Mutton Island and Celia Griffin Park

Salt Hill, west of Galway, is a nice place for a stroll on the waterfront and through Irish history. The walk from Galway city center, along the River Corrib to South Park, is an escape from the hurly-burly and vitality of the destination town to a sedate and meditative contemplation of sea, skies, or the concerns and things that occupy us. For me that means two dozen university students in their third and final week of a study abroad program with all the attendant problems thereto: fatigue, nagging illnesses, and looming expectations of returning home – a happy event for some, a cause for despair for others. Managing schedules, expectations, and anxieties are wearing. That is not a reflection upon the students who have been great this year, but instead the realities of the job.

Most people think of Ireland as a single island, politically divided. Extending about half a mile into the bay, a causeway to Mutton Island provides an example of the many small islands that dot the coast of the country. With a tantalizing lighthouse, Mutton Island is home to a sewage and water treatment plant today. A gate at the end of causeway prevents visitors to the island but has excellent views of the bay and Salt Hill.

Mutton Island in the distance

A little farther west is Celia Griffin Park. When a park is named after a local person, often it is done so for a person who has been a resident for a long time. A park being named after someone is likely an acknowledgement of some good service rendered to the community. In the case of Celia Griffin, this is not the case. She was only six years old, and a resident of Galway for about six weeks, when she succumbed to hunger and famine in 1847. According to an inquest published in a local newspaper, Celia and her family made their way from Corrandulla, a small village some 17 kilometers away, looking for relief. Although she was taken to a convent, provided food and care, she was too weak to recover, becoming one of the many victims of the famine. If it had not been for the park’s name, she would have likely become yet another unknown victim of the famine travesty. The park is named and dedicated to Celia and all the children who died during the events that killed perhaps a million people and precipitated the emigration of many more.

The Griffin family had been residents on the estate of Thomas Barnwall Martin, a member of an important merchant family and British member of parliament representing Galway. He would die about six weeks after Celia, contracting typhus after trying to assist tenants. His only daughter and heir, the novelist Mary Letita Martin, would preside over the loss of the family fortune, as she tried to help as many tenants are she could. She and her husband, facing destitution, would emigrate to the United States in 1850, where she died ten days after arriving because of complications from a premature. Mary and her baby, who did not survive, were collateral casualties of the famine as well.

The park overlooks Galway Bay and a monument for those who left Ireland during the famine on the so-called Coffin Ships. Many passengers attempting to escape the famine, sick with disease like cholera and typhus, crowded on ships destined for North America. The ships had delivered goods and food to Europe and took on passengers for the return trip as “human ballast.” As a deckhand on one such ship, Herman Melville noted in 1849 that passengers were “stowed away like bales of cotton and packed like slaves in a ship. . . We had not been at sea one week when to hold your head down the hatchway was like holding it down a cesspool.” Upwards of a third of passengers on the coffin ships would die during the voyage. The monument notes that for those escaping from the Port of Galway the light from the Mutton Island Lighthouse would have been the last light from their homeland. At the other end of the journey, migrants’ difficulties did not end. On Grose-Ile, on the Saint Lawrence River near Quebec City, a Canadian national historical site honors the migrants as well.

The Coffin Ship Memorial on an appropriately overcast day

Like many photographs I have taken in Ireland, it looks to be gray and cold – but today it is gray and mild.  As I approached Mutton Light Memorial, camera in hand, an older man with a closely cropped gray beard, a black jacket zipped to the neck, looked me in the eye. He tilted his head, lifting his chin, in a form of approval, raised his right hand with his index finger raised, and pointed at me as we passed.  I nodded in appreciation, but we did not speak a word. Since I encountered him, I have occasionally contemplated whether we were having the same thoughts, or he was just enjoying the relatively mild weather.

The Red-tailed Bumblebee

 

The smaller the object, the less I notice the differences. It is easy to identify how churches in Europe are different from those in north America; or, that automobiles drive on the opposite of the road sometimes. I suppose to those who do not pay attention to birds, many differences will go unnoticed as well. But when it comes toto insects, small creatures that one sometimes only catches a fleeting glance when flying or darting in our preferential vision, how they might be substantially different can escape me.

Reading about one of the great pollinators of Europe, the red-tailed bumblebee, I was reminded again how much we humans depend on other animals for our wellbeing. Bees are fascinating creatures. As a child, they were an object of menace; a small insect that generated fear because of their ability to sting. As an adult, armed with the knowledge that one in three bites of our food depends upon the pollination performed by bees, I am fascinated with something that is rarely considered. The declining populations of insects has worrying impacts for humans. A random information poster in a small urban park invited me to take a closer look at bumblebees in Ireland and Britain. At first glance, from a distance, bees looked like those I know. But the red bum, cute as it is, reminds that there is great diversity even when we do not see it.

Beamish

 

Brewed in Dublin, Guinness has become a global icon of Irishness. The black stout represents the country with global marketing campaigns, is a major sponsor, and is on the checklist for many visitors to the island. Its counterpart, brewed in Cork, has an equally interesting history, but does not enjoy the fame or global reach. Nevertheless, Beamish is an Irish tradition far off the radar of many tourists set to buy overpriced Guinness apparel in tourist shops.

Dating from 1792, Beamish is today brewed by the Heineken company in Cork. It retains its original recipe that creates a beer that is pleasantly bitter with a creamy texture. While occasionally found outside of Ireland, it is primarily brewed for domestic consumption.

Coming Back to Kindred Spirits

 After walking in Ballyannan Wood for a couple of hours, the weather had turned decidedly nicer. The sun was out, there was, for Ireland, a great deal of blue sky. I wanted to stop off and rephotograph Kindred Spirits. I adjusted my camera, made sure to get the lighting right, and noticed in my viewfinder that someone had hung a hat on the sculpture. I took a couple of shots, debating whether to remove the hat for another series of shots. I walked up to find that it was a hat from the Blackfeet Nation. I was stunned, why had I not seen that before? I look back through my photos; it was not there when I came in the morning. Someone had put it there in the two hours or so while I was walking. A coincidence no doubt, but it did give me a strange sensation.

