It never fails to amaze me as an American living in Galway, how many expats make Galway their home and make quite the impact; it is something that this sentimental Yankee is  very proud of.  Readers of my column may remember the piece I did on St. Nicholas Church in Galway city, back then I remarked ‘Christopher Columbus reputedly worshipped here in 1477 when he was a little known business agent for the great Genoese families of Centurione, Di Negro and Spinola.’ The word ‘reputedly’ gave me an out as I was not completely confident that the founder of the New World had once supped pints of stout and munched on ham and cabbage in the taverns around Spanish Arch. However, now, I can confirm, The Fox having swore blind on the fact, Christy Columbus was in Galway before he set sail for the New World! A Linus Bird exclusive! The Fox pointed me in the direction of the eminent historian T.P. O’Neill who unearthed a book that Columbus had being reading whilst in Galway, indeed cabbage stains and all, entitled Wonders of the World. In the margins of this book, by the light of a Connemara candle, Columbus had scribbled notes on his time in Galway, they went thus:
‘We ourselves saw in Galway, Ireland, in two pieces of wood, a man and his wife of extraordinary visage.’

Cryptic and mysterious indeed, some say that it refers to two Inuit bodies that were found  in a kayak  that drifted across the Atlantic and shored up in Western County Galway. So, rrom their Eastern appearance, did Columbus  cement his notions of crossing the Atlantic to find India? Perhaps…perhaps.

One thing that is certain; there was a Galway man aboard the Sancta Maria on that most famous of voyages  – the discovery of the New World. The reason for the voyage was to find a westward route to China or India because the overland route from the Mediterranean to the east had been cut off following the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453. This destroyed the trade in spices for the merchants of Genoa, and Columbus was Genoese.  So the hometown boy was dreaming of saving the town and returning to a hero’s welcome, Good  Golly Miss Molly, he got a whole lot more than that!

St. Nicholas Church, Galway - Columbus prayed here for a successful voyage

The tiny flotilla – the Nina, the Pinta and the Sancta Maria set sail from Palos, Castlile on 3 August 1492, like a space voyage of modern times and the logbook of the Sancta Maria records an Irishman -  Guillermo Ires -  William of Ireland and his trusty Irish Wolfhound!

Many thought that they would topple over the edge of the world, of course they did not, on 12 October 1492, they sighted land, Columbus calling it San Salvador in the modern day Bahamas, but he thought he was in Japan. On returning to Spain to announce the discovery, he requested some of the men to remain behind and it appears that William of Galway was among the men who volunteered to stay in the New World. You must wonder at the man, the bravery at being for all intensive purposes marooned in an alien landscape, one of his fellow crewmen, Allard the monk, described it,

‘Among the little crowd on the shore who watched the Nina growing smaller in the distance are our old friends Allard and William from Galway, tired of the crazy confinement of a ship and anxious for shore adventures. They have their fill of them as it happens; for the settlers a sudden cloud of blood and darkness . But death awaits Allard and William from Galway in the sunshine and silence of Espanola.’

What a mysterious second part of the description that is, unfortunately for William of Ireland it was to hold true, for when Columbus returned the following year, it was discovered that the natives (provoked into it) had butchered the settlement.

A memorial stone in Galway's Spanish parade, claiming that "On these shores, around the year 1477, the Genoese sailor Cristoforo Colombo found sure signs of land beyond the Atlantic. La Città di Genova alla Città di Galway. 29.VI.1992.

As The Fox put it, when he strolls the prom at Salthill, and looks out past Mutton, Hare and Rabbit Island, beyond the Burren and over the Atlantic, he thinks of the millions of Irish who have sought a better life beyond the Atlantic, and gets to thinking of William, possibly the first Irish man to set foot in the New World. And all for sharing bacon and cabbage with Christy Columbus in a Galway tavern!

