In the heart of Ireland

Part I - Muddling into Minor Miracles

On on a damp January day in the West of Ireland, our three-car caravan drove slowly up a narrow dirt road to my colleague Mike’s ancestral farmhouse on the County Mayo/County Sligo border. Leading the way was Mike’s cousin, Joe, who still grazes his cows on the land and lives nearby. Mike and I were following behind our camera crew’s van when for some inexplicable reason, the cameraman/driver turned his wheels slightly to the left, plunging the vehicle into a shallow ditch where it tilted as its left tires sunk and stuck in the deep mud.

Driving at such a low speed, no one was hurt. But as we watched the guys exit through the van’s upright side, we could also see the cloud of doom gathering over our day. 

We were in Ireland to create a public television documentary about immigration, using Mike’s family as the thread of the story. Our scheduled plan was to begin by filming the ancestral farm of Mike’s family and then interview “cousin Joe” inside the cottage. But now we were stranded on the only road into the property, miles from the nearest town, and without towing cables or a phone signal.

Determined to free the van and save the day, we first resorted to brute force—pushing the van with our combined strength. But the muck below and the van’s tilted angle thwarted traction. Next, we tried digging away at the mud with our bare hands (More on the glamour of my job later!).  Finally, growing goofy with desperation, we opened the right side sliding door and stood together jumping and rocking the van to right it.

Nothing moved but a nearby cow, unimpressed by our stupid human tricks. 

Frustrated, Mike and I returned to our car to think. I mumbled, “All we need now is rain.”

What’s that old saying? Man plans, and God laughs? It started pouring.

Mike let loose a litany of four letter words. 

I opted for a litany of the saints—offering a silent prayer to a few of my favorites, as well as to his father and grandfather who once lived on this land.

Boy, the saints work fast in Ireland! Not five minutes after my celestial plea, we spotted a blurry apparition through our rain-soaked windshield. Quickly activating the wipers, we saw a tractor approaching from the opposite direction! 

When it reached Joe, the driver stopped and the two men were laughing as we walked up. Joe introduced us to Francis, a distant cousin who now lived in Scotland but still owned a house on the farmland. He typically checked on the property for a few days each year, but never before had he done so in January.

“Something just told me to come now,” said Francis.

He then secured a long chain between his tractor and the van. In minutes, he’d freed the vehicle from its muddy pit.  

And just then— the rain stopped.

Giddy over the mini-miracle, I laughed and said, “I suppose a rainbow is next!”

And on cue—you won’t believe me, but you must—a ridiculously magnificent rainbow arose over the farm!

This is the west of Ireland. Mystical moments seem more available, more accessible. Perhaps it’s the wild landscape: lush green fields, ancient rock and ruins, foggy mist, cloud-dappled mountains, rugged cliffs that rise from the surrounding sea. It’s alive with inspiration—breeding poets, musicians, contemplatives and artists who sense there’s something more here than meets the eye. The countryside heightens perception of what the ancient Celts understood as “thin places” where the human-divine connection feels especially close.

We certainly felt that in our fortuitous rescue, and it placed us in an appropriate state of wonder to enter the ancestral cottage of Mike’s family. Though abandoned and in need of restoration, it reverberated with the life energy of those who had lived there. Remnants of their lives lay scattered across four rooms—a lace curtain panel here, a basin and utensils there. Most amazingly, as if to offer us a proper Irish welcome, their tea kettle still hung from an iron hook in the fireplace, appearing sturdy enough to boil a pot of tea had we turf for the fire.

Having been to Ireland several times before, I’d learned a bit about the sleeping arrangements within the cottages. I asked Joe if Mike’s grandfather was likely born next to the fireplace where the parents’ bed was usually placed.

“Oh, he was” said Joe. “And likely his great-grandfather and great-great grandfather.” 

Tears came to my eyes realizing what a privilege it was for Mike, as it would be for any of us, to behold the very spot where one’s ancestors came into the world. What a humbling honor to stand on the holy ground where one’s own possibility began. As the late Irish poet John O’Donoghue wrote, “Ruins are not empty. They are sacred places full of presence.”

After a full day of outdoor and indoor filming and interviews at the farm, Joe led us to the home of Mike’s cousin Peter who lived about half an hour away. We interviewed him outside near his barn and captured drone footage of his farmland.

It was chilly, but not ‘January in Chicago’ cold. Still, Joe was visibly shivering and kept insisting, “Mary, this is a terrible job for you! It’s too cold and damp!” I suspect he was trying to protect his pride by feigning gallantry enough to escort both of us inside the barn or house. I assured him I was fine. But in truth, everyone was happy when Peter invited us in for tea.

We sat around an old pot-belly stove and warmed our hands while Peter boiled the kettle. Banter and questions began, but the thick Irish accents of the cousins confused and embarrassed the cameramen, who looked nervously to me for translation. When the tea arrived—spiked with a bit of whiskey—it was amazing how the conversation cleared up.

Learning I was newly single, Peter asked, “Do ya dance Mary?”

Me: “I do.”

Peter: “Oh, I’d say your dance card will be full Saturday night!”

Mike: “What’s Saturday night?”

Joe: “Oh, there’s a welcome party for you at the Mayqueen Pub. All the cousins and friends from miles around are coming in for it. Music and dancing to be sure.”

It was the first we’d heard of it. And we wondered what we were in for…

(to be continued..)