In my father’s time -- he walked barefoot to Midnight Mass in Dingle -- My daughter looks for the same spirit of Christmas a century later

Back in the early 1900s my father walked barefoot to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve from his village to Dingle in Co. Kerry, a distance of seven miles.

My 13-year-old daughter this Christmas expects to finally get that fancy iPhone accessory she has wanted for a while. She adores Christmas.

Two different generations, connected through me, but the magic of Christmas holds in both cases.

I think my father got the better of it, though, and that is a reflection on modern times, where Christmas has become about cash machines ringing, not sleigh bells.

I mean how much more do we all need or want?

The simplicity of life back in rural West Kerry around 1915 was total. I don’t want to draw a sentimental veil over the hardships, but there is no doubt there was a neighborliness and companionship that has all but vanished in most places now.

Christmas brought the best of that spirit together.

As I write this I am listening to my father, dead since 1978. Like me he was a writer, except he wrote in the Irish language, something I have tried and failed to do.

He recalled, most vividly, on numerous radio programs the Kerry he grew up in long ago.

One of the greatest gifts I ever got was when I was presented with his radio talks from long ago from the Irish radio archives.

It happened when my brother, Fergus, a politician in Ireland, and I were on the same station this Easter talking about families and brotherhood.

So I turn on and tune in. At first when I listened, the sound of my father’s voice upset me as I had not heard it since 1978.

Did he really have such a distinctive Kerry accent? Yes he did, and when he spoke Irish it connected me in a profound way to all the generations who came before him who used it as their first tongue like he did.

Kilcooley, his village, seemed like an especially magical place at Christmas. Christmas Eve was when they would walk with shoes tied around their neck to the little church in Dingle.

They would never let the townies in Dingle see them without their shoes on, so they begged and borrowed a pair from neighbors or whoever to make sure they looked the part.

Often times he remembered it rained on that journey into town and they would arrive, bedraggled and drenched, but happy in their childhood and shared experience.

He described the visiting to the various neighbor’s houses around Christmas time when there were no distractions, neither radio or television, but just the old folks and the fairy and ghost stories and the talk of who was in America and when, if ever, they would return.

These days we talk about Facebook integration and the global community. What Facebook hopes to catch is what my father’s neighbors had all those decades ago, a tight knit, utterly integrated group of human beings whose lives were linked and interdependent.

“I Scath a cheile a maireann na daoine,” says the old Irish expression, which loosely translates, “In each other’s shadow the people live.” That was how it was in West Kerry long ago, never more evident than at Christmas time.

I suppose I straddle both worlds, remembering a time when there was no television and a neighborliness that has long since vanished in most parts.

As for my daughter, what will she tell her grandchildren? Santa Claus will still be around to charm them and to thrill, as will the feeling of warmth and appreciation that Christmas inevitably brings.

They never met, my daughter and father, but they have much in common, including a love of the spirit of Christmas, that surpasses all else.

 I like to think that somewhere out there he will watch her unwrapping her presents, seeing the magic of Christmas once again rekindled in her eyes.

Rural Ireland changes rapidly as old ways fade away -- Facing a Facebook future as times change rapidly

The local mart - no longer the common gathering spot for rural Ireland

Rural Ireland is changing rapidly with many of the mainstays of that culture fading fast.

A friend from rural Tipperary put it best to me last week during my visit to Ireland.

We were driving to Belfast from Dublin and I was remarking on how the new highways, while wonderful, where changing the way people saw Ireland nowadays, no roads through rural towns and villages anymore, where much of the charm of Ireland lay.

He said rural Ireland had changed forever.

“Time was when people would gather at the fair day which is now mostly a memory, or the mart which no longer really happens.

“Before they’d gather outside mass but fewer and fewer are going nowadays because of all the scandals and the emigration.”

Even the most hallowed place, the pub, has its shortcomings today.

Read More Irish roots blogs here

“Even that ritual has become far less common nowadays because so many pubs have closed or locals are afraid of drunk driving because of the massive crackdowns. People mostly drink at home now.”

The only mainstay left he declares is the local GAA team, the sports of hurling and football played in every parish in Ireland.

“Were it not for the GAA there would be no community spirit in Ireland at all,” he says emphatically. “It has come down to them.”

It is definitely true. The GAA team plays for the pride of the village or townland and has seriously deep roots in the community.

But  in every other way the rural Ireland that we all knew is dying fast and neighbors are far less neighborly than they were even a few years ago.

It is not all downhill. Things have actually gotten a bit better since the demise of the Celtic Tiger when the emphasis was on big brash homes where keeping people out rather than fostering community bonds was the norm. There are not too many MacMansions any more.