Linus Bird – Star Spangled & Adrift

An Ordinary American in Ireland – The Pugilist At Rest

Theogenes was the Daddy of all gladiators, I first came across his fine self in The Pugilist at Rest from the little known but terrific writer Thom Jones. He told of sheer brutality, the two contestants not even being allowed the freedom of a ring, instead they were strapped to boulders facing one another, once the signal was given, they would commence hammering one another with fists encased in heavy leather thongs.

Incredibly, it was a fight to the death, fourteen hundred and twenty-five times Theogenes was strapped to the boulder and fourteen hundred and twenty-five times…think about it…he won the man was not a man, a giant perhaps…

Similar to Arnie ‘Mr. Olympia’ Schwarzenegger, Theogenes used his sporting prowess as a springboard to launch a political career, albeit he went a step beyond hinting at divinity by declaring himself divine and a son of Hercules. I don’t know about you, but I kind of believe the guy, I mean he could eat an ox, remained unbeaten for twenty-two years, beating fourteen hundred and twenty-five opponents, who let’s face it probably looked like Arnie ‘I’ll be back’ Schwarzenegger. Indeed, even after his death he continued to exert a significant influence, and is that not a definition of divinity? Following instructions delivered by none the less than the Delphic Oracle, the citizens of Thasos brought his statue to their city to deliver it from plague.

Thom Jones describes the statue of Theogenes in the Terne Museum in Rome as thus, ‘a muscular athlete approaching middle age. He has a thick beard and a full head of curly hair. In addition to the telltale broken nose and cauliflower ears of a boxer, the puglist has the slanted, dropping brows that bespeak of torn nerves. Also, the forehead is piled with scar tissue…His neck and trapezius muscles are well developed. Hs shoulders are enormous; his chest is thick and flat, without the bulging pectorals of the bodybuilder. His back, oblique, and abdominal muscles are highly pronounced , and he has the greatest asset of the modern boxer – sturdy legs. The arms are large, particularly the forearms, which are reinforced with leather wrappings of the cestus. It is the body of a small heavyweight – lithe rather than bulky, but by no means lacking in power: a Jack Johnson or a Dempsey…’

So, a man after all, but what a man. But I digress, I mean to tell you of Tom ‘The Moor’ Molineaux of this parish, Galway City, Connemara, Connaught, Ireland. However, Tom was originally a Virginian, born there on a slave plantation, from an early age he was pitched against fellow slaves for the amusement of the plantation owners, he was good, very good, so good, he fought his way to freedom and moved to England to become a professional boxer. In December 18010, he challenged Tom Cribb for the heavyweight title of the world. They battered one another over thirty-three rounds in the chilling rain and heavy wind of Shenington Hollow of Oxfordshire; the battle of the two Toms, with Cribb emerging as the victor, if such can be called such. They met again, almost a year later at Thistleton Gap, Leceister, how could you go back to such a thing? They did. Cribb won again.

I speak of Tom Molineaux because he died of liver failure in the regimental bandhall of the 77TH Regiment of Galway. Tom had being on a grotesque circus circuit of travelling boxers, modern gladiators in the sodden fields of Monaghan and Westmeath. He had taken ill whilst in Galway, the circus had left town without him, and so this great Virginian of Herculean proportion was found near death under the Spanish Arch by two soldiers who brought him to the bandhall where he died, he was thirty-four years old. He is buried in St. James Cemetery, Mervue, Galway City.

It was of course The Fox who told me of Tom Molineaux, I had a few brewskies on me at the time, so perhaps it was maudlin sentimentality, but I felt no shortage of affiliation with the great boxer, after all we are two Americans adrift in the town of Galway, we Yankees gotta stick together. I trawled St. James’ cemetery to pay homage at his grave but poignantly I could not locate, I wonder if it has sunk and being built upon by another set of coffins?

