Day 6: Heading East

Our last morning at Marless House meant the last opportunity to indulge in the world’s greatest French toast. Tom and Mary Geraghty are among the nicest people we’ve met in Ireland, and staying with them is an absolute delight. Having been in the B&B industry for 33 years, they truly have it down to a science.

We turned in our keys at Marless House and Mary and Tom wished us a safe journey home. Before heading to Swords in County Dublin (where we were scheduled to stay for the night before our morning flight home to Chicago), we stopped by the Galway West Genealogy Centre to thank Brian and update him as to our success.

Brian, dressed in a tan wool sweater, greeted us with his trademark smile, which always bespeaks a certain eagerness to perform further genealogical research. We told him that although we were unable to meet any certain relatives and narrow down the family in the 1901 census, we had spoken with many nice people and had left information with them and our addresses, in hopes that they will learn something and get back to us.

“Just to find your homeland,” said Brian, “is an amazing achievement. Did you feel at home there? If so, that’s all that matters.”

We admitted that we did feel a strange connection to the rugged landscape, and expressed our surprise of the accommodating nature that all of its people exhibited toward us. “Well they look at you like family returning home,” explained Brian. “They all know how tough times were and how people had to leave [for America]. They greet you as one of them, one of their people, coming back home.” Brian’s succinct words explained quite a bit. We thanked him one final time and wished him well, promising to contact him for further research should we come upon more leads once back in the U.S.

We took the N6 toward Dublin, planning a detour to visit the New Grange Neolithic burial mound near Drogheda. New Grange was an impressive display of neolithic life: a gigantic mound of earth and stone, built 5200 years ago (before the pyramids at Giza) and perfectly aligned with the sun's rays during the five days of the annual summer solstice.

After New Grange, we navigated our way toward Swords in County Dublin (just ten minutes north of the airport) where we were booked to stay at Annesley House. For the first time in both trips to Ireland, the Garmin GPS failed us and directed us northwest of the city. We managed to call Annesley House (thanks to my dad's iPhone having an international plan) and get directions back into town and to the B&B.

Annesley House, like it suburban surroundings, was small and compact. The adjacent en suite bathroom was downright tiny and clearly not designed for a 6'4", broad-shoulder person like my dad.

We dropped our things off and got directions from Anne, the proprietor of the B&B, to walk into town for dinner. We walked into the downtown, past the impressive Swords Castle, and enjoyed a burden and a pint at a rather Americanized pub. It was a welcome meal for the final evening before returning to the states.

After dinner, we headed back to Annesley House and packed up our bags full of all of the gifts that we had accumulated for the early morning trip to the airport. Our trip had come to an end and our time spent in Ireland seemed to fly by. It was an amazing journey of ancestral discovery that allowed us to answer, at least in part, the instinctually human question "Where do I come from?"

Day 5: Looking for Coynes in Rugged Connemara

A day cannot begin any better than today: a hot shower contrasted with the cool sea breeze of Galway Bay creeping in through a cracked window, and an enormous breakfast of overflowing porridge, cinnamon & vanilla French toast, and piping hot black coffee.

Before departing Marless House, we attempted to ring the mysterious Joe Walsh - proffered to be a fountain of information on our Coyne ancestry. After a surprisingly unsuccessful attempt from my dad's iPhone, we tried Mary Geraghty's landline. A thick accent on the other end of the phone cut off the brief ringing sound, to which I managed: "Is this Joe Walsh?" "No," replied the other end of the line, "he's outside, but I'll get him for ya. He's expecting you'd call."

We agreed to meet Joe at 11:30 at his home in Crumlin East - or so I thought. After navigating the narrow side road off of the R336 for about 3 kilometers, we came to a neatly kept home at the end of the road with an occupied Audi in the driveway. "Do you know where Joe Walsh lives?" I asked the driver after rolling down my window. "He lives here," said the driver, a man of about 25-years, "but he's in town to meet you at half-to-12, right?" Apparently we were supposed to meet Joe in Cornamona at 11:30, not at his house in Crumlin East.

