The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

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?’

      Paulie, at the bar, sniggered into his pint. Declan shot a frown in his direction then turned back to me. ‘Pay no mind to old Paulie, there. He’ll soften when he gets to know you. Always a bit shy around strangers. Don’t you know about Kildoolin?’

      ‘It’s just listed as the place of birth of one of my ancestors, on some censuses. Like I said, I couldn’t find it on Google maps. But one census said “Kildoolin, Ballymor, Ireland” so I thought I should start here.’

      ‘That was a good plan, all right. Kildoolin’s a deserted village. No one lives there any more. It was abandoned during the famine years, in the 1840s. Everyone either died or moved to the towns, and probably many of them emigrated. It’s just a collection of ruins today. Quite evocative, so it is. As I said, it’s an easy walk up there so you’ll be able to see for yourself. There’s a path leading up from the end of Church Street, just as you leave the town. You can park there or it’d only take five minutes more to walk it from here. It’s signposted –“The Deserted Village”. You can’t miss it.’

      A famine village! I felt stupid that I hadn’t realised that. I’d never actually researched Michael McCarthy’s birthplace in detail. He was a Victorian portrait painter, and my great-great-grandfather. I had one of his pictures hanging above my bed back home – our bed, I should say, mine and Dan’s – and I’d come here to research more about him, as well as work out my personal problems along the way. Find my ancestors; find myself. Something like that, anyway. I felt a shiver of anticipation as I imagined walking around the ruins of a village abandoned over a hundred and fifty years ago. Michael and his family must have been among the last inhabitants of it.

      ‘Thanks, Declan, I’ll definitely go there. Probably tomorrow if the weather allows it.’ I glanced out of the window. It had begun to rain, just a light drizzle, but not the sort of weather you’d want for undertaking a hike across the moors.

      ‘You might have to put up with a bit of rain if you’re staying here in Ballymor,’ Declan said. ‘Anyway, that’s not proper rain, is it, Paulie?’

      The old man shook his head and cleared his throat. ‘Ah no, ’tis a grand soft day,’ he pronounced. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a grizzled old man, with a beautiful west-of-Ireland sing-song lilt.

      Soft. Not the adjective I’d use for the rain which was now beginning to run down the window. I was glad I’d brought my luggage in already and only hoped I wouldn’t need to move my car.

      ‘So, who were your ancestors that lived above in Kildoolin?’ Declan asked, with what looked like genuine interest.

      ‘My great-great-grandfather was a man called Michael McCarthy. On the UK censuses he gave his place of birth as Kildoolin, though he spent the latter half of his life living in London. He was a Victorian artist, and I’m here to research him.’

      ‘You must be very interested