In the words of Plato, “The beginning is the most important part of the work.” With that in mind, here goes.
Anybody know what happened on June 16, 1972?
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Yes, you in Nebraska.
“The largest single-site hydro-electric power project in Canada started at Churchill Falls, Labrador.”
Nerdy, but not the answer I wanted. Anyone else? I see another hand raised in Reims, France.
Editor's Note: The following answer has been masterfully translated from French.
“The Red Army Faction member Ulrike Meinhof was captured by police in Langenhagen.”
So close, but no.
The answer that I’m looking for involves my grandfather. On June 16, 1972, while sitting in the shabby office of Skibbereen solicitor Daniel McCarthy, my grandpa Roger put pen to paper and agreed to buy Corran More, the holiday house that is the heart of my childhood memories of Ireland. Just like that, Roger and Bette Prange were Irish landowners.
A year prior to this, my grandma Bette and her mother Gertrude (there’s a name for you) went to Ireland to rattle some fuchsia bushes and see what kind of family fell out. Our last direct link to Ireland was my great great grandmother Marie Evanson who left Ireland around 1870-80. Scouring the West Cork area, meeting relatives and tracing family roots, my grandmother fell in love with Mizen Head. She came across a one hundred year-old farmhouse in the townland of Corran More that piqued her interest. Inquiries were made and negotiations began.
It all seems a little out of character, and quite daring, for a couple from Chesterton, Indiana. At that time, Ireland was nothing more than a forgotten green speck in the North Atlantic. The notion of buying a “holiday house” in a far-off land may sound romantic, but the house itself was awful and needed so much work just to function. I’m not really sure why they did it, but I’m glad they did.
I imagine what that first visit in the early 70’s must have been like. Stepping out the car, the house was on their right sitting on the north side of the road. It sat above them perched into the side of the hill. The “yard” or “garden” was nothing more than a dirt patch with large, jagged stones scattered around. The exterior of the house was a shade of grey that resembles depression or pollution. Take your pick.
Making their way up the path that led to the front door, the thoughts going through their minds must have been along the lines of, “What have we gotten ourselves in to?” As they approached the house, the worn roof and broken windows would have become more noticeable almost mocking in their appearance.
My grandparents in front of Corran More
The large brass key was slipped into the lock and turned; the door opened. Inside, the air was cold and damp, and their eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. The residents of the house, rats, scurried away. The first room to greet my grandparents was what became our living room. On the left was a large fireplace with a swinging iron arm that was used to hold iron pots and kettles.
Originally, as in most Irish farmhouses of this era, this first room you entered would have been the kitchen, and the center of the Irish farmhouse. All meals were made here, the family congregated here and guests were entertained here.
In addition to the living room, the ground floor portion of Corran More contained the current kitchen, the bathroom and a small sitting room. None of these areas were usable, and the kitchen contained an old iron, wood-burning stove. The floor throughout the main level was cement. How’s that for cozy?
Taking the stairs to the second floor, my grandparents were greeted with a large open space with a bedroom at one end and a very special room at the other. The previous owner of the house was a tailor. At the end of the large space, there was a very small door, about thirty-six inches tall, which led to his shop. Because of the very small door, this room was affectionately known as the “Leprechaun Room.” It was the room I slept in when I visited Corran More.
From top-to-bottom and side-to-side, the house was miserable and completely uninhabitable. Walking back downstairs and approaching the door to leave, it all became perfectly clear for my grandparents. Any real doubt in what they had done was dashed. Standing in the doorway of Corran More and looking out, the magnificence of the Atlantic Ocean spread before them. A small finger of land called Brow Head came into view from the left. The small bay in front of them is called Barley Cove. In the middle of this bay, sits Devil’s Rock. No matter what work the house needed, there was no going back.
Over the next eighteen years, until my grandpa’s death in 1990, my grandparents spent countless time and money fixing Corran More and turning it into their Irish home. In many ways, it was a tremendous burden to them. The house always had its challenges; I mean charms. The journey for my grandparents wasn’t easy, but it was something they had in their lives that they truly loved together.
It was a fantastic place to visit. What were the highlights? Maybe it was sitting on the front patio eating lunch and soaking up the warm Irish sun as the sea glistened in front of you. Or, maybe it was sitting in the house during a gale watching the powerful waves of the Atlantic crash on the rocks. Maybe it was the absolute silence that greeted you outside on a calm day. Maybe it was the mind-boggling number of stars that spanned the heavens at night. There were many highlights.
I will use a scene from the movie A Good Year to put a bow on this. In this particular scene, Max Skinner (played by Russell Crowe) is sitting in his late Uncle Henry’s chateau in Provence and is describing to his cousin Christie what it was like visiting as a boy. Max tells her that some of his fondest memories happened “within 100 steps of this very spot.” Christie asks him if they are good memories. Max responds, “No, they were grand.”
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