It was the second time I had this overwhelming feeling on the trip, like deja vu or a sense of place - being where I belong. The first time was in Ireland, outside Killarney at a famine field in the middle of nowhere. That time it was stronger and sadder. The field contained the bones of hundreds of people who died in the vicinity during the potato famine.
A small nondescript paddock with a sign. No memorial, few headstones, just long grass. A sad, quiet place. Others with me were similarly affected. We were mostly New Zealanders and Australians on a jaunt around Ireland, a place from which many of our ancestors hailed.
We were a happy bunch who really enjoyed each other’s company, as is the way with travellers from our part of the world. But we were very quiet at the local café where we stopped for coffee afterward.
The feeling lasted all my time in Killarney.
As far as I know, I have no connections to Bushey. All my English forebears were from the West Country. But I do have connections with Killarney through my Hennessey and Moriarty forebears.
In 2016 we were again in England, exploring the West Country. Both of us have ancestors from there, people who settled in Taranaki. I had the feeling again, but not as strong, around Okehampton and the surrounding villages. A feeling of having been there before; of deja vu again.
It’s a similar feeling I have had when visiting places in New Zealand where my forebears first settled.
It’s easier to explain in New Zealand because, I guess subconsciously, I identify with those places through photos, visits and recent family stories. Not overseas, though.
This was more than just feeling reminiscent about visiting places where my ancestors walked. It was like long-suppressed memories and a feeling of peace and security had awoken in me. But they weren’t memories. I hadn’t been there before. I had no known connection to Bushey at all.
I have never experienced this in other countries I have visited, other than when visiting churches on occasion.
Do we carry within us laid-down memories of the past? Before we were born? I have no idea. I’m not overly religious or spiritual. I accept death and its finality.
I have mixed feelings about the afterlife - a child-like hope for nicer things, but a certainty that death is just that, the end, just like it is for any other creature.
Do we inherit memories?
Well, I bravely asked a few mates. I thought it could be a good opportunity for some hilarity at my expense. Rob has gone all New Age on us.
One cobber, a guy known for his basic approach to life and his practical skills in all matters, suggested that I had found a “thin place” or, as he told me, “caol áit” in Gaelic, pronounced ‘keel awtch’. These places are close spaces between the physical and spiritual world, according to my old mate. This figures significantly in Celtic history, apparently.
My friend surprised me, as I never considered him as a person who was spiritual, let alone a Gaelic speaker, but there you go. You never know everything about your friends.
I am of an open mind about this but, being me, I have done a little bit of research for this column. I did find a disconcerting article written by a woman who admitted to similar feelings when visiting a famine grave site in Ireland, and also when visiting Killarney Cathedral, of all places.
I suppose I admit to feeling something when I visited Pūtiki Cemetery some years ago. I had never been there before and, as far as I know, have no family there. There was a sense of peace and safety but also of comfortable familiarity.
Maybe these “thin places” are crossovers between something we do not understand fully. People report such feelings often in cemeteries, at battle sites and in places of worship.
Maybe it’s just the proximity of death that sparks these feelings. That still does not explain why I felt as I did at Bushey. It was a nice feeling, though.
