This morning, 7am, in our favourite local caff, coffees at hand, Herself feeling reflective about our acceptance that our days of long haul travel are over, asks –
“If you could go back to just one café overseas, which one would it be?”
“Hmmm, tough call. Just one? – probably O’Donovans in Clonakilty.”
“Yep, me too.”
“Roast Of The Day. Sitting in the far corner by the window. In Michael Collins’ seat.”
“Definitely. But without hysterics.”
We’ve been often to O’Donovans in the main street of Clonakilty in West Cork, for a feed the Irish way. It’s just the best - easy-going, noisy, big serves, simple fare, lots of gusto and good humour, a great atmosphere. Anyone who aspires to have a little of real Ireland touch them should start there, one of those places that have been around forever, a sixth-generation family-run café-restaurant-country-pub, its first version built in 1853 and has been going ever since. And seen a heap of history along the way.It’s not all that far from where Michael Collins was born in 1890, and where he went to the town school.
As an adult he was a regular visitor to O'Donovan's. And during his short but dynamic political life he also “gave many an oration from the first floor window and from in front of the main door.”
As a fairly recent descendant of the Hurleys of West Cork, Herself is a distant relative of both these legendary men, so you’d think that this particular day we would’ve treated “Michael’s Seat” with a bit more respect!
It goes like this.
She’s a believer in “signs”.
Her other Irish family line is the Hickeys from up in the Slieve Luachra area on the north Cork/Kerry border - beautiful country, cut by the Blackwater and the Owentaraglin Rivers, and today a mix of rolling dairy farmland, the twin bumps of The Paps always in the distance.
Years of typically difficult Irish research had left us desperate to find something - ANYthing - that would put her a little closer to her great-grandfather’s birth place. We knew roughly where it was, down to a parish and some possible townlands, and – if you put any faith in these kind of things - a while back old John Hickey (a tough Famine survivor and long-time wharfie out here in the colonies) shuffled into her dreams one night and told her to “Go to Kiskeam”, but when she – understandably – asked him “Why?” he got crabby and snapped “You’ll find out when you get there!”
It was something of a “sign”. Sort of. If you’re into signs.
Well, we went to Kiskeam a bit further up the Owentaraglin and all we flushed out there, from the local postmaster, was that the Hickeys were traditionally the district’s blacksmiths, had been for yonks, and originally came from the tiny village of Cullen downstream. He was adamant.
So, down to Cullen, determined to “do” the Old Cullen Burial Ground, see what we could find. And along the way Herself resorts to silent pleas to The Other Side – she’s also into that, has a simple faith in unseen things, while I have an “open mind”. (Hey, I’m a bloke, what can I say, I mostly need to SEE the background strings and pulleys of the machinery working to believe in stuff).
But, she has faith.
We pull up in Cullen, tiny village strung out along the local road, couple of pubs and a church and about ten cottages. But damn me, she steps out of the car and there right by her foot is a set of rosary beads. Expensive looking, sterling silver crucified Jesus, not your usual street find. Okay, someone probably dropped it and to this day is lamenting its loss. But no, it’s surely a sign. If you’re into signs.
We do the rounds, find heaps of good headstones, but as always, nothing that is exactly what we want. It’s how it works with Irish family history research.
Next day.
We’re in Clonakilty for lunch at O’Donovans, “signs” (and my scepticism) still fresh in our minds. We park in the town car park, get out, and I’m standing there, and bugger me, would you believe, a half a slice of toast drops out of the sky and bounces off my bloody head! Half a slice of toast! Not even buttered. Empty sky in all directions. Kid you not.
“WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME?”, I demand, heavenwards. No answer of course, but then it’s falling down laughing time.
The twenty biggest laughs I’ve ever had in my life have all been with her. If the funniness and the ridiculousness and the irony and all that stuff are just right it’s what we do. Set each other off. Runny noses runny eyes, making only silly noises like hiii hiii hiii. Look like fools and I start to choke and she has to cross her legs. This is one of those moments.
Anyway, composure sort of regained, it’s into O’Donovans, Michael’s table is empty, we quickly settle in. But one of us makes the mistake of mumbling – “Half a slice of toast?!” – and yep, we seriously lose it all over again. Big time. That cheek-aching hysteria-laughing that threatens to crack a rib and make your heart stop and brings surrounding conversations to a temporary halt. Sorry Michael. It was the cosmic force’s fault. We must remember we’re privileged visitors. Two of many.
Speaking of visitors.
In 1907 Marconi was an unexpected one, as he got off his train at Clonakilty Junction by mistake (he was actually going to Crookhaven where he had his trans-Atlantic wireless station), so the locals “...directed him to O'Donovans Hotel, where he refreshed himself and was provided with a covered car and driver and a splendid pair of horses with which to continue his journey.”
Then there was Charles Stewart Parnell the Irish Nationalist, at the time leading their struggle for Home Rule. He came here on purpose, and was “...preceded into town by the local Fife and Drum Band where he made a speech from the first floor window...” Rebels (and Aussie tourists) have always been welcomed in West Cork.
Eventually (reluctantly?) a makeshift runway was made and the plane was refuelled and took off, although they left poor old "Tojo" behind, who eventually died there (of either the cold, or excesses of the legendary Clonakilty Black Pudding – God that’s stuff’s beautiful!) and was buried in the yard of the hotel with full military honours.
Now THAT’S how to run a war!
Apparently they’ve since put up a statue to Tojo, and named a beer after him. It’s that sort of a place. So why wouldn’t we want to go back to O’Donovans one more time?
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