We surprised everyone — except ourselves — when we announced our plans to honeymoon in Ireland. “Neither of you is Irish,” they said, foreheads wrinkled. I’m not sure why everyone assumes the only reason to go to Ireland is to look for “roots.” While we were there, we were often asked why we’d come and on hearing neither of us is Irish, would get looks of puzzlement.

Then, they’d look again and ask “Are you sure?”

It was a great place for Americans. There’s strain between the Irish and English for longstanding historical reasons, but they have nothing but smiles for Americans. From Dublin to Sligo, Shannon, Galway, Cashel and all the lovely towns in between, people were friendly and welcoming. When they learned we were honeymooners, we were treated to rounds of drinks and offered the best accommodations. Avoiding big hotels, we stayed in bed and breakfasts which we found using the National Tourist Board guidebook and a map.

We’d zero in on a destination and phone ahead. After a while, it began to work the opposite way. Wherever we found ourselves as evening approached, we’d see who had a room and stay. We always found a place and each home was spotlessly clean and comfortable, although tiny by American standards.

Cong and Garry
Cong and Garry

Our first stop after Shannon was Cashel. The bed-and-breakfast was like a little European pension. In the shadow of the Rock of Cashel, adjacent to the ruins of a medieval Dominican church, the location was perfect. We stayed two nights, then headed for Dublin.

Dublin was magic. Once we found our feet,  it was a city of music and good company We’d been planning to stay two nights, but stayed five. There were evening’s at Foley’s, where Irish music played every night and we all joined in, each in our own key. There were the pubs, where the Irish Coffee was always strong and the folks eager to wish us well and advise us on our itinerary. We shopped, sang, and drank, not necessarily in that order. (Note: Probably you should shop then drink.) We listened to stories, told some of our own, and would gladly have stayed another week or more.

Ashford Castle

From Dublin, we drove cross-country to Sligo. As we entered Sligo, the rain began to pelt down. For perhaps five minutes, it poured. Then, as the rain slowed to a drizzle, in front of us appeared a brilliant double rainbow. Welcome to Sligo. Our destination was a bed and breakfast called Rathnashee, which we learned means “fairy ring.” There’s an earthwork fairy ring in the field adjoining the house. I chose it because it had a room with a private bath, was on a main road (we never stopped getting lost, but we did learn to enjoy it), and had a library. Books are my weakness. Maybe my strength too.

The parlor of the house was a library, mainly the history of Ireland and Sligo in particular. Evenings, by the warmth of a peat fire, we settled in with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies. We read about Yeats, the Great Hunger, and the long, often tragic history of the north. In the course of events, Garry discovered he did, after all, have Irish roots, while I dreamed of fairy circles and magic mountains.

Abbey ruins near Ashford Castle

Sligo is bursting with magic. You can feel it as you explore the ancient earthworks, standing stones, cairns, and castles. I became convinced that the “Little People” live there still. Loch Gill, where lies the Isle of Innisfree, has its own kind of magic. We spent a grand afternoon exploring the recently restored Park Castle.

The crystal waters so clearly mirrored the sky that those viewing the pictures we shot that day have trouble telling which is water and which is sky. Later that same day, while heading toward Knocknarea, the mountain top cairn of the legendary Queen Mab, we met Gordon Winter, ex-spy, author, and local character. We were photographed in close encounters with his pet chickens, sipped tea in his kitchen, and bought an autographed copy of his latest book “Secrets of the Royals.”

Author Gordon Winter, Garry and chickens
Author Gordon Winter, Garry and chickens

Throughout our vacation, the weather never stopped changing. The sun shone, disappeared and reappeared in rapid succession. Wind blew, and clouds rolled in, and it rained. A few minutes later, the rain stopped, the wind died, the sun came out, the temperature rose, and just as you had taken off your jacket and put on your sunglasses, you’d realize it was raining again. We took our sunglasses on and off twenty times an hour, and took our jackets on and off almost as often. The second morning in Sligo, we awoke to pounding rain. I peeked out the window to see another rainbow, even brighter than the one we’d seen coming in, in the field across the road.

Rainbow over Sligo
Rainbow over Sligo

By the time we went to breakfast, the sun had come out, but by breakfast’s conclusion, it was again drizzling. Such is Irish weather. It never rained all day, but it rained a little almost every day, and we learned to ignore weather and proceed with our plans, counting on the ever-changing skies to give us enough clear weather to tramp through a ruin, scale a castle wall, or walk down by a riverside.


After three days in Sligo, we traveled down to Connemara. One afternoon, we drove to Cong, where John Ford shot “The Quiet Man.” Ardent movie buffs, we literally climbed over fences and wended our way through sheep pastures (Garry always greeted the sheep by reminding them how good they would taste with a bit of mint jelly; I thought in terms of sweaters and tweeds) pastures until we found the “quiet man’s cottage,” now in ruins. The setting is as idyllic as ever, though, and the stream still flows past the cottage door and under the little bridge. Clearly the movie was the biggest thing to ever hit the town. Cong is full of Quiet Man memorabilia, and the local residents full of anecdotes and memories.

Cong, September 1990
Cong, September 1990

Our time was almost up, and as we continued down along the coast, we began to realize that we would really have to go home. The idea was so depressing that we stopped in the nearest pub for solace.

The only part was driving. Keeping left was a problem. The roads were another. Narrow, a terrifying mix of blind curves, roaming sheep, and meandering cattle, locals drive these narrow roads at supersonic speeds. On roads hardly wider than our tiny compact car, we were passed, after which we felt obliged to check if the door handles and mirrors were still attached.