That thought really stuck in my craw, this modern Theogenes, the Black Ajax as he was known, removed from memory completely. His feats were beyond mere boxing, fights then were a brutal mixture of boxing and wrestling with almost ¬anything allowed, including head-¬butting, bone-breaking and vicious kicks to the kidneys. There were no timed rounds and fighting continued until a man was down. He was given thirty seconds of ¬respite, before being ordered back to a square in the centre of the ring known as the ‘scratch’. Opponents hideously bludgeoned one another until it became impossible to distinguish who the boxer was, all facial features and indeed power of recollection being removed. Cribb and Molineaux were the two greatest names of the ring, all of England including ‘Mad’ King George III clamored for the fight. Picture Tom, climbing into the scratch to the baleful melody of a poorly performed Yankee Doodle Dandy, the home crowd booing him. They puckered one another over and back or eighteen rounds and Molineaux began to get the upper hand, whilst he had Cribb on the ropes, the crowd invaded the ring, in the madness, Molineaux received several broken fingers. The fight was continued, Molineaux being pounded, jaw fractured, rib cage shattered; George MacDonald Fraser describes it,

‘They were mauling each other like sleep-walkers floundering in the mud with the rain washing the blood and mire off o’them….‘You never saw two men so dead and yet alive, disfigured so bloody you could only tell ’em apart by their skins.’

In the thirty-fifth round, the Mighty Molineaux gave way. The Pugilist at Rest.

Linus Bird – Star Spangled &  Adrift

Theogenes was the Daddy of all gladiators, I first came across his fine self in The Pugilist at Rest from the little known but terrific writer Thom Jones. He told of sheer brutality, the two contestants not even being allowed the freedom of a ring, instead they were strapped to boulders facing one another, once the signal was given, they would commence
hammering one another with fists encased in heavy leather thongs. Incredibly,
it was a fight to the death, fourteen hundred and twenty-five times Theogenes
was strapped to the boulder and fourteen hundred and twenty-five times…think
about it…the man was not a man, a giant perhaps…

Similar to Arnie ‘Mr. Olympia’Schwarzenegger, Theogenes used his sporting prowess as a springboard to launch a political career, albeit he went a step beyond hinting at divinity by
declaring himself divine and a son of Hercules. I don’t know about you, but I
kind of believe the guy, I mean he could eat an ox, remained unbeaten for
twenty-two years, beating fourteen hundred and twenty-five opponents, who let’s
face it probably looked like Arnie ‘I’ll be back’ Schwarzenegger.

Indeed, even after his death he continued to exert a significant influence, and is that not
a definition of divinity? Following instructions delivered by none the less
than the Delphic Oracle, the citizens of Thasos brought his statue to their
city to deliver it from plague. Thom Jones describes the statue of Theogenes in
the Terne Museum in Rome as thus, ‘a muscular athlete approaching middle age.
He has a thick beard and a full head of curly hair. In addition to the telltale
broken nose and cauliflower ears of a boxer, the puglist has the slanted,
dropping brows that bespeak of torn nerves. Also, the forehead is piled with
scar tissue…His neck and trapezius muscles are well developed. Hs shoulders are
enormous; his chest is thick and flat, without the bulging pectorals of the
bodybuilder. His back, oblique, and abdominal muscles are highly pronounced ,
and he has the greatest asset of the modern boxer – sturdy legs. The arms are
large, particularly the forearms, which are reinforced with leather wrappings
of the cestus. It is the body of a small heavyweight – lithe rather than bulky,
but by no means lacking in power: a Jack Johnson or a Dempsey…’

So, a man after all, but what a man. But I digress, I mean to tell you of Tom ‘The Moor’
Molineaux of this parish, Galway City, Connemara, Connaught, Ireland. However,
Tom was originally a Virginian, born there on a slave plantation, from an early
age he was pitched against fellow slaves for the amusement of the plantation
owners, he was good, very good, so good, he fought his way to freedom and moved
to England to become a professional boxer.

