our turn to get served at the table or the bar, consistently the wait staff would ask, some with genuine concern, “Are you okay?”—almost as if initiating a little friendly small talk. My instincts were always to respond, “Yes, I am doing fine.” But when I did this while waiting to order a drink, of course, they would pass me on by and hustle off to the next customer who wasn’t “doing okay.”

By the time we were done pestering the patient wait staff each night with questions about what unfamiliar words meant and what each menu item actually consisted of, they were probably ready to present us a basket of fries and say, “take it or leave it.” Tipping is generally unnecessary in Ireland. Nevertheless, I usually found myself adding extra, hoping it would serve as an informal apology for our unfamiliarity, indecisiveness, and delay.

Unlike places like Italy or India, you don’t go to Ireland to indulge in great or exotic food, since most of their fare can be found right here at home. Nevertheless, we never went hungry, thanks to those generous servings of potatoes.

Ireland Part VII: Blarney v. Baloney

 The Irish are impressively good at stacking rocks. Fences, barns, forts, and especially castles showcase this talent over the ages. Fences divide the countryside into a gridded pattern of pastures and line most roadways. Forts that are older than European settlement of America still stand solid guard in Southwestern Ireland. Similarly, castle ruins can be found dotted along the rugged coast and other strategic locations inland. Even modern buildings and houses make significant use of rocks and for good reason—they are abundantly everywhere.

We passed by approximately two or three castles each day. Some are in partial ruin, on others the stonework remains well preserved, and a small number are restored with replicate woodwork and furnishings. Many are owned privately or by the government and charge admission, but yet a good number remain neglected relics of history, merely ivy covered obstacles in the middle of quiet cow pastures.

The Irish castle most familiar to Americans is Blarney Castle, made famous for its revered Blarney Stone and a popular pilgrimage spot for those yearning to lay a smooch on it in hopes they will be given the “gift of gab,” or “blarney” as some call it. What makes this particular stone magical, you might be wondering?

Legend has it the builder of Blarney Castle, Cormac MacCarthy, found himself on the wrong end of a lawsuit. He appealed to Clíodhna, a goddess in Irish mythology, for advice on how best to plead his defense. She instructed him to kiss the first stone he came upon during his travels to the court. He did this and as a result was able to plead his case with great eloquence, and of course, he won. As a result, legend has it that the Blarney Stone is able to impart “the ability to deceive without offending,” or in shorthand, the gift of eloquent speaking. He then incorporated the special stone into the castle structure. Of course this is only one of the many explanations behind the myth of the Blarney Stone. People from around the world, including many politicians seeking the power of persuasion and great oratory skills, have made the climb to kiss the stone (most notably Winston Churchill).

As a recent law graduate, it would have been a blunder to pass up this opportunity to endow myself with an eloquent tongue so I might find similar luck and skill as Mr. MacCarthy when in the courtroom. We drove to Cork to find this infamous bluestone. The Blarney Castle is one of the taller castles we saw and 131 steps up the tight spiral staircases takes you to where the stone is located on the top rim of the castle, cemented into the base of the battlements. 

Because it is perched in a precarious location, kissing it is an exercise in upper body flexibility. After a short wait in line you are guided by the grey haired attendant to lay on your back, grab a steel support bar with each fist, arc your back over the two-foot gap opening, and then lean back far enough to get your head low enough to kiss the stone. Meanwhile, the attendant is there to grab your jacket or legs should you start to slip backward and through the gap and plummet to the ground below. They hardly give you enough time for a peck before you are being pulled back up and shooed off to keep the line moving.

I can’t say I felt any different after my brief moment with the stone. I still stumble over my words, but hold out hope that in those moments of greatest need Clíodhna will bestow me with a little bit of that Blarney magic. At least she had better, or I fear I fell for the greatest tourist scam in all of Ireland.

Over the ages blarney has also developed into a useful adjective to describe a certain form of baloney, and I don’t mean the good stuff found at the New Albin Meat Market. An Irish politician described it best when he said, “Blarney is something more than mere flattery. It is flattery sweetened by humour and flavoured by wit.” A plaque at the castle gave a nice example. “Baloney is when you tell a 50 year old woman she looks 18. Blarney is when you ask a woman how old she is because you want to know at what age women are most beautiful.” Most Irish are naturally skilled in the latter.