Read More Irish roots blogs here

There has also been the advent of Facebook which has heavily impacted rural Ireland. I see it on my Facebook friend’s feeds who live in rural Ireland where it is a whole new way of communicating news.

Reports of break ins, local events, places to go with kids are all on Facebook daily now, replacing the community bulletins of old.

My niece’s Facebook last week in rural Meath was full of news of where Santa was showing up, how a car had been broken into, where the old folk’s Christmas luncheon was being held.

Rural Ireland is changing and adapting to the modern world. Whether Facebook will ever take the place of the gathering outside Mass or the pint on a Saturday night remains to be seen.

Someone once defined life’s three great needs as food, love and gossip. I’m inclined to agree and think rural Ireland will be fine, just different, in the future as there will always be lots of those three components to be found!

Proving the Irish Famine was genocide by the British -- Tim Pat Coogan moves Famine history on to a new plane

The Famine memorial on the quays in Dublin City

The most significant section of Tim Pat Coogan’s new book on the Irish Famine is not his own writing, but his printing of the United Nations definition of genocide.

“The Famine Plot”, published by Palgrave MacMillan, was released in America last week and Coogan should have been here to launch it but in a separate but equally confounding plot he was denied a visa to come here by the American Embassy in Dublin.

The conclusion from his book is unmistakable. Ireland’s most prominent historian, who has previously created definitive portraits of both Michael Collins and Eamon De Valera, has now pointed the finger squarely at the British during the Famine and stated it was genocide.

It is a big charge, but Coogan is a big man, physically, intellectually, and in every sense and makes a very effective accusation. Coogan has painted a portrait of devastating neglect, abuse, and mismanagement that certainly fits the genocide concept.

I mean if we go back to that time, Ireland was the equivalent of Puerto Rico or Samoa, massive dependencies on the United States today.

If there were a massive food shortage in either of those two countries, we know the US would step up to the plate, literally.

Back in Famine time, the same potato crop disease occurred most heavily in Scotland, outside Ireland, yet there were relatively few casualties as the landowners and government ensured, for their own sakes as much as anything, that there was no mass death.

That was not the case in Ireland, where a very different mentality prevailed. The damned Irish were going to get what they deserved because of their attachment to Catholicism and Irish ways when they were refusing to toe the British line.

Read more: Tim Pat Coogan slams American Embassy as ‘Kafkaesque’ after visa refusal

As Coogan painstakingly recounts, every possible effort by local organizations to feed the starving were thwarted and frustrated by a British government intent on teaching the Irish a lesson and forcing market forces on them.

Charles Trevelyan, the key figure in the British government, had foreshadowed the deadly policy in a letter to the “Morning Post”, after a trip to Ireland, where he heartily agreed with the sentiment that there were at least a million or two people too many in the benighted land and that the eight million could not possibly survive there.

“Protestant and Catholic will freely fall and the land will be for the survivors.”

Shortly after, he was in charge of a policy that brought that situation about.

One Trevelyan story and one quote suffice.

“British Coastguard Inspector-General, Sir James Dombrain, when he saw starving paupers, ordered his subordinates to give free food handouts. For his attempts to feed the starving, Dombrain was publicly rebuked by Trevelyan…”

The Trevelyan quote is “The real evil with which we have to contend is not the physical evil of the Famine but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the people.”

Tim Pat Coogan has done an enormous service with this book.

Read it and weep.

Barring of writer Tim Pat Coogan from U.S. is an absolute disgrace - America’s greatest friend in Ireland insulted by the U.S. Embassy

Tim Pat Coogan

The barring of Tim Pat Coogan from coming to America for a book tour is disgraceful. He was refused a visa when he applied for one for his new book tour.

It is one in a clear pattern of a number of recent clueless decisions at the American Embassy in Dublin at the consular level that defy logic.

Read More: Famed historian Tim Pat Coogan confirms he was turned down twice for U.S. visa

Ambassador Dan Rooney is clearly unable or unwilling to use his own discretion in some of these cases.

Ever since Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith played a stellar role in the Irish peace process by running her embassy with an iron fist, the functionaries have done their very best to keep incoming ambassadors powerless.

Never mind that Kennedy’s role stand suit like a beacon in the annals of American diplomacy in Ireland. An ambassador the bureaucrats cannot control is a dangerous person indeed it seems.

They did not succeed in the Bush era where excellent appointments ensured that many political issues were retained at the ambassadorial level.

That does not seem to be the case today. The Tim Pat Coogan case is a travesty but senior Irish government officials have told me it is by no means the only strange decision emanating from the embassy in recent times.

There seems to be a hardening attitude there to make it as difficult as possible for people to come to the U.S. from changes in how the J1 one year visa program is being administered to several high profile turndowns.