In December 18010, he challenged TomCribb for the heavyweight title of the world. They battered one another overthirty-three rounds in the chilling rain and heavy wind of Shenington Hollow ofOxfordshire; the battle of the two Toms, with Cribb emerging as the victor, if such can be called such. They met again, almost a year later at Thistleton Gap,
Leceister, how could you go back to such a thing? They did. Cribb won again. I
speak of Tom Molineaux because he died of liver failure in the regimental
bandhall of the 77^TH Regiment of Galway. Tom had being on a
grotesque circus circuit of travelling boxers, modern gladiators in the sodden
fields of Monaghan and Westmeath. He had taken ill whilst in Galway, the circus
had left town without him, and so this great Virginian of Herculean proportion
was found near death under the Spanish Arch by two soldiers who brought him to
the bandhall where he died, he was thirty-four years old. He is buried in St.
James Cemetery, Mervue, Galway City. It was of course The Fox who told me of
Tom Molineaux, I had a few brewskies on me at the time, so perhaps it was
maudlin sentimentality, but I felt no shortage of affiliation with the great
boxer, after all we are two Americans adrift in the town of Galway, we Yankees
gotta stick together. I trawled St. James’ cemetery to pay homage at his grave
but poignantly I could not locate, I wonder if it has sunk and being built upon
by another set of coffins? That thought really stuck in my craw, this modern
Theogenes, the Black Ajax as he was known, removed from memory completely. His
feats were beyond mere boxing, fights then were a brutal mixture of boxing and wrestling with almost ­anything allowed, including head-­butting, bone-breaking and vicious
kicks to the kidneys. There were no timed rounds and fighting continued until a
man was down. He was given thirty seconds of ­respite, before being ordered
back to a square in the centre of the ring known as the ‘scratch’. Opponents
hideously bludgeoned one another until it became impossible to distinguish who the
boxer was, all facial features and indeed power of recollection being removed.

Cribb and Molineaux were the two greatest names of the ring, all of England
including ‘Mad’ King George III clamored for the fight. Picture Tom, climbing
into the scratch to the baleful melody of a poorly performed Yankee Doodle
Dandy, the home crowd booing him. They puckered one another over and back or
eighteen rounds and Molineaux began to get the upper hand, whilst he had Cribb
on the ropes, the crowd invaded the ring, in the madness, Molineaux received
several broken fingers. The fight was continued, Molineaux being pounded, jaw
fractured, rib cage shattered; George MacDonald Fraser describes it,

‘They were mauling
each other like sleep-walkers floundering in the mud with the rain washing the
blood and mire off o’them….‘You never saw two men so dead and yet alive,
disfigured so bloody you could only tell ’em apart by their skins.’

In the thirty-fifth round, the Mighty Molineaux gave way.

Linus Bird – Star Spangled & Adrift

“An incredible, impossible, mad place. I tell you the thing does not belong to any world that you and I have lived and worked in; it is part of our dream world.”

The man speaks truth, late in the evening, over a porter in Dick Mack’s in Dingle, thinking back on my day, it was akin to having temporarily left the planet.

The Mighty Skellig

‘Twas the Sons of Milesius who  first discovered them, it is said that one of the brothers Irr had being drowned and so was buried here. The ancient lines of lore go thus:

The stout Amhergen was in battle slain

Irr lost his life upon the Western main

Skellig’s high cliffs the hero’s bones contain

Even today, coming upon them has the sense of the pioneer, these mighty rocks, surging out of the bellows of the mighty Atlantic ocean. They are home to the little gannet, a peculiar bird in that cannot set flight from any plain surface, it needs to fling itself into the air and so nests on the sheerest of precipices, more like a diver than a flyer.They are neighbour to another hardy buck who resides there, called a Didleen, which is thus called after the sound it makes Didleens…. Didleens….Didleens……..Other citizens include fulmars, kittiwakes, Razorbills, Commons, Guillemots, Atlantic Puffins, Storm Petrels, Manx Shearwaters, what a dizzying array…..

There was an Abbey on the main Dingle peninsula near the town of Ballinskelligs, called St. Michael; it was from there that the first human  residents of the islands camefrom; perhaps as punishment? Or they were chosen as the most worthy? Who knows?
They erected seven oratories, or cells, the famous beehive huts or clochans.

