The highway they traveled, called the M18, was nicely paved and very clean. It wove its way through the Irish countryside that consisted mostly of fields in every shade of green. These fields were divided by tumbled stone walls. The landscape showed every undulation of the earth as far as the eye could see, and the fields and stone walls combined to make it look like a patchwork quilt. The thing that struck Meg as odd was that there were no trees, at least not as many as she would see at home. Back in Connecticut you couldn’t go anywhere that wasn’t heavily wooded, but here in Ireland the trees were few and far between. Nanny burning turf in her fireplace made more sense to her now that she saw the forestless landscape for herself.
Not only were the roads they traveled and the towns they stopped in different from what Meg was used to, she also noticed that the houses in Ireland were not like those in Connecticut either. She was used to multi-story colonials with shingled or clapboard siding, with a shingled roof and painted in all sorts of colors. Irish houses, Meg noted, were mostly one story, covered in stucco or stone, and grey. A couple of the houses she saw had straw-covered roofs. Her mother told her that those were thatched roofs, which is an old type of roofing that layered straw instead of shingles to shed water off the dwelling. The bus traveled through the lovely landscape, every so often passing the ruins of a castle or an ancient building. The landscape was like a story book setting to Meg. Images of knights on horses galloping by and princesses trapped in castles flew through her mind as they rolled up the M18. She never had these types of thoughts when driving around the countryside back home.
There were just a few other passengers on the bus. Meg figured it had to be because it was early morning. Seated across the aisle from them was a little old woman who must have noticed they were tourists. She smiled and said, “Visiting Ireland for the first time?”
“Yes,” replied Meg. “This is my first time out of America.”
“You’re from the States, are ya? What part?”
“Mystic, Connecticut,” they said in unison.
“I have family in Boston. Is that near ya?”
“Kind of. We are a little south of Boston.”
The woman paused for a second then asked Shay, “It is Galway ye’r heading to?”
“Yes. But we are only just stopping there before we head to Inishbofin Island. That’s where our family is from.”
The woman raised her chin in acknowledgement of the name “Ah, yes. I’ve never been there meself, but the islands off the coast of Galway are lovely. Have ya relatives there?”
“Yes and no,” answered Shay. “We are here for the funeral of my grandfather. I never met him and, as far as I know, we are his only kin.”
The woman crossed herself, “May God rest his soul.”
Shay continued the conversation with the woman across the aisle while Meg looked back out the window at the beautiful countryside. It was still raining, but only passing showers. Every so often, the sun light would find its way through the scattered clouds and shine down like a spotlight, often creating a rainbow. Meg called each one out for her mother to take a look. Shay would look for just a short time and then go back to the conversation she was having, clearly not as impressed with the magical imagery as Meg. On this short trip there were more rainbows than she had seen in her whole life.
All of the road signs in Ireland were in both Irish and English. They stopped in towns with names like Crusheen, Ardrahan, and Oranmore—names as foreign to Meg as any she had ever heard. A couple of times she had to ask her mom how the strange words were pronounced—sometimes the Irish names were exact matches and sometimes they were a far cry from the English names. She was able to read Croisín and its English version Crusheen on one sign without too much trouble. Her mother explained that the letter S in Irish was pronounced SH when followed by a vowel, like her brother’s name Sean. The English Oranmore is Órán Mór in Irish, and Ardrahan, Ard Raithin. Meg saw a sign for Dublin, the capitol of Ireland, and its Irish version Baile Átha Cliath, which did not resemble the English Dublin at all.
The rural landscape soon changed into the urban expanse of Galway City, and the fields were replaced with streets and buildings. Meg saw the sign for the city and recognized the Irish version of Galway, Gaillimh (pronounced gall-yiv. The mh makes a V sound in Irish), as one of the words on the compendium. Galway, the third largest city in Ireland, lies on the River Corrib that empties into Galway Bay on the west coast of Ireland. Shay told Meg that Galway is a center of the arts and the Irish language.
