I’m not really sure how to start this post. This weekend I went up to visit my Dad’s cousins. I took a 6 hour bus ride where I was greeted by my cousin, Mary, and her brother (whom I hadn’t met before). We toured the city that I came into. I saw where many historical events occurred. I had chills. Then we went back to Mary’s house and turned in for the night. The next morning we headed out to the town where my grandfather, Hugh, was born and where he lived until he was 20 years old. We visited: the farm,”Whitehill”; the Church; the school and the top of a hill (pictured above). I still don’t feel like this happened.
In class we have been talking about how the land tells a story, and this is where great literature comes from. This weekend, I can attest that this land does indeed tell a story. My grandfather never made it back “home” but my extended family took me in, and their hospitality was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It was surreal, but I’ve finally been to this place. I am so glad that this land tells a story.
Love and prayers,
Mhaire Ní Mhaoláin
p.s. I even learned my name in Irish.