The Streets of Midleton

 

McSweeney Terrace (Midleton) 

Walking down the main street of small Irish towns, one of the things I admire is the sense of community. The center of town is the center of community. Midleton is a good example. Listening to the people converse with one another, catching pieces of catching up on the welfare of their kids or parents, or where they might be going on holiday, as they meet each on the street is a fun experience. The center (i.e., centre) of town is bustling and there is a good chance that one might run into someone who know if you live there.

In the neighborhoods, there is still a sense of what once was. Terraces and religious statues and shrines still dot the small and large towns of Ireland. Even though there is a need for more housing in Ireland, typically towns do not tear down houses and start anew. Homes are refurbished and updated, still linking communities to the past. As the population of Ireland grows, however, that might change.

Our Lady of Lourdes (Midleton) 

Drink Tourism

Eating lunch at Farmgate, I wondered why an American family would be spending time in Midleton. It is a lovely town, but I was not sure what a family with adult children and their partners have a lunch, with a couple bottles of wine would be doing in a small town in County Cork. They did not seem like a family who were on a voyage to connect with ancestors. But then I espied their bags from the Jameson Experience and remembered there was a factory tour, and they were likely in Ireland to enjoy some of the more prominent products of Ireland. Originally distilled in Dublin, the world’s best-selling whiskey is now manufactured in Midleton.

Midleton, Co. Cork

I had three goals while visiting Midleton: to see Kindred Spirits monument, have a walk through Ballyannan wood, and to have a pleasant lunch at a local establishment, in that order of preference. The events and legacy of the Famine in Ireland (An Gorta Mór), during the middle of the nineteenth century, looms large over Irish life and politics.[1]The stories and accounts are grim, but I was off to see a more uplifting and redemptive story. While the deprivation the Irish suffered are staggering, there are stories of kindness and perseverance.

Perhaps it is foolhardy to take a two-and-a-half hour bus ride for a short two night stay in Cork. That is especially true after a transatlantic trip, but having an itinerary and agenda is important, if is is not immutable. The first night in Cork requires food and rest. Dinner at the White Rabbit Bar & BBQ, close to my guesthouse, is unpretentious and uncomplicated. While the food was not unique to Americans, it was very good.  My speculation is that the bar captures what Irish people who have traveled to the States love about the food and culture. The blues music, the wooden floors, American advertising, as well as the good food, supplemented with Irish twists, such as the local stout, help to make both Irish and Americans feel at home.

The train ride to Midleton the next morning was a reminder of the hard scrabble life growing up in Cork once was. Industrial ports… arriving in Midleton, my destinations were south of town, while the train station is north of the town of 12,000 people. The pandemic has done weird things to our memories and perceptions. It seems like a long time since I walked a walk through a small Irish town, and I relished the small shops and bits of conversation I overheard as I walked through. In fact, it has only been three years. 

The Kindred Spirits Choctaw Memorial is a remembrance of an act of kindness during the Famine, when the Choctaw Nation gave a donation to Irish Relief of approximately $170 in 1847 (adjusted for inflation, about $5000 today). Although it might be a small sum, the amount of money raised seems relatively small, the donation came just 16 years after their forced removal to Oklahoma generally referred to as “The Trail of Tears.” While President of Ireland, Mary Robinson would often recall the kindness and generosity of the Choctaw People. Over the years, Irish people looked to repay the kindness in various ways, including provide supplies and donations during the pandemic.

Kindred Spirits Choctaw Memorial

Kindred Spirits links two disenfranchised people together with a bond of helping one another. Although occurring almost 170 years ago, the act of kindness, and the response, creates a story that both people can share, cherish, nurture. It is a bind between people who who rarely have the opportunity to interact, but it symbolizes their endeavors to build friendship and peace.

Commissioned in 2014 by the town of Midleton, the memorial is not an obvious tourist destination; that would be the whisky experience in town instead. Nevertheless, I am sure one of the motivations of the structure another reason to have people come to a small town in eastern County Cork. But the memorial represents something bigger. It is not in the center of town, but at the edge of the River Owennacurrra, where people can come and watch birds and other wildlife even as cars race across the highway bridge that removes them from their connection to the outdoors. The location is a place to contemplate the past, present and the future, and to observe what we often miss.

On the other side of the highway is Ballyannan Wood, a small track of land adjacent to the river, open for walking and recreating. Ballick Road goes beneath the N25 motorway, but the sidewalk on the right side ends at Kindred Spirits.  I must cross the road to transit the viaduct, and immediately cross back on the other side because the car park is adjacent to, but not accessible from the freeway. A mobile coffee shop, serving walkers and those who want to enjoy the outdoors, is nestled among the car run by a small generator. It is tempting, but I am anxious to explore.

Fading Bluebells in Ballyannan Wood

Glorious photographs of luxurious bluebells filling the floor of a forest are published in newspapers and social media feeds each spring. They bloom at an inconvenient time, April and May, a difficult time to travel. Nevertheless, I am enchanted by the photographs, and I motivated to see them. It is late May, and I was not expecting to see bluebells and it is a great bonus to turn a bend and see a lavender carpet alongside the trail. These beautiful, delicate flowers are well past their prime still enticing. Although I am still feeling the effects of jetlag, seeing the flowers, hearing, and chasing birds I could not immediately identify, is energizing and restorative. The remnants of a house that has been abandoned long ago, with trees growing where people ate and slept decades ago, is a fascinating diversion. To wander and explore is a salve to several months of limited explorations.  