Blink and you might think you were back in the McCarthy era.

Put simply, there was no greater defender of America in Ireland for the past few decades than Tim Pat Coogan, especially at times when the anti-American sentiment there was at its highest.

His pro-American stances, both in his Irish Press newspaper and his writing about the power of the Irish Diaspora were major factors in keeping the American flag flying in Ireland.

He played a key behind the scenes role in the Irish peace process, especially in the early days when his contacts with Father Alex Reid, the unsung hero of the entire process, were vital.

He was deeply trusted by the Kennedy family and it was a famous meal in Dublin he had with Senator Edward Kennedy convincing him of the need for a visa for Gerry Adams that swayed the Massachusetts senator as well as helping bring President Clinton into the loop.

Visiting Irish Americans are always assured of a hearty welcome from Tim Pat and his backing for America and stance against the anti-American rhetoric so often spouted in Ireland made him this country’s prime defender.

Yet this is the 77-year-old man who the American Embassy just refused a visa to come to America too and humiliated him in the process?

Is there no institutional memory whatever at the embassy that can separate and remember a friend? No one who was able to realize the deep insult they had just inflicted on America’s greatest journalistic ally there?

Where was Ambassador Rooney in all this, as we know he was personally aware of the case?

There are so many questions but one undeniable fact. It will be a blot forever on the Dublin embassy that it humiliated one of its greatest supporters and Ireland’s leading historian by refusing a visa to launch his new book on the Irish famine.

Disgraceful is the word for it.

Living through Hurricane Sandy as she came ashore -- Scariest moments of my life as monster storm hit

Hurricane Sandy - Waves hitting shore at Long Island Sound

PHOTOS - Hurricane Sandy hits New York - Super storm causes destruction and flooding - slideshow

In my 33 years in America I have never experienced anything like the last 24 hours. When the news of Hurricane Sandy first broke I thought I’d seen all of this before, having lived through a series of tropical storms and near hurricanes.

But Sandy was different.

I have never seen such decimation in my neighborhood  in Long Island. In my own back garden a huge tree came crashing down. The only warning was a loud crashing sound before it fell. The roads around my house are completely impassable. My brother-in-law took three hours to negotiate three miles in a desperate effort to get to his home.

We have been in pitch blackness since six o’clock at the dreaded moment when the lights went out and the television signal faded to a small white dot. Up and down the neighborhood it seems like a satanic monster has flicked a switch and darkness descended.

Then came the wind. A familiar sound at first, then more like a freight car on a train rattling through the empty streets, bending the trees, breaking many of them, and sending my neighbor's lawn furniture spinning through the air.

There are few times when I have been as frightened, especially when the tallest tree in my block, which was right in my neighbor’s yard, seemed to bend half way and look certain to break with one particularly fierce gust of wind.

If this was only a hurricane one category I can only imagine what a four or five like Hurricane Katrina must have sounded like. It is the stuff of sheer nightmares and terror and yet I know we have been very lucky.

People tell me the scenes from Battery Park City are horrendous and at least five people are already confirmed dead. Who knows how many more will perish.

In Rockaway Beach, one of the most Irish neighborhoods in America, the devastation has been compared to New Orleans, after Katrina. I will probably know some of those people whose homes have been flooded and lives have been changed by this storm.

I have lived through earthquakes and twisters but never through a hurricane and it is surely the scariest experience of my life. The sheer power and scope makes you realize how little we can shape the forces of nature when they decide to descend upon us.

For all those left homeless, for all those left scared and frightened, there is an enormous lesson from this hurricane – mother nature will do what she wants, when she wants, and our  modern world can only bow before it.

Now, as I look out my window, the worst of the storm has passed and I see our forlorn neighbors begin to pick up their lives again I realize the miracle of life more than ever, like after  9/11.

In Samuel Beckett’s words, “I can’t go on, I must go on”. And indeed we must.


PHOTOS - Hurricane Sandy hits New York - Super storm causes destruction and flooding - slideshow

Did Irish leader Daniel O’Connell help make the Famine happen? -- “Graves are Walking” book tells powerful Irish Famine truths

Famine memorial in Dublin

“Striding nearer every day
Like a wolf in search of prey
Comes the famine on his way”

That poem in “The Nation,” the journal of the Young Irelanders, who were the Irish republicans of 1846 summarizes what was occurring as Ireland headed full tilt for the Famine and disaster.

In his new book “The Graves are Walking” John Kelly gives an extraordinary insider account of the events that led to the Famine and the machinations on high and the suffering of the peasants below.

It is still an insane thought that the most successful country in the world at the time allowed millions to starve in Ireland, its’ closest colonial neighbor.

