Books Are Still Better

Current trends in genealogical research tend to lull the uninitiated into a sense that everything one would want to know about one's family roots can be found online. Not so. While it may be tedious to crank through rolls of microfilm or thumb through the index at the back of countless books, sometimes those are the only methods which will yield the results we wish to find.

Part of the strategy behind our family's journey to Ireland was to seek out those local places where my husband's ancestors lived prior to emigration. Now that we were in Ballina in the northern part of County Tipperary, we had that opportunity for hands-on research. And yet, it was difficult to determine exactly where to find those local repositories of historical information about this town of now barely twenty five hundred people.

Out of the way places such as this have that small town advantage, though: everyone knows everybody else. Staying in a local bed and breakfast establishment, I thus reasoned, would bring us in closer proximity to that small town dynamic.

Thankfully, my hunch turned out to be right. Sort of.

When we arrived at our accommodations for the weekend, we found ourselves in a long conversation with the proprietor of the place. My husband had found it quite handy to adopt Pete McCarthy's "dewy-eyed Yank searching for his roots" line from the McCarthy's Bar book he had been enjoying (thanks to the recommendation from the Letter From Ireland blog). Naturally, the question became, "Oh, and who are you seeking?"

My husband had hardly gotten the name Tully out of his mouth, when the lady exclaimed, "Why, that's my maiden name!"

She was quick to keep us from jumping unnecessarily to any conclusions: "But I'm not from around here."

That's what I had begun to think about our Tullys, too. Flannerys I could find—the maiden name of our Denis Tully's wife Margaret—but not very many Tullys in this area of County Tipperary.

The woman gave it some more thought, apparently, for the next morning at breakfast, she brought in some items for us to inspect. One was the local phone book, just in case we wanted to peruse it for those current residents who shared our surnames. The other, as I discovered after an hour's reading, was a book I simply had to purchase for myself.

The book, written by a local father and son team—both named Kevin Griffin—spelled out in its title exactly what I was seeking: Ballina/Boher Parish: Our History and Traditions. Based on the index, I had originally thought there were several pages from which I could simply take notes on our surnames, but it turned out there were also long passages which contained detailed accounts of the local history of these two specific twin towns. How could I walk away from a treasure like this?

Unfortunately, the book was written in 2000, and there likely were no more copies available for purchase. My husband checked out the title online. Someone was selling the book, used, for a cool eighty dollars.

Not being quite that desperate yet, we mentioned it to our hostess. She thought there still might be some copies left in town, and directed us to one local bookstore in Killaloe. If it wasn't available there, she said, perhaps the news agent back over the bridge in Ballina might still have some copies for sale.

Each stop became yet another chance to tell our story, and inevitably recite the list of surnames we were seeking. Each stop, however, also gave us the answer we didn't want to hear: the book had been sold out. It had been, after all, fourteen years since it was published.

The shopkeeper in Ballina, however, thought his wife might be able to contact the author and see if he had any more copies. She asked if we had any further business in town, as it would take her about an hour to get a chance to run to the author's house. Still wanting to drive around the area further, we agreed on an afternoon meeting time, and left.

On the appointed time, we returned and found ourselves the owners of one of the last three copies of the Griffin book. We are now in possession of nearly four hundred indexed pages of the history of this town claimed in our ancestral heritage, complete with photographs, sketches of long-gone buildings and people, and even the details of more recent events. With our days still full of research and travel, I'll tuck this away for further reading upon our return home, much encouraged to have, at last, found some "local studies" material to add to our understanding of our heritage.

Coffee Break and Coincidence

It was a simple coffee shop in the County Clare village of Killaloe which became my office away from home during this journey back through the generations of Irish ancestors. Mainly, the coffee shop served as wifi haven, owing to the unfortunate difficulty of the wireless connection at our bed and breakfast accommodations being uncommunicative with the only computer still accessible to me.