It was late morning when they got off the bus in Kennedy Memorial Park, or Eyre Square, in the center of the city. There were street performers scattered about, all very entertaining. The last time Meg saw street performers was when they were in New York City. Shay pointed out a bust of John F. Kennedy, thirty-fifth President of the United States. The square is officially named for JFK, although most people in Galway still call it by its old name, Eyre Square. After walking around for a short time they decided they were hungry and looked for a place to eat. They walked through the park which was on a slight hill. At the top of the hill, the girls found a fast food restaurant and had some lunch. Shay had brought along an Ireland guide book and read aloud the history of the city while they ate. Amazingly enough, they were enjoying Papa John’s pizza. American fast food is everywhere!
“Galway was founded by the King of Connacht in 1124,” Shay read. “It was originally a fort but grew into a settlement and a walled city soon afterwards… Ireland was invaded by the Normans in 1169 and the city fell into their hands… The Normans who stayed assimilated into the Irish culture and eventually became, as they say, ‘more Irish than the Irish themselves.’ The tribes of Galway, as the Norman ruling families came to be known, eventually gained total control over the city and were granted mayoral status by the English Crown. This led to bad relations with the surrounding Irish and, get this Meg,” Shay said, pointing to the book, “the tribes of Galway had posted a sign on the west gate of the city that read ‘From the ferocious O’Flaherty’s, may God protect us.’”
“That’s us, Mom! Cool!”
Shay continued, “The native Irish were allowed only limited access into the city and there was a by-law saying ‘Neither O’ nor Mac shall strutte nor swagger through the streets of Galway’ without permission. The city was run by an oligarchy.”
Meg interrupted, “What’s an oligarchy?”
“An oligarchy is a form of power through a small group of people.” Shay continued, “The city was run by an oligarchy of fourteen merchant families consisting of twelve Norman and two Irish. These were the ‘tribes’ of Galway.”
“Interesting. Mom, how about that O’ and Mac thing again, just like the rhyme you told us about the banshee?” Meg asked.
“In Irish Mac means son of and O’ means grandson of, or descendant. Back in the old days, people just had a first name, called a given name, and would be addressed by their given name with the name of their father.”
“So I would be Meg MacMark.”
“Actually, your name would be Margaret Ni Murphy, Margaret daughter of the son of Murphy, or something like that. The rules are different for women, but in general, for Irish women the O’ is Ni and the Mac is Nic.”
“Confusing,” said Meg.
“It gets worse. You can also find Mór and Óg in Irish names meaning Big and Young, respectively, kind of like the Jr. for Junior and Sr. for Senior designations in English, to distinguish a father and son with the same given name. On top of that, there are descriptive names, like, for instance Padraig Rua, which means Patrick with the red hair. And my favorite, because it could be used for you, is Beag, or little, which would indicate a person’s size or sometimes premature birth. You were premature so you could be Meg Beag.”
“I like that one. It rhymes… Really, Mom, how do you know all of this stuff? It could not have all come from stories Nanny told you.”
“Meg, my mom and dad were immigrants from Ireland and I lived on a
n island that resembled their country in many ways, so, from an early age I studied anything and everything Irish. I learned the history, the language, and the culture, and was very proud to be an Irish woman. For me, it became a mantle I could put on to overcome my shyness and small size.”
“You’re not shy, Mom.”
“I used to be. And growing up an only child on an island didn’t help. But as I learned about Ireland and the Irish, I found I could relate to other kids often by just talking about where my parents came from. I love Ireland. When I was a teenager I even spent a summer here with a cultural program that immersed American students in everything Irish, and I traveled the whole country.” Shay’s face grew sullen. “It makes me a little sad to think about that now. Had I known I had a grandfather, I could have met him when I was here last.” She drifted off for a second, pondering the thought. “But you can’t change the past, can you, Meg? Let’s finish up and get down to the docks to see the kind of boat we will be sailing up the coast.”