Imagine the US, the land of plenty, allowing millions of Hawaiians to starve in a Famine there and you get some sense of the absurdity.

This book reveals insights which have rarely been glimpsed and it does not shun controversy.

The role of Daniel O’Connell as liberator of the Catholic masses is well documented.

But also documented here is O’Connell’s disastrous decision to throw in his lot with Whig leader Lord John Russell who became Prime Minister in July 1846 at the beginning of the worst period of the Famine.

O’Connell did so to help gain the repeal of the Act of Union between Britain and Ireland, which was at the source of so many of Ireland’s problems.

But in the process he backed a man who had become a fully-fledged free trader who insisted that market prices must be received and no government intervention made – even when the result was millions of Irish starving because they could not afford to buy the imported corn.

Russell’s predecessor, the Tory leader Sir Robert Peel, as Kelly points out, had adopted a far more humane policy and had been widely praised for ordering and freeing up imported corn for starving Irish the previous year when the worst of the Famine was blunted.

Kelly has made a profound point about O’Connell that it was the biggest mistake of his life as Russell paid no heed to repeal and the Irish starved by the millions.

The book is scathing about the various British viceroys who came over to Ireland during that period, but kind to the many incredible charities, such as the Quakers and many American organizations as well who did their best to alleviate the suffering.

There is a hilarious chapter on Monsieur Alexis Soyer, a French chef who had proclaimed he had the perfect ingredients for a gourmet soup to save the starving Irish and was much praised in The Times of London and elsewhere.

He even demonstrated this for hundreds of aristocrats in Dublin watched by a “large and brilliant assemblage” and no doubt by the starving peasants as well. Even Monty Python could not have done such a scenario justice.

M.Soyer, gourmet soup and all were soon dispatched back to Britain and obscurity.

The fate of the Famine ships is also discussed in great detail, as is the sense of impending doom in cities such as Montréal as the famine increased and the Irish boats kept coming, discharging their wretched cargo.

The scenes at Grosse Ile, the quarantine Island as depicted by Kelly would bring tears from a stone, while the unlikely rise of the Irish in New York from Famine masses to political power is also documented.

A great read if you’re Irish and even if you’re not. "The Graves Are Walking" is already deservedly a best seller in Ireland.

Chuck Feeney Ireland’s greatest Irishman, gets a proper honor at last -- Shy and secretive billionaire steps forward to accept the plaudits

Chuck Feeney speaks at a book party for his biography, Sept. 24 at the Mutual of America Building in New York City. (Credit: Nuala Purcell)

They came to praise Chuck Feeney yesterday in Dublin at Dublin Castle and it was about time.

Nine universities, a former President of Ireland, Mary Robinson, and the current Prime Minister Enda Kenny gathered at the former seat of British power in Ireland to pay their respects.

I was delighted to be there to witness the long overdue tribute to the man who may well be the most important Irish person of the last half century.

He has singlehandedly boosted Irish education standards for generations with his phenomenal gift giving to Irish universities.

But typically, the man himself has resisted all efforts to honor him, preferring the quiet places and lifestyle that have marked his career. Incredibly, yesterday was his first honorary degree.

Yet in recent years he decided that his plan which he entitled "Giving while living" had to receive the oxygen of publicity and he had to step out and become a more public figure.

One of his first events was at our magazine Irish America's Hall of Fame induction luncheon last year. Yesterday was another step in his creation of a public persona.

His giving while living concept is simple. You can't take it with you and there are no pockets in a shroud.

Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and other billionaires have listened and met with Feeney and he has had a remarkable impact on them since he has gone public.

Both men have agreed a similar type strategy when it comes to their billions. The world is a lot better place as a result.

Feeney has given $1.6 billion to university institutions the length and breadth of Ireland, North and South, and allowed them to be competitive with universities everywhere.

Generations of Irish students, trained to the hilt in research methods and new avenues of exploration and confident in their abilities, have gone forth and will continue to do so because of the incredible generosity of Feeney.

Could there be anything more important for this next generation of Irish facing the challenges they have?

Chuck Feeney has " transformed Ireland's higher education and research capacity and had used his wealth in the 'spirit of the true benefactor." Mary Robinson said.

Prime Minister Kenny stated that Feeney was "an extraordinary man who has made an extraordinary contribution to Ireland."

I am happy to have been part of his other great contribution to Ireland, the peace process. He was one of a small group of Irish Americans I put together who convinced Bill Clinton to become involved back when most people thought we were mad to even try.

Feeney played a critical role in that American dimension too .

For that and all the other good things he has done for Ireland, Feeney may well be the most important Irishman of the last half century. No one has left a more significant mark both in today's terms and for future generations.