Beehive Huts

The large Skellig was a place of pilgrimage and although the stations can still  be seen, it is not attempted anymore as it is literally risking your life,  never mind your soul…At one point the way led to the brink of a precipice, with the ocean breaking nine hundred feet below; here the pilgrim had to rest one foot on a projecting stone, and to feel around the angle of a huge rock for the second projection, on which to place the second foot and so search for the continuation for the point. Another part was akin to walking the plank, but thinner, splint, protruding fourteen foot out over the said nine hundred foot drop, out you went, bent and kissed the cross etched into the end and turn and come back…don’t look down! It is said that a fella from Dingle, pirouetted at the end and back he came, it is
said a Welshman attempting the same trick, fell and plunged to Davy Jones’ locker!

Indeed, the mighty Skellig has murdered a few, Lady Nelson, a frigate, laden with wine and fruit from the shores of Oporto, smashed against the brigand enroute to London, the restaurants of Piccadilly being forced to endure a sober evening, Lady Nelson port is still a well rehearsed luxuriant tipple in the taverns of Killarney.

The great Skellig conists of two peaks, which shoot perpendicularly upwards in proud companionship; the highest is an awesome seven hundred and ten feet. On approaching them you hear the rushing sound of waves dashing themselves into showers of white spray, and the shrill cry of the birds, echoed from the wave-worn caves, the noise IS DEAFENING, the mighty Atlantic continuing it’s relentless beating of the mighty rock, who dares to defy it. Looking up at the inaccessible rock, you see rows and rows of
countless gulls and puffins, decked out in military precision, bizarrely looking
quite cosy! Local fisherman lore, has it that the Skellig is like a magnet for any passing bird, who feels compelled to alight and help cover it.

A leap onto the rock, makes one feel like Armstrong or Aldrin, stairway to heaven or hell, depending on the heart or if you have  indulged too much on the full Irish brekfast.

Don’t Look Down!!

God, it is hard to imagine, a handful of monks existing outhere in the depths of December 600 years ago, huddled in their beehive huts all very Dantesque. Skellig Michael is a remote, precipitous, rocky island situated eight miles from the coast of County Kerry,
Ireland. It is the larger of two jagged islands that jut out from the swell of
the Atlantic Ocean and thrust 230 meters straight up. Legends tell of the importance of
the islands in prehistoric, pagan times, but the known history of Skellig
Michael begins when a monastery was founded near the summit in the middle of
the 7th century. Consisting of distinctive ‘beehive’ stone huts clustered around an oratory and a tiny vegetable garden, this was truly a place of solitude for the few monks who lived here, only accessible by climbing 600stone steps up the cliff. Perched on the higher, southern peak of the island isanother oratory, intended for a single monk seeking true isolation amongst the cathedral-like rocky spires.

The monastic peace was shattered in the 9th century when a number of Viking raids threatened the existenceof this tiny community. But despite this, the monastery survived up until the 12th century when the monks abandoned the island and moved to the mainland. Wimps! They only lasted six hundred years!

Religion’s cells that still outbrave

The force of tempests and the weight of days

Yet, in each wall Time’s busy finger plays,

Marking it’s slow, but no less certain doom,

On man’s proud works.
On man himself he preys.

To him he gives but flitting hours to bloom,

And, sparing none, lays dust to dust within the tomb.

Linus Bird – Star Spangled & Adrift

“Pint.”

Said with conviction.

“Will you be trading in the pooch?”

“I’ve loot.”

“Show it here so.”

Bullfrog clicks his webbed fingers, followed by fierce rummaging which almost lifts the cavernous trenchcoat to the ceiling. Eventually, triumphantly, a large coin is hacked out like a rabbit from a top hat.

“Aha!”

The coin is as thick as a heel and large like a casino chip.

“A piece of metal?”

“A piece of eight!”

“A piece of rubble.”

“That is a doubloon, minted in sixteenth century Lima, scooped from a Spanish Armada galleon at the foot of the Atlantic off the coast of Mayo landed here on your sloppy counter!”