A European Robin trying to hide behind a stem

I sit for a moment and take in the scenery reflecting that on my long journey that takes me back to a nature walk; the tide is out and the River Owennacurra is less and for some hours it shrinks. There is a certain joy and liberation on a walk like this. There are no times constraints, no rushing home to do something. Just time to explore — other than making sure I catch the train back to Cork, which runs once an hour. But even then, I have a credit card in my pocket. I can take care of problems if they arise, but they seem unlikely to do so today.

Watching the river go by

I had not decided on a place to have lunch ahead of time, I like to have a look and see what interests me. My criterion in such situations is that it need not be fancy, or especially highbrow, but local and relatively nutritious. Coming back from the walk, I bypassed with some trepidation The Grumpy Bakers. The name made me smile, but the long walk engendered the need for more than a snack. Close by I was interested in the Farmgate but walked through town to weight other options. Seeing nothing else that intrigued me more, I came back to Farmgate,[2] a restaurant that was buzzing with people enjoying a Friday afternoon. I did not want a big meal, but something that was fairly substantial. I selected the ham salad sandwich, something that many Americans would assume would have some concoction of mayonnaise and chopped ham. Instead, it was an open-faced sandwich, served on traditional brown bread, salad greens, tomatoes, shaved ham, homemade pickles, a little bit of mayonnaise, and onions.  It was both hearty and a bit upscale. Jazz music, particularly Ella Fitzgerald, set the tone, but was largely not heard over the in-depth conversations, both loud and quiet, across the restaurant.

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[1] An Gorta Mór has become a focal point of historical studies and remembrances, consequently an important part of Ireland’s national identity. Many are quick to remind you that it was not an Irish famine, it was a British famine. Those in charge at the time was the government in Westminster and therefore, many Irish people would argue, Britain bears the responsibility of the consequences and response to the Famine.

[2] Farmgate Restaurant, Coolbawn, Midleton, Co. Cork.  

Ormonde Cinema (Midleton, Ireland)

 

A closed theatre on the south end of the town of Midleton in eastern County Cork. The Ormonde was open c1946 to c2005, closing after the opening of a multiplex in town.

Location: 7 Broderick Street

Cultural Differences

I am constantly reminded while traveling about the cultural differences between Americans and Europeans. For instance, while riding on a subway (metro), Americans tend to be very loud and boisterous. Their conversations can be heard by many. The more Americans there are in the car, the louder it is. By contrast, with the exception of adolescences and the inebriated, Europeans tend to have quiet conversations, speaking to each other in muted tones. The cars tend to be quiet.

A similar behavior is when riding a bus or metro, American will often put their feet in adjoining seats, stretching out the legs, taking up more than one seat. These people are also sending a signal of ownership and signaling a disinclination to share adjacent seats with strangers. I have seen bus drivers stop, walk to the back of the bus and chastise young American women for putting their dirty feet where soon someone else will be sitting. I conjure the image of prim and proper Irish women riding the bus after we have departed. One driver, as he walked away, muttered that he worked hard to keep his bus clean.

The unfair aspect of this description is that there could be, and probably are, many Americans who adopt a similar habits and attitude to their European counterparts. But because they are quiet, they are not immediately recognized. The loud Americans are recognized, the quiet ones are not. Nevertheless, my observation has given rise to a pet theory: In general, Europeans tend to share public space, while Americans try to own it.

[As I was sketching this thought out in my notebook in a sedate hotel breakfast room on a Sunday morning, I an everyone else heard an American woman say: “I am generous to a fault!” It fit all the stereotypes that many will have of Americans.]

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 3: Supply Canal)

The Supply Canal empties into the Royal Canal near
Harbour Road in Mullingar

At the northern tip of the arc of the canal that circles Mullingar, there is a small tributary canal that feeds the Royal Canal from Lough Owel. The Supply Canal is about half the width of the Royal Canal and originates from Lough Owel, a lake approximately 3.5 miles long and 2 miles wide. The trail is not particularly well publicized, even though it is a beautiful walk and a couple of interesting historical sites along the way.

If you let the threat of rain keep you from accomplishing your tasks, you will never get anything done in Ireland. The night before, a storm including 60-mile-per-hour winds lashed the midlands. The next morning, the winds remained brisk and dark gray clouds rushed across the sky. But it was my last day in Ireland – so I go. Debris from the high winds the night before litter the trail with leaves and branches. The storm had brought in a noticeable drop in the temperature, which was a relief to many of the locals. While many enjoy the warm weather, their houses and businesses are not built for the heat. Walking to the canal, there was the faint smell of peat burning to warm nearby houses; a smell of which I have grown fond. The canals seemed fuller and much of the pollen and debris, which had accumulated on the top of the water over the past few days, had disappeared.

Less than a mile north of the Royal Canal, the Supply Canal crosses Castlepollard Road, a busy thoroughfare with no caution lights to warn traffic about pedestrians. A small sign indicated that there is a Famine Cemetery close at hand. About 100 meters further on, the cemetery sits on the edge of an industrial park. While you cannot see the buildings from the warehouses and factories because of the trees, the associated noise let you know that you are not in a remote area. A small stone gate, with a cross atop, indicates the location of the cemetery. Renderings of the mid-nineteenth century Great Irish Famine are common when traveling throughout Ireland; there are a number of monuments and memorials to those who died. But to see something that is tangible from that period is rare.

Entrance gate to the Famine Cemetery

Approximately one million people, of a population of about 6.5 million, starved during An Gorta Mór. Another 1.5-2 million people emigrated during the late 1840s. While, beginning in 1845, a blight largely destroyed the entire potato crop, the primary staple for most Irish peasants, the island continued to export food. Charles Trevelyan, the official in charge of the British response to the famine, did not want to provide assistance or food relief because he feared that it would adversely affect the natural order of markets. Therefore, landlords in Ireland, primarily British, could make more money selling their crops overseas than providing it to the local Irish population. As a result, peasants in Ireland were not protected against the ravages of famine and starvation. The population of Ireland dropped by fifty percent over the course of the nineteenth century.

