A Visit to Donegal: Home of My Forefathers
By MARGARET LAW
It was on a Wednesday morning in July that I found myself on the way to Innisoneill, County Donegal, the home of my forefathers.
Innisoneill is a small hamlet in the north of Ireland, but is part of the Republic. To reach Innisoneill, it was necessary to take a bus from the town of Londonderry and it was interesting to learn that the bus driver, with the thick Irish brogue, had actually been born in New York City!
The bus wound its way through some beautiful scenery, along the edge of Lough Foyle in the extreme north of Ireland. We passed a quaint little village called Quigley’s Point, which was the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic.
Ireland is such a small country that it was difficult to get used to crossing borders and going through customs.
But for the most part, the customs agents were very friendly and helpful and, of course being Irish, always had something witty to say.
We found it a novelty to see everything in two languages, English and Irish Gaelic, as soon as the bus had entered County Donegal.
After an hour or so, the bus stopped at a remote spot. The driver pointed to a cluster of cottages about two miles along a country road. “That’s Innisoneill” he announced.
I was alone in the middle of nowhere but enjoying every minute of it. The absolute peace and quiet – no noisy cars – no gasoline-filled air. Nothing but the smell of real fresh air. It was delightful. Coming from a big North American city, I had forgotten what the smell of fresh air was like.
I crossed a small, stone bridge, a bridge no doubt that my grandfather would often have crossed as a boy, in those far-off days before he set off, like many Irishmen did, to find a new life in Canada.
The quiet was unbelievable and all around me as far as the eye could see, were the hills of Donegal. Perhaps that is why it seemed so peaceful – the hills enclosed the place.
Quite soon a cheerful looking young man passed me on a bicycle.
“Is this the road to Innisoneill” I asked and received a typically Irish answer in a rich brogue: “Straight ahead you’ll see two roads. Take the road to the left and no matter where you go after that, it’s Innisoneill.”
I smiled, and later on was amused when I found out that Innisoneill consisted of about 10 cottages! Quite soon I met a farmer driving a herd of cows before him, a new experience for me, for how often does one who lives in a large cosmopolitan city come face to face with a herd of cows?
I continued my walk, a most enjoyable one, and before long there before me, lay a little hamlet. The cottages were white-washed with thatched roofs. At long last, after a lifetime of dreams, I had reached the home of my ancestors.
I hardly knew what to expect, having had no contact with the place. After all, it had been nigh on 80 years since my grandfather had sailed for Canada.
I walked through the hamlet with a strange feeling, knowing that years before my visit, my ancestors had walked the same path. I wished I could turn back the clock, if only for a moment and re-create the scene.
Quite soon an elderly lady appeared at a cottage door. I told her of my quest – how I was trying to trace the home of my grandfather.
On hearing the family name she immediately pointed to the remains of a stone cottage. All that was left was a stone wall with thatch and weeds growing between the stones.
The lady, who turned out to be a distant relative, told me something of the family history, and how at one time the family had been quite prominent in the northern part of Donegal and had owned most of the land.
But it was the familiar tale one hears often in Ireland – many people leaving to seek their fortunes in the New World and those who remained had gradually died out.
As we stood there, some other villagers passed by. They were “going to the hills” which expression turned out to mean that they were going to spend the day digging peat.
Peat is still used to heat the cottages and do the cooking. It made me realize how often we in North America, take for granted all our modern conveniences.
Before the day was over my new friend invited me into her cottage for tea (an Irish tradition.) The cottage, consisting of two rooms, was spotless and the kettle was put to boil on the open fire.
Even though the cottage was tiny, the wall still found room to house a huge picture of President John Kennedy. Most of the homes in the area boasted pictures of “Jack and Jackie.”
As a final farewell before leaving Innisoneill, I visited the local churchyard (cemetery) where several family names adorned the tombstones.
Then it was back to the original cottage of my grandfather for one last look. The opening for the fireplace could still be seen on the one remaining wall and as I ran my hand around it, much to my joy I found an old-fashioned white clay pipe which had obviously lay hidden in a recess of the wall for decades.
It was a fitting memento of my visit to the land of my forebears.
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