“I don’t trust anything scooped from Mayo, Lima made or not.”

“Jaysus, will you just look at it…”

The Bullfrog performs his bidding, rolling the doubloon twixt his greenish doigts, it catches the pale sunlight, glances off a Jameson mirror, for a second the tiny pub is illumintated, the dog barks.

“Right so, I’ll take it.”

“I want ten pints for it.”

“Would you get up the yard!”

“That piece is worth two hundred American dollars.”

“Go down to the Bank of Ireland so and see what they say to you.”

“Eight.”

“A half dozen.”

“Seven.”

“A half dozen.”

They shake vigorously on it and the rake draws up a bar stool.

He downs his first, whilst savouring his second, I endeavour to slake my curiosity and ask the Rake,

“How did you come upon something like that?”

“I swam to the bottom of the ocean and purloined from the skeleton of Santa Cruz.”

The bar laughs with him and at me. I laugh along, to laugh at myself is something I’ve never minded.

“Where?”

“Jaysus do they teach ye anything in those fancy New York prep schools? Time for a history lesson boyos”

He takes a deep draught and falls to his feet, legs apart, chest out, head back and he recounts –

Twas the late 1500’s Spain was strong, she took control of the Dutchies and branded them Netherlands of Spain Spanish Inquisition are still spoken of with fear
Lizzie, the Virgin Queen, well she got to helping them Spain, she angry
A family affair! Lizzie I being Phillip II of the parish of Spain’s sister in law, Bloody Mary (we’ve all had a few) was his moth Lizzie caps it off by chopping off Mary Queen of Scot’s head, Pip’s ally and fellow Catholic Spain launches her Armada, the mightiest fleet of ships that ever sailed Zabras, pataches, galleons, hundreds of ‘em, sailing in a crescent shape
Cornish fishing the Lizard viewed the whole fleet float pass Baton Beacons warned London & Drake Sir Francis of Tides took time bowling Plymouth Hoe crafty as the sands of Devonport Hellburners cannonballed into the Crescent which broke into the Dark Side of England Adup the East Coast, over Scotland and down the Irish Coast Hurricane hearped, sucking rope, hobbling, at war with wind and waves Sunk they did to the bottom of Galway Bay And we’ve being drinking off their gold ever since! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
And with a round of applause the Rake shuffled back to finish the rest of his pints and the dog awoke.

Galway, I love this place. I really do.

Linus Bird – Star Spangled & Adrift

The crowd, rapturous in their applause, hung on every word. Barack told a personal anecdote, with powerful connotations. He related the fact that although he always knew that he had Irish blood, he was never quite sure of the exact lineage and told of his delight at what the Irish genealogists had unearthed. He went on to say, “This information would have come in handy when I was first running for public office in Chicago. Chicago is the apital of the Midwest Irish, it is said that you can stand on 79th St. Chicago and hear the brogue of every county of Ireland. “ He related that he was partaking in the Chicago Paddy’s Day parade – “we were the very last marchers, after two hours it was finally our turn, the city workers were right behind us cleaning up the garbage, it was pretty depressing, but I betcha those organisers are watching this and feeling pretty bad because we’ve got some parade going on right here…”

He was gracious to his 8th cousin Henry, now affectionately referred to as Henry the VIIIth, who had set the ball in motion in getting Obama to come to Ireland.

He detailed his Irish ancestry – of how a young shoemaker named Falmouth Kearney; his great, great, great , great grandfather, “left to seek a new life in the new world, (like so many others ) It is why we are a nation of immigrants from all around the world.”