We drove back down the narrow, curving valley road, back to R336 and into Cornamona. As we drove through the miniature town, a pepper-haired fellow of about 5 feet, 7 inches, stood up out of his small navy blue car parked in front of the main store and waived at us as we passed. I did a U-turn and before we even shook hands with him, Joe Walsh was spilling all he knew about the history of the Coynes in the Crumlin East region. There was one Coyne who emigrated to the states years ago, only to come back. He was thereafter known as the Yank Coyne. He may have had sisters - one of whom was a great singer - and he may have married a woman from nearby ... Joe was talking too fast for anyone to keep up. His thick Irish accent further hampered comprehension. Another Coyne from the area was remarkably fast and legend had it that he ran down three foxes and caught them by hand. One of his descendants still lives in the area and works as a postman: Kevin Coyne. Joe's knowledge of the area's families and histories was incredible, and equally incredible was his eagerness and kindness in sharing it all with us. As local residents pulled up to run into the store, he would wave to everyone of them, once even going up to a woman - Josephine Coyne of Cloughbrack Upper - and asking what she may know about her ancestry (we gave her a photocopies of the three families in the 1901 census and our address and she happily said she'd see who she could talk with and then write us).

Before we knew it, we were following Joe's small navy blue car back up the curving road through the valley, toward the home of the postman Kevin Coyne (who lives just down the road from the home featured n the John Wayne film "The Quiet Man").

We followed Joe’s perky little navy blue car back across the bridge away from Cornamona and then down a side road toward Maum. We wove our way through the curving crushed-rock road, which paralleled the curves of a mountain stream, and eventually came to a stop outside of a neatly kept yellow house with a front door view of the mountains. Joe explained on his way up to the door that he’d see if Kevin Coyne was home, so we waited back. In a couple of minutes, Joe was joined with a tall, heavy-set man with dark hair combed over a balding head, dressed in the navy slacks and navy wool sweater of the Ireland post office.

Kevin shook our hands and introduced himself and said that he was on break from work, but would gladly have us in. The four of us sat on two floral couches in Kevin’s living room, which was decorated with photos of his wife and children, as well as a collection of small religious trinkets. We showed Kevin the printed-off 1901 census results of the three possible families that Brian had narrowed it down to, but Kevin admitted that he was unable to recognize any of the names on the lists. “It’s so long ago,” he said, “and every year, more and more of the people with the knowledge of this are taking it to the grave with them. And when I was a boy, I never thought to ask questions about this stuff.”

It seemed as though Kevin was not a distant relative, nonetheless we continued to talk about politics, Irish history and the Connemara region for several minutes. Kevin told us about the notion of an “American Wake,” which was a gathering of friends and family to see off those who were leaving for America, figuring that they would never see them in person again. “It was a wake without a body,” said Kevin succinctly.

As we were preparing to leave, my dad showed Kevin the few restored photos of Honor King and Thomas Coyne that he had brought with him. Upon thumbing through the images, Kevin’s memory seemed jogged and he suggested to Joe: “This guy [Thomas Coyne] looks like he comes from the same people as Michael of Leenan.” Joe agreed with his suggestion. Kevin and Joe explained to us that the Gaelic tradition is to refer to people by who their fathers and grandfathers were – this method particularly evolved in regions with many people of the same last name.

We said thank you and goodbye to Kevin and soon we were off again following Joe’s little blue car toward Leenane – a small village built around an inlet where the sea comes in at high tide. We drove up and down hill roads built along valleys of the mountains. Old rock walls used to separate herding pastures extended up all the way to the tops of the rounded cliffs, seemingly reaching the sky. The lines where potatoes and wheat were once grown on the hillsides still remain today: a relic of the valley’s once-flourishing population before the potato famine hit in the late 1840s.

We looped through the tiny downtown of Leenane and back up a hill, pulling into a yellow and green painted bed and breakfast called “Fjord House.” Joe led us up to the door, which was answered by a reddish-haired, smiling woman of about 50-years of age named Margaret Coyne. We introduced ourselves and told her that we were looking for relatives of the Coynes from either Crumlin East or Cloughbrack Upper. She said that she was a Coyne before she was married as well, but not from that area. Her husband’s mother, Bridget Coyne (who was a “Coyne” both before and after marriage as well) was from Crumlin East. She graciously offered us tea or coffee, and then went out to yell down to her husband Michael, who was taking advantage of the unusually sunny day and doing some work down the hill near the inlet.

Within a few minutes, a tough-looking, weathered man with strong hands, small eyes and a silver beard around his mouth came walking through the kitchen and into the living room. We stood and introduced ourselves – he seemed to recognize Joe Walsh – and informed him of our genealogical inquiry. His facial expression quickly told us that he was not the man to ask of such knowledge: beyond knowing that his mother was a Bridget Coyne from Crumlin East, he had very little knowledge of his ancestry.