Interior of the Famine Cemetery

County Meath was hit hard, but its situation was not as desperate as some of the counties further west. In November 1845, in the nearby town of Moate, a mass rally of 4,000 people called on the government to provide help and subsistence to help the local population. The plea had no reply. At the Mullingar Union cemetery, other than the stone gate, no contemporary markers can be observed. Two stone monuments have been placed in recent commemoration. One describes the people interred at the cemetery, “buried in piles, including some of the workhouse’s 7,000 dead.” Overgrown with grass and trees, it is difficult to imagine the number of skeletons who lie beneath the earth. What is more, it is impossible to recreate the images and smells of a dying population during the Great Hunger.

Since it was a weekday morning I had the trail, other than several animals, mostly to myself. Swallows frenetically skim the small canal, searching for the insects that invariably live near the water. A few song birds made sure to give me wide latitude. The gathering clouds made me wonder if I would reach the lake dry, or even at all.

Saint Brigid's Well

Within another half mile a sign, just past a fish farm, indicated the location of Saint Brigid’s Well (Tobar Brighde), which has been a place of worship since about 700AD. More than likely, originally it had been a place of worship of the Celtic goddess Brigid. A small well comes above ground and runs less than six feet to a stream, which, in turn, empties into the fish farm and eventually the canal. The site was Christianized and, a Stations of the Cross and small chapel were added in the mid-twentieth century.  A sign tells visitor that “Here our forefathers walking in the footprints of Brigid pondered the suffering and death of Our Saviour.” I contemplate that for a few minutes and wonder about the contemplations of those before the arrival of Christianity. What was their hopes and fears? We are likely never to know. I took shelter in the open chapel at the well for a few minutes as a light, but persistent rain shower passed. My presences in the chapel caused much consternation to a pair of swallows who had built a he top corner of the chapel. It is unbelievable that in the space of about ten minutes, the weather completely changed. Blue skies emerged, and I found myself searching the sky for the dark clouds that just a few minutes before were so threatening. The clouds had seemingly vanished.

The rail line between Levington and Cullion 

At this point, the canal went through private property. The canal path ended; but a bike path, running alongside Old Longford Road continued toward the lake. One old cedar tree, on the edge of a field, frown under the pressure of the high winds. Perhaps it is not the rain I should be worried about, I thought, but the possibility of falling limbs. Just before crossing the railroad track, where I briefly observed the Sligo train, a small road to the left, wide enough for only one car begins to parallel the canal again. About a quarter mile from the lake, a stone bridge carries the road across the canal just before it ended at the lake.

Lough Owel

Lough Owel is beautiful and is renown among anglers and birding, provided you have a vessel to set upon the water. Where the canal waters leave the lake, to enter the canal and make its way to Mullingar, is a sailing and boating club. Unlike in the States, there are no other facilities, snack outlets, or gift shops. Recreation is dependent on the individual or a group.

On the return trip, there is a sense of melancholy. It is my last day in Ireland, and Europe, for this year. In just a couple of hours I will board a bus to take me to Dublin Airport. As I walk through the small village of Cullion, whose etymology is suggestive of a contemptible fellow or rascal, where I will cross the railroad tracks and rejoin the canal for the two-mile walk back to Mullingar, I look over into a field where seemingly a million small yellow flowers are blowing in the wind, almost as if they are waving goodbye to me. Already I am thinking of the tasks I must accomplish when I return; the appointments to keep, and the meetings to attend. It is tempting to believe that if we could relocate here, life would be simpler. But I know it is not true. We would trade our current responsibilities and concerns for others. Humans are social creatures, inevitably we develop new connections and new tasks. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to walk these trails, free from our concerns for a few hours; to wander and to explore, to renew ourselves for the journeys to come. 

​

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 2)

On an overcast day, a little over a week later, I returned to Mullingar to explore more of the canal. My ambitions were high that afternoon: to walk from the center of town to a small pub, Mary Lynch’s, approximately seven-and-a-half miles toward the east. The weather was cooler, a pleasant 63°F, and the only demands on my time was the bus schedule to allow me to return to Mullingar at a reasonable time.

The previous week I had walked to where the N52 crossed over the canal and path, approximately a mile-and-a-half out of Mullingar. Thus, tried to move swiftly through the area, and it seemed to take forever to get back to N52. On my previous walk I had been concentrating on birds. This walk I became fascinated with the windflowers and the bees that roamed from flower to flower.

Quickly, it felt as if I were walking in remote areas. Probably because it was a Tuesday afternoon, I saw very few people on the trail. There were several overgrown paths leading from the trail, most were overgrown and appeared not to have been used in quite a while. In Scotland, the right to roam makes it less daunting to explore the odd and intriguing path. The idea is that as long as you are recreating, committing no harm, you can walk virtually anywhere in the wilderness. But this does not apply to Ireland. There are far fewer no trespassing signs, or signs warning to beware of dogs, then in the United States; however, there are some. I overcame my trepidation and took a side path, which was not particularly well marked, up a hill. What did I find at the top of the hill? Nothing more than a field, or perhaps it was a pasture. My curiosity was in unrewarded. Of course, how would it have been rewarded unless I had taken a look?

Marlinstown Bridge

Earlier in the day, at a convenience store in Mullingar I bought a ham sandwich and a bottle of water. The elderly gentleman who sold me the sandwich, said it was a nice day. I retorted it was an excellent day for a walk. A big grin came across his face as he said, “Enjoy the walk, and God bless.” I stopped for my lunch at Marlinstown Bridge, a one-lane bridge in a remote area. Yet, a service truck crossed the bridge and a man and his dog walked by. I wandered to the other side of the bridge and found a trailhead to a wilderness path along the high bank of the canal. A few bug mansions and bee hotels had been built to help promote local biodiversity.