Which is why it was great to be there yesterday and see at last, a major acknowledgement of that. And Chuck Feeney wore a tie for the occasion, which  he is loathe to do --- so it must have been very important to him!

A glimpse of sun a powerful morale boost for Ireland -- Doom and gloom of wet summer suddenly swept away

The "Old Sol" shining on Dingle in County Kerry (Photo:EmeraldIslePhotos)

Well reader I took a drive from Dublin to Dingle, about 180 miles, on a glorious Sunday after the Notre Dame/Navy match and all was well with the world.

I'm not a particularly lucky person but over the years for some reason, whenever I go to Ireland the weather is usually good -- no matter the time of year.

The millions worldwide watching the Notre Dame game the previous day would have surmised that we were all living in sunny Spain.

The hot sun beaming across the Aviva stadium and reflecting back on the TV cameras made it seem like a Florida beach day more than an early September one in Dublin's fair city.

Rare is the sun over here this summer.

So rare that for a joke the other day I sent our Irish correspondent Patrick Counihan a picture of the yellow orb, otherwise known as Old Sol or the sun, just so he would recognize it if he ever saw it again. His reply was unprintable.

They have had the worst summer in decades but as I made my merry way through counties Kildare, Laois, Tipperary, Limerick, and Kerry, the sun split the rocks and kids and parents in shorts and T shirts were hell bent on making it to a beach someplace.

The Irish landscape in the hot sun is a summer Eden, there are few countries on earth that blossom so much in great weather and look so dull and dank in bad.

I stopped in a little pub somewhere between Tralee and Dingle to watch the All Ireland football semi final between Mayo and Dublin. Dublin were the overwhelming favorites and to everyone's utter shock Mayo gave them a footballing lesson. The locals in the pub, Kerrymen all, the most knowledgeable people on earth about Gaelic football, were plainly shell shocked

It was glorious to see as the unfancied Westerners showed the famous Dubs how it was done , racing to a ten point lead early in the second half.

They were so far ahead that I decided to drive on to Dingle, content that Mayo would get a crack at their first All Ireland win since 1951, when they faced Donegal in the final on the third Sunday in September.

The glorious uncertainty of sport is reflected in that pairing. You would have got 50/1 on that pair meeting in the All Ireland final at the start of the year.

Little did I know, right after I settled back in the car, happy as Larry, the radio commentary revealed a slight hitch in proceedings.

Between Tralee and Dingle it was white knuckle stuff as Dublin launched what would have been an incredible comeback that fortunately for Mayo just fell short as I drove into Dingle.

Dingle was its incredible self. My sister was waiting when I got to her house seven miles west in Ballydavid, a little village that looks out on the broad Atlantic and the grand sweeping vistas that make this one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Later that night a massive harvest moon overhung our little village and the quay was thronged with revelers and kids enjoying the Indian summer.

The local pub, Tig TPs, was doing a roaring trade, and the hot weather is set to continue this week.

As I said, all is well with the world.

In search of "The Quiet Man" in wild and wonderful Connemara -- Hot on the trail of the most famous Irish movie ever made

Connemara, Co. Galway

You drive out of Galway, on the Connemara road, and soon you take a step back in time as the years fall away and a strange yet familiar landscape emerges.

Suddenly you are in Ireland circa the late 1940s and the scenes and shots from "The Quiet Man" loom large.

The first stop is the little bridge over the river where the famous fight between John Wayne and Victor McLaglen takes place. Although it is a dull, misty morning, already the cars are lined up and the photographers snapping.

The man in front of us is from Los Angeles and a confirmed John Ford fan.

“It has been a dream and ambition” he says as he snaps his wife and daughter leaning on the parapet where John Wayne delivered a famous hay-maker to McLaglen.

He is not Irish, but loves John Ford, real name Sean O’Feeney, whose idyllic vision of Ireland in the movie has shaped the perceptions of millions of Americans since.

Ford did the same for our sense of the Wild West, especially in movies like “Stagecoach”. He was a larger than life presence in Hollywood in his day, but by all accounts "The Quiet Man" which he had battled to have made for several years, was his favorite film.

It is easy to see why. The spectacular Connemara landscape, where his parents hailed from, stretches in front of us for miles in every direction. Rugged mountains, meadows, stone walls,  gorse, heather, and more lakes than you can count provide the perfect backdrop.

As we drive the rain eases off, but is still falling, and in the distance we see a patch of sun illuminating a small corner, a sun shower, a wonderfully Irish phenomenon.

The replica cottage is tucked away off a quiet  bothereen or small road. Sadly,  the real cottage where the film was shot is no longer accessible. A dispute between the owner and local authorities has led to a stand off that I hope can be resolved some day soon.