Our own prior research had determined that my great-grandfather, Thomas Coyne, was likely born around 1887 near Cornmamona and likely had four siblings: James, Michael, Martin and Catherine. Furthermore, we had discovered the likelihood that Michael emigrated to Portland, ME and the possibility that Michael had married a Bridget “Delia” Duffy. Any Coynes originating from Crumlin East are likely related to some remote extent, especially in this instance where the first name Bridget (which Brian Rabbitt told us is shortened to “Delia”) appears to have replicated, thus illuminating the possibility than Michael Coyne, this rugged man of a Leenane hillside, is a remote relative.

Related or not, we enjoyed a very pleasant visit with Michael and Margaret. We discussed American politics (and their worldwide impact, particularly on Ireland), the “old ways,” the rainy August season, and the decreasing first-hand knowledge of ancestry in the rugged hills of old Connemara. Eventually we gave into Margaret’s offer for tea and coffee, and shortly thereafter shared an extended goodbye outside overlooking the steep hillside of Michael and Margaret’s backyard, which leads down to the muddy, sandy inlet of the Atlantic Ocean. “The best mussels in the country are right down there,” Michael told me with a wink and a smile as he pointed down to the muddy shores of the inlet.

We also said goodbye to Joe Walsh – our porthole into the backbone of Connemara and our link to the region of our ancestry. His efforts and enthusiasm to aid in our quest were astonishingly accommodating. He treated us like we were part of the family, returning home from a long trip away.

We drove back to Marless House in Salthill and relaxed for a bit, before heading to Lohan’s for another delicious supper. In the morning, we would head back across the country on a three-hour drive toward the Dublin area in preparation for our flight the following day. Our four days in Roundstone and Cornamona had allowed us to hear first-hand accounts about our ancestors, visit the graves on Innishnee where they are buried and the church where they were married, walk the same hills and valleys that they once walked, and hear about the lives that they led from people whose ancestors lived with them. Tracing our roots back to the Connemara area is a unique blessing because of its remarkable avoidance of modernization: the area is without wide roads, large hotels and commerce centers and is only rarely punctuated with an occasional new home. To visit these areas today is not too unlike visiting them at the turn of the twentieth century.

Day 4: The Ruins of St. Matthias Church on Sunny Innishnee

It was a breathtakingly beautiful morning in Roundstone. Initially we had second thoughts about bothering Michael King again, but since the weather was unusually cooperative, we decided to head back to Innishnee for a final goodbye to our new friend, after another full Irish breakfast at Lisara House, prepared by Geraldine’s sister-in-law (we had said goodbye to Geraldine the day before because she was moving her daughter into college in Galway city).

We went up to Michael’s and were greeted with cautious warning barks of his two dogs – faithful beasts with an agility that indicated their perfection for the traversing the rocky landscape of Innishnee. We stepped inside Michael’s house while he finished breakfast and put his Wellington boots on – his wife Nancy, a strong and vibrant woman with a great smile, teased us: “You don’t give up on yer ancestors, now do ya?”

The three of us rode up the hill to the cemetery. One of Michael’s dogs faithfully followed the car for the entire half-mile trip. Michael hopped out and quickly navigated through the centuries-old ruins and waist-high ferns, leading us directly to the graves of his own two uncles, then pointing to the two rounded granite, sunken boulders immediately adjacent and to the east: “That’s where your uncle’s buried, along with his wife and probably his parents as well.” We stood their for a while, talking with Michael and taking it all in. He told us about the old church and how they used to have outdoor masses down closer to the shore at a flat place where a large rock rested and people would row over from Letterard. He explained that the church was typically only used for ceremonies, such as weddings. He pointed out the small white home with two chimneys up the road on Innishnee where Michael King (the elder) had lived for a bit before moving into the nursing home in Roundstone, and he pointed out the home across the bay in Letterard where Michael King (the elder) had lived before that.

Without having met Michael, all of this personal oral history would have been lost to us. We thanked him dearly and dropped him back at his house, exchanging a few jokes throughout. For us, Michael was an historical gatekeeper to a dimension of our past that would have been inaccessible without him.

As we drove out of Innishnee, we phoned Brian Rabbitt to see if he was in that day at the Galway West Family History Center near Salthill, County Galway. He agreed to meet us at 2 pm to discuss the Coyne side (my grandmother’s father), but said that his search had led him to more of a dead end than he initially anticipated. With the 2 pm timeframe set, we embarked on a roundabout drive back to Galway, going through Cornamona on the way (the town listed by my great-grandfather and his known relatives as being their last residence prior to emigrating).