On account of that, it was the Derg House which became our daily writing stop—Derg being the name of the lake above the historic bridge spanning the River Shannon between the twin towns of Killaloe and Ballina. Stumbling in the door from the afternoon rain which eclipsed our plans to wander the local cemeteries on our first full day here, I settled in for a hot mocha and the chance to connect to my online notes.

It wasn't a simple effort to drag ourselves in those doors, incidentally. By now, it was three in the afternoon—just about time for school to get out. We were already aware of the snarl of traffic that locked up the road over the bridge, and consequently all traffic on the main roads leading through both Killaloe and its twin town across the river, Ballina, at the close of business each day. In addition, our host had warned us that traffic tended to get heavier just after the close of the school day. We had already completed three laps around Killaloe's twisted, narrow roads and alleys in a vain attempt at locating the library, and had given up on the search as we once again came to a dead stop at the road leading up to the bridge.

Stuck in the stopped traffic about to cross the bridge, I looked up and saw the coffee house sign, decided to snag the opportunity and hopped out of the car with my daughter. My husband, promising to join us as soon as he could manage to find a parking space in the tangle of vehicles, kept his word within the hour.

Just kidding. It wasn't that extreme. This is, after all, only a village, not a metropolis. But we did have several laughs over the Keystone Cops nature of our circles around the alleys, trying to find our way to a non-existent road. I won't even begin to tell you of the narrowness of the alley across which a Volvo dump truck attempted its delivery—straddling the alley right in front of our oncoming car—or the cavalier manner in which local drivers address the hazards of the road. Somehow, it's still hard to shake that sense of driving on the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, it was we who became the hazards.

By the time the three of us had congregated in the coffee shop and warmed ourselves up with some coffee—like my nerves actually needed any more caffeine—I was well on my way to pulling up some of the historic maps I had lost in the episode of the disappearing iPad. We talked for a while with the proprietor about our quest to return to my husband's roots in Ireland, and then began writing.

In typical small town style, one of the customers seated at a nearby table overheard our conversation and decided to come over to chat. She had just been wandering the cemetery at the Killaloe Cathedral—that building on the other side of the river captured by my husband in photographs the first night of our arrival here—and shared details on some of the old grave markers she had discovered. Astute observer that I am, I sensed her excitement at sharing family history research, and listened to her stories with relish.

What I failed to notice, however, was the fact that her accent didn't quite match that of the locals. It was an accent, all right—at least to me—but face it: even I had an accent to those others seated in the shop. All the different sounds accosting my ears had blurred the distinctions, and I was oblivious to what, exactly, I was hearing.

I asked this other researcher which surnames she was seeking. One never knows: perhaps two people have returned to the same place at the same time for the very same purpose. None of those she named matched the ancestors I was following. Most of them sounded so far from the realm of possibility that I only could remember one in the recounting of the episode: Doyle.

The worst of it was that she had not been as successful in her quest as she had hoped. She complained, "to think I've come all this way to find nothing—six thousand miles!"

Wait a minute: you're not from here?

Finally being struck with the obvious, I realized it was an Aussie accent regaling my ears, not an Irish one. This woman had come all the way from Australia to do the very thing that had only cost me slightly more than five thousand miles to do, myself. Of course, I had an added bonus to my quest: my husband and I got to spend time with our daughter, who is currently a student at the University in Cork. But from the sounds of it, I was prepared for considerably more success in my search than she was for hers.

Still, we were on the same page. We were attempting the same quest: to find our family in the remote villages of Ireland. And our very different surnames had led us to this very same—albeit tiny—place. It's astounding to realize how such very different current homelands had drawn us for the same purpose. A kindred spirit wraps this task, and transforms strangers into long-lost friends, even if they turn out not to be related. Even distantly.

Fellow pilgrims notwithstanding, I had to amend her math: if it was Australia which was her starting point, hers was a journey of well over ten thousand miles. For that, I have to hand it to her: the length of such a journey would have given even me second thoughts about my research commitment.

