My last visit to Ireland was in 1997 and was still a time of sporadic violence. The border between the North and South was heavily fortified. The crossing involved a serpentine road, tall prison like walls with barbed wire and towers where British soldiers with large guns had their sights trained on the road below. It was unnerving. Visitng the city of Derry-in Northern Ireland- did not even cross my mind at that time. Never Surrender was the motto of those loyal to the British Monarchy.
This time Derry was on the itinerary. To get the most out of our time there we opted for a guided walking tour which helped put the things in perspective. John our delightful tour guide who at times was hard to understand -darn that brogue- was quite knowledgeable about the history and politics of the troubles, and the current uneasy peace. Derry seems to be making positive steps forward. At any rate at times I missed a bit and was not entirely sure John was speaking English. The three of us would look at at each other and shrug shoulders. Sometimes a whisper, "did you get that?" None-the-less it was worth the time.
A short ride to Donegal for a visit to the ancestral home was next up.
My grandfather was born in the townland of Meenboy which is near a larger town named Gortahork. This is in the Gaeltacht region of Ireland and prior to his immigration to the U.S., my grandfather spoke Irish as his habitual language. All signage -road, businesses, and government buildings-is in Gaelic. This can be a bit confusing especially while driving but you get used to it and everyone speaks English. Gortahork is a very rural area. where old walking paths were turned into NARROW wagon roads. These old paths were not designed with the automobile in mind. Buildings and fences are quite close to the road -sometimes the houses appear to be in the road- and difficult to impossible for two cars to pass each other on these things. Soooo it is prudent to take them at a slower speed than what might be posted. You know where this is leading. Sooo, unfazed the Big Fella drove some of them like the Irish which can be a life altering experience. But when you drive so fast that it scares a native born Irishman - I just don't know what to say. My Irish cousin mentioned to The Fella that he might take it a bit slower. Could've had something to do with the house and stone wall hiding behind a blind corner that he nearly hit. At one point my cousin offered me the front seat and I politely declined. I preferred the view from the back seat.
Like the last time I visited the old Cannon place, I was struck with how very old it felt. The stark peak, Mt Errigal loomed over the old place and the peat bogs were nearby. On this visit -and I know this seems a little out there- I had a sense of belonging to this place. Weird I know but so it was. After Mr. Toad's wild ride in the wilds of Donegal, we enjoyed a nice dinner with family and retired to the sitting room with a peat log burning in the fireplace. 'Twas quite nice.
I get very sentimental about Meenboy and this part of Donegal. Two days was not enough time here and I will be back someday.
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