Cornamona was more mountainous than the coastal area of Roundstone. It was beautiful nonetheless, aesthetically aided by the gigantic Lake Corrib on the edge of town. Cornamona was a small, remote little village, off the beaten path. It had a couple of small stores, a school, a church, a community center, and a restaurant that was for sale. This was the scenic landscape of our Coyne family – an ancestry that we would surely learn more about after meeting with Brian.

We drove back into Galway (the roadway gradually widening and improving in quality as the big city approached) and dropped our things off at Marless House. After a quick respite, we headed to meet with Brian.

Brian kindly met with us and informed us that he had narrowed our search down to three Coyne families in the mountainous region centered around Cornamona: two families in Crumlin East and a third in Croughbach Upper. Unfortunately, the
View Larger Map records in this remote region at the time were scant and partly destroyed by a parish fire sometime later. Unlike the King/Ward side, Brian did not have a clear-cut answer for us, put he gave us the contact information of Joe Walsh - a lifelong resident of Crumlin East - and instructed us that Joe would either know which Coynes we're related to, or else know who to talk to in order to find out.

We headed back to Marless House, somewhat disappointed in not having a definitive answer in hand from Brian, but also excited about the continuing adventure that laid ahead for the next morning. After a long day, we walked along the coastline and went to dinner at Lohan's restaurant (Lindsay was not there). We dined there during our last trip and enjoyed the reasonably priced food. This time was equally as good: I had the cod & chips with mushy peas and a Bulmer's cider; my dad had the Guinness beef stew with chips and a Smithwick's draft.

Day 3:The Rainy West of County Galway

A quick look out of our window at Lisara House revealed that it would be an extremely wet day. We showered and enjoyed a full Irish breakfast and a long chat with our warm, friendly host Geraldine Coyne (whom we had determined the night before to have not been related to our “Coyne” side). Then we optimistically headed to Michael King’s house around 10 a.m. Michael met us at the door and seemed as disappointed as we were in the weather. He went around the back of his house for the dual purpose of letting his two mongrel shepherds out of their sleeping hut and checking to see if it was clear enough to see across the bay. It was too overcast to see Michael King (the elder’s) old house in Letterard, and too wet to navigate the cemetery, so we agreed to try again either that evening or the next day. I asked Michael about the other King household on the island, to which he quickly said, “No, those are different Kings, you’re not related to them.” Although I was disappointed in the answer, I was completely sure of his correctness. We shook hands with our warm, knowledgeable link to Innishnee’s past and headed out for a day of rainy driving in Clifden, Carna and Letterard.

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We drove west on R341 back through Roundstone and then headed northwest up the coast to Clifden: a larger town of a couple thousand that appeared to be heavily geared toward tourism. Clifden was one of the towns that Festus King (Honor’s brother) mentioned to his children and relatives years later in the United States, although the extent of his connection with Clifden remains unknown. On the way to Clifden, we stopped at a monument dedicated to John Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown; it was here in the Connemara bog that the two men crashed in 1919, becoming the first people to fly across the Atlantic Ocean (years before Charles Lindberg became the first solo pilot to accomplish the feat).

As we turned through Clifden the rained picked up. We filled up on diesel and then went back east through the beautiful Connemara region – a remarkably pristine landscape almost completely without human impact beyond a line of phone poles and the narrow highway scarring the landscape.
We then went southeast on R340 toward Carna – the parish town where my great-grandmother, Honor, and her siblings were baptized after being born in Letterard. Carna was quiet and nearly motionless.

We stepped into the Catholic Church – a building clearly constructed long after my relatives had emigrated. On our previous trip, we stopped here as well, but this time we paused to read the graves out in front of the church: “Pray for the soul of the very Rev. McCannon McHugh who died Dec. 1st 1924 aged 67 years” and “Sweet Jesus have mercy on the soul of the Rev. Thomas J. Flannery, P.P. Carna, died Dec. 28th 1891 aged 38 years, R.I.P.” These were the priests who baptized my ancestors.


We pressed on toward Letterard, winding our way through the narrow, rock-wall-lined roads of this Martian landscape. We had been here back in March as well, but were unsure of the actual location of Letterard, nor of any actual connection to the land such as that which Michael had given us the day before. As we paced along, I abruptly noticed a rock, barely cognizable against the backdrop of identical rocks that was inscribed: “Leitirard.” This rocky landscape of just a few square kilometers was the land of my ancestor’s birth and childhood, before they decided to leave their homeland and parents forever and endeavor on a two-week transatlantic journey to America.