Photograph, above: The Derg House Bed and Breakfast and coffee shop in Killaloe, County Clare, Ireland. Just over the River Shannon from Ballina in County Tipperary, this picture captures the building's exterior during the rare moment when the street just outside the door is not lined with stopped cars, awaiting the light to traverse the one-way road across the bridge. Photograph courtesy Chris Stevens. 

Seeking Tullys in Ballina

After you've done all that can be done to solve a research problem, what more could possibly be added to the list? That's what I had thought when I first received the advice that was to become job number one on our first full day in the County Tipperary village of Ballina.

Face it: I had already thoroughly research all available documentation on the Tully family from civil parish Templeachally. I had traced the family back through their history: all the United States census records where they had settled in Chicago, over the border to their first home in the New World in Brant County, Canada West. Thanks to an ancestor who believed in saving every scrap of documentation, I even had a baptismal verification of my husband's great-grandfather, John Tully, providing me with not only his place of baptism, but the new details of his father's name and his mother's maiden name as well.

That baptismal note was the key that led us to Ballina, and it turned out to open some doors, once we got there as well. The Griffith's Valuation gave added support to that detail, as did transcriptions of baptismal records for John Tully's siblings, found through a subscription at rootsireland.ie. By Thursday night, here we were.

Having already obtained all those records—and knowing that not much more might be accessed, despite our travel efforts to get here—I began to plummet into despondent thoughts that there would be nothing further to do. After all, this was one of those church parishes for which records were only preserved back to about 1832. There would be no further documents to trace.

Competing against that downer thought was the notion that not everything in genealogy may be accessed via online resources. Remember all those pithy saying about the value of still looking to books and documents to round out our research? Remember that research "iceberg" mantra? I was terrified it wouldn't hold true, now that I am here.

Our host and lead genealogist for the research trip to Dublin, Donna Moughty, had suggested I see what else could be found via the County Genealogy Centre in County Tipperary. I protested that advice. These county heritage centers are part of the widespread network known as the Irish Family History Foundation. However, as I already knew, these offices offer only "commissioned research." Besides, any of their available records are accessible (now by subscription) via their website, which I had already thoroughly searched.

I protested to Donna that I had already done what I could do, regarding that resource. Besides, I prefer to enjoy the thrill of the chase, myself. I have no intention of hiring someone else to find the answers I'm seeking. That would spoil all my fun.

Donna, however, gently suggested I casually stop by and see what would happen. Sometimes, she said, despite the growl of their at-arms'-length official literature, they will, in person, offer helpful tips. At least, that had been her experience.

What did I have to lose? After all, we had already traveled thousands of miles to get here.

So, Friday morning, that was our first mission: drive to the town of Nenagh to see whether staff at this Heritage Centre would be amenable to tossing a few extra crumbs of data in my direction.

Though each Irish county has its own county council and local governmental organization, owing to the length of County Tipperary, the place has historically—until just recently—been administered through two separate geographically-designated districts, known since 1838 as "North Riding" and "South Riding." The one corresponding to our Ballina would be the North Riding, and its capital was the town of Nenagh, where the Heritage Centre and genealogy service is located.

We made our way back along the country road from Ballina to the main highway and headed east to Nenagh. The Heritage Centre is housed in the former Governor's House, a stone Georgian building on Kickham Street.

While the building itself seems rather austere, set behind gates and a long entryway without much pomp or fanfare, its original intention was to serve dual purposes.

It didn't take long to find the plaque revealing the facility's other use: as the county jail.

Even the archway which framed the approach to the house had a grim purpose: above were set the "condemned cells" and around it the execution area. As we walked through the archway and toward the governor's house, these appeared behind us.

The somber walk up to the front door of the Heritage Centre was accentuated by the gray weather which accompanied our trip, I kept telling myself. It seemed almost a relief to get inside the doors to the building which likely was completed the same year our John Tully was born in 1842. Who knows how that complex of buildings commanded the mood for the entire region in which the Tully family lived.

