The Irish Experience: Swimming..or Not and Finding Your Roots!

 We have been doing a lot of walking, hiking and laughing since arriving on the West Coast of Ireland.  We have also eaten a whole lot of soup, since January on the Emerald Isle would never be considered balmy.  I have written before about the heartiness of the Irish people and the evidence continues to mount to support that premise.  For example, there are far too Irish citizens wearing shorts for this time of the year and restaurant bathrooms continue to lack any form of heating, thus increasing the chances of frostbite for the brief time your skin is exposed when doing the business of why you came into the bathroom in the first place.  

Since our arrival, the temperature highs each day have been in the low 40s, but that’s very different than what we experience on the East Coast of the United States. It’s an island so it’s always damp and almost there’s almost always a wind blowing. When we take walks, we are dressed with sweaters, winter coats, scarves, hats (I have had “hat head” for five days, and it hasn’t been pretty) and gloves.  That’s why, on one of our walks in the seaside village of Mullaghmore, it was amazing to see three women swimming in the ocean. Upon closer inspection, we saw that other than old-fashioned bathing caps, they had opted out of wearing wet suits and were dressed solely in garden-variety bathing suits.  I wasn’t even willing to unzip my winter coat it was that cold, let alone wear swimming apparel. They were swimming and laughing the entire time they were in the water, and as we walked closer to them, they began to leisurely exit the ocean--still laughing and talking with no apparent sounds of chattering.  We asked them about the water temperature and they said it was “lovely” and warmer than the air.  We continued to chit-chat and my sister’s friend asked whether they swam every weekend, and they looked at us, in our winter finest and said, “No, we do this is every day.”  Needless to say, we were flabbergasted, and only hoped to get inside as soon as possible for some hot tea and soup.  

The three of us then discussed the merits of donning a bathing suit in the middle of January to take a daily swim in the North Atlantic.  We surmised that it was no doubt good for a person’s circulatory system, their heart and muscles and the sudden shock of the water no doubt reduced the chances of memory loss-an issue we three women, all in our sixties, have discussed far too often on this vacation. There may be merit to their daily exercise, but it’s not for me.  I’ve decided to continue to go to the “Y” regularly and play “Wordle”  and “Sodoku” every day, where no bathing suit and frigid waters are necessary for keeping my body in relatively good shape and those brain cells connecting.  

Like my last visit in September, I have found myself, once again, in Irish graveyards. Today, we visited a graveyard to see the resting place of W.B. Yeats, who is so popular in this part of Ireland, the county in which he was born and is buried is called “Yeats Country.” But the graveyard we visited yesterday was very different.  My sister’s friend with whom we are traveling is of Irish descent, and the three of us, along with my sister’s dear Irish friend were on a mission to try to find her “people” who lived not far from where we are staying. Consequently, part of that journey included another graveyard. 

This “mission” however, began even before we arrived in Ireland when my sister’s Irish friend, playing the female role of  “Inspector Clouseau” tracked down family information on the internet for my sister’s American friend. She then determined which school the family members would have likely attended and called the principal of this 100 year old learning establishment, which was still in the business of teaching children. After a few tries, she spoke with the principal and asked whether the school had records going back to the beginning of its existence to see if the family members were ever listed as students. Sadly, no such records existed but frankly, I could not wrap my head around such a conversation.  I am a strong supporter of the American educational system, but I just don’t see a similar conversation taking place in a local American school without the principal hanging up or the secretary being fired for passing on a call from a nut job! 

Inspector Clousseau was also able to determine the graveyard of where my sister’s friend’s people were likely laid to rest. Drumcliffe, the church and graveyard where Yeats is buried included huge signs off the highway, maps on how to find Yeats’ plot and of course, boxes for donations that even accepted credit cards!  The small cemetery we visited yesterday had none of those perks.  First, we missed the turn as the signs were somewhat lacking and when we finally found the road—and I use that word loosely—it was muddy and unpaved with a big tractor sitting at the top of the hill. I frankly thought that there was a fair chance that we would be arrested for trespassing on private property. We walked through the cemetery gates and started looking at names…and there were a lot of them.  After trying to avoid the mud, not trip on broken markers and not directly step on any graves (I’m a bit superstitious) some family members were actually found…we think, which was very exciting! However, more detective work will be needed, which is far above my pay grade and I think I’m through traipsing through cemeteries for this visit. But we couldn’t leave without taking a photo of us all in front of the school, where I also thought we might have been arrested for trespass! 

Tomorrow, the day looks stormy, and hiking will likely be out of the question. Fortunately, Irish stores are resistant to the weather and will be open!