Venturing into Northern Ireland

The trip to Enniskillen, in northern Ireland, took a bit longer from Donegal than we’d thought, even with the beloved green national roads. When we passed the border into northern Ireland, we noticed two things. One, there was no acknowledgement whatsoever that we had crossed into another country. No ‘Welcome to Northern Ireland’ signs at all. Second, the speed limit signs changed from kilometers per hour into miles per hour. This wouldn’t have been a problem, except that our rental car didn’t have mph on the speedometer. Complex math conversions! Ack! Curses!

To our left, we saw the shores of Lough Erne. The lake was much wider than you’d imagine, and it would take about 15 minutes via motorboat to cross to the opposite side (width). I was also surprised to see low mountains in the distance. When we reached the city of Enniskillen, I was very impressed. It’s a very European-style city with quaint winding streets, bakeries, and little shops. I could have spent hours wandering around. But we actually came here with a purpose in mind–to discover what happened to my husband’s great-grandfather who immigrated from northern Ireland in 1906. First stop: the Town Hall.

We went to pick up a package left by the registrar. It turned out that his great-grandfather Terence came from a small town called Kinawley in the parish of Coragh. The registrar unearthed a treasure of information. Not only did he have records, but he also had a map to the family homestead. He found the phone number of a man whom we believe was related to my husband’s family. Apparently the man who bought the land, bought it from his uncle Patrick. And his uncle? None other than a mysterious older brother, of my husband’s great-grandfather Terence.

Apparently, when they traced the birth records, they found siblings that we knew about…and Patrick suddenly showed up as the eldest brother. Who was he? Was he from a former marriage? Was he an illegitimate son? Where did he come from? We don’t know the answers. But we were ready to venture out into the countryside to find the family homestead.

Like Indiana Jones, we made our way to Kinawley, thoroughly prepared to get lost. Why? Because none of the streets had names. Directions consisted of–turn left at 700 meters, drive 350 meters and turn right. The area was all farmland, and some of the “roads” looked like private driveways. I voted for a stop at the local post office, and sure enough they knew the man we were seeking. But directing us on how to find his farm? That was another matter. After two wrong turns, we stopped for directions.

Neighbor #1: Oh, is it John McKenna you’re looking for? Well, I wouldn’t be knowing where this road is, but if you go back into town and turn left by the school, go down to the end, you’ll find him.

Neighbor #2: (after I showed him the map) Ah yes, it’s Coragh you’re wanting. No, I can’t say where we are on this map, but you’re not far.

Neighbor #3: You turned at the wrong school. Turn at the road on your left before the speed limit sign and you’ll see another school. Then you keep going until the road ends, make a U-turn, and you’re there.

Thank goodness, the last neighbor helped us find it. I had visions of being forever lost. Then we finally located the owner John McKenna. I don’t know about you, but I do see a family resemblance from the three men (John is in the center, along with my husband and father-in-law).

John showed us the remains of the family homestead, which consisted of a foundation and the back gable wall of the house. In the center of the two buildings, you can see the concrete foundation where the house began and the shed that’s on the right, built on the remains, still has the original wall. It’s hard to imagine 10-12 people living in a house of that size. I’d say the dimensions were 10′ by 20′ total. (The building on the left has nothing to do with the original house.) But it was really something to find traces of the past and imagine the lives of my husband’s family, struggling to survive here.