The path opened into a wide valley, where it ran alongside several pastures and farms. I was thinking that I had not seen many aquatic birds along the canal, other than a pair of swans on the west side of Mullingar the week before. Then, within seconds, I spied a grey heron, who did not allow me to get to close to photograph before flying off. Many of the nature signs along the canal touted the multicolored kingfisher as being native, but elusive, to the area. Although I kept looking I was disappointed by not seeing the European cousin to one of my favorite birds. In fact, the crane would be the only aquatic bird I saw during all my walk on the canal.

The N4 highway approached closely, and ran parallel to the path in this area, and it was hard not to be distracted by the noise. I saw another stone marker, which was impossible to read. I noted, however, that today in Ireland every half kilometer is denoted along roads N4 and the stone markers would probably outlast the metal signs that currently gave motorists their whereabouts.

The Downs Bridge

As I approached the Downs Bridge, the path served as a paved one-lane road used by a few houses. At one point, a bush hog mowing the grass along the edge of the road patiently waited for me to pass. I was glad he did. After I passed I heard the mower hit some glass bottles and aluminum cans, the shrapnel would have hurt I am sure. A little bit further, several trucks were repaving the asphalt on the Downs Bridge. An older worker sitting on the back of a truck greeted me. I asked him to confirm that I was the Downs Bridge, which he did. He inquired as to if I were having a good walk but the look on his supervisor's face suggested that we should keep the conversation short.

Here and there houses told stories about their occupants and the land. A white house with yellow trim caught my eye and sparked my imagination. The house had several additions and four rather large pine trees, which looked out of place in the Irish countryside, which were planted a generation ago. The back of the house, typically known as the garden, was full of flower pot and plants. An old sliding board, with faded red paint, was being consumed by grass that had not been mowed in a quite a while, indicating that the children no longer lived there. But a newer, small green table with two chairs overlooked the canal. I imagined an elderly couple taking their afternoon tea or evening drinks while watching wildlife or the cyclists pass.

A hand-cranked drawbridge

Shortly before automobile access to the path ended, I passed a bridge that had an intact hand crank drawbridge that would allow cars to traverse the bridge when down, its current state, and boats to pass when raised. I was mesmerized by this old structure and was thinking about how to describe it. I took several photographs, from different angles, to demonstrate how it worked. In my head, I was imagining a conversation with my dad, trying to explain the design to him, who would have been deeply interested.

Between the Downs and McNeads Bridges, the canal sat high above the valley floor. Several culverts allowed small rivers and streams to pass beneath. Since this section of the canal was completed by 1817, I pondered the work and planning that went into its creation. I am unclear about the conditions under which the canal was built and who did the labor. But It was a reminder that early nineteenth-century canals were a marvel of engineering. I walked between the Royal Canal's successors: to my right was the railroad tracks, which later in the nineteenth century would make the canal obsolete; to my left, the N4 highway that took the modern traveler, whether my bus or car, to destinations throughout the island.

Toward the end of my journey, I realized how glad I was that it was not sunny. Although it was not optimal for beautiful picturesque photographs, it made walking much easier. I was not prone to being too hot or having an Irish sunburn. Besides, the cloud cover did make it easier to photograph some of the wild flowers without shadows. It also made it easier to continue the journey. I arrived at Mary Lynch's pub a full hour and a half before the next bus was scheduled to arrive. I had walked a little over seven miles at that point but did not think that ninety minutes in the pub was a good idea.

A pied wagtail at Lock 25

After a few minutes, I started to slowly walk to the next bridge, another two kilometers further. After a few minutes I resumed my natural pace but was beginning to feel the toll on my feet. When I reached Lock 25 (Loc 25), I decided that it was enough of a walk. My day would end with a total of 9.8 miles.

Mary Lynch's Pub

I returned to the Mary Lynch Pub with about an hour before the bus was set to arrive. I few people were around the bar, and I ordered a celebratory Guinness to pass the time. The bartender, who said she saw me walking earlier, asked me how I enjoyed my walk. I replied that it was a nice day for walking. She gave me a detailed summary and update of the weather, noting that previous week had been too hot for many people. The pub had had several walkers and cyclists who could not cope with the extreme (for Ireland) temperatures.

Mary Lynch's Pub

The bartender told of a woman who, while cycling with her husband the previous weekend, got cramps and light-headed. Her husband gave her a "fiver" and rode his bike home to retrieve the car. An hour and a quarter later he came back. One of the women at the bar comment, "An hour? She needed more than a fiver." The bartender went on to tell me that, "High pressure will be building tomorrow night and will be turi-bill winds. It will blow itself out by Turs-day morning. Sunny weather then, but cooler." Her forecast was pretty much right.

She took care of other guests and nursed my beer. I went out to catch the route 115 bus at 17:52, five minutes early. Even though I knew the stop was near the end if the route and it highly unlikely to be on time. After walking nearly ten miles, I neither wanted to miss an on-time bus nor consider a 7-mile walk back to Mullingar. I have been riding buses in Ireland for over 15 years and feel confident about understanding the nuisances of doing so. But I have to admit, with my feet aching, watching cars zooming by coming home from work, when the bus was twenty minutes late I began to have some doubts and trepidation. But when the bus rounded a bend in the road, thirty-three minutes after its scheduled arrival time I was happy to pay my €4.30 to return to Mullingar.

