The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

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      I found myself pondering all this as I drove onwards. Anything to take my mind off the last conversation I’d had with my boyfriend Dan, just before I’d left for the airport that morning. I wanted to blot the memory of his expression of disappointment and hurt from my mind. And there was the other thing I wanted to forget all about as well, during this trip. I’d deal with it all when I went back home. This week was to be purely about me-time.

      After all, it wasn’t as though Dan hadn’t had fair warning I would be going on this trip. I’d been talking about the possibility of doing it for ages. I’d originally suggested that he might come along as well, but he’d said no, he couldn’t take that amount of time off from his job. I was disappointed at first that I’d be on my own, but after what had happened I was relieved. It’d be good to have the time and space on my own to get my head straight.

      Anyway, it’d be easier to concentrate on my research into my ancestor Michael McCarthy without Dan around.

      *

      It was late afternoon, the weather overcast but thankfully not raining, when I finally drove into the pretty little town of Ballymor in west Cork. My online research had described it as a typical small town in the south-west of Ireland, nestled amongst bleak moorlands and craggy hills, about ten miles from the coast. I easily found O’Sullivan’s pub and guest house, where I had booked a room for the next ten days. It was the nearest accommodation to Michael McCarthy’s place of birth I’d been able to find. The pub was situated in the middle of town, opposite an old, grey-stone church, just off the central square. Next door was a bookmaker’s, then a gift shop, both with brightly painted shopfronts, then a small branch of Dunnes Stores in a more modern building. There were a couple of parking spaces in front of O’Sullivan’s. One was free so I pulled into it and heaved my luggage out of the boot. The pub had two bow-fronted windows with leaded glass, with a door to the side and an Irish tricolour hanging from a pole mounted between the first floor windows. I looked upwards, wondering if one of those windows would be my room. It was clearly a very old building, with warped windows and a wonky roof line, but it looked welcoming and comfortable – just what I needed right now. Maybe Michael McCarthy would even have drunk a pint or two here, in his time.

      Inside, the pub was dark, with low ceilings and a long polished bar set against the back wall. Mismatched wooden tables and chairs were dotted around on a stone-flagged floor. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but being midsummer it was not lit. I imagined it would be very cosy in here on a winter’s night, perhaps with a few musicians sitting in the corner, playing tin whistle, bodhrán, fiddle and accordion, sipping pints of Guinness between sets. Clichéd west-of-Ireland image I know, but, to be honest, that’s exactly what I was hoping to find. Something a million miles away from my usual life in London with Dan.

      Today, the bar was deserted apart from one whiskery old man, wearing a worn black suit over a frayed sweater, who was sitting on a bar stool. He glanced in my direction, looked me up and down and took in my luggage, then without saying a word shuffled off his stool and disappeared through a door beside the bar. A moment later, he reappeared and climbed back onto his bar stool. He nodded at me and took a deep pull of his pint. Guinness, I was pleased to see. A youngish woman of about my own age followed him and came straight over to me, her hand stretched out.

      ‘Welcome, welcome! You must be Maria McCarthy, here to stay with us, so you are. I’m Aoife, the landlady here. I’m sorry there was no one here when you arrived. Did you have a long journey?’

      I smiled. She seemed nice, her curly brown hair bouncing around as she shook my hand, her Iron Maiden t-shirt with its screaming skeletal figure at odds with her friendly, open expression. ‘Yes, pretty long. I flew from London to Dublin and drove from there.’

      ‘Ah, it’s a tidy way from Dublin, sure it is. You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, now. Or something stronger? What can I get you?’ She bustled behind the bar ready to get whatever drink I requested.

      ‘Tea, for the moment, please,’ I said.

      ‘Tea, that’s grand,’ she replied, and went through to the back, presumably the kitchen, to make it.

      I sat down at a small table by one of the windows, and put my bags on a chair. The old fellow at the bar watched in silence, taking occasional sips of his pint. I smiled at him, wondering how to start a conversation. I was still pondering this when the door opened and a young man entered. He was tall, sandy haired, wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans.

      ‘Paulie! How’re ye? Aoife about, is she? I’m parched.’ He clapped a hand on the old man’s shoulder. The old fellow – Paulie, I guessed – raised a bushy eyebrow in my direction and the newcomer turned, seeing me for the first time. He smiled, and approached the table. ‘Hello! Ah, looks like you are a new guest here, staying in O’Sullivans? Is anyone looking after you?’

      ‘Yes, someone’s fetching me a cup of tea,’ I replied.

      ‘That’ll be where Aoife’s got herself to, then. Sure and I’ll have to wait for my pint. Declan Murphy,’ he said with a smile, holding out his hand to shake.

      I took it. His grasp was firm, and now he was close, I could see he had startlingly blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his face. ‘Maria McCarthy. Nice to meet you.’ His warmth and geniality reminded me with a pang of Dan, back home in London. My lovely Dan, who I’d left behind.

      ‘McCarthy – now that’s a local name, but you don’t sound at all local, sure you don’t.’

      ‘No, I’m visiting from England. But my ancestors were from here. Well, near here, anyway.’

      His eyes lit up with interest. ‘Oh, really? Are you researching them?’

      At that moment Aoife arrived with my tea, and a selection of cakes, which she put on the table in front of me. ‘Now. You’ll be needing more than tea after your long drive. When you’ve eaten that I’ll show you up to your room. No hurry. There’s never any hurry here, you’ll be discovering that. Declan, what can I get for you?’

      ‘At last!’ He grinned. ‘Thought you’d never ask. I’ll have a pint of the black stuff, please, and another for Paulie while you’re about it.’

      Paulie nodded his thanks. I was beginning to wonder if he was mute, as he’d said not a word since I arrived. Declan came back over to my table. ‘Mind if I join you?’

      ‘Not at all,’ I replied, through a mouthful of a delicious fruit cake. ‘And feel free to help me out with these cakes.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a small scone. ‘So, where is it your ancestors are from?’

      ‘A small village, somewhere near here. I couldn’t find it on Google maps. Kildoolin, it’s called.’

      ‘Ah, Kildoolin.’ He nodded.

      ‘You know it?’

      ‘Sure, and it’s not too far away. A pleasant afternoon’s walk.’

      ‘Can’t I drive there?’ I didn’t mind a walk, but would rather save my energy to walk around the village rather than to it.

      He shook his head. ‘There are no roads. None suitable for cars, that is. Just a track, for horse riders or walkers. And a few mountain bikers.’

      I was confused. ‘What about the people in the village? How do they come to town?’

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