Home Sweet Knockahoney

Have you ever had one of those moments when the very core of your being lights up and glows, ready to burst delightedly out of your chest and embrace the whole wide world simply because you're alive? I have, a few times, and the most recent was when I finally followed the way back to my Irish roots.

It's taken me three and a half months to get there, but this weekend I spent two lovely days with my Grandma's cousin, visiting with her, her husband, their son, his wife, and two wonderful children who are all living just under two hours away from Galway. As I stood on the literal roots of a tree overlooking the home where my great-grandmother grew up, and then wandered through the area, I attempted to realize what she would have been thinking about before heading off to America without any real guarantee of ever returning, at much the same age I am now (or perhaps a bit younger).The funny thing is, I realized while standing on that hill, is that I've found my roots, and they go deep, but are also holding up many new generations of family still living in the same area.

Though I'd never met them before venturing out on student-fueled Bus Feda, I did one afternoon in February have dinner with the other son of my grandma's cousin, his wife and young daughter. They were wonderfully hospitable, and the rest of the family was no exception. I lost count of the number of times I had a cup of tea during that roughtly 24-hour period, but it was far fewer than the number of times I was offered, and almost immediately felt perfectly at home, as if I was returning to the home of a third grandmother I'd known all my life. Each time she introduced me to another neighbor or friend, I was always her 'cousin visiting from Galway', never described as a distant American relative. I've been very careful here, thanks to the advice of some guidebooks and internet forums, not to describe myself as Irish for fear of offending anyone, but there was something heart-warmingly affirming about being recognized as family without question. In the dining room, I spotted a photograph of my grandfather and two other relatives that was taken in my grandparents' house back in Pennsylvania, and I heard a snippet of conversation that declared I was 'a true Cawley', the last name of my great-grandmother. She also mentioned about how my grandma had 'been home' a few times, which is true, but was never the way I'd looked at it- I'd always known she'd traveled to Ireland, but never properly given it much thought before. I learned about how everyone who came to Ireland from our family over the years has taken a sort of pilgrimage out to see the old homestead, and I can't blame them in the slightest.

The little town most certainly felt like a small community straight out of a novel, everyone said hello to each other and knew everyone, we went to mass on Sunday morning at a small parish church overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful lake and mountain scene, and I finally felt far from a tourist; I felt like I belonged. I was fed well: breakfast of eggs and sausage and homemade brown bread (my adoration of which I've mentioned before here), supper of steak and potatoes and oxtail soup, carrot cake and plenty of biscuits later. My dad would have loved it here, I know, for the carrot cake but also the family history and common ground.

If I'd grown up and lived in Ireland, I think that Knockahoney and Charlestown would have been the types of places I'd have liked to have been. The bus I took was designed specifically for students commuting to Galway from their hometowns, and was filled with young people.At one stop, the bus driver came back to wake up a young boy who'd dozed off: that's the sort of caring that should be universal. I fell comfortably into the brief bit of time I had pretending to be a part of that routine, though felt a bit sad about the other students who weren't paying much mind to the beautiful scenery that passed by their windows unnoticed. Simple joys I'd forgotten to appreciate this weekend came back to me without fail: I walked a little white dog named Rocky who has stolen my heart, clambered around the abandoned barnyard of my own volition.

I'm catching a bus to Dublin for a 6am flight to Edinburgh in almost exactly one hour, and will try to get a half hour mini-nap in now and pray that it doesn't do me more harm than good at this point. I won't be bringing my laptop with me, so I wanted to post this before I go- if I buy some internet time at one of the hostels, you'll surely be hearing from me, but if not, I'll update in a week. I leave you now with a snippet of something I jotted down on the bus back to Galway but haven't been able to figure out how to weave into here:

"And the beauty of a rolling green field is too much to handle, cows lowing in the background and baby lambs on their first spring legs falling over and tumbling, and my God, I wish I could run and live in this field forever."