Thankfully, the interior seemed like a different world. While part of the complex served as a local history museum, one of the rooms of the house had been converted into an office for the Genealogy Centre. Crossing the threshold to that department, I faced up to the moment of the decision: would the staff entertain any thoughts of chatting or being helpful to a do-it-yourselfer, or would they insist on toeing the party line?

After introducing myself to the woman sitting at the desk, I pulled out my copy of John Tully's baptismal verification, a note from the parish priest which had been passed down through our family since it was issued in 1887. I fervently hoped the authenticity of the document might prompt a conversation between two aficionados of genealogical pursuit.

It did. Geraldine was a delight to talk to, and quite willing to share some ideas on how I could continue my own pursuit. While she concurred with my realization that there wasn't much more that could be obtained through Catholic records, she did provide follow-up ideas. Cemeteries might provide additional hints—although here, too, the caution was that custom of that impoverished time might mean no memorials placed as grave markers.

Geraldine also answered my question about obtaining general material on the local history of the area—something I had had no luck in pursuing via online searches and email inquiries (my notes had been kicked back electronically for various electronic delivery reasons). "Local Studies," as it is termed in the country, could be pursued at the Thurles Town Centre, a resource in yet another town in the county for me to contact.

The best part was that, from an old listing of cemetery transcriptions, she pulled up some old burial records of a family of Tullys in the parish, including a woman who died in 1800 at the age of eighty four years. The same listing contained some Flannery family members from the same vicinity. Whether I can duplicate these names from any other records, I don't yet know, but they are possibilities to trail, once I get back to checking the documents from that era again.

We caught a late lunch at a sandwich shop in Nenagh, then rushed back to Ballina, in hopes of catching the local parish priest, and to wander the cemetery there. Unfortunately, this being the first Friday of the month, Father Edmond O'Rahelly was out, administering the sacrament of communion to his shut-in parishioners. The tangible expression of those gray clouds hanging over our morning precluded our hopes of wandering the cemetery in the afternoon, so we headed across the bridge to Ballina's twin town of Killaloe to explore the library there. A nearby coffee shop provided the wifi access needed to complete a few posts and business emails, and became our new office outpost. Working there until closing, we were satisfied to call it a day and retreat to a handy nearby Italian restaurant for dinner.

Yes, even in Ireland, you can find a good Italian restaurant.


Photographs courtesy Chris Stevens.  

Life Without Connectivity

How ironic that, as we seek to reconnect with the homeland of my husband’s ancestors, we leave behind all the connectivity we, in our current generation, have taken for granted.

Arriving in Ballina, the town where my husband’s great-grandfather John Tully was baptized, we settled in for the night in a local bed and breakfast. The proprietor’s website advised us they provided Internet services for guests, but unfortunately we were unable to actually connect to that service.

Taking a previous hint from some wise soul along the way, I had understood the caution to mean I should cover my bases by posting a place holder here on the blog. Although the post on Friday may have seemed redundant to you, that was its real purpose: to cover for me in case I couldn’t tap into wifi and update the information.

Though that leaves me a day behind in the saga of our travels, the extra day’s padding will help, in case we run into the same problem as we continue our journey into these out-of-the-way places on the western side of the island.

When you and I last met—the prelude to Thursday evening’s drive north to Ballina—we had just covered the episode so aptly characterized by Wendy as our “Keystone Cops” corollary. You will be glad to know we safely navigated the “bad roads” north of Cork on the way to Limerick and survived the adrenaline rush of the country route from the main road down to the river’s edge in Ballina.

We descended to the County Tipperary town just before twilight, checked into our room at the B&B, then hurried back into the village to grab some dinner. We wanted to take up Erin Flannery’s recommendation and try the fare at Gooser’s Restaurant.

Parking our car on a side street, we walked down the hill to the main road, which afforded us a view at twilight of the iconic bridge over the River Shannon. Smaller than it appeared in the photos I’ve seen online, the bridge’s size easily explained the comments I’ve read about the traffic jams incurred by drivers from both of the twin towns seeking to cross what is essentially a one-lane road spanning the river.