On our way back to Roundstone, we came to a fork in the road with a sign that read “Clifden 13 km” and pointed down a narrow strip of crushed-rock road. This was the “bog road,” as highlighted in detail in Tim Robinson’s book. 150-years ago, this road served as a treacherous shortcut from Clifden to Roundstone, taken only by the bold or the stupid. According to legend, it was inhabited by none, save a single household known as the “Halfway House” that stood in the middle of the dreary, morose bog and hailed in nocturnal passersby with promises of warm food and a restful fire, only to murder them and steal their personal belongings. Having read Tim Robinson’s account of this nothingland’s deadly past, we, of course, had to take it.

The Bog Road was desolate and barren. It was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, which happened only three times in 13 kilometers. About halfway to Clifden stood the unmarked stone ruins of a household – was this the Halfway House where countless nighttime travelers had unsuspectingly met their maker?

We circled back toward Roundstone and parked the car at Lisara House to walk to the downtown. The winners of the Roundstone Pony Show (held earlier that day in the rain) were scheduled to walk through the downtown at 5 pm, so we thought we’d go enjoy a pint at King’s Bar and see the ponies.

I ordered a pint of Smithwick’s from Mary Ward and told her what Michael had said about the other King household on the island, to which she summarily agreed: “If Mikel says it, it be true!” We enjoyed our pints and were surprised to see a long parade of large, full-sized horses trot down the street, adorned with ribbons of various celebration and status. Apparently in Ireland “pony” means what “horse” does in America. The Connemara Pony is an historic and famous breed that is generally white or gray.
We grabbed dinner at the Vaughan's Pub in the Roundstone House Hotel and then called it a night and walked back to Lisara House.

Day 2: Returning to Innishnee

Our first morning in Ireland began with a traditional Irish breakfast, prepared by Ann: cereal, a fried egg, sausage links, bacon, toast, a tomato, orange juice, coffee and black & white pudding. As we were finishing up, Noel, having worked late the night before, came in for a quick “hello” & “goodbye.” We were sad to have to leave such a lovely home so quickly, but excited to move onto the great genealogical unknown that awaited us.

To drive from Enniskerry to Roundstone (in the far west of County Galway) you first have to head back north to the outskirts of Dublin in order to pick up the N6 highway toward Galway. Driving from the Dublin area past Galway into Roundstone is like driving down an ice cream cone: the roads get narrower, messier and more full of holes the further you get. After driving past Galway, the road becomes narrow, curvy and treacherous.

As we rounded one of the final bends of R341 heading toward Roundstone, a small brown sign appeared on the left side of the road, pointing southward: “Innishnee.” It had been six short months since we were last on the island – a trip of enormous discovery, which has been subsequently accentuated with intermittent bits of knowledge, piecing together our ancestral story. We could not resist the urge to turn left and head down to Innishnee for a quick trip around the island before checking into our lodging at Lisara House in Roundstone.

Innishnee was exactly as we had left it: hard, unforgiving and ravaged by years of windswept waves cutting into the landscape like razorblades, stained by the constant changing of the tide, and disfigured by the evolutionary violence of the salty sea gusts. Even the trees on this island grow in one direction because of the constant wind.

Carefully navigating the narrow road up and down the island’s hills and slowly rounding bends for fear of an unlikely oncoming car (the only solution to which would be one of the cars having to reverse to the nearest driveway or knoll on the side of the road), we finally came to the fork in the road at the north end of the second of the island’s three main portions. Taking this fork to the left leads to the ruined cemetery and Church of St. Matthias – the sight where my great-great-grandparents Peter King and Mary Ward were married in 1868 – the home of John Barrett (our friend from the March trip), and the home of Michael King (a possible long-lost relative).

As we came upon Michael King’s house, we looked to our right to his front doorstep, upon which stood an exceptionally tall man of about 65 in a green woven sweater and brown wool hat. After we drove by in our rented SUV – a giveaway of our status as strangers to Innishnee – and were greeted by a wave, we immediately pulled over and walked up. As I walked up the path to his front door, I said “Are you Michael King?” to which he replied, with his hand outstretched and bent downward to meet mine: “I am. You must be the O’Briens I take it?” Clearly he had received the note my dad sent him a couple of weeks prior to our visit. My dad offered: “I think we might be related,” to which Michael (pronounced “Mee-kel”) quickly replied: “I don’t think so on the King side, I’m sorry to say, but perhaps way back on the Ward side. I do have quite a bit of information for you though. Come in, come in.”

