Allihies: My Irish Roots

‘All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost.’ – J.R.R. Tolkien.

Driving to Ireland.

Our reason for going to Ireland was sad. My father’s uncle Willie had passed away and we were going to his funeral. However, the mood in the car was positive as we drove west towards Fishguard. It was myself, my parents and my uncle Rob. We caught up on each other’s news and discussed the couple of days that lay ahead of us, none of us entirely sure what to expect. It felt good to reconnect with my family and spend time with them. This was the last weekend I had with them before I went to New Zealand and despite the somber circumstances, I was glad I was going.

My father is Irish, although not born and bred. His parents moved to Essex when they got married and my grandfather was a successful builder before he retired. Despite my heritage, I’d only been to Ireland once before, as a six month old baby. It felt right to be going back to see the village where my grandfather and his brothers grew up and where my dad and uncles spent many happy holidays in their youth. Just as I was about to step into a brand new, as yet untouched future, it seemed appropriate to pause briefly and go back to my roots. I would be visiting the place where my family has a long history and well established links.

Arriving in Allihies.

We arrived in Allihies at 1am. It was a painfully long drive along twisted country lanes, myself and my uncle cramped uncomfortably into the back of the car. Uncle Rich and other members of our extended family welcomed us. They had stayed awake to greet us. The night air was chilly and damp, although the sky was clear enough to see the scatter of pinprick silver stars across velvety darkness.

I woke earlier than I’d expected the following morning, thanks to a squall of rain hitting the skylight above my bed. Groggy, still tired from the journey, I opened my eyes only to see bright blue sky overhead. The rain had been and gone in an instant. The longing to explore got the better of me. I was out the front door within ten minutes, walking down the hill towards the village. It was a breezy, bright day with the promise of rain later.

A View of Allihies.

Allihies is caught between the great Atlantic Ocean to the west and a ridge of high, craggy mountains on the shore side. They stood like sentinels around the village, glowering. They’re a little menacing, razor sharp jagged teeth jutting into the sky. Today, ragged clouds were scudding past on the stiff wind. I could hear the roar of the ocean as waves pounded the shore, despite my distance from the shoreline. I tugged my newly shorn hair back as best I could. Within seconds, strands flew free again, rebellious to the last. The wind was merciless.

Stepping into my great uncle’s house was like stepping back in time. Here, my two great uncle’s had both lived for decades. Although the future arrived elsewhere, their little house remained in the past. No technology, no central heating, no plush front room, no real creature comforts. We sat on hard backed chairs with our feet on the stone slab floor. I listened to the conversation as it flowed around the room. There was the gentle burr of my great uncle Tommy’s Cork accent, my Granddad’s Irish twang, my uncles Brian and Rich sounded more English. Brian was almost straight Essex.

An Irish Removal.

An Irish funeral is very different to any English or Welsh funeral I’ve ever been to. That afternoon, we spent three hours with my great uncle’s body as mourners from the locality came in their hundreds to offer their condolences to us, Willie’s family. It was extremely moving to see how popular and well-liked Willie was in the community. The family members shook hands with every one of those mourners. Their sympathy was offered to us each time, in lowered tones, soft lilting accents.
“I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My deepest sympathies.”

At 6pm, the coffin was gently closed. It was carried out by my granddad, great uncle Tommy, my father and my uncles. We followed the hearse back to Allihies in slow procession. There was a convoy of yellow headlights trailing back along the winding country roads as far as we could see. After the coffin was carried into the church and quickly blessed, we descended on the three pubs in the village for a few drinks and much reminiscing about Willie’s life.

The Funeral.

The funeral was not until 2pm the following day. My parents and I took advantage of the morning and strolled down to the beach. We walked around the little sandy cove and headed up onto the cliff tops. Later, we were joined by Rob, Rich and Rich’s wife Nadette. Once again, the wind was howling. The sea was whipped into a mess of froth and foam as wave after wave crashed against the rocks. Water smashed and shattered into a million droplets before receding back into the melee once more.

I sat on the cliff top and watched the ocean, the surge and thrust of the water. It had a deep, terrifying, beautiful power. I realised then how glad I was that I had come. Finally, I was able to see this village, this way of life, this place steeped in my family’s history. I was glad I could be there to support my father and granddad and my other family members. Grateful for this celebration of a life well lived. The sadness was tempered by humorous tales about Willie’s life and a recognition for his mark left on this small community. There was a deep, palpable love, admiration and respect for my great uncle Willie among the locals. I felt the grief that pervaded the village at his loss.

Carrying the Coffin.

A while after 2pm, I followed Willie’s coffin down to the graveyard, surrounded by a sea of people. The wind thrashed around us, bringing rain off the Atlantic. I shivered and held the arms of my cousin and my mother tightly. My dad, uncles, granddad and great uncle carried the coffin, bearing the burden easily on their shoulders. All of a sudden, men surged forward, taking the coffin, wanting to share the load, be close to Willie one more time.

My tears came, unbidden, at this act of generosity shown towards my family. Although I’d barely known my great uncle, I felt close to him because everyone around me was close to him. As his coffin was lowered into the ground, I stood between my parents and we all grieved quietly. They cried for the man they’d known and loved. I cried for the man I wish I’d made the effort to visit and get to know before it was too late.

After the Funeral.

As is traditional at Irish funerals, we went to the pub following the burial. We ate, we drank and we recounted stories from Willie’s life, chatting to old friends and new. As the night wore on, my uncle Rob played the piano and sang. Eventually, everyone joined in, singing familiar songs and humming or foot tapping along to the tunes we didn’t know. I sipped on hot whiskey and enjoyed the family atmosphere. I sat beside my granddad and we chatted over the noise. It was good to be there, in that moment.

We left Allihies the following morning. My dad stopped the car at the viewpoint overlooking the village and I had my final glimpse of Allihies. After two days, I feltl like I belonged there. Something in my heart ached slightly as we drove away. The wild, windswept Beara peninsula felt like home. In some respects, although I’d never visited before, it was, and is, my home. It’s where my Hodges family roots are, where the stories of my father’s childhood relate back to. I’ve grown up hearing about Allihies, loving Allihies. It’s hardly surprising I left that day more in love than ever.

NB: All photos added on 10th June 2019, shortly after Uncle Tommy also passed away. Images are not really of Allihies itself, but photos of the surrounding area from a subsequent visit. You can read more about that visit in my October 2017 recap post, here. If you want to learn more about the beautiful Allihies itself and it’s fascinating history, try this link.