The rushing noise which accompanied the sight turned out to be a flock of birds circling the now-crumbled steeple of the Cathedral in Killaloe across the river. Perhaps you can spot the flock as they passed the church and flew out over the water. We stood there, at our vantage point above the river, transfixed by the sight and the sound of their flight.

The evening at the restaurant greeted us with the delightful lilt of the Irish version of the English language. There are still some episodes in which I turn to my daughter for assurance on whether I’m hearing English or Irish being spoken. Our ears having taken it in for a few days now, we find ourselves unavoidably echoing what had previously been such foreign sounds.

Of course, we weren’t there just to listen, but to dig in and enjoy the Irish fare the pub had to offer. Both my companions opted for the Irish stew, but I resisted the temptation to follow suit and instead took advantage of a wonderful presentation of salmon—along with the ever-present potatoes which seem, in multiple permutations, to accompany every dish.

Despite still battling jet lag, we managed to close the evening at our customary late hour. Between unpacking, reflecting on the day’s experience, and checking and re-checking what limited notes I had printed as backup for our trip, there was simply too much to do to ready ourselves for the next day’s events. Plans for the morning included a drive to Nenagh to see what could be found on our Tully and Flannery ancestors on the north side of the county, as well as a stop at the Catholic church and cemetery in Ballina. Another day’s adventure would await, following yet another Irish breakfast, but our first quest would be to access the Internet. Funny how, despite foreign surroundings or pursuit of historic records, job number one seems to be to reach out for modern technology’s connection.

 Photographs, above, courtesy Chris Stevens.

Getting Lost-- On the Left Side of the Road

We had our rental car for less than twenty four hours, and already we've gotten lost on two out of two trips around Cork. How's that for batting a thousand?

Our maiden voyage was the return trip from the rental place at the Cork airport. It's not exactly like you could say we simply had to retrace our steps back to the hotel. There are such diversions as one way streets to contend with. And that River Lee landmark? Don't be fooled. There is a north fork and a south fork. Trust me on this. It doesn't work to go over the bridge on the other fork.

Of course, our first shopping trip on foot hadn't fared any better. We got lost then, too--remember? Saw a lot of downtown Cork--started recognizing the courthouse after passing it by several go-rounds in the process of navigating both on foot and from our many cab rides the other day.

The other night, we met our daughter's flatmates over her homemade dinner, and enjoyed ourselves way into the evening--well, at least past the wimpy, sleep-deprived early evening close I had envisioned for myself. Perhaps it wouldn't have seemed so late if we hadn't missed the turn on the rather straightforward route between our daughter's apartment and our hotel. Suffice it to say there are a lot of verrry narrow roads on that other side of the River Lee which don't allow enough roadway for two cars to pass. And as we all know, there are problems when two bodies try to occupy the same space at the same time...

Late the next afternoon, we were to pick up our daughter after her last class for the week, and all head up to Ballina in County Tipperary--that other town of Ballina, as I find myself having to remind even the Irish. One of them winced when we mentioned our destination. It's a main highway, all right, but the road is "not so good." Sounds like merely the continuation of one long adventure. Chapter Two. And a chapter which heads us into the twilight zone, not only in our time of arrival, but in the possibility that there might not be as much Internet access as we had originally been told. If you don't hear from us for a while, you will know what happened. Unless, of course, there is yet another unanticipated adventure awaiting us beyond this next one.

Falling Asleep in the Midst of the Excitement

There are some who are excellently equipped for world travel. I am not one of them.

Our second day in Ireland was reserved for one purpose: sleep. After going well over twenty four hours without any decent sleep, a traveler should deserve a break. And yesterday was just the day for that.

Our daughter, attending class at University College Cork, just happened to have a fully-packed day that very same day, so we thought the schedules aligned nicely.

As it turned out, it hardly mattered, though. Sleep deprivation or not, I awoke with a start after seven hours...and the day began. Sometimes, that internal clock does not pay any attention to reason.