We sat in Michael’s living room – a lovely room with wooden trim, books, framed maps, and pictures of his now-adult children (all now living off the island and working in larger cities) – and heard about his life on the island. He was born on the island - in a house just south of the one he lives in now – 72 years ago. He told us that he has childhood memories of the elder Michael King (Honor King’s brother and my great-great-uncle). After Peter King and Mary Ward were married on Innishnee, they moved across the bay (about 1 mile) to Letterard (an equally unforgiving landscape on the shores of the mainland). It was in Letterard that my great-grandmother Honor and all of her brothers and sisters were born. They were baptized in Carna, the largest town nearby on the mainland.

Michael King (the elder) was a fisherman and lived with his mother as the head of the household after his father’s death in 1895. Michael told us that Michael King (the elder) never had children and married late in life, initially living in a house on the shore of Letterard that is visible from Innishnee on a clear day, and then later moving back to Innishnee with his wife, before dying in the nursing home in Roundstone in 1951. Michael told us that Michael King (the elder) is buried alongside his wife in the graveyard at the church on Innishnee and that Peter King and Mary Ward (his parents) are likely buried in the same grave or nearby. Furthermore, Michael told us that he knows precisely where the grave is because his own uncle is immediately adjacent. He remembered seeing Michael King (the elder) on the island as a child because his parents would look after people’s boats after they rowed to the island from Letterard in order to walk into Roundstone for supplies. He also remembered Michael King’s funeral – which he thought was in 1951 because he remembered it being after a major storm had washed out the roads, forcing the body to be brought over in a boat (and he knew that the roads were repaired in 1952).

The day was overcast and rainy, making it impossible to see the house in Letterard or easily navigate the cemetery. We also wanted to make it into town in time to stop by Tim Robinson’s store in Roundstone – so we agreed to come by in the morning and meet up with Michael. Before heading back, however, we decided to go up toward the cemetery and also take the fork in the road that led by U.S. Senator Chris Dodd’s vacation home (known locally as the “Senator of Innishnee”).

We made our way back through Innishnee and into Roundstone – failing to notice any store called “Folding Landscapes” (Tim Robinson’s store), so we found our B&B and dropped our stuff off and asked Geraldine Coyne, the proprietor of Lisara House, if she knew Tim’s phone number. She didn’t – but she called Richard de Stacpoole (another person we had learned about before coming to Roundstone via the Roundstone community website). We got Tim’s number and called him up – he was happy to have us come down.

We made our way back into “downtown” Roundstone – about a one-minute drive around the bend in the road and down to the pier. Tim’s house and office store were located through a gate in the last house on the pier. After knocking on the door, we were soon shaking hands with the author of Connemara: Listening to the Wind, the extremely detailed, and pricelessly painstaking account of the Connemara region that we had been reading in advance of the trip (a very surreal feeling). He was a kind man and was happy to sell us a few of his famous maps of Connemara and the Burren (he’s the only man in the world to have personally mapped out the regions in such detail) as well as a signed copy of his book – a gift for our upcoming visit with Brian Rabbitt.

We walked back up the pier and around the corner to a used bookshop. A nice young girl inside, after being informed of our reasons for touring the area, suggested that we go across the street for a pint at “King’s Bar” – a pub named not for royalty, but after the owner: Mary King. It took some hard thought and convincing, but we were soon enjoying a pint of Smithwick’s in King’s Pub and talking with Mary King, who told us that she’s not related (her husband was from Cashel) but she knew of another King family that lives on Innishnee: an old brother and sister in their 80’s whom she thought were the children of a Colman King. My ears and hopes perked up at the statement: Honor King (my great-grandmother) had a younger brother Colman. My excitement, however, was quickly dispelled by my lawyerly criticism: if that’s true, then why didn’t Michael King – an Innishnee resident of 72-years - say anything about them? Mary did not know which house they lived in, but she said they painted it recently and it was on the west side of the road in the second part of the island. We had a lead…

We enjoyed cod & chips dinner at O’Dowd’s before heading back to Lisara House. On the way home, however, we thought we’d stop by the Catholic Church and talk with the Parish Priest to see if he had any records of the area (a suggestion made by several people). Father McCarthy was a very sweet, older gentleman and he graciously showed us the printed list of the Roundstone Parish’s records, an index for the delicate, fragile hard copies that date all the way back to 1872. Unfortunately, the Kings/Wards moved to Letterard after being married on Innishnee sometime after 1868, and Letterard is in the Carna parish, not the Roundstone parish (the Carna parish having lost many of its records in a fire decades ago). Nonetheless, we thumbed through the first volume of the written records: ancient, weathered parchment, decorated with the patient Latin and English inscriptions of steady hands, accounting for marriages and baptisms. There were several King families on Innishnee at that time (the island itself had a population some fifteen times greater then than it does now), none of which were directly traceable to our ancestors.

