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.
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.
2 comments:
Hi,
I was pleased to read about your trip to Galway. I too have family (Coyne) as well as Mulkerrin and Geraghty in Carna. My grandmother Mary Coyne settled in Portland Maine, so I was happy to read you also had family who came here to..
Slan
Carole
The Yank cone to whom you refer may be William Coyne (married Julia Conroy, and live in Cloughbrack upper). He was born in Portland Me to Thomas Coyne (of Crumlin East, Cornamona) and Ellen Duffy (of Dooghta). William was sent back to his family in Ireland as a very young man because he could not work. He initially lived with his Duffy relative. When asked to come back as a young man He told his family he would stay in Ireland. He had 2 daughters and a son. His son Patrick still lives in the Cornamona area.. William is my wife great uncle. I have extensive information about his Coyne family in Portland and would love to share. Please feel free to contact me.
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