The day turned out to be a day for taking care of the business of daily life. The first two hours were spent over a delightful breakfast at a coffee shop across the street from our hotel--I had a smoked salmon covered serving of scrambled eggs, while my husband opted for the Irish "works" of a sampler of sausages, bacon, and (I think) there were eggs somewhere in the midst of all that meat. We enjoyed our meal, as did our daughter and one of her American friends here.

The coffee shop was called Serendipity, and that is exactly what I have been hoping for, now. I am sorely missing my iPad, and the day was partially devoted to following up on that unfortunate misplacement of my scheduler and external-drive brain.

We got ourselves an Irish cell phone. The original idea was to have our American service provider "unlock" our phones so we could purchase an Irish SIM card and swap out here, but though the Verizon rep assured us that was no longer a requirement--apparently, legislation was recently passed which spoke to that very issue--when we arrived here (sans international plan, I might add), we found out that was not the case. Another Plan B kind of day later, and we had a "burner" phone for our temporary use for the next month. One insurmountable challenge down.

In the meantime, we took the opportunity to walk through a lot of downtown Cork. Well, part of that walk was thanks to our inability to follow directions. We got lost. A lot of walking later, we accidentally stumbled upon our destination. And spent some time shopping.

The next step was to get to the airport to pick up our rental car. Remember how I was concerned about fitting five adults plus luggage into a Toyota Corolla? Well, thanks to several cab rides during afternoon traffic our first day here, my wonderful husband was re-thinking getting that stick-shift rental car. Keeping mindful about not only shifting gears with the opposite hand, while also remembering to keep to the left, even on the roundabouts, was weighing on his mind. On our ride to the airport to get the car, our helpful cab driver suggested switching his watch from his left arm to his right arm. That would be to remind him to Look Right!!!

Duly noted. And heavily insured.

In the meantime, I have noticed that a lot of the Google Maps driving instructions seem to repeat the same sequence: go to next roundabout, take the second exit. Rinse. Repeat.

In the spirit of the adventure, we had not been able, before leaving the States, to secure all the hotel reservations we had needed to line up. Does that strike you as crazy? We seem to be joining the ranks of a good friend of mine, who has always claimed she is the "Queen of Wing." We are learning to "wing it," too.

Thankfully, though we had received no response from our inquiry to the Bed and Breakfast establishment we chose for our weekend in County Tipperary, with our new Irish cell phone, we were able to call the place directly. Reservations are now secured. We will be headed north shortly to begin our exploration of the places where our Tully and Flannery ancestors once walked. The adventure will now begin in earnest.

Above: Yes, this is fried chicken; no, it is not the South. This is Cork, I promise (note the street sign above the business sign). Only someone who spent his boyhood years growing up in Texas would find a place like this in Ireland.

In Ireland: Day One

It was to a blanket of clouds over the Atlantic and a blazing sunrise ricocheting off the rim of the nacelle housing the jet engine just outside my window seat that I awoke to Ireland. A serendipitous break in the cottony cover allowed me my first sight of the land where we'll spend our next three weeks: the coastline just off Galway. Not long afterwards, the cloud cover shut back up, tightly, then played hide and seek with me, allowing brief glimpses of the greenery over rural stretches of land under our flight path between the west coast and our Dublin destination.

When we landed at the Dublin airport, despite the clouds, it was sunny. With tail winds chasing us, up to one hundred forty miles per hour at times, we had completed our flight half an hour early, cleared the obligatory political formalities in much less time than anticipated, and were on the bus to the city center way ahead of schedule. Too early: almost two and a half hours early.

Exhausted from the long journey, and eager to get on with our train ride to Cork, where our daughter currently is a student, we opted to change our reservations and snagged the 1:00 run with only minutes to spare. Satisfied with this move to gain ourselves two additional hours to visit with our daughter, we settled back into our seats and grabbed our respective communications devices to tap into the complementary wifi service. Gleeful at our fast turnaround, I messaged our daughter to let her know our new arrival time in Cork.