Many of the castles have a similar layout. Tight spiral staircases stake out each corner. The stone slabs used to construct the steps are well worn from centuries of travel by knights, princesses, and more recently, Nike-clad American tourists. In the corners on various levels are the bedrooms while the center of the castle is reserved for the banquet hall. The roof is designed with castle defenses in mind. The more “luxurious” castles, like Blarney Castle, incorporated fancy waste disposal systems comprised of special, slanted windows on the downwind side—out of which one could do their business and expedite its deposit outside. Like most castles in Ireland, only the resilient stone structure remains and all wood components have long ago rotted away.

As an amateur in castle architecture, I suggest that once you have seen one you have pretty much seen them all. I often wondered what the locals think of all these picture-happy tourists stopping to take photos of castles along the roads or in a farmer’s back 40. To them I suspect these castles are about as commonplace as traditional dairy barns with gambrel roofs in the Upper Midwest. I might be exaggerating a little bit, but the day isn’t far off when that might be true.

I can imagine that any season now we will start to see busloads of Japanese, German, and New York City tourists kicking up a cloud of dust down Prairie Ridge Road or slowing down traffic on Highway 44 while they snap pictures from the side of the road and pay to take tours of the last of these wooden relics from an earlier farming era. First we will wonder with amusement and a little annoyance what all of the commotion is about, but after the dust settles we will eventually come to the difficult realization it is already too late and another chapter of our agricultural heritage will be over and in the books—just another nostalgic attraction exhibiting “the way things used to be.”

But let’s hope that’s all just a bunch of blarney. 

Ireland Part VI: Pubs, Pints, and (Bag)Pipes

Irish pubs—historically known as public houses—were the social and entertainment hub of the community, as well as refuge from passing rain showers, and in many places still serve these important functions. Traditionally they were a man’s domain, a place men could go to discuss politics and local happenings away from the family. More recently the gender bias has faded away, though as we discovered, a heavy imbalance in patronage remains. Story telling, fiddle playing, and singing often accompany a good drink, while the TVs, if any, are ignored until the occasional soccer or rugby match comes on. For many individuals the pub is a home away from home, the other regular patrons their extended family, and traditionally the pub owner was a central and well-respected figure in the community.

Studying the guidebooks, one cannot help but notice the emphasis placed on the pub experience. More ink is spilt describing where to find the best pubs, the best pub music, and proper pub etiquette than on any other attraction or experience in Ireland.

The stereotypical Irish pub is named O’Conner’s, O’Donnels, O’Sheahans or the equivalent, at any given time, no matter how early in the day, has at least one or two very old men (usually drunk) bellied up to the bar (who may or may not be singing depending upon how many pints they have had), and in the evening serves as a magnet for local musicians, interested in trading a few tunes on the guitar or fiddle for a pint. The sign of a good pub is one with an elderly local in attendance, since one can expect they should know the best local pubs by this point in their life. Unlike some other expectations set by the guidebook, here it did not disappoint.

It was about 6:00 P.M. when we entered Mulligan’s Pub in search for a quick bite. The place was lifeless, except for the sole patron precariously perched on a bar stool enjoying a pint of Guinness and belting out the chorus of “You are the Wind Beneath My Wings” at the top of his lungs and with more heart and soul than Bette Midler on her best day. Not even the bartender was in sight—perhaps no coincidence. We were disappointed to discover there would be no dinner and a show, as this pub didn’t serve food and forced us to find the day’s ration of potatoes elsewhere.

Enticed by the rumor of a traditional music session, we stepped into the Kingdom bar a couple of nights later only to find a similar scene—but without the singing. A friendly local was enjoying his evening as the pub’s only customer by chatting with the proprietor/bartender, who also appeared to be a close friend by default. Since the pub had long ago ended their weekly jam sessions when Ireland’s economy slowed during the Great Recession, we took advantage of his story telling propensities.