The two room cottage replica features  life size models of Wayne, Mclaglen, Maureen O’Hara, and Barry Fitzgerald frozen in a tableau around the kitchen table and a bedroom. We take our pictures and depart.

The centerpiece of "The Quiet Man" phenomenon remains Cong, the little Mayo village which hosts a Quiet Man festival every year. Maureen O’Hara, still hale and hearty, attended last year.

The gift shop there is packed with memorabilia and already, by mid morning, is bustling with American tourists.

We lunch at the wonderful  Ashford Castle where staff tell us quite frankly that "The Quiet Man" visitors, rather than waning with the passing years, are actually increasing.

Testament to the new popularity was a one-week retrospective on John Ford recently in Dublin with contributors from all over the world.

The new interest is a tribute to an icon of American film who captured a pastoral Ireland and the fond imaginations of Americans for that land.

Even if the movie is not your obsession if you need an excuse to see a remarkable and beautiful corner of Ireland, around Connemara and back in by Cong and Ashford look no more. John Ford, Mary Kate Danaher and Sean Thornton all beckon.

Here's the original trailer for the movie:

My search for the best Irish whiskey lands me in Kilbeggan -- Since 1757 Irish town is home to world’s oldest distillery

At Cooley Distillery

The surge in Irish whiskey sales all over the world, but especially in North America, have brought many big players into the arena.

The latest are Jim Beam, who took a controlling stake in Cooley Whiskey for $100 million or so in December and will put the marketing arm of one of America’s best-known liquor companies behind the fabled Irish brand.

In fact the Kilbeggan brand owned by Cooley is the oldest licensed whiskey in the world, first created in 1757. A lot has happened in that 250 years but it is fair to see that there have been few more exciting times than now.

Cooley’s founder is a genius called John Teeling who saw that Irish whiskey was one of the great native brands unique to the country and it needed to be nurtured and saved.

He created Cooley in 1987 from an old potato alcohol distillery used by the Irish government (don’t ask) in the Cooley Mountains in Louth near the border. It has been an outstanding success.

He also took over the venerable Kilbeggan brand which had fallen on hard times and rejuvenated it.

The other reason for my visit was the chance to meet up again with big, bluff Willie McCarter, one of Ireland’s great unofficial ambassadors in America who has done sterling work on the peace process, the International Fund for Ireland and many other projects.

In addition to his philanthropy, Willie has one of the sharpest business brains in Ireland and had been telling me for several years that Cooley was a company to watch out for.

When Jim Beam saw that too and paid $100 million I decided I’d take a look and it was a wonderful afternoon, weather aside.

Besides, Big Willie had threatened to beat me up if I didn’t pay a visit with him to Kilbeggan in Westmeath an hour west of Dublin on my next trip over, so what choice did I have?

Still, taking a visit to a grand old distillery  is not exactly the greatest burden put upon me as a writer.

Readers, if you have never been in a distillery I strongly suggest a visit. It is a fascinating opportunity to study the whiskey lore.

It far more complex task than just pouring in the barley on one end, mashing it all up with yeast and water and whiskey coming out the other.

It is an infinitely complex process and  Stephen Teeling, son of the founder, escorted me on his rounds showing exactly how the stuff is made.

The word authentic came to mind during my visit. The history, the old landmark building, the sense of the past and now a bright future.

First we sat in the snug of the visitors' center with a grand fire roaring and a fine lunch served – with of course, a snifter or two courtesy of the establishment. Tour buses are frequent.

The visitors' center traces the history of the brand and parallels the Irish history that was happening at the time both nationally and locally. It is a unique insight into the making of a brand that stretches back to 1757.

The distillery itself is in the center of town, with a huge water wheel which makes one take a step back to a different century and a gentler time.

The canal, the water from which fuels the distillery, unfurls lazily around the town and  the entire scene is pastoral rather than industrial.

Unlike sausages, which they say you should never watch being made, whiskey is an entirely different barrel of mash as they might say.

Each process is painstaking, each step to mature and nurture the barley is a delicate one. Like wine, whiskey gets better with age but so many elements can militate against the perfect sip.

By the end of the tour I had tasted the latest shot just off the pipeline and the ten-year and twenty-year old stuff they keep in the casks out back they usually keep away from the likes of me.

I even got to taste the Kilbeggan 15 year-old which was selected as the Best Whiskey in the World in 2009.
Connemara, Greenore and Tyrconnell are two others major brands they ship.

Still sober (Yea, right says wife) but happy, I climbed into the back of Willie’s car for the return trip to Dublin, about an hour away.

I can now see why there are so many whiskey writers out there and so many aficionados. Friends, there are a lot worse things to be in life.

