Kinsale Ireland

Travel Blog – Kinsale Ireland 20/09/2023

I went to the most gorgeous town of Kinsale, what a quaint coastal town of sweet multicoloured buildings. All that colour can only make you happy.

I was there on a mission to say hello and goodbye to my grandfather at his final resting place. The town and its people lightened my mood and made the whole thing feel okay.

As I drove through the winding country back streets, I had to brake for locals leaving their cars for a gathering at a church. A funeral. “All so in keeping,” I thought, and drove on.

My Grancha George had a raw deal in life; his mother died during his birth, his father died six years later, leaving him and his brothers growing up in a cold orphanage to be torpedoed in WWII at age 29. Rough right! Anyway, here I was, determined to find a beach close enough to his watery grave to lay some flowers for him, and, if I was lucky, feel him in the air. I’d bought local flowers that smelled beautiful; I'd tied the bouquet myself, old habits from my florist days.

The first spot I decided on had the ruins of a tiny church and a full, old graveyard perched atop a cliff. I could see out into the depths of the sea, but a steep cliff face and a wall of bramble and stinging nettles stood between me and the water. I took photos for Mum. I decided not to call her as she is elderly now, and I knew she would be fast asleep on the other side of the world. I took in the view as far out to the depths as I could. The air was chilly, and the surrounding run-down graveyard was eerie.

I made my way back to the car, pulled up my maps and continued to another beach on lower ground.

When I opened the car door, the wind ripped it clean out of my hands. I tucked the flowers inside my jacket and walked the last stretch backwards, shielding them from being crushed. It felt like Grancha George was showing me, explaining, in the only way he could, a titch of what that evening in 1940 had been like, and why he could never be in my life.

I walked barefoot, the skies were grey, and the sand sandpapered my skin with every difficult step toward the water. My hair must have looked like tumbleweed. Not another soul was silly enough to be on the beach that day. I finally reached the water and walked in as deep as I could stand. I laid the flowers in the cold water, whispered some things to him, and told him how much he was missed and loved despite his absence. I said goodbye to him from my mum/his daughter Cynthia, and me, from the entire huge family back home in Australia. I told him we wished we had gotten to know him and had the usual memories, but it was okay because we felt we still knew him somehow.

When I got back to the car, incredibly coincidentally, the radio was playing a song by Puff Daddy called I'll Be Missing You.

That night, I called Mum, told her about the day, and sent her the photos. She cried happy tears of thanks.