Ireland: The Northern Road

The road to Giant’s Causeway

Mixed feelings

The question "What are you?" flicks my autopilot switch on: "Yep, so: My dad's family is Chinese, my mom's family is Irish." This is followed by a couple ooh's and aah's, or a sturdy head-nod as if to say, “yep, yep, knew it, knew it.”

My sister, Dakota, brother, Kyle, and me as kids. As the mixed kids, we are privy to a club where we are constantly questioned.

Get to the root of it

The thing is, even though I’ve had versions of this conversation 100+ times, I still did not know what this “it” was that people understood. Once they pinned down my ancestry, did my face make better sense to them? This stranger now has context as they plug in the puzzle pieces of my black hair, almond eyes, and … freckles?

But I never really dug deeper into answering the question for myself. Saying where my parents and grandparents were born felt like I was reciting a story I’ve heard many times, but never lived or experienced. It didn’t help that my grandmother left Ireland when she was a teenager and preferred not to speak about her childhood. She passed away in her early 70’s when I was barely waking up to the importance of asking her questions about her youth. To me, ‘Ireland’ was a flat word on a page, with little to no shape at all.

That is, until my 30th birthday where my husband’s mom, Carole, gifted me something that was so much more than a holiday. A journey to the city where my grandmother was born (Bangor). Followed by a yoga + horse meditation retreat at the incredible Macalla Farm. We were going to need some space to rest after all of this detective work.

Almost every local in Ireland likes to ask, or, rather state, to tourists right away “ah, you must be here to trace your roots.” (By the 21st century, an estimated 80 million people worldwide claimed some Irish descent.) But taking one look at me I didn’t get this once. I appreciated, for once, the mask of being a simple tourist. It helped me avoid the noise of small talk and let me concentrate on the task ahead.

Dublin

Our journey begins safely in Dublin, at an Airbnb on the River Liffey. I say safe because this city delivers an expected dose of cozy pub, enough cobblestone to make you feel far from home, and a city accent easy enough to understand. Plus my fear of not actually finding anything about my grandmother was far enough in the distance of next week, and time seemed to be standing still here.

Dublin city does not disappoint with its rich history apparent on every edifice. Every stone begs to be inspected for hints of poet etchings and historical revolt origins. I fit the bill of every ancestry-obsessed Irish descendant before me, I feel immediately at home.

BELFASt,THE TITANIC + PRONI

Just a quick two hours north lay Belfast & Bangor. The latter is the seaside city where my grandmother was born and raised until her departure to Canada at sixteen. But Belfast was equally important. Obviously the famous Titanic museum is worth the trip alone, but beside it is PRONI - or the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland. This is one of the most impressive establishments I’ve set foot in. A massive modern building with thousands upon thousands of archives. Basically the ground-zero for researching any family member who has ties to Northern Ireland. Most records of course are hand-written and painstakingly recorded digitally.

So with hopeful tears in our eyes, Carole and I registered and received a badge, which allowed us access to a library of computers. Typing in all versions of my grandmother’s name as well as her address, it would hopefully ping a hit in the handwritten record room. Unfortunately the only item that surfaced was a letter from one McNeilly to another requesting a sum of money from the addressee. Our search would have to continue.

Luckily, I already had a pretty amazing document from my aunt. I often pour over the passenger record from my grandmother’s journey to America. It is only one line of text, but there is so much weight behind every word. What are the numbers beside her name? Her essence is boiled down into two simple words, “Sales Girl.” What happened before this voyage?

BANGOR, 118 victoria road

A little drive across the coast brings us to Bangor. It is more beautiful than I remember my grandmother describing it, however, the country was in a very different state back then. The streets are narrow and lined with cute cottages. Part of the city we’re staying in is up on a hill, so views of the water are visible from every angle.

Walking her streets, I felt beside myself. I finally was able to touch and see McKee Clock: a place where she'd tell soldiers to meet her so she could peer around to the corner to see if they were good looking enough for the date. If they passed the test, she’d emerge from the clock with a smile - if not? Run off the other way and see a film with her girlfriends instead.

Before the internet, microfiche

The first of two emotional revelations:

I knew the year she left Ireland so I started with the local library’s microfiche reader. I grabbed a section of The County Down Spectator issues between 1950-1955. Little rolls of history illuminated before me. News about the Queen. Amazing vintage ads. And then suddenly, there she was. It only took me about an hour to hit my jackpot. The original article that proclaimed her a final contender to be Miss Northern Ireland. I would later be told that she could choose her prize between a new car or a trip to Canada. Whether this is true or not, I definitely know she chose Canada at one point. Either way, I was now staring at a possible spark that led to my existence; a shattering feeling I can barely describe.

Pawn shop discovery

And then a chance encounter that unfolded so fast I barely had time to register what was happening. My mother-in-law wanted to get me a ring from my grandmother’s era to remind me of this place. After lots of searching, I set my eye on a ruby ring from the 40’s. The shopkeeper asks what brings us here. I tell her.

“Where did your grandmother live?” was all it took.

“You’re kidding, I lived on that street too!” she’s got to be messing with me. I ask if she knew a McNeilly family.

“Joan McNeilly? Absolutely yes, I do, she dated my brother.”

I am dumbfounded. A weak ‘no…’ is all I can muster. She continues happily.

“Oh, she was the Elizabeth Taylor of Bangor. I remember hearing her high heels click clack along Victoria Road as a young girl. She took me to my first film ever. I believe it was Lassie. I don't think Bangor had anyone more glamorous living there. This town was too traditional for her, she was a bit … wild.”

As expected I cried while trying to absorb all these statements. This was worth 100 newspaper articles because it brought the woman I already knew to life in a place that was previously flat. Things were beginning to take shape. As expected, we took photos, we hugged, we bought the ring.

Giant’s Causeway, Cliffs of Moher, and the road to Clare Island

There was a lot bouncing around in my mind after Bangor. Thankfully, the northern roads gave plenty of space and endless vistas for one to meditate on. The open green fields, ancient stones, the clicking and clacking of weaver’s looms, the sea crashing on the rugged coast, all most welcome sights as I took in this long awaited acknowledgement of my history.

MACALLA FARM

Did you think Id’ drop the words horse & yoga retreat earlier without explanation? Enter Macalla Farm, a magical place my mother-in-law had been eyeing for years.

Beautiful Clare Island exists off the coast of western Ireland by way of Westport. 145 inhabitants make up the community, and Macalla Farm is a big part of it. Rooted in teaching the ways of meditation, farming, and equine care, this retreat is a place for those who want to get to know Irish land and quiet the mind.

A calm state of mind is coincidentally great for connecting with horses. On our first day, we walked the farm to see horses straight out of a fairytale, grazing the grounds. We hiked through an ancient forest. We practiced a type of yin yoga that I call on to this day. We ate the most incredible food from the gardens. Carole milked a sheep and I filmed it. We met people from around the world who all relished in this land. I will never forget Macalla Farm.

Endlessly thankful for this woman who jumped right in and said “ain’t no time like the present.” Sure, ancestry is a bloodline, but there’s something magical about the people that come into your life regardless of lineage, and root for you every step of the way.