They ate the last of their pizza and walked back down the hill through the other side of Eyre Square towards the water. They passed a fountain with a sculpture of rust-colored triangles that looked kind of like sails. It moved her in a way no piece of sculpture had before. It was as though she knew what it represented, even though it was just a bunch of rusty, red triangles.
“What kind of boat did you charter for us, Mom?”
“There is nothing better for these waters than a ‘Galway hooker.’”
“A Galway hooker?” said Meg, giggling.
“Get over the name, honey. They are traditional sailing vessels in these parts, kind of like my ‘New Haven Sharpie’ Muirín. Up until the age of powerboats, the hooker was the main kind of boat for carrying cargo on the west coast of Ireland. They fell out of use and were nearly lost to history until some dedicated sailors brought them back. I was lucky enough to find one to charter, but the owner is very protective of it, so we have to sail him out to the Aran Islands to prove we are capable before he’ll allow us to take it on our own.”
“Sounds like a challenge, but it’s nothing the ferocious O’Flahertys can’t handle. I wonder, though, why we are ferocious,” Meg said with a laugh. Together, they made their way towards the shore.
12
The Red Sails
It was just after noon when Meg and her mother reached the docks where they were meeting Paddy Mullen, owner of the Cailín Mo Chroí (pronounced coleen mo kree). The harbor was filled with many boats and Meg tried to figure out which one they would be taking. At the entrance to the pier they saw a rotund man leaning on a metal fence puffing away on a pipe.
“Paddy?” asked Shay.
“Aren’t we all over here?” came the reply from the man, not even looking up from his pipe. Paddy was a derogatory term for an Irishman.
“Sorry. I’m looking for Paddy Mullen.”
“Oh.” He looked up with a smile and a nod, “Well, you’ve found him, haven’t ya?”
Paddy Mullen was a middle-aged man with graying hair showing from under his tweed cap. He was overweight and had a ruddy, red complexion.
“Hi. I’m Shay Murphy. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Well, that’s grand. And who’s the lovely girl?”
“This is my daughter Meg.”
He looked at Shay and Meg and furrowed his brow while puffing on his pipe “So, I’m asking myself why two Yank ladies are looking to hire my boat for a week, on this chilly October day.”
“We are sailing up to Inishbofin Island to arrange for my grandfather’s funeral,” Shay replied.
“I’m sorry about your grandfather… Inishbofin…” He raised his eyebrow before continuing. “You know, it is the twenty-first century. There’s a fine ferry service that goes out of Cleggan twice daily to Bofin Island. You can drive up the lovely Connemara coast to get there.”
“We are not interested in taking a ferry. I’m a captain and my family has sailed these waters as far back as any. Meg and I want to see the Connemara coastline from the only perspective fitting for O’Flaherty women—from the tiller of a boat.” Shay seemed a little bugged by the man’s attitude.
“O’Flahertys,” he said as he drew another puff of smoke from his pipe. “Why didn’t you say so? I should know better than to cross an O’Flaherty. Please, please get on board,” he said, pointing to a black sailboat tied up to the pier.
The Cailín Mo Chroí, which Paddy later told them meant girl of my heart, was about twenty-feet long with a hull as black as night. The black color came from the fact that it was covered in pitch, or tar, which was the traditional way to waterproof a boat in Ireland. She had a single mast and an upswept prow with a long bowsprit to which two foresails were attached. When they hoisted the sails Meg was surprised to see that they were a dark red instead of the usual white. The rusty-red triangles in the fountain in Eyre Square made a lot more sense to her now.
“Why are the sails red, Paddy?” Meg asked.
“The reddish-brown sails go back to the calico sails that were used at the time these boats were originally made. T’would’nt be a hooker without the red sails. In fact, the only Galway hooker that is allowed to use white sails around here belongs to the King of Claddagh.”
“Claddagh? Like the rings?” said Meg. She was referring to the traditional Irish ring that was formed by two hands rounded to clasp a crowned heart.
“Claddagh’s the small fishing village just across the river from the Spanish Arch in Galway City. Sure, it’s famous for the ring now, but it has always been a fishing village. The fishermen of Claddagh elect a King to lead ‘em and make the big decisions, ya know. He sails a hooker with white sails. We may see him on the way out.”