Irish Signs

Eventually we stopped worrying where we were or how to get someplace else. We let the road take us where it would. We knew whenever and wherever we stopped, we’d find a good pub and friendly faces.

We hoped we’d go back again, but other places called and the years ran faster than I believed possible. But we remember.

Yeats in Sligo

Post Script:

When we got home, we were visiting Garry’s folks, showing the photos to Garry’s Dad until he stopped us. It was the pictures of Yeats’ burial site. “Those are your people,” he said, pointing to a group of stones slightly behind Yeats’.

“Our people?” asked Garry.

“Your grandparents were from Sligo,” he said. “My mother,” he clarified. That explained the very light-skinned red-headed grandmother Garry remembered.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asked his father.

“I was waiting until I thought you were old enough,” his father explained. Garry was 48 at the time.


  1. I must admit I have never visited Ireland. My best friends mother was from Newry on the northern border which was a dangerous place to be during the fights between North and South. It is very popular amongst the Swiss for a fishing holiday where they can rent a cottage somewhere on a lake. I enjoyed reading your Irish piece. A nice lecture to begin the day.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It was wonderful. Garry had been there a few times before and it was his idea. I was a bit baffled at first. What did I know about Ireland? But it was beautiful and every bit as green as we expected. And people were so NICE.


    2. Must’ve been Kismet because I’d visited Ireland several times before our honeymoon in ’90. I always loved t it and felt so much at home. Especially in the Pubs.


    1. It was beautiful and really friendly. One of those rare place where they ask you about yourself and they actually want the answer! Singing in the pubs — and even sometimes, ON KEY! I wish we’d been able to go back.


  2. I guess all of those people who said that a trip to Ireland is to rediscover your roots were correct, at least in Gary’s case – funny twist tot he story. I don’t know why people say nothing about visiting anywhere else in Europe but think you’re only allowed to visit Ireland if you have ancestors from there. Strange.

    I visited in ’92, a quick whirlwind tour around the island, and loved it. I’m waiting to go back.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I really DON’T have relatives in Ireland. I’d have to go to Poland and the Ukraine … not my idea of a warm, cozy place to drop by right now. Garry knew he has an Irish surname and people kept looking at him and telling him he really WAS Irish. He was a bit baffled. They saw something. They were right. Go figure.

      Liked by 2 people

  3. What a wonderful essay and lovely reflection on both Ireland and your honeymoon! I love the photos, too, which bring me back to the Marilyn and Garry who lived down the road from us in Boston a long long time ago. Those two young people – remember them? We were all so cute! I spent two weeks in Ireland with my mother in 1986, driving us around on the left, hitting many of the same spots, fortunately not hitting any sheep. While my memories are fond, I don’t think I brought back a fraction of the sharp, specific memories you’ve shared in this piece. Reading it was almost like going back again but appreciating it more and looking closer this time. I love the post script too, the story of Garry discoveringt a redheaded Grandmother from Sligo. I’m sure I had one of those, too. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you both! Love, Mary

    Liked by 1 person

    1. A great and happy day to you guys too 🙂 Yes, we were all young and cute. You were even younger and cuter. I think I remember more about the trip because I wrote a piece about it for a local Irish-American newspaper. The process of writing it got the memories in some kind of order … along with all those breakfasts of Irish coffee. Man, that was GREAT coffee. And of course, I took 36 rolls of film, which even by 1990 standards is a LOT of film. You don’t forget as much when you have a photograph for ever six feet you waled.

      It took me nearly a year to get them all processed. No one was gladder than I when this all became digital. It used to be vacation followed by almost the same amount of money just for the pictures.

      If the ground ever stops being frozen, you should visit. We now have TWO Scotties. One is friendly, the other runs in circles and barks at anyone other than us. He’s a rescue and thinks we are the only friendly people on earth. I’m hoping if he meets a few more people he may get past that.

      I am making corned beef. Friday seems a bit of an “off day” for it, but since we are retired, one day is much like another. We have given a pass to mountains of boiled cabbage (bloat city) and if I am careful and just slightly lucky, this will have some leftovers for the infamous yet delicious beyond comparison, hot corned beef sandwiches (be still mine heart).

      Miss you guys. Really do. I found my long-missing wedding album. It wasn’t really missing. It was just underneath a bunch of OTHER books, so there are … (drums) … pictures of you in that pinkish yet slightly tangerine gown. Some dress! If I had to do it again, I swear I’d take Garry at gunpoint to the mayor’s office and skip the rest. Except for the bagpipes and the singing. We had the tape turned into a DVD not long ago and none too soon. We lost pieces of the video, but we kept the singing!

      Hugs and all that!!

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Goes without saying — we’ll have our ritual viewing of young Sean T’ornton, “The Quiet Man” tonight.

    Wipe yer muddy boots, Red Will Danaher!!


  5. Great Post, most enjoyable.

    “Are you sure you’re not Irish?”:-) 🙂 That bit reminded me strongly of an F Troop episode where O’Rourke’s uncle from Ireland comes to visit. Every five minutes he asks Agarn: “Are you SURE you’re not Oirish?”

    After the fifth or sixth time Agarn snaps: “Alright already – I’m Irish!”
    “Funny, ” says the Uncle “You don’t look it!”:-D

    Garry definitely doesn’t look it in that photo – even WITH a chicken on his shoulder. 🙂


    Liked by 1 person

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