Wanting desperately to find some good, traditional Irish music (all too often we discovered Irish musicians playing popular American music), we surveyed the streets of Kilarney where amongst the various options we discovered two young men playing up-tempo Irish reels and jigs on the fiddle and guitar, with an occasional ballad thrown in the set-list. The pub owner politely interrupted them when it came time for the winner of the Rose of Tralee contest to be announced on TV. This contest is an annual event where representatives from across Ireland and Irish communities around the world compete to win the prestigious title and crown. The locals were a bit disappointed when Haley O’Sullivan from Texas won. I think it fair to assume they would have preferred she stay home and compete to be the Yellow Rose of Texas and left the Tralee contest to the local gals.

We did finally discover the traditional Irish music session we were searching for, the type where locals just show up to play each week for no compensation other than a couple of pints. Fiddle, accordion, guitar, tambourine, and a bodhrán (an Irish drum covered in goat skin) comprised the band once everybody had showed up and settled into the dimly lit corner of O’Sheahans pub. After a bit of small talk the accordion player started in on a tune and the others joined as if they had rehearsed all week for this evening show. Within moments the entire pub was overwhelmed with the driving sound of rhythm guitar, the drone of the accordion, and the smooth melody of the fiddle. This wasn’t just background music. Conversation ceased and everyone in the pub drew their full attention until the last note was drawn. At that time conversation would resume briefly while the musicians took a few sips of their brew and considered what tune to play next, and then the whole cycle would start over.

During one such break, a patron who appeared a little unsteady on his feet approached his friends in the corner and eventually convinced the accordion player to give him a turn at the squeezebox. My low expectations were shattered when after a slow and groggy start this guy expertly squeezed out a quick reel, with the rest of the band joining in sync. After similar experiences elsewhere, you come to the conclusion that most everybody in Ireland can either play an instrument or sing a tune and they aren’t the least bit shy about sharing their talent, especially after a couple of pints. 

In the two hours we were in attendance, we watched the skinny, 70-year old fiddle player down five pints of Guinness—each set before him by a bar patron as soon as he finished the last swallow of the previous pint. Meanwhile, the music never suffered in spite of it, and in-fact, makes me think that perhaps Guinness is the key ingredient—keeping those fingers loose and strings in tune. I am eager to test that hypothesis myself to see if a few pints might improve my own fiddling.

My description of the pubs, thus far, fails to recognize or consider the destructive effect alcohol and too much time and money spent at the pubs can have on families and individual persons. Pictures of Ireland often display rows of colorful houses. The joke is the houses were painted different colors so the man of the household could more easily find the right abode after a night at the pub. While there is another side to this story, the Irish (and guidebooks for that matter) emphasize the good cultural aspects of pub life and for better or worse make light humor of the less glamorous past rather than dwell on and take offense at the drunken Irishman stereotype and underlying reasons for it.

I must admit we didn’t find any bagpipers in the pubs, and thank goodness. We might have left our hearing in Ireland if we had. That’s the only instrument I could think of that came close to starting with a “p” to give this piece a clever and catchy title. Luckily the pipers were relegated to performing on the streets for mere pocket change. 

And no, I did not take my own fiddle. I knew I wasn’t prepared to keep apace to these pub house professionals. Those ambitions will have to wait for the next trip.

Ireland Part V: Farms and the Weather

It takes a steady and adequate supply of rain to keep Ireland as green as the pictures depict it, and a steady supply of rain is what they receive. Ireland soaks up 30–50 inches of rain per year, on average, and a “long drought” in Ireland is the record 37 days without rain in 1938—a laughable length of time for those who can recollect entire summers with hardly a drop. We encountered at least one rain shower every day but one, when it decided to downpour shortly after sundown instead. The rain showers were mostly brief and intermittent, and when they did appear, were rarely heavy downpours and better described as a healthy Irish mist. Our first day, however, gave us a good welcome-to-Ireland-soaking as we puddle-jumped our way through Dublin from attraction to attraction.