The Tooth Fairy in Portugal

On the hotel shuttle bus to Dublin Airport there are trips that are beginning and others that are ending. Mine was ending; however, across the aisle from me, sat an Irish family whose trip was just beginning. The father was preoccupied with the latest news on his phone. The mother, even though claiming fatigue, was engaged in a lively conversation with her two daughters, aged five and two. When the mother asked, the five-year-old claimed that she wanted to ride a train when they arrived in Portugal and buy earrings. The mother reminded her that she had ridden a rain before to Croke Park. The daughter then told her to pull up her blouse because, apparently, she was revealing too much. There was an exasperation of a teenager from the mother, who glanced over at her husband still solely focused on his phone. Mom then asked if there was something wrong with her lip and the daughter indicated that she had a loose tooth. "Ah," she replied with an Irish lilt, "does the tooth fairy come to Portugal?" The father did not respond. She gave her daughter a wink, "I will text the tooth fairy the address in Portugal...My goodness ten euros, I don't think so."

Penguins in Mullingar

It was a blustery day in Mullingar and I stepped back inside the hotel to retrieve my trusted Penguins walking hat. It was the kind of day where the wind was blowing and there was just enough rain to be a nuisance, but not really to create any puddles. Walking near the center of town on Austin Friars Street, the primary east-west axis, I was not paying attention to anyone, just lost in my own thoughts. Because I know no one in town, I try to blend into the background and observe. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man, perhaps in his twenties, walking hand-in-hand with a young woman. As he passed, I heard him say, “ooh…cool hat.” His comment did not immediately register, because I do not expect anyone to talk to me. But after a few seconds, I realized he was talking about my Penguins hat because no one else around was wearing a hat.

Belfast 2018

A vibrant art scene in central Belfast

After deindustrialization, and “The Troubles,” the buildings and businesses of central Belfast bear witness to the recent difficult times. Yet there are signs of revitalization and vitality. The area around the St. Ann’s Cathedral is bustling with inviting restaurants and traditional pubs. Live music emanates from several venues, and I have decided it is a requirement that every street performer must have a version of “Brown Eyed Girl” in their repertoire. As with every city that is recovering, there is an edginess to Belfast. Although the Good Friday Peace Accords were more than two decades ago, signaling an end to the violence between the Catholic and Protestant communities in Belfast and Northern Ireland, some areas of the city exude a mistrust concerning their neighbors.

It is odd to reflect upon how many maps of cities I have in my head. Sometimes I might forget how to get from point A to point B before I return to a city. But when I arrive, I usually figure it out. The pathway and connection between landmarks and streets comes back to me almost instantly. Perhaps most odd is my still emerging knowledge of Belfast. To have an intimate knowledge and understanding of Falls Road and Shankill Road in West Belfast is disorienting. I was in high school during some of the most egregious violence of the Troubles, and while I did not understand the circumstances or implications then, my view of Belfast was that it was a city of violence and danger. In my mind, I saw Belfast and Northern Ireland as a war-torn region, akin to places like Beirut during its civil war.

The gate on Northumberland that each night closes

I have a sense of unease when I walk the streets of Belfast. While visiting other places, like Babelplatz and Potsdammerplatz in Berlin, I understand the horrific atrocities and loss of life that occurred there. But what happened in Belfast was in my near-adult lifetime. The news photographs and footage, I can recall vividly. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast before school, hearing about the death of Bobby Sands during the hunger strike. I would soon be off to college, pursuing a degree in political science, and news was a dissonance about how Western Europe was supposed to operate. Those memories still persist today as I wander the streets of Belfast.

Mural on the Falls Road (Republican) 

Mural on the Shankill Road (Loyalist)

Despite the peace between the communities, West Belfast in many respects remains divided, both literally and figuratively. Murals in the Republican and Loyalist sections, along the Falls Road and the Shankill Road, tell two different stories. It is almost as if there is a belief that the peace is a respite; the old animosities still exist and once again the argument will be had again. The gates on Lanark Way and Northumberland Street still close every night to separate the communities. Houses next to the wall that divides the communities still employ fences to prevent bricks from coming through their windows. Even neighborhood libraries, those bastions of knowledge, understanding and contemplation feel different. There is less than half a mile between Falls Road and Shankill Road branches, but the displays, book suggestions and art reflect the two different communities. One wonders how the communities move on from a lack of violence to real integration of neighborhoods.

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 1)

Yellow Irises along the Royal Canal 

The Royal Canal is a 146-kilometer long canal, constructed between 1790 and 1817, running from Longford to Dublin. Built as competition for the Grand Canal, it was never particularly profitable and largely made redundant with the invention of locomotive transportation in the middle of the nineteenth century. Today, it is a greenway and popular walking and biking trail through the midlands of Ireland. I spent a bank holiday weekend in Mullingar, ostensibly to walk the Old Westmeath Rail Trail; however, after discovering the canal path I became enchanted and abandoned my original plans for an exploration of the canal. Life is often more interesting when you deviate from your plan to find something more interesting. 

On Saturday afternoon, I walked through town, on Pearse Street and Austin Friars Street to the Dublin Bridge that crosses the canal. Travelling east from Mullingar, the canal enters an area where there are not many houses but plenty of people on a warm late Saturday afternoon. I passed a group of five teenagers surreptitiously smoking cigarettes near Piper’s Boreen, a narrow country road. Several young fathers were walking children, many in strollers. A grandfatherly looking gentleman was pushing a little boy in a stroller, who from fifty yards away began to wave at me. I think he want to make sure I saw him and waved back.

Transportation on the canal was officially terminated in 1961; however, restorations, first private groups, then by the government, have allowed for the canal to be used for water recreation. Over the course of the weekend, I saw a handful of fishermen but no boats of any kind. A boat along the far side of the canal looks as if it has not been used in quite a while and given the growth of vegetation in and around the water, nor does it appear that the canal has been transverse recently either.

