I can always remember my chosen topic for my Leaving Certificate English Essay...a little odd, you might thin - my Leaving Cert days are now but a vague little grey blob somewhere near the edge of my brain. Countless Exam papers have been sweated out since then but my memory still works wonders when called on to recollect my English essay. (The upsetting fact that I only managed a pass in the damn honours paper is another day's work. I’ll save the post- (and I mean post-) exam failure trauma and all its consequences for another day). The bubbling fear led way to anticipation as I glanced through that 1989 LC English paper 1. The essay choices were not exactly inspiring but I battled on.

My essay evolved into a fictitious account of an encounter with a Yank under a furze bush on my way home from school one day. When I politely asked him about his quite unusual pursuit, he informed me that he was back in Connemara looking for his roots. His great Granddaddy had been reared in the area and being a Professor of History, he was fascinated with the Hedge School System in Irish history. I chatted with him for a while, curiosity getting the better of me. After an hour listening to his ramblings about his great Granddaddy’s exploits out west in Oklahoma my attention span had died a quiet death and I was yawning. Theories on how to end my last paragraph were mounting rapidly. Time was dribbling silently away and I had another question to answer. I impatiently led my imaginary Yank to the Connemara National Park in Letterfrack to ask for more information and I was off and away, free from guilt and an essay completed.

For reasons that I will now dabble with this essay darted from the memory tomb two days ago. Having saved and scrimped for the past couple of months, my aunt, her husband and three children whisked themselves off to France last Saturday for a three week sojourn to the South Western part of the country. After a family member bombed the news that she couldn’t manage their B+B, I was called in. As images of Fawlty Towers and episodes of Manuel and Basil in battle caused havoc with their departure, my aunt was in a car dreaming of hot weather and irresistible cuisine. Managing a B+B is not everyone’s cup of tea; early morning, long hours of waiting, ever hopeful that the next phonecall will be a seven day booking for 10 people plus evening meals. Socialising is not really an option - most normal people are going in the pub door as you’re fighting your way out. Sadly you cast an unhappy eye on all your friends enjoying themselves and wonder if it’s worth it all. Of course, there are very positive outcomes; you can afford trips to the South of France, and you always have an en-suite bedroom waiting for an old college friend down for a bank holiday weekend. As I am discovering, there are also very important non-financial dividends and this leads me to my opening of the memory tomb, dated 1989.

Diane Nordahl, her husband and their grandson jetted into Ireland a few days ago to spend a weekend in Connemara looking up family roots. As part of their 40th wedding anniversary, they compromised. She would investigate her grandfather’s birthplace and later on, they would travel on to Wales and England. They had booked two rooms with my aunt a few weeks ago and when they arrived and I spoke to them, I was hooked. Diane seemed SO enthusiastic about what to her, in essence, seemed to be a spiritual homecoming that I really wanted to help in every possible way. We pored over her family records and letters and I read a poem that her grandfather had written about the Renvyle area. The poem was her guiding hand mentioning vital mountains and placenames that made Diane sure that this was the area where her grandfather roamed as a young child. With only two days to connect with long lost relatives, they hadn’t much time. Where did they start? How could I help??

Seemingly her great-grandfather had worked on the Blake Estate (now Renvyle House Hotel) so I sent them off in that direction, giving myself some time to think. A brainwave managed to leap forward past all the worrying details like sausage and bacon quantities. The local Community Radio Station was as good a platform as any. I talked to the presenter of the morning show, Gerard Coyne, DJ and Tullycross publican, and before Diane knew what was happening, she was live on air talking about her grandfather as if he were alive, well and listening. The poem was broadcast and there was much gossip about it during the day all over the Renvyle area. Later on that evening, they stopped off at Paddy Coyne's to meet with Gerard and ended up chatting up a storm with many locals about their granddaddy’s possible relations. Many jokes were had - one, that the grandfather still had a tab going in a pub back in the next village and t’would better be paid!

As we are oft to say, it did my heart good to see them all so happy and excited when they returned later on that night. It was a memorable day for them; not exactly successful in terms of locating actual family but 100% beneficial in terms of having a blast meeting locals and sharing stories about days long past. Diane and her family departed yesterday morning with a promise to keep in touch and a definite plan to return as soon as possible. She had found home...

Us Irish tend to laugh and ridicule Americans on the ancestor trail. We can’t understand this obsession with family trees and the Who’s Who on each side of the clan. Yes, even my grandmother reckons that they were cracked, these rootfinders. As much as we hate to admit it though, they are an intriguing bunch and in all honesty, we’d do everything in our power to ensure their visit was a happy one. My English essay had me spouting off about these Yanks, these ancestor seekers. I made a mockery of that Professor of History in union with his forefathers. Funny how it came back to haunt. As for the B+B business - when you can make someone immensely happy by doing so little, it is without a doubt rewarding!

Ita Kane