Willie is threatening to take me to Cooley Distillery in the Cooley Mountains in Louth next time I’m home to show me the other brand distilled there.

But he won’t have to threaten me this time.

In fact I’ll be waiting for the call.

Phew! A near disaster is averted on Bettystown Beach-- car set to float away on the tide until my relatives arrive

Bettystown Beach (Credit: Paul Power)

So on Wednesday afternoon I took a walk on Bettystown beach in County Meath, a wondrous place from my childhood, just six miles from my hometown of Drogheda.

I invited one of my oldest friends, Eddie Holt along and he  said he’d meet me there.

The sun was high, the Irish Sea was clear blue and all was better with the world.

Until Eddie decided to drive along the beach to meet me halfway and walk from there.

He fearlessly drove past the “Warning soft sand do not drive any further” signs with gay abandon and was soon spinning his wheels helplessly about 20 feet from the water as high tide beckoned.

Walking back I was wondering who was the idiot with his car stuck when I realized it was Eddie.

So here we were. I am as useful as a eunuch in a brothel when it comes to cars and everything about them.
Eddie does know stuff, but after ten minutes of spinning the wheels and only digging deeper we decided we needed help.

My brother, Fergus, the member of the Irish parliament,  was summoned from nearby Drogheda.  He would surely know what and who to call. He didn’t really but he had a good laugh at us.

My other brother Michael’s father in law Dick Reilly who lived nearby was also summoned. He knew a local farmer with a tractor but he had forgotten his phone and had to go back to his house to get the number and call him.

Meanwhile the tide was now at ten feet from the car.

A local priest from Drogheda , Father Iggy, out for his daily constitutional, happened by. We asked if he could temporarily stop the waves advancing like King Canute tried but he quietly deferred. He would give us a push instead he said.

Others came by, some to gawk at the impending disaster. One man said he’d help but he’d just had an operation. Another said he was worried about a heart attack.

The tide was now at five feet from the car.

My brother helpful as always, picked the moment to  tell us the story of the fire engine from Drogheda that has literally been swallowed up near the same spot when it came to rescue a car that was floating away and had gotten too close to the water.

Dick Reilly came back and said the farmer was on his way. That cheered us up but we waited and waited.
At last someone useful showed up – a brother in law of Fergus, Gerry Cullen, a top-notch singer with the Voice Squad and a former schoolteacher.

Soon after yet another brother in law showed up. He’s a publican. It was like family reunion day on the beach

Gerry went back up the beach and asked the man with the first four-wheel drive car he met to come and save our sinking car.

The water was now at two feet away, lapping around our ankles. The car was an older Lexus, in perfect running order, bright red and lots of good honest miles on it. Would it meet a watery grave? Eddie was starting to get emotional about it.

The four-wheel drive man arrived, thanks to Gerry, backed up and took out his rope---God bless him, at last someone was in charge.

So we started to push, the parish priest, the publican, the politician, the returned yank the retired laboratory worker, the singer, and journalist (Eddie) and two strangers

We pushed and we panted and we pushed again and eventually the four-wheel drive pulled Eddie’s car clear. Not a moment too soon .

The car and our dignity were saved. The four-wheel drive man would not take a penny, the tractor and the farmer arrived too late but he would also not take a penny.

The priest blessed us all and hoofed it  and we stood on Bettystown beach as the rain began to fall and thanked the wonderful Irish and unbreakable family bonds.

New Irish famine data shows the horrific scale of the devastation of the Great Hunger

Recent statistics from the Irish Census about post-Famine Ireland are an extraordinary treasure trove.

Most important, however, the statistics also quote extensively from previous Census material, dating back to 1831.

Since practically every Census from the 19th century was destroyed by the authorities or in the great blaze that happened at the Four Courts in Dubin on the outbreak of the civil war in 1921, these are the only documents that can show an Ireland that was profoundly different to what we have today.

They reveal in cold numbers the impact of the Irish Famine, the greatest human disaster to afflict any country in Europe in the 19th Century.

Town by town, village by village, we can track the declining population, the death of communities and the rapid extinguishing of the Irish language as the first tongue of the nation's people.

Imagine America going from 300 million people to 100 million, and English dying out overnight as the first language -- and you get a sense of the scale of the catastrophe.

From 1821 to 1831, the new figures show the population leaped by over 14 percent in what is now the Irish Republic. Ireland was approaching its all-time high total of 8 million people on the cusp of the Famine.

Ironically, it was the growth of the potato as the staple crop that created this incredible growth. The potato provides enough nutrients on its own to sustain large populations, and Ireland thrived on the alien import from the Andes first brought in as a luxury food for the rich, but soon adopted by the masses.

