Travel
John Garrity is already established as a celebrated golf writer for Sports Illustrated, Golf Magazine, and Golf.com. In his new book Ancestral Links: A Golf Obsession Spanning Generations, Garrity embarks on a quest through the most remote corners of the island homes of his ancestors tracking down family history and golfing lore all at once.
In the process of gathering information about a famed golf course, located deep in the northwest pocket of Ireland, that no one of reputable opinion can stop talking about, Garrity learns that the small town nearby is the very same where his great-grandfather lived before emigrating to America. His travels there ignite his interest further, and he begins to trace his extended family tree by way of the ancient game. He heads to Scotland, discovering the roots of his maternal ancestors whose tee times pre-date the foundation of the "Thirteen Rules" of golf, made official in 1774. Back in America, he finds himself swinging along the St. Croix River Valley, where his father learned the game as a young boy.
Garrity crosses oceans to land in small towns and villages, all of which have been altered by sprawling golf courses, all of which have been torn up by players who share his bloodline. Piecing together his memoir-travelogue, Garrity constructs an intimate web of family history that will touch any fan of golf, Ireland, or home-spun narrative, sunny and lush like a first tee in the morning.
Read an Excerpt from John Garrity's Ancestral Links (continued...)
"I grew up in Blackrock," he continued, "but every summer and bank holiday we'd be up here at the family home at Barrack. Then my brother bought a holiday home here in 1999, and I renovated it. Which was my start in the building trade, although I picked up most of what I know from my father." More recently, John said, he and Kathleen had restored an old house on Inishkea South. Jack Geraghty loved the place and made any excuse to visit. "But he's unwell, he recently had a heart bypass. He's only gone 70, but..." John didn't finish the thought. "He still works in his workshop."
I waited for John to go on.
"My dad has tremendous stories," he said. "Like when they used to go to the dances. They'd cycle five miles to a dance in Blacksod, and after the dance they'd cycle back. And if it was a moonlit night they'd go down to the shore to see what had washed up."
"Beachcombing?" I had heard talk of the practice.
"Combing, yes. Cargo would be stored on the decks of ships, and sometimes it would be swept away in bad weather. Or they'd cut it loose. Barrels of coffee. Rope for mending nets. Bales of rubber. Barrels of whiskey. Timber being transported on big ships that sank. Big poles."
"They'd use that for fences," Kathleen interjected.
"Anything you could use or sell. My dad remembers nights when the moon was so bright you could see quite clearly where you were going. His mother would make up a pot of tea in a glass bottle and wrap a sock around it. To keep it warm."
John was leaning forward now. I got the feeling that Jack Geraghty was talking directly to me through his son, the way my father, Jack Garrity, sometimes talked through me.
"If an item was too heavy to lift," John continued, "they'd try to drag it above the high water mark. Then they'd put a stone on it or tie a bit of rope around it. They'd go home to get a couple of hours sleep and come back in the morning with a donkey or a cart."
"Tell him about the soldiers," Kathleen said.
John nodded. "During World War II, dead soldiers washed ashore. They brought them in and buried them." I was sure there was more to this story, but John didn't elaborate.
"Did combing die out with your dad's generation?"
"No!" He perked up. "There's stuff that can go in the best houses. Terry has a gorgeous teakwood fireplace in the back of his house. He found a teak stump on the beach and turned it into something beautiful."
I made a mental note to ask Terry about his find.
"We went on the shore tonight," Kathleen said, making me wonder if beachcombing had replaced golf and boating among upwardly mobile Mayoites. "We pick up the timbers and use them for firewood."
John smiled. "It's turned full circle. I'm doing what my dad did in the Fifties."
An hour later, on the road to Belmullet, I considered the chronology. John Geraghty's dad had been born in 1937, making him a contemporary not of my dad, but of my brother, who was also born in 1937. A split screen appeared in my mind's eye. On the one side I saw a 20-year-old Tommy Garrity tearing up the back nine in a match at the ritzy Kansas City Country Club. On the other I saw a 20-year-old Jack Geraghty stacking poles in the moonlight on the Mullet coast.
The images merged into John Geraghty — a modern-day Irishman who played golf at the Carne Golf Links and picked up driftwood on the sandy shore.
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