A Tale for St. Patrick’s Day, 17 March 2024
Several years ago, I wrote an article about the perilous voyage facing Patrick Laherty’s four children as they left their remote village in County Kilkenny. In 1847, they boarded the “Edgar” out of Liverpool, anxious to escape the Great Hunger and find a better life in America.[i]
While researching my Kilkenny ancestors for that piece, I found an 1831 plat map pinpointing the small lot where my ancestors, Pat Laherty and his wife, Margaret Delaney, lived as tenants, raised four children, raised crops, and tended some few sheep, chickens, and perhaps a milk cow. They likely lived in a traditional stone cottage with a thatched roof.
Five years ago (2019), my wife and I spent several days in Kilkenny City in a popular hotel abutting the River Nore, overlooking the Kilkenny Castle.
On our third morning in Kilkenny, Connie and I took a bus about eighteen miles north to the village of Ballyragget, the first leg of our day trip to find the Laherty lot.[ii] The bus deposited us in this small, sparsely populated village. Unsure as to exactly where, and how far, our destination was from our current location, we inquired within a small coffee shop, the lower floor of an old house owned by an elderly woman and her husband.
After tea, I asked the shop owners approximately how far we were from Lisdowney, our destination. They estimated about five miles, almost all uphill. I asked if there was a bus running in that direction. There wasn’t. I then asked about a taxi. There was only one taxi in town and the driver was taking students on a field trip that day. Yes, this was a small village. Connie and I thanked them and decided to walk the distance.
We were no more than ten yards outside the coffee shop when the shop owner hailed us and offered to drive us to the general area of our search. We accepted his offer immediately and thanked him profusely after he dropped us off at the top of a hill, outside a small church.
This was a beautiful rural area, dotted with large farms, but there were very few homes and no people in sight. We wondered, “Now what?” We were literally standing at a crossroads, unsure which way to turn.
Then, as if sprinkled by four-leaf clovers, our luck changed. A middle-aged woman wearing pajamas and carrying a teddy bear emerged from a small building. She was not as one might have initially suspected. . . ah. . .“different,” but rather a kindergarten teacher leaving school after her class’s pajama party. Ms. Ann Mackey noticed our confusion and asked if she could help. She immediately assured us that we were in the general area, but she knew the person who could be more precise – Denis Drenner, a local farmer and lifelong resident of the area.
Denis Drennen
Ms. Mackey then drove us about two miles to Mr. Drennen’s farm. He and his wife greeted us at the end of their long driveway. Ann introduced us and explained the purpose of our visit. We were then invited into the Drennen kitchen for a cup of tea, joining Denis’ daughter-in-law and her two grandchildren. His son stopped by shortly thereafter to greet us.
There would be no discussion of our “plight,” however, until tea was served, served with biscuits, jam, and fresh brown bread. After more than two hours of lively conversation, storytelling, doting on the children, and talking about this part of Ireland, Denis asked “Well, whatd’ye have there, lad?” I showed him my map. He said he had a good idea where it was; but, just to be sure, he wanted us to ask his neighbor, Michael Bowden, for confirmation. At that point, Ms. Mackey bid us farewell, anxious to go home and change out of her pajamas.
Michael Bowden
Denis drove us a mile or so to his friend’s farm. Michael Bowden greeted us at the end of his driveway outside the back of his house, which was not more than twenty-five yards from several of his outbuildings. With a deep raspy voice and cigarette dangling from his mouth, he greeted us with great cheer. At the same time, four of his scrawny, filth-spattered dogs started yapping at us, whereupon Bowden suddenly turned his attention to them. “Get outta here, ye little bastards, ye sons o’ bitches. Damn ye, get outta here!” he shouted and chased them away.
Changing his tone, Michael asked, “Do ye have time for a cup of tea. C’mon in, will ye, I’ll fix us four cups.” More tea. He led us into his small, cluttered kitchen, not fifteen feet from where we were standing. We sipped tea and chatted for another hour or so.
Connie and I wanted to know more about this lush farm country and its history. Denis and Michael were curious about my ancestors. Michael was also curious about us personally, since this remoter area was seldom visited by American tourists. Finally, after staring at my two maps, Michael said he knew where the plot was located. So, Denis, Connie, and I followed Michael’s truck for about five minutes to the exact plot of land where the Laherty family had lived.
I felt an unexpected rush of emotion and exhilaration. To be here, to have my feet on this soil, and breathe this air. I reflected solemnly on what life on this land must have been like for my ancestors. I climbed over the low wire fence and walked to the back of the lot where I presumed the Laherty cottage would have been. I picked up two stones to bring home with me. It was a transcendent moment.
The moment didn’t last long.
At the far end of the lot, I was spotted by about fifteen sheep who spontaneously charged me. I hastened back to the fence and, in my eagerness to avoid their stampede, I caught my lag foot on the wire and crashed to the ground. I landed on the other side of the fence just as the sheep arrived.
Michael took the stub of his cigarette from his mouth, howling, “Jayus, lad! They’re only sheep!” Denis laughed convulsively while Connie took this picture of the homicidal sheep.
Humiliation only momentarily tempered my joy; for I must say, this was one of the most delightful days of my life, one of those poorly planned occasions that had all the earmarks for failure but instead turned into something memorable, blissful. Truly the success of the day was only made possible by the kindness and generosity of the remarkable Ballyragget people we met that day.
Denis later drove Connie and me back to Kilkenny city after our day’s adventure, and we promised we would visit him the next time we were in Ireland. We will visit him, Ann, Michael, and the sheep next year, ’25.
[ii] The ruins of this cottage may be scattered at the bottom of the Google satellite photo of the plat defined by Griffith’s valuation and depicted in the 1831 map.
Oh, Bill, what a wonderful story. There is absolutely nothing better than interacting with local people when traveling. It's so wonderful that each of the persons you and your wife encountered understood your quest and were helpful to the point that you found the exact plot. Their extreme hospitality and sense of giving you time with their only goal being, to help you meet your quest makes me realize how far away from that concept we have come as we live our busy and pretty solitaire lives. I also read your previous story describing your ancestors plight in Ireland and their children's struggles here in America. I hope you and your wife have a wonderful trip 2025 full of new adventures and hopefully some renewed friendships too.
Great story if you hadsprinters speed the sheep would never at h you