Temperatures in Ireland are mild compared to those we experience in Minnesota, but that alone doesn’t say much. Ireland benefits from the North Atlantic current that sweeps warm water from the Gulf of Mexico region to the higher latitudes. The highest and lowest temperatures recorded anywhere in Ireland are 91.9 and -2.4 degrees Fahrenheit respectively. The typical range is between 30 and 80 degrees. During our visit, daily highs were generally in the 60s. 

Most locals, accustomed to the sporadic weather, are wisely equipped with umbrellas. Thinking ahead we made certain to pack rain jackets and an umbrella, too—one of those collapsible, light-weight umbrellas that are easy to travel with and completely worthless if the wind happens to be blowing more than 3.5 miles per hour. It should have come as no surprise that within minutes of opening it up one of the spindly arms caved from the force of the moderate breeze and bent out of shape, significantly limiting its effectiveness at shedding water. Travel Tip: leave your wimpy umbrellas at home and buy a good one when you arrive. They are sold everywhere. We weren’t the only ones with this problem, however, as I saw 3–4 abandoned, half-broken, collapsible umbrellas throughout the day—all generously left for someone damp and desperate enough to make use of their remaining shell.

With the steady rains come productive pastures on which to graze cattle and sheep. Not a single patch of grass is wasted, it seemed, as the livestock, and especially the sheep, could be found everywhere, even abutting popular scenic attractions. The views from the hills and mountains showed valleys that were divided up into a patchwork of grazing pastures, separated by stone fences. Pastures ranged in size from 5 to 25 acres, depending upon the lay of the land. Noticeably absent was anything that we would classify a feedlot. The animals are rotated between pastures regularly enough to prevent the grass from being trampled to mud.

The Irish have a grass-based dairy industry where average herd size is 50 cows, most typically of a Holstein-Friesian mix. Average milk yields are lower than found locally, and farmers attempt to maintain a 12-month birthing cycle so calves are born in the spring months when the grass is becoming most productive. The Irish also raise beef cattle and nearly every restaurant we visited boasted “100% Irish beef” somewhere on their menu, evidencing their strong desire to support their local farms.

Not once did we see a stalk of corn, probably due to the cooler temperatures typical of an Irish summer and fewer tillable acres. Instead, wheat, barley, oats, potatoes, beets, and forages are most abundant.

We seized an opportunity to visit a sheep farm in the mountains near Kilarney National Park. This particular sheep farm has been in their family for 150 years and is so rural it did not receive electricity service until 1980. For a small fee we were able to watch a sheep shearing demonstration and witness their five border collies rounding up a herd of sheep in the pasture. The wool from a sheep is sheared off once a year but is only worth about $1.33, about the same amount it costs to pay a person to shear the sheep, due to oversaturation in the wool market. Nevertheless, it must be sheared once a year for the average sheep’s 13-year life span or the coat will get too heavy, and after a good soaking topple the sheep on their side leaving them helpless to get up again under the weight.

Though Ireland is full of sheep, we rarely saw evidence of local consumption of the meat. We were told many Irish don’t care to buy the meat, which is still pricier than beef, pork, or chicken. Therefore, most of it is exported, with France being the top destination.

The sheep herding demonstration was downright impressive. The farmer stood atop the hill as one-by-one he released the eager and patiently waiting dogs with a vocal cue. He gave each of his five collies the command to veer either left or right around the pasture edges in search for stray animals. He would yell the dog’s name and then follow that with a command, as they crouched around boulders and stalked their “prey,” ready to pounce should any individual find the courage to attempt to cut from the herd. Within five minutes the small herd of 30 animals was gathered and pushed into the holding pen by the circling team of dogs.

This family benefitted by their location and ability to attract tourist dollars to help offset the challenges associated with the depressed farm economy, but most farmers in Ireland aren’t that lucky. Whether the farm would remain economically productive enough for the next generation to carry on the tradition remains an open question in their mind. The tale sounded all too familiar to those of us who grew up in the Midwest. From the rocky landscape to the potato famines to today’s market challenges, farming in Ireland has never been an easy task. Neither has it always been in the Upper Midwest. It seems no coincidence, therefore, that many of those who persist in U.S. agriculture today can trace their roots to hardy individuals (whether Irish or otherwise) that long ago learned how to survive through frugality, creativity, perseverance, and true grit.