Although I have walked many trails and canal paths, each one is different. This is especially true on the Royal Canal: There is a sense of adventure when one is visiting for the first time. In Ireland, the birdsongs and flowers are unfamiliar. Iridescent dragonflies are nearly impossible to photograph and, therefore, to identify. An unseen horse neigh in the fields behind the trees; little did I know that there were fields there. On the distant shore, behind some trees, I heard two men talking to each other. The one man, who I had trouble understanding, asked a question to the other to which the reply was, “Huh?” He asked the same question again. This time the reply was, “Aye.” This sequence was repeated, asking two more questions twice, each respectively eliciting the same answer.

Mullingar, a small city of about 20,000 people, is an old market that still thrives today. Walking through town on a weekend evening, the smell of fried fish permeates the town. Nevertheless, I had dinner at a pub where the evening roast was turkey and ham, served over mashed potatoes, and a good helping of broccoli and carrots. Plain and uncomplicated, the dinner was a hearty anecdote to several days of travel and a long walk on the canal. The sun was still shining and most people in town had congregated at a pub outside just down the road. My chosen pub was largely empty, save two other tables: A nearby table with a French-speaking couple and their young adult daughter who thoroughly enjoyed an American-style brownie with ice cream for dessert; and, two drunk Irishmen, whose difference in age suggested that they could be father and son, but given the conversation were probably are not. At one point, the older of the two men, who I judged to be in his seventies, perhaps younger but the tolls of a hard live were showing, got up to pay for another pint and use the facilities. As he walked by my table, he listed and almost fell face-first into my table before recovering his equilibrium. I glanced over to the younger man who jumped up to offer assistance, yelling, “Are you alright there?” I glanced over to the French couple to see if they had a reaction to the display, but they were oblivious, enjoying their dessert. Soon after, a quarrelsome couple from British Columbia came to bar requesting meals that were not hamburgers and not vegetarian.

East of Mullingar

The next day was a beautiful June Sunday morning on a bank holiday weekend bringing many people out on the canal path; however, the further I got from Mullingar, the fewer people I saw. Early on, a man walking two small dogs acknowledged what a beautiful morning it was. Indeed, it was. Later, a man said to me that it was “a lovely day.” I replied that is was beautiful. As we continued to walk past each other, he recounted that it was 23 degrees (73°F). I thought to myself that his comment was a little specific, but I have come to realize that the Irish have a keen sense about the weather.

It is difficult to judge whether one should acknowledge their fellow wayfarers on the trails of Ireland. In the United States it is common, almost expected, to acknowledge someone when meeting on a walking path. The rules in Europe are somewhat different. On the continent, one should all but ignore fellow walkers. In seems that in Ireland that the older the traveler, the more one should acknowledge the person. Thus, the elderly walker should be spoken to first; do not even bothering looking at teenagers. Children are a crapshoot: There reactions will tell if you should offer a greeting.

Likewise, it is difficult to know which side of the path one should walk on and, specifically, how to decide how to pass an oncoming walker. Since Americans drive on the right-hand side of the road, typically when they walk they also inhabit the right side of the path. It would seem to make sense for those places that drive on the left-hand side of the road to do the same thing in reverse. I have come to notice, however, that things get muddled. Perhaps because there are so many travelers from the United States and the continent, Irish people have become used to the confusion. After observing people walking for many years, I have concluded that there is no single answer to which side of the path one should walk. When walking, people tend to spy each other from as far as a hundred yards apart and begin to discern and signal which side of the path they will be using, often without eye contact.  

On the western outskirts of Mullingar, there is a small cross commemorating the life of Mary Walker, a 32-year old woman who died in 1909. Mary, an employee at the local post office, had been on an afternoon walk along the canal, a popular pastime even in the early twentieth century. She was the victim of a sensational and violent murder. The story gripped Mullingar and Ireland for several months and even made national headlines. A local man was later tried and executed for her murder. 

Approximately 100 meters east from the Kilpatrick bridge, I spied a wooden cross located inside a stone wall on the opposite side of the canal. There was no immediate indication why this site was marked. I went to the bridge and crossed over to the other side. Walking back, at first, I did not see anything to suggest the meaning of the cross. I was getting ready to move on when at the last second, I saw a carved some sign set in the middle of the wall facing the canal. Plans, flowers and weeds had largely obscured it rendering it almost invisible from the path. The difficulty was that there was a substantial ravine between the path, perhaps four feet deep and two feet wide. A couple of the weeds had thorns on. Nevertheless, my curiosity compelled me to brave the ravine and have a look. Even at that it was difficult to hold my camera and simultaneously pull the plants back far enough to read the inscription. Finally, I worked out that the cross marked a cemetery where several victims of a cholera epidemic were buried. A minor discovery perhaps, but interesting. Then, I was confronted with the prospect of climbing out of the ravine to once again rejoin my walk. I struggled to crawl back up to the path just as a middle-aged woman on a white bike was passing. She slowed down and inquired, "Are you alright?" I thought to myself if I was not I am not sure she could have really helped me. Nevertheless, I cheerfully answered, "I am, thank you very much."

Harbour Bridge in Mullingar

The canal west of Mullingar contains a series of bridges, which give a wayfarer an opportunity for beautiful photographs. While it requires cyclists to dismount, the reflection of the bridges in the water, backed with the blue sky and greenery are beautiful sites that encourages me to keep walking. At Bellmount Bridge, I stopped to greet a West Highland Terrier whose owner seemed embarrassed that he had interrupted both of our walks.

I ended my outward bound western journey from Mullingar in the small village of Ballinea, which is not much more than a few houses and a local grocery along the side of the road. I went in to purchase a couple of biscuits (cookies) and a cup of coffee. The cashier told me that there was a table at the side of the shop “to take a load off” my feet for a while.  I shared the picnic table with a couple of cyclists, who looked to be in their mid-to-late thirties and were having a coffee and snacks as well. After a few minutes, we started chatting. They asked if I had walked out from Mullingar, which they estimated to be “a good walk.” They were postmen from Mullingar, one of them had a bike jersey from An Post, the Irish postal service, and had decided to have a ride that morning. I inquired about how far they intended to go that day. “Ah,” said the guy not wearing the An Post gear, “This is it.” Which meant, like me, they had traveled five kilometers (about 3.2 miles) out and were going back after their coffee. They had a good laugh and said, “Sometimes we just put on the gear and drive out, so we can have a cup of coffee.”

