A Jig or Two

Yesterday evening, after another long day of traveling, I arrived in Dungarvan, a small town in southeast Ireland.  I was immediately taken in by an incredibly hospitable family, who happen to share my families last name.  Probably no coincidence.  In the evening, after feeding me an incredible dinner, they took me out to hear some authentic Irish music.  I couldn't help but think that things here are so different than in LA: so peaceful, so wholesome.  Some place back in time.

Today, they drove me a short way down the coast to Ring, where the Fiztgerald side of my family lived from about 1150 to 1850 AD.  This place was then, and is still, primarily dairy country.  The sun shines regularly, and the gentle hills roll from pasture to pasture.  The earliest remaining record of my family here has them being married in a little old church, which I visited today.  While I was sitting outside among the gravestones,  listening to the land, musicians arrived in the church, and began playing song after song of lively Irish fiddle and flute.  

All I could think of was how alive everything was.

The church:

Among the graves:

The coast:

From atop a nearby hill, the night before:

Ring is in the middle of this peninsula: