Carrigaholt

Day Sixteen: June 18

Well off of the beaten track for tourists, the town of Carrigaholt, at the very mouth of the Shannon River, is the birthplace of my great-great grandmother Bridget Keane.  Bridget married Michael Shannon in Kilrush, who was born in Kinsale in County Cork.  Bridget’s father was Robert Keane, of Carrigaholt.  Keanes are big in Carrigaholt. 

Note on pronunciation because I have struggled with this one:  Carrig is said as the word it means—rock, so you emphasize the first syllable and let the ig hang off the end quietly.  You then swallow the ‘a’ in between—and belt out ‘holt’.  I think.

So we sought evidence of the Keanes here.  Bridget Keane and Michael Shannon gave birth to my great-grandmother Mary Shannon (who later married Patrick Butler).  So now you are brought up to date to about 1853 when Mary was born.  I had thought this side of the family had come over during the famine years of the late 1840s.  But since it is not clear to me exactly where Mary Shannon was born, perhaps they came to the United States in the 1850s after the worst famine years.

I did not research this stuff well enough before departure, clearly.  It really doesn’t matter too much for this recounting of our time in Carrigaholt. 

We drove from Kilrush towards the Atlantic and had to turn off this small road onto an even smaller road to the town.  As we came over a rise we passed by an old overgrown cemetery at the crest and had a view across the small bay with a castle tower picturesquely adorning its defining promontory (see above photo of a photo).  The town itself was essentially two streets meeting in one intersection.

The very first block of houses and shops held a prominent sign Keane, and this pub was only steps away from the town’s time-resistant quay with its huge stone pier and mired low tide ships that were needlessly tethered at that moment to old stone bollards.

An old stone bollard

We went into Keane's Pub and found a light-colored wood bar with a portion of the front room turned into a small convenience store staffed by a young man of maybe sixteen.  This was Emmet Keane, the fourth generation (perhaps reluctant) owner of the pub that was started in the 1880s — the building had been built in 1820.

The poor lad looked a bit nervous as we explained that we were from America researching our Keane roots and only half-jokingly called him "cousin."  I think he feared we were going to hug him.  I produced from my backpack a very old photo of a very old Bridget Keane Shannon, age 90 or so, as if here was a reason for him to get excited.  To give Emmet credit he was very pleasant.  He commented that there were a lot of Keanes in Carrigaholt, though fewer each year as people moved away, and that perhaps we should come back later when his parents were back from shopping in Kilrush.

The formerly young Bridget Keane from Carrigaholt

We walked through the town, clearly very unchanged over the century and a half, and stopped into the Long Dock Bar for lunch.  This peat-burning, burnished-wood cave of good food and dark lager had been in continuous operation as such a welcoming place since 1820, when in addition to beer and food it sold draperies and groceries.  It now featured meats and vegetables from the nearby region. We speculated that it would have been a regular feature in the Keane's lives, and also for Michael Shannon who had his "lighterage" business based in Carrigaholt.  Lighterage is currently defined as unloading large vessels to make them light enough to reduce their draft and make it into shallow ports.  The family story is that the Shannons also then sailed goods up the Shannon river, probably turf (peat fuel) and grain. 

Note the beef farmer's name in the locavore effort.  The steak was somewhat tough.

We walked around town, using up time until the elder Keanes were expected back at the pub.

Some of the few houses that had not been expanded to two stories.

  The post office is also a purveyor of free books, coffee, and ice cream, and the postmaster is a man full of craic at the expense of all of his customers, and visiting tourists. 

A closeup of the castle, originally built in 1480 by the McMahons, the round turret in the corner was added in the 19th century for its romantic visual effect by later manor owners. 

We returned to the Keane Pub to see if the parents of Emmet were there.  There we met Patrick Keane, son of Michael Keane, who inherited the pub from his father, also named Michael. Patrick had met other Americans searching out Keane relatives, some actually related.   He didn't know whether my branch of Keanes were also his, but he offered to look into it.  He did show us some old photos which are here reproduced and show clearly that the town has not much changed in the years.

Patrick Keane and cousin Monica Keane Shannon Butler Fletcher Evans— a fair stretch perhaps

Michael Keane, Patrick's father

These two shots are from approximately the same place, many houses have added a second story but both ends of the street still define the edge of town.  Keane's pub is at the far end left in both shots. 

We then went to the old graveyard for a look for dead relatives.  The majority of the stones are eroded and encrusted with lichen.  I don't believe their etchings would be retrievable without some sort of ultraviolet technology.  The place was evocative, though—and a tad creepy.  Every grave had evidence of sag or upheaval; plants and lichens now ruled the roost.  

This last crypt is not a Keane product but it was very interesting for two reasons.  We loved its stone roof with grass and most surprisingly its interior was lividly alive with a plant that must photosynthesize through telepathy.  This was so creepy.  

We left Carrigaholt and went out to Loop Head Lighthouse at the farthest point of the northern Shannon riverbank.  Impressive cliffs, more crowds of birds on inaccessible walls and sea stacks. We had it practically to ourselves compared to the Cliffs of Moher.

Nesting northern fulmars.  Steve watched one bird re-adjust its egg and settle down again

The blooming sea thrift was incredible.

We also stopped at another beauty spot near Kilkee where a bizarre fire plug of an island rejected waves with its calm smooth skirt of dark rock.

The wind was so cold and all we could do was flee back to town within five minutes of trying to endure it.