What happened when we received her reply can only be compared to the bittersweet O. Henry Christmas story, The Gift of the Magi. Her cryptic reply:

Great. I'm in Dublin.

Astounded, I emailed her back for confirmation: "Where are you?"

Her terse reply named the exact seat next to the one which would have been mine, had we stuck to our original plans. She had decided to ditch class and surprise us. What a delightful two and a half hour train ride that would have been.

If only...

By the time we arrived at the Kent Station in Cork, we were faced with a choice: stay at the train station until her arrival in another two hours, or take a cab to our hotel and check in, then return. We sprung for the more expensive, though as we assured ourselves, reasonable choice of checking in. Which meant a return cab ride back to the train station, where we would reverse roles and greet her upon her arrival.

There was a reason for this choice: while we may be "on holiday," she is not. Still a student with classes to show up for and meetings to attend, from the time of her--and, supposedly, our--arrival back in Cork, she had to immediately run off for an appointment. This would be followed by another day full of classes, so we would essentially not see her until Thursday. There was a reason for this surprise rendezvous on the train from Dublin to Cork.

And so, at the peak of rush hour in Cork, we were back in a taxi, headed back to Kent Station for a surprise meeting with the daughter who had just gone to Dublin to surprise us. From there, we would ride back into town on the bus with her, taking every chance to spend some time together before her schedule intervened.

This is where the evening degenerated. Perhaps it was the time squeeze, or the fact that the bus she needed to catch wasn't at the stop where she expected it to be, but those few minutes that slipped by made it clear she was not going to make it to her meeting on time.

What to do? Why, take another cab back into town again, of course.

There was only one taxi still available at the station by this point, as all others on the incoming train had already claimed their rides and were long gone. By this time, we felt like experts at riding the cab in Cork, so we noticed a few things. First, unlike the other cabbies who were very obviously Irish in every sense of the manner one would expect, this driver was a foreigner. While the other drivers had engaged us in lively chatter the whole distance of the ride, this one said nothing--though admittedly, we filled the air with our own excited chatter at being reunited after nearly two months apart.

The other detail we noticed--afterwards, ruefully--was that, upon payment of the fare, the driver did not provide us with the customary receipt. Other than the obligatory license prominently displayed by the dashboard of his vehicle and the logo-like insignia posted on the front doors of every such transportation vehicle for hire, there was no way to trace him or contact him.

And contact him was what we desperately needed to do, just after he drove off from the front door of our hotel.

You see, when I am on research trips, I always bring my iPad--the one specially engraved by my husband with reminders of how much faith he has in me and all the crazy research and writing projects I have jumped into, over the years. I take it everywhere in its soft, padded case with the unique design which my daughter gifted me with, years ago. For this trip, I had prepared by loading it with all the details, special notes and references I knew I would need, come the third week of our trip when I'd be researching family details back in Dublin. It was packed with everything I thought I might even just possibly need to achieve my research goals for this trip.

Ah, yes, I did think to print up paper backup of the bare essentials of data that could be called upon, should my memory fail me. But nothing like what could be accessed online for everything I needed to know about everyone for this research trip. My iPad was my contingency plan for stumbling upon the serendipitous unknown.

I don't know what it was. Perhaps it was the fact that, other than fitfully dozing for brief snatches of the flight, I hadn't had sleep in over twenty four hours. Perhaps it was that little detail of not eating much, once we left the plane, because we were running to make time. Perhaps it was the joy of seeing our daughter again, and being caught up in all her stories of how things are going for her in these very new college surroundings.

Whatever it was, "it" was what parted me from that unique case that held my research "brain." Other than hope and pray that this silent cab driver will happen to notice my missing iPad before his next passenger does, there is apparently no agency which can provide any help in reuniting me with the tool that would most help me complete my journey here in Ireland successfully.

The beginning of our Ireland adventure: "adventure" means a journey with an unknown outcome, right?