He illustrated remarkable perception at the lot of the Irish emigrant, using poetic language such as: “How hard it must have being to see Dingle hills and Donegal cliffs recede…Faith in the idea of America, a place where you could make it if you tried. Passing on that faith to their children and their children’s children, we call it the American Dream…. Never has a nation so small inspired so much in another…Irish signatures are on our founding documents, Irish blood spilled on our battlefields, Irish sweat built our great cities, our spirit is eternally refreshed by Irish story and Irish song, our public life by the humour and heart and dedication by servants with names like Kennedy, Reagan, O’Neill and Moynihan; so you could say there has always being a little green behind the red white and blue…When the father of our nation George Washington needed an army, it was the fierce fighting of your sons that it caused the British to lament that we have lost America through the Irish…And as George Washington said himself, when our friendless standards were first unfurled who were the strangers who first mustered around our staff? And when it reeled in the light who more brilliantly sustained it than Erin’s sons? When Abraham Lincoln struggled to preserve our young union, over 100,000 Irish joined the cause, green flags with gold harps waved beside our star spangled banner…”

Barack is not the first American President to visit these shores, far from it, he is just the last in a long and very illustrious line.

The first president to visit Ireland was no longer president when he arrived in Dublin in 1879. Ulysses S Grant arrived in Dublin on January 3, 1879 and over the next few days, visited Trinity College, the Royal Irish Academy and the Bank of Ireland. Speaking to a crowd outside of City Hall, Grant said: “I am by birth a citizen of a country where there are more Irishmen, either native born or the descendants of Irishmen, than there are in all of Ireland.”

JFK’s trip to Ireland in June 1963 is now the stuff of legend. He met with the Irish elder statesman Eamonn De Valera and was greeted like a rock star. In the weeks leading up to the trip, the humble cottage owned by Mary Kennedy Ryan – a distant relative – had to endure several modest improvements. Concrete was poured in the muck-filled front of the barn and indoor plumbing was installed. (As Kennedy family historian Thomas Maier has noted, though Mrs. Ryan seemed like a quaint rural matriarch, she actually had an active past with the IRA.)

In Galway, JFK waxed lyrical, “If the day was clear enough, and if you went down to the bay and you looked west, and your sight was good enough, you would see Boston, Massachusetts. And if you did, you would see down working on the docks there some Doughertys and Flahertys and Ryans and cousins of yours who have gone to Boston and made good.”

If JFK’s visit was about finally taking down the “No Irish Need Apply” signs, the Reagan era allowed Irish Americans to grant themselves a little hard-earned nostalgia.

Reagan himself acknowledged this when he visited Ireland for four days in June, 1984: “I feel like I’m about to drown everyone in a bath of nostalgia.” While in Ireland, Reagan visited the small Tipperary village of Ballyporeen and the church at which his great-grandfather Michael, who left Ireland in the 1850s, was baptized. Reagan famously visited John O’Farrell’s pub, which later changed its name to The Ronald Reagan.

The facade of that building was later transported to The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in California, where it still stands.. Here visitors can enjoy a cold Smithwicks from the same bar as the President while gazing at the huge Boeing 707 Airforce One on display and the rugged Californian Simi Valley’s harsh and unforgiving landscape. The pub has the original taps, furniture, signs and pretty much everything which greeted the Reagan’s when they visited in ’84.

Arguably the most historically significant presidential trip to Ireland was Bill Clinton’s. The first sitting president to visit the North, Clinton had already made his mark on the Northern Irish peace process by the time he visited in November of 1995. Clinton had angered British diplomats as well as Unionists by granting Sinn Féin leader Gerry Adams a visa in 1994. That same year, George Mitchell was tapped as the lead negotiator in the ongoing peace process. The 1990s had already seen nearly 400 deaths as a result of the ongoing Troubles, so President Clinton was by no means intervening in a stable or easy situation. People from both sides of the divide, however, greeted him with wild cheers when he visited both the Shankill and Falls roads.

Indeed, one could spend a vacation in Ireland, just visiting the ancestral homes of those who have held the highest office in America:

• Andrew Jackson (7th President 1829–37) was born in the predominantly Scotch-Irish Waxhaws area of South Carolina two years after his parents left Carrickfergus in County Antrim. A heritage centre in the village pays tribute to the legacy of ‘Old Hickory’, the People’s President.