From 1831 to 1841 the population continued to grow, increasing by over 5 percent as the island reached the historic eight million mark. Then came 1845.

The Famine blight almost certainly came from an American ship. There had been similar crop failures in parts of America in the two years before, but nothing like what was going to befall Ireland. That winter was wet and extraordinarily long. In the spring the potato crop failed. The potatoes in the fields were black and rotten.

"A fearful malady has broken out among the potato crop... the fields are said to be completely desolated. There is hardly a sound sample in. As for cure for this distemper, there is none.." reported one newspaper. That year, one-third of the crop failed. In 1846 one half, and then in Black '47, the entire crop failed.

The Census from 1851 reveals the sad facts. The population had dropped by over 21 percent. Entire villages were depopulated, the countryside laid waste. The great trek to America is well underway.

It is the hinge of history.

Without the Famine, we would never have come to this land, no antecedents of John F. Kennedy, or Ronald Reagan, or Eugene O'Neill. We would have become a European people, with no far-flung outposts from Australia to Canada to the U.S . Our history as a people revolved around those four years from 1845 to 1848, the worst years of the Famine.

The decline begins in the Census figures. From 1861 to 1871 the population slumps a further 8 percent, followed by 5 percent in the following ten years to 1881 and then over ten percent to 1891 and over 7 per cent by 1901. All in all from 1851 to 1901 the population drops an astounding 63 percent.

In that same time the language dies, side by side with the harvest. The number of Gaelic speakers dropped by over 80 percent. A traveler who visited in 1844 and came back in 1900 would have seen an utterly different land.

What the British could not accomplish -- the death of the old Gaelic order -- the Famine did. The new Census figures are an extraordinary account of that historic and awful event.

Finding a long lost relative in the 1901 Irish census

The 1901 census has recently been put up online, providing an incredible insight into the Ireland so many of our ancestors left.

Find the census here.

The 1911 census, which went up about a year ago, attracted 7 million views and I’m sure this 1901 census will attract as many.

Of the many deeds the Irish government has done to attract interest in Ireland, I firmly believe putting the 1911 and 1901 censuses on line will prove to be the most important.

For millions of Irish Americans it allows a sacred moment, a second to touch the past and to see the ancestors or relatives they have only dimly glimpsed through the mists of time.

Alas, there are no censuses available form the previous century, all were either burned or lost. So 1901 will remain the touchstone.

On the 1901 census, my wife Debbie found her great grandfather Martin McGoldrick living on the family farm in Sligo. For some reason, the 1911 census seemed to miss his little village.

I could tell by her reaction just how deep and significant a moment it was

It is an amazing document that allows us to reach out and touch the past on a given night on a given year in Ireland.

For my own part it was like revisiting a familiar fireside. I had seen the 1911 census count, marveled at the information I had been able to glean, including my first glimpse of my great grandfather and turned to the 1901 census feeling like I was seeing a movie rewound.

It is the 31st of March 1901, and in the Dowd house in Kilcooley, County Kerry, (there was no O’ used back then) seven miles or so west of Dingle there are 13 people living in the three–roomed residence. (The photograph above is of the view from Kilcooley to the Atlantic.)

It is five years before my father is born there.

There is my great grandfather, Ned, 60, hale and hearty, and his three sons and one daughter, including Daniel Dowd who my father would be called after.

There too is my grandfather, Michael, married to Kate Kennedy, and they have three very young children, John, Maggie, and Mary.

Maggie intrigues me. I had never heard of her and she does not appear in the 1911 census. Clearly she passed away sometimes in the next decade. From what I will never know, but my father never spoke of her.

Suddenly realizing I had an Aunt Maggie who did not live fills me full of curiosity about her. What happened, why was it never spoken about?

It was certainly not unusual for people to pass away back then in the age before antibiotics but it is a sad moment to realize I lost a relative so young.

John Dowd, the oldest son in my father’s family is there. He is called Jack and will later leave for America. He will settle in Detroit and work for the Ford motor Company his whole life.

He will have triplets, so rare an event that they are featured in several national magazines and I will get to know them.

In 1981, I will visit him in Detroit, in the little suburban bungalow he has made his home in. He will press $20 into my hand in an envelope, as all emigrants did for new arrivals back then.

He will ask me what fields are they planting back home but I am no longer from Kerry and am unable to answer. He is the spitting image of my father.

John’s older sister, Mary, also made her way to America and Detroit but I never had the opportunity to meet her. She would die in a traffic accident.

The census has re-wakened all these echoes and made me aware once again of how lucky my generation was with our access to education and life choices, these relatives would only have dreamt of.

And then there’s my dead little aunt Maggie who I will never know. She is a poignant postscript to reading about my father’s family in the 1901 census.

May she rest in peace.