“What are the rules on Claddagh rings again, Mom?”
“If you wear the ring on your right hand with the heart pointing out, it means you are looking for love. If it is on your right hand with the heart pointing in, you are in a relationship, and if worn on the left hand with the heart pointing in, it means you are married.”
“It’s like an old-fashioned relationship status indicator,” Meg said, looking down at Paddy’s left hand. She saw that it bore a gold Claddagh with the heart turned in.
Paddy gave the girls a lesson in the boat’s design and rigging and told them that traditionally there were four classes of Galway hooker: the Bád Mór (big boat), the Leathbhád (half boat), the Gleoiteog, and the Púcán. The first two were larger and used for hauling cargo, mostly turf. The last two were used for fishing. The Cailín Mo Chroí was a small Gleoiteog that had been outfitted with a cabin to be used as a pleasure boat. Paddy was a successful businessman and had commissioned her to be built by young, formerly unemployed, Irish-speaking boat builders who were keeping the tradition of Galway boat building alive. Paddy had her christened the Cailín Mo Chroí after the pet name he called his wife.
Meg and Shay impressed Paddy with how quickly they learned the boat. They sailed west out of Galway Harbour under the watchful eye of Paddy, who sat in the bow looking back at them while puffing away on his pipe. Following the coast of Connemara, in Galway Bay made famous by song, they saw more fields of green in between the stone walls that seemed to be everywhere in Ireland. The coastline was much rockier than Connecticut’s and the conditions more challenging than Meg had imagined they would be. The wind was blowing hard and they had to stay extra alert to the sea and how the boat handled it.
Things were tense. Paddy sitting in the front of the boat not saying a word wasn’t helping matters. Meg could tell her mom was a little nervous. She barked orders as if Meg didn’t know what she was doing. It didn’t bother Meg. Her mom was the captain, and when they were on the water she wasn’t her daughter, she was the first mate. The pressure of performing well on an unfamiliar sailboat in a heavy wind and choppy sea was turning this short October sail into something more like work, not like the typical fall sailing they do at home.
Sailing on Long Island Sound in October was the b
est time of year. There were fewer boats out and the water was still very warm from the summer sun. The water on the Irish side of the Atlantic was a little cooler than they were used to; it was around fifty degrees. But like home, the fall here also saw much less boat traffic than in the busy summer. Although Meg kept her eyes peeled for the white sails of the King of Claddagh’s sailboat, the only boat they saw was the ferry heading in the same direction as they were, to the Aran Islands.
When the grey islands rose on the horizon, Paddy turned his head forward, easing the tension and allowing the girls to enjoy the sail.
13
The Big Island
Three Aran Islands lie just outside of Galway Bay in the Atlantic Ocean: Inisheer, Inishmaan, and Inishmore, named in size from smallest to largest. Shay said that they are populated by hardy people who have kept the Irish language as their primary language, and who have made their living by fishing the waters of the Atlantic along with growing crops on the land. Meg, Shay, and Paddy were headed to Inishmore, the big island, to spend the night and, if they passed the test of seamanship, hopefully to drop off Paddy.
The trip would usually take about an hour by sail, but Paddy demanded that they first do a few maneuvers in the bay and he then had them go around the Atlantic side of the island to see how they handled the boat in rough waters. Nanny wasn’t kidding when she talked about learning to sail on the harsh west coast of Ireland. Along with the dreary weather, the wind was very hard and the waves rough.
Inishmore is basically a big rock, as are its sister islands. On the Atlantic side of the island, sheer limestone cliffs are battered by endless waves. Meg did her best to not stop and stare at the sight of the looming walls of stone as they sailed past. The bluffs of Block Island back home in America were the only things Meg could compare to the cliffs of Inishmore, but the Mohegan Bluffs rose up gradually where these cliffs shot straight up from the ocean and there was no beach at the bottom.
The Pirate Princess: Return to the Emerald Isle Page 7
