Confessions of a Free Range Prolapsed Catholic

I travelled to Ireland – alone. Last in my birth family to travel overseas. I was 43. Had advice – get a seat belt extender. Wherever you have a stop over get off the plane and walk. You might not fit into the toilet. Have something to declare when you came back. Much advice; not of much help!

Instead I wallowed in finding my own way, driving across the border into Northern Ireland, being proposed to by a jaunting cart driver in Killarney – he had no teeth and must have been bordering on 90 but I felt like Maureen O’Hara in ” The Quiet Man”. He told me I had ” the look of the Celt about you”. In Feakle, County Clare where my convict ancestor was born, I found an old Celtic Cross gravestone bearing the inscription “M Boland” who may have been my great great grandfather’s brother.

My itinerary was based on places that were featured in sing-a-longs led by my Mum. The Shannon River, Killarney, Tralee, Dublin and in Cahir I heard ” The fields of Athenry” a modern song, which I realised could have been the story of my convict ancestor!

Absolutely no regrets – so much so, in 2001 I went again with my husband and son. We collected our tickets on September 11th.

How I’d love to go again!