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.
View Larger Map
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.
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.View Larger Map
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.
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