Although we had not found any hard evidence, the search through the ancient book was exciting. We thanked Father McCarthy and exchanged pleasantries on our way out of the rectory – when I suddenly noticed a map of Parish on his office wall. An idea struck me: “Do you know of a second King house on Innishnee other than Michael’s?” “I do,” said Father McCarthy, “There's another Michael King. Michael and Nora – a brother and sister.” “Do you know where they live?” I followed up. “Well, let’s see,” he said, turning toward the map on his wall, “here.” He pointed to a dot on the west side of the road, right next to the road and directly south of the entrance to the new pier. “Fantastic,” I thanked him, “we’re going to talk with them tomorrow to see if they can help us.” Mary’s story rang true and our lead seemed more promising.

Day 1: From Dublin to Enniskerry

We landed in Dublin around 8:15 am on Friday, September 12. The flight was a relatively smooth 7 hours, despite not having the luxury of business class, like we did on our previous trip. After a long line for customs, we got our bags without problem and quickly grabbed our rental car (a Tucson SUV).

We headed into Dublin with a rough plan of going to a museum or two. After curving around a series of tight one-way streets, criss-crossing bridges over the River Liffey, and avoiding a plethora of pedestrians frequenting the weekend shops, we settled upon a public parking lot and headed to the square of the national museums. We settled upon the National Museum of History and Archaeology - which was an impressive display of artifacts from the Irish landscape, telling the tale of Ireland's Neolithic, Celtic, Viking, and Roman past. Perhaps most impressive and intriguing were the bog mummies - four remains of men from 400-200 B.C. that were remarkably well-preserved by the peat bogs that they met their maker in, millennia ago.

After the museum, we heading to The Duke, a local pub for lunch (although the Irish dialect pronounces a "D" as a "J" and we initially thought we were looking for a bar called "The Juke"). The pub lunch was great - and on the way we stopped by a government publications office where we found a list of West Galway's archaeological sites (hoping to use it later on our expedition).

After lunch, we walked around Dublin for a little bit, but were dissuaded from going to the Museum of Natural History because it was closed to public, following the collapse of a staircase (apparently it is housed in a very old building). We headed back to the car, stopping by a street magician for a bit, and then went to the Guinness Factory.

The Guinness Factory tour was impressive - a well-done, tourist-friendly display of the begging to the end process of brewing Guinness. After a quick sample in the "tasting lab" we finished the tour and went to the top of the building (the 8th floor, which is among the tallest buildings in all of Dublin). At the very top is the "Gravity Bar," a bar in the middle of a 360-degree, floor-to-ceiling glass wall, overlooking the entirety of the city. After enjoying a pint, we decided to head to Enniskerry to Craigie Cottage - the home of Noel and Ann Barry.

After a short drive through Dublin, out to the M5 and the M11 highways, we eventually found our way to Ballyman Road, north of Brey, and navigated to Ann & Noel’s lovely home. Noel was on the late shift of the bus route he drives, so we wouldn’t see him until the morning; however, Ann’s son Cheiron, his three children and his fiancé all came over for dinner: authentic Irish beef and potato stew. We enjoyed a delicious dinner and a long night of conversation. Ann was sure to emphasize the natural beauty and strengths of the Scottish people whenever possible. It was a terrific evening, followed by a long night of sleep (due to the time change, we had only slept 1-2 hours in the last 34 hours!).

St. Dominic's Church - 357 W. Locust, Chicago

According to the records we've obtained, Thomas Coyne and Nora ("Honor") King (my paternal grandmother's parents) were married at St. Dominic's Church at 357 W. Locust on the North Side of Chicago in 1912. St. Dominic's was built in 1904 but closed in 1990. I drove by it this morning and found it in a dilapidated condition - all boarded up and vacant without a trace of its history of a thriving parish of the Italian-Irish working community of the early 20th century. All of the stained glass windows have been removed and vines and rogue trees have taken over the outside, yet the building remains an ominous presence in the otherwise vacant landscape: it's dark brick facade and parallel bell towers stand as the sole remnants of the neighborhood that Thomas Coyne and Nora King once inhabited.

