Kilpatrick
My Homeland.
My first 8 years were spent in a Dr. Barnardo’s orphanage, in Ripon, North Yorkshire. I was adopted by a Scottish family and raised in Scotland, on the Island of Mull, in the Inner Hebrides. When I was seventy years of age I sent my DNA to Ancestry. A year later I received an answer to a question never before asked. Who were my parents? It turns out my parents were catholic Irish, Dubliner’s in fact. I was born to a fourteen year old girl who had been raped by her father. I received a letter from someone who’s DNA confirmed the writer was a first cousin. They lived in Clondalkin. A few months before Covid 19 was discovered in the USA, I went to meet my cousin. The story was heartbreaking. I thank my lucky stars I did not find out the details of my birth while either parent was alive. My family’s name is Kilpatrick. I can call Ireland my homeland.
“Jenny, did you ever wonder…I mean did you ever get to thinking that we are what we are…that we are just a moment in time?”
“Sometimes, Harry.”
“Okay… and did you ever think about all the things you may never do…people you may never love…places you will never get to?”
“Frequently.”
“Did you ever think you’d come to Ireland?”
“When I was a teenager it was always a distant dream, but yes, I hoped to make the visit to Ireland.”
“For some reason, Jenny, beyond explanation, I knew Ireland was important to me.”
“Well, we’re here now, and that yearning, the reason, whatever it was, is now answered. It’s your biological family home, Harry.”
“Yes, I guess it is. But it was never that thought, not really anything to do with thoughts of heritage when I was younger. It was legends, scenery, romance…yes, that’s it…the romance. The first time I came to Ireland I was a teenager. I was drawn to the place and spent a few weeks on the Connemara coast. The beauty of that place still echoes deep inside. It was that…that moment in time, Jenny.”
“Will you take me. Can we see the Connemara coast?”
Two days later, having left my new family in Clondalkin with promises to return, and further promises to bring them to my home in California, we rented a car and set off on our drive to Connemara.
Hours later the sands and hills of the Connemara coast were stretching out before us.
Jenny gasped. “Harry, it’s stunning, it’s so beautiful.” And her voice faltered, “I understand what you mean now. The scenery, romance…it’s magical.”
“You know, Jenny, I think it has more to do with you, because your heart reaches out and begs to be shown so many things. Because I know you’ll understand about this place.”
Jenny gazed across the horizon and the inlets of the islands. She could see the single track road winding it’s way through the hills and saw the white of cottages dotting the foreshores.
“I bet those cottages have a history of their own, Harry, used by smugglers and fishermen.”
The sky was beginning to deepen red and rosy. Looking just right, “see that, Jenny, that’s Benbaun, one of the twelve pins.
“Pins?”
“Yes, a pin is a summit. Connemara has twelve and a ‘pin’ is the summit of a mountain above 2,000 feet.
“Harry, I never saw anything so beautiful…it’s charming, unbelievable, quaint, rugged, soft.”
“It’s history, it’s about the people who have gone before, lover’s, king’s, gypsies, tinker’s, a thousand years of caravan peoples.”
“Oh my God, look…look…look do you see…do you see that, the silver spray… what is that?”
“Be patient, Jenny…wait a moment and keep your eye on that mist, soon to be sparks on the air.”
We stood in silence together. The mist came closer… then closer...until suddenly…
“Harry…Harry... oh beautiful…oh, look…” and her voice cracked and tears happened on her eyelashes.
“Those are the wild ponies of Connemara. They run wild, perhaps a hundred strong, galloping through the marshland. The Spanish first brought across their Arab horses and introduced them to the Celtic Horse. Now they are the Connemara Ponies. This area is what the locals call the blanket bog, you’ll see badgers, foxes, otters, stoats, grey seals along the coast, hooded crows, the merlin, peregrine, and many plants on the moorlands.”
Jenny watched as the ponies passed beneath a falling sun and galloped into the distance, the silver spray fading at their hooves.
“Do you see that far cottage, closest to the sea?”
“Yes.”
“It is said that James Joyce once stayed there. James Joyce, can you imagine that? I never really understood what all the fuss was about over him but there it is…the place that James Joyce wrote:”
‘This lovely land that always sent
Her writers and artists to banishment.’
The sun was falling crimson into the ocean.
“We must come back here a lot, Harry?”
“Yes. Let’s do that. I never did come as much as I would like. That’s how it is sometimes, always wanting to but never quite making it. Always something to prevent me. I shouldn’t moan, I’m here now. I remember when I spoke to the locals, no television, no outside world really. This is Ireland, Jenny, a culture and language that surpasses time itself.”
“Do you know any of the language, I mean can you speak any of it?”
“Very little, darling, a few words, greeting mostly.”
Hello: Dia duit (dee-a-gwith) which also means: God be with you.
Goodbye: Slán leat (slawn lath)
How are you?: Conas tá tú? (kunas thaw thoo)
I’m fine: Táim go maith (thawim gu moh)
Please: Le do thoil (leh duh hell)
Thank you: Go raibh maith agat (go ru mah agut)
Good luck, safe journey: Go n-éirí do bóthar leat (gu nire-ee du voher lath) literally, ‘may the road rise with you.’
“Truthfully, all I hear myself saying is ‘Cheers’ but it isn’t the same.”
Jenny smiled…and shivered as the sun dropped out of sight.
“Come…we’ve got a city to meet.”
“Wait…this is a beautiful place. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
My throat tightened. Somewhere deep down a tear formed and was racing toward my eyes.
“Come, Jenny… Dublin won’t wait.”
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
I have seen the lady April bringing in the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.
I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.
John Masefield
