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...)
"At least I didn't hurt myself." He shouldered his bag with a smile and descended from the crater with careful steps.
It took another minute or two for Gary to find my ball, and I wasn't too thrilled when he did. It, too, was in the face of the crater, just a few feet to the right of the spot where the previous victim had left his mark. Following his example, I planted my left foot at the level of my belt and swung with gritted teeth. There was a muffled click at impact. My ball popped out of the crater and followed gravity down to the fairway.
It wasn't until we stepped onto the 12th tee that Terry Swinson said anything. "Did you visit with John Geraghty?" he asked.
"How's that?" I wasn't sure what he was referring to.
"The fellow you were talking to back there. Haven't you met?"
I laughed and shook my head. I had spoken to John Geraghty on the phone recently, having spotted his name near mine on the Belmullet Golf Club roster. He had invited me to his house for a visit as soon as would be mutually convenient. But all I knew about John was that he lived out on the Mullet and he was "a builder" — a description that covered half the adult males in Western Mayo.
"What are the odds," I asked, "that two guys with the same name, who don't know each other and live on opposite sides of the Atlantic, would each hit a golf ball to the same spot, at the same time, on the same day?"
Gary grinned as he teed up his ball. "If you're talking about that particular spot, I'd say the odds are pretty good."
A couple of nights later, I drove back down the Blacksod Road to Aughleam, which, like most of the hamlets on the peninsula, was little more than a cluster of roadside buildings and a few farmhouses served by a rib road. Following John Geraghty's directions, I turned right at the designated signpost and drove up into the hills toward the ocean. "Look for the house on the left with the lights," he had said on the phone. Sure enough, there was a modern house with a long, straight driveway and illuminated by a row of ornamental lamps, like an airport runway. I turned in and eased my way up the hedge-lined drive, wondering it if was the Mullet Peninsula's equivalent of Magnolia Lane.
John opened the front door as I was walking up and extended his hand in greeting. "We meet again." He welcomed me into an entry lit by a chandelier. A room to the right was dark, but I could see into a modern kitchen at the back of the house. John steered me into a tastefully decorated parlor. Elegant curtains framed the windows. A glass corner cabinet housed crystal. It was a room you would expect to find in a high-end hotel or inn.
The picture was completed when John's wife, Kathleen, entered the room. A beautiful brunette, she wore her hair in one of those stylish shag cuts you see on TV presenters. She had on a blue tank top with glittery trim, and from her toned figure I deduced that she either had a home gym or was a regular at the Broadhaven Bay Hotel's state-of-the-art leisure center. She sat next to her handsome, dark-haired husband, and I couldn't help thinking that, as a pair, they were glam enough to crack the cast of the British soap, Footballers' Wives.
"It's a lovely house," I ventured. "Did you build it yourself?"
"No, no," John said. "I met Kathleen and we moved here in 2001."
"We just got married this year," she volunteered. She slipped off her shoes and drew her legs up under her. "No going back now, I guess." They laughed together.
I asked John about his golf game, and he shrugged. "It's been a quiet year for me, golfwise. We've been finishing up the place on the island."
"The island?"
"Inishkea South." John explained that he had a 5.5-meter RIB, which stood for Rigid Inflatable Boat. It was one of those Zodiac-style outboards that I'd seen on Broadhaven Bay. "We launch it in Blacksod Bay and go out to the islands."
"John is a sea fanatic," Kathleen said, "like he's a golf fanatic."
"We stay on the island on weekends," John said. "If you stand on the 14th tee box, you can look out and see us." He looked at his wife. "I don't know which is more peaceful, being on the island or being on the golf course."
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