An online search turned up a 1916 "souvenir" book of the Archdiocese of Chicago that features pictures and short descriptions of all of Chicago's churches as of 1916. The book, in its entirety, is available for free download by clicking HERE. I have also excerpted the description and picture of St. Dominic's below.



Here are some current images of St. Dominic's, courtesy of the Street-View feature of Google Maps.

Family Tree as Currently Conceived

Thomas Coyne & Nora King's Chicago Residences

Perhaps one of the most surprising discoveries of our genealogical inquiry has been the frequency with which Thomas Coyne and Nora King, my great-grandparents (dad's mother's parents) moved residences. Still more surprising is the relatively short distances that they moved each time. With each historical record - birth certificate, death certificate, naturalization papers - there is a new address. Here is a map with them pinpointed, followed by a summary timeline with sources in brackets:

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April 29, 1913: 1366 Hudson Ave
[Thomas Coyne's declaration of intention to become naturalized citizen]

July 9, 1913: 1366 Hudson Ave.
[birth certificate of James Joseph Coyne]

March 29, 1915: 300 W. Oak St.
[birth certificate of Mary Jane Coyne]

September 1917: 351 W. Oak St.
[birth certificate of Thomas Michael Coyne]

1917/18: 351 W. Oak St.
[Thomas Coyne's World War I draft registration card]

April 24, 1920: 1007 Sedgwick St.
[Thomas Coyne's petition for naturalization]

September 21, 1920: 1007 Sedgwick St.
[Thomas Coyne's naturalization]

July 17, 1920: 1018 Sedgwick Ave.
[Nora King's death certificate]

April 15, 1924: 160 W. Oak St.
[Letter from Probation Officer to Thomas Coyne]

June 25, 1926: 1848 Lincoln Ave.
[Letter from Thomas Coyne to Plumas County, California County Attorney]

June 30, 1926: 1848 Lincoln Ave.
[Letter from Plumas County, California County Attorney to Thomas Coyne]

August 6, 1926: 1848 Lincoln Ave.
[Letter from Ms. B. Mahoney to Thomas Coyne]

Relevant Links for West Galway

Connemara Heritage & History Centre

Connemara Heritage Tours - walking tours led by local archaeologist and writer Michael Gibbons

Folding Landscapes - publishing company started by Tim Robinson, of Roundstone

Roundstone Community Blog & Website

Connemara.net

Errisbeg House - home of Richard Duc de Stacpoole

O'Dowd's Restaurant & Bar in Roundstone

Email Addresses:
Brian Rabbitt (West Galway Family History Society) - galwayfshwest@eircom.net
Mary Geraghty (Marless House, Salthill) - marlesshouse@eircom.net
Geraldine Coyne (Lisara House, Roundstone) - lisaraguests@eircom.net
Margaret Coyne (Le Fjord House, Leenane) - margaretcoyne2000@yahoo.com

Weather in September

The average temperature in September/October ranges from a low of 44 to a high of 59.

Car Rental

I have reserved a Standard-size, Volkswagan Passat with Thrifty. Pick-up and drop-off at the Dublin Airport, September 12th and 18th, respectively. This is a good, safe car that is reasonably spacious. Also, having driven one from Chicago to Miami and back in 2003, I'm pretty familiar with the car.

Accommodations

September 12th: We have arranged to stay with Noel and Ann Barry at Ballyman Rd., Enniskerry, County Wicklow, just south of Dublin.


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September 13th and 14th: I called LISARA HOUSE in Roundstone, County Galway (Coyne-operated!), and reserved a room for September 15th and 16th.


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September 15th and 16th: We are scheduled to stay at MARLESS HOUSE, Threadneedle Road, Salthill, Galway, Ireland. The total is 150€.


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September 17th: We are booked at ANNESLEY HOUSE, 29 Watery Lane, Rathbeale Road, Swords, County Dublin, Ireland (Contact Number: 01 8402051). The total is 75€.


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Flight Details

AMERICAN AIRLINES Flight #92
ORD Chicago to DUB Dublin
Depart: Sep 11, 2008, 07:15 PM
Arrive: Sep 12, 2008, 08:35 AM

AMERICAN AIRLINES Flight #93
DUB Dublin to ORD Chicago
Depart: Sep 18, 2008, 10:30 AM
Arrive: Sep 18, 2008, 12:30 PM