In Search of the Sainted Ancestors

OFF TO THE NORTH

There were two major reasons for ending our trip in Ireland rather than in some other place. The first was that in order to get the bargain price for business class to all these countries you must proceed forward and not backward, i.e., Around The World. The second and most important reason was so that Tom could finally visit the area of Ireland where all four of his great grandparents had lived before emigrating to Prince Edward Island, Canada in the 1840’s. He has been doing the genealogy thing for several years now and has made many contacts both in Canada and in Ireland, but unfortunately very few records were kept in Ireland before about 1860, so, while he had detailed information about the PEI family, there was little or nothing about the Irish forebears except that all four great grandparents were from County Monaghan.

Although I have joked that we were going to Monaghan in order “to stand at the foot of the graves of the sainted ancestors”, neither Tom nor I really thought we would find much in the two days allotted and all he really wanted was to get a sense of the place and then be able to envision what it might have been like before the McQuaids, Kellys, MacMahons and Clerkins moved to PEI.

I must confess also, that, while more than willing to make the trip north, I was expecting it to be much more industrialized and not as pretty as the more traveled and touristed South of Ireland. Tom was expecting the same. In fact, we had discussed it with Mary and Neil and since they clearly had no reason to go in search of our ancestors, we agreed that they would stay outside of Dublin where they could take public transportation into the city and enjoy another quiet country hotel.

Thus it was that we left Ballymaloe early-ish the morning of the 25^th to make a beeline for the north of Ireland (not really Northern Ireland which is a separate country—Monaghan is just below the border, but still north). It took about four and a half hours to reach Mary and Neil’s hotel, we dropped them there and had a small bite, got directions from a chap at the hotel whose parents had lived in the very town were we were headed and began the two or three hour continuation of the drive.

If we were expecting the countryside to be less beautiful we were sorely mistaken. If anything it is more beautiful, with the same green pastures, the gorse punctuating the landscape, and the same sleepy livestock, but with the added attraction of more hills and lakes everywhere. The villages look like movie sets—colorful pubs with names like The Squealing Pig, some with thatched roof cottages, and always a village square with spired church and town hall.

I had made the reservation for two nights months ago at the Hilton Park Hotel in Clones (pronounce Clo-ness). Don’t be fooled—this is NOT a Hilton! I remember choosing it on the internet because it looked nice enough and having a few friendly emails with one Fred Madden who, when told we were searchin’ our roots, had some good suggestions of where to start. Other than that, what with Asia rather dominating my efforts, I didn’t give it much thought. Several days before we wandered into town, I had emailed the Hilton Park to ask if we could extend our stay an extra day because we had decided to forego Dublin and stay around Monaghan (two days clearly not being enough to find the sainteds). My email was promptly answered by one Johnny Madden who said we were welcome to stay the third day but there would be no dinner because the “elusive window washers" had been engaged for that day and he had given the “cook staff” the night off. He said he could suggest some restaurants in the village, but I knew a night off from eating would not be a problem.

When we pulled into Clones, again, like in Kinsale, there was no sign evident directing us to the Hilton Park, and no Hilton Park anywhere to be seen. Beloved, who is normally the epitome of patience and kindliness, can get downright surly when at the end of a long drive, he doesn’t know where to go straightaway. I had neglected to get directions, or if I had, they were long ago lost or forgotten, so we were up the creek. But again, at least it wasn’t dark.

We stopped and asked a gent on the Clones main square in front of the Church if he could direct us to the Hilton Park and he looked blank and said there was no such place about. Well, I panicked, now what, etc., but Tom volunteered “Johnny Madden is the proprietor.” “Oh, Johnny’s Place, why didn’t you say so?” he said brightly. He then directed us quite a distance out of town and said to look for some green gates and that will be it.

We drove for about ten minutes and the road was SO remote and practically uninhabited that we finally decided to go back and ask again. By now Beloved is fairly foaming at the mouth. I ran into a small grocery store and Praise the Lord they knew Johnny’s Place and sure enough we had taken the wrong fork. They pointed us in the right direction where we drove and drove some more and just when we were about to give up again, there in front of us was a set of dilapidated green gates. But NO SIGN! But green gates they were, so we started up a very small country road. We drove for what seemed like forever with sheep pastures on both sides and ewes and baby lambs everywhere, but no hotel. Finally, we came upon two landed gentry types (who had to have been planted there by The Good Lord Himself) and we stopped and asked yet again. One smiled and pointed ahead and there behind a copse of trees was the vague outline of a house. Up we drove and yes it was a HOUSE, not a place, and before we could even park and get out of the car, Johnny Madden Hissownself was coming out the front door to greet us.

I know you are going to think I’m making this up, but once again we had died and gone straight through the pearly gates into Heaven itself. I allowed as how the place was a little hard to find and Johnny said didn’t I have the directions from the internet. Well, you’ve already heard that excuse….

He grabbed our two small bags and when I told him we had left quadruple that much back in Dublin (stored at M/N’s hotel), he said Good because I’m the one who has to carry them. He led us through the blue doors into a house that I can’t describe I can only post pictures and hope they do it justice.

Johnny, who is 66-ish, is the eighth generation Madden to own the house and the first to open it up to paying guests. When his father and mother realized they would have to do that or lose the house, they were so dismayed they left, but Johnny and his wife Lucy took the bull by the horns and did what they had to do to keep the place in the family. They have three daughters, one of which lived in Los Angeles with her Welsh screenwriter husband for some years but they have moved back to stay and live on the property—much to Johnny and Lucy’s delight and amazement. The other two daughters are nearby but not part of the operation as yet. They also have a much younger son, the aforementioned Fred, 25, who completed University in London, went to chef’s school as well, and has made the decision to carry on the tradition and run the house after his parents retire. That had to be a really hard decision for a young person to make.

Talk about our new best friend! Johnny was delightful to talk to and as he ushered us up three wide flights of sweeping carpeted stairs to the bedrooms (where he gave us a choice of several), he chatted on and on about how we were the first guests of the season, and sorry we had trouble finding it, but he had taken the sign down some time ago because “odd ones” were coming in and looking in the windows. And he remembered that I had inquired about a bathroom with a shower but they didn’t have showers because the plumbing in the old house wouldn’t support them on the third floor (I haven’t a clue why not), sorry about that, and dinner is at eight, and here is the drawing room and please come in for a cocktail when you’re ready, and the breakfast room is just through that passageway, and we’re delighted you are here.

The room we chose was filled with books and everything in it is antique from the four poster bed (very high off the floor), to the old settee at the foot of the bed, to the framed pictures of Johnny's sainted ancestors on the wall. The only thing modern was the bathroom sink. The view outside our window was of the formal garden and the lake beyond it. I'm going to post some pictures now because it is really impossible to describe the Hilton Park.