Cobh, the Titanic, and the Lusitania

Because it sits near the entrance to Cork harbor, Cobh’s history is intimately tied to a history of shipping. Two famous ship disasters loom large in its history. The connection between the Titanic and Ireland is substantial. Built in the dockyards of Belfast, its last port of call was Cobh (then known as Queenstown) just four days before striking an iceberg and sinking. It is difficult to comprehend how large the ship was and how monumental the disaster. Today in the shipyards of Belfast, you can walk around an outline of where the ship was built; a walk around the decks would have provided good exercise for the passengers. So large was the ship, that the loss of life was substantial and trying. Well over a century later, in order to make a comparison, it is tempting to say that a major airline disaster might be equivalent. Yet, the size of the ship meant that it would mean ten aircrafts crashing to equal the number people affected. The passengers included both the super-wealthy and people desperate to migrate to the United States to start a new life. Certainly, there are many of us who travel across the Atlantic that cannot imagine the level of service or quality of food available to the passengers, even in second and third class. Traveling in coach class in airplanes in the twenty-first century is not the equivalent of traveling third class on the Titanic.

The Titanic captures our imagination because of the stories involved. Certainly, because it was so big, so luxurious, we remember the opulence of a time gone by. There are not many of photographs of the ship. The Cobh Heritage Centre contains a few photographs from Frank Brown, who was among the seven who disembarked from the Titanic at Queenstown. His photographs give us a peek into a place where few experienced; a ship being used, rather than architectural photographs of a completed project. The final set of 123 passengers boarded in Queenstown. The Titanic would only sail once, and most of the people on board would face a harrowing experience, many losing their lives. Like many dramatic events, the loss of the Titanic is often reduced to statistical numbers in order to demonstrate the scale of the tragedy. But these numbers rob the victims of their stories, which reminds us that these were actual people. For instance, boarding at Queenstown was Dennis Lennon and Mary Mullen, who were eloping to America. Jeremiah Burke, during his final minutes, would write a message of farewell to his family and friends and place it in a bottle, which came ashore in Dunkettle. There were also backstories to the Titanic that reflect national identities yesterday and today. Built by Irish laborers, at the time some expressed concerns about the quality of workmanship of those who worked on the great ship.  A t-shirt available in the local tourist shops in Belfast reads: “Titanic – built by Irishmen. Sunk by an Englishman.”

Titanic Memorial Park, Cobh, Ireland

I began a walk in Cobh under mostly sunny skies, yet by the time I got to the Titanic Memorial Gardens pesky sprinkles had begun. While exploring the area, the rain turned to a downpour and I sought shelter under a narrow arch. The rapidly changing weather prompted a resident to use an oft repeated and apt saying. As the rain became heavier and more persistent, a grandfather who had been enjoying a stroll while his grandson was ineffectually throwing a boomerang. I wondered if it was a gift from a relative who had emigrated to Australia after the financial crisis. The gentleman, seemingly kind and patient, called to his charge to hurry along, “Come on. It's raining, lad.” He sighed, as if he lamented the interruption of his walk saying, “Aye. Four seasons in one day again.”

While you might consider the sinking of the Titanic a disaster borne of hubris, the sinking of RMS Lusitania is more directly related to humans’ inability to get along. The Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat off old Head of Kinsdale, 25 miles west of Queenstown. Nearly 1200 people died when the ship was sunk and the event had a dramatic effect on propaganda, public opinion, and the course of World War I. Survivors and bodies from the Lusitania were brought to Queenstown. Completely overwhelmed some of the survivors were taken in by local residents. It was the year before the Easter Rising and Queenstown, the name of Cobh prior to Irish independence, was to remain a part of the British Empire for the next seven years.

Lusitania Memorial (Cobh)

In the local museum, a letter from Winifred Hull, a thirty-three-year-old British survivor, living in Winnipeg, to the Swanton family who housed her in the aftermath of the sinking is illuminating and distressing. In it she expresses deep regret for not writing sooner; however, it is clear to the reader she has been traumatized by the events. Hull counts herself lucky because her friends lost family members during the incident. She writes that every time she cogitates about the events her hands begin to shake. When she does compose the letter, eighteen days afterwards, she writes: “Will any of us ever forget, I wonder, I think not. But neither, I am sure, shall we ever forget the wondrous kindness shown to us, who survived that awful experience by the people of Queenstown, and by yourselves particularly to my friends and myself.” I was struck, in the middle of such tragedy, people often remember the most mundane things. Hull agonizes about not returning Mrs. Swanton’s coat sooner.

Mass grave marker for Lusitania victims

I walked to the Old Church Cemetery, just outside of Cobh, where there are 169 victims from the Lusitania buried. By the afternoon the weather had cleared up and it was a pleasant walk. This was the area of town where several local residents would do their shopping. Several boys were jumping the fence across the small path that separated the cemetery and their local football (soccer) practice field. Otherwise, I saw very few people. Most of the Lusitania victims are buried in mass graves at the west end of the cemetery. Three mounds are each marked by four Irish yew trees. As the centenary of the sinking and the First World War passes, I found myself wandering about the relevance of the events and memories to future generations. Among the other graves in the Old Church Cemetery was the British doctor who had administered to Napoleon during his exile on St. Helena. The Battle of Waterloo, which led to Napoleon’s exile, took place a hundred years prior to the sinking of the Lusitania. Yet, to most people today Napoleon is a footnote of history. A hundred years on, the Lusitania and the First World War will likely become the same.