How Jim Flannery tracked down his Irish roots

Jim Flannery was a wonderful friend, a chaotic charmer. He came up to me on the World Desk one day in 1963 and said he had a bit of leave so was going off to Ireland to try and find an aunt. She lived in the home where his father grew up.  He knew the name of the village, somewhere in the west, but not much more. I said: “I’ve got leave. I’ll come with you”.

In Dublin, we checked records  in a church where I think his parents wed. That confirmed the name of Jim’s village. Off we went across Ireland. Arriving there we figured the best place for local information would be the pub.

With our beers the barman asked : “What are you lads doing here?”  Jim told him.  “Flannery. Flannery. The countryside’s full of Flannerys” the barman said laughing. He called over a few other patrons who promised to hunt around as well.

When we dropped into the pub next morning we were told with much cheering they’d found Jim’s aunt and drove us to her home. Jim was emotionally overcome at both finding his aunt and the home where his parents had lived.  He knelt down and kissed the fireplace. I was so touched.

After several cups of tea we caught a taxi back to the pub. I said to Jim how wonderful it was to have found his aunt and that he must write home immediately.  His sister would be thrilled.

“No I don’t think so,” Jim said somewhat indifferently.  I gasped. “For Pete’s sake Jim why not?”

“Well she writes to my aunt from time to time,” he said.  “So why on earth didn’t you ask her for your aunt’s address?” I replied. Jim: “I did. But I lost it.”

And if that wasn’t enough, when we returned to Dublin we found we did not have enough money to buy the ferry tickets back to England. A ferryman loaned us the cash.  Don’t you just love the Irish? ■