(This article was published in Family Tree in 2015)
I began researching my maternal family history in 1997. My mother was born in South Wales, as was her mother, so it came as a complete surprise to us to discover, when I received a copy of my grandmother’s birth certificate, that her mother Catherine’s surname was Danehy. Not at all Welsh-sounding, I’m sure you’ll agree. Through further research, I found out that Catherine Danehy’s mother was Irish – her surname was recorded on Catherine’s birth certificate as Phaley.
I discovered the family originated from County Cork, Ireland, but oddly, when they arrived in South Wales in the 1850s they began using the surname Field or Fielding. Try as I may, I could not pinpoint where they came from in Cork. If anyone doesn’t know how big the county of Cork is, it’s roughly the size of Wales!
Over the coming years I tried everything I could to find the name of the village they came from. To no avail. I never gave up and went through phases where I spent days and weeks going back over what I knew and continuing the search. Some 15 years later, I hit the jackpot! Thanks to a project funded by the Irish Government, and various charities, I found the free Irish Genealogy website www.irishgenealogy.ie, which lists the church records for almost all of Cork. Having built up a little knowledge over the years, I had learned that the surname Fielding/Field is an anglicised version of the Irish ‘Fehily’ (which the Welsh registrar wrote as ‘Phaley’ on my great-grandmother’s birth certificate). Basically, Field, Fielding, Phaley and Fehily are the same name! Through the website, I found the marriage entry for my maternal line ancestors, Patrick Fehily (born 1811) who married Catherine Collins (born 1811) in Ballinspittle in the barony of Courceys, County Cork. They married in Holy Trinity Church in March 1835 and their first child, Philip, was baptised just over nine months later on Christmas Day (quick conceptions are clearly a family trait!).
Each summer, I take a long weekend to visit places of interest connected to my ancestors. Having spent several of these in South Wales, I decided I must go to Cork and visit this little church in Ballinspittle. So, taking along two friends for the ride, we arrived in Cork in August.
Having dropped our bags off at our accommodation (see my ‘My trip tip’), my friends and I spent Saturday walking around Cork, taking in the scenery and finding our feet. I had picked up a bus timetable, as there were no trains to Ballinspittle. However, the bus only ran to the village twice a week, not on a Sunday when we had planned to go. Looking at the map, I could see a town called Kinsale about 5 miles from Ballinspittle, so the following day we got the 10.30am bus there, resolving to walk to the village if the weather was good. An hour later we arrived at Kinsale, a beautiful seaside village with lots going on and much to see. However, the weather was dreadful, so I said to my friends: ‘Shall we take a taxi to Ballinspittle and then we can visit the church, take a few photos, and come back here to spend the rest of the day?’ ‘Good idea,’ they replied, so we flagged down a taxi. When we told the driver where we wanted to go, he said: ‘Whatever are you doing in Ballinspittle?’ So I told him I was on an ancestry mission. After hearing about my Fieldings, he said: ‘Well, there’s two Fielding families in Ballinspittle – Jonas and John, they are brothers, and both have farms.’ Oh, that’s really interesting, I thought.
A few minutes later he dropped us outside Holy Trinity Church. Morning mass was still going on, and the little church was full to bursting. So full in fact that speakers had been placed outside for those that couldn’t get in. It was a proper family affair, with children sitting on the walls with their parents listening to the sermon. As this ended and people filtered out, we walked around the church, but to my disappointment, there was no graveyard. We took some photographs and, as we were leaving, my friend Hazel said: ‘You go stand on the steps of the church and I’ll go down the car park to get the whole church in the picture.’ At the end of the car park there were just two cars left where two men were stood chatting. One said to Hazel: ‘Would you like me to take that, then you can all get in the picture?’ ‘Thank you,’ she replied. After he’d taken a few photos, we walked down to thank him. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he asked what we were doing there. Having told him my story, I asked if he knew where the graveyard for the church was. He pointed to a hill a few miles away: ‘It is up there, in the old church,’ adding, ‘tell you what, if you want to go hop in my car and I’ll drive you over. I live over that way.’ He assured us it would be no trouble, so we thanked him and took up the offer.
On the way, the lovely chap surprised us by saying: ‘You ladies must be getting hungry, and as it’s lunch time, we’ll pick my wife up and go to a local pub for some lunch, shall we?’ ‘Oh we can’t possibly intrude on your time any further,’ we argued, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. As we walked around the graveyard, we saw a chap tending the graves. The two men seemed to know each other, and our kind Samaritan told the other man what we were doing. He approached us, saying: ‘There are no Fielding graves here, but I do know John Fielding and he’d be more than happy to have a chat with you, so if you jump in my car when you’ve finished here I will be delighted to take you.’ Such generosity brought a lump to my throat. What kind people these were. ‘But won’t he mind? We can’t possibly just drop in on someone we don’t even know without giving them warning, can we?’ ‘You can in our village,’ he said. I was nervous but, having come so far, the explorer in me was telling me to go for it! So, saying goodbye to our first Samaritan, we found ourselves in our next Samaritan’s car. He was called Dan. On the way Dan called his wife and the conversation went like something out of a comedy script! ‘Hello dear, put lunch on hold today as I’ve just picked up three strange women in the graveyard…’
A few miles later we found ourselves in the yard of a large farmhouse. Dan knocked at the door and a lady with a lovely face and a beaming smile appeared. He explained what we were doing and she walked over to the car, which we were too shy to emerge from. I opened the door and she said, ‘Come in ladies, I’ll put the kettle on.’ We followed her into the huge country kitchen and she sat us down around a long benched table. ‘I’ll make you some tea and then fetch John.’ We all sat there – including our new pal Dan – drinking our tea. Soon afterwards the back door opened and in walked a tall stout man, dressed in working attire. He had beautiful eyes and, before saying a word, walked over to the three of us and eyed us up and down one by one for a few moments. He then pointed at me and said: ‘You must be the Fielding, I can tell, you look like one of us!’ I was astounded. He sat with us and listened while I told him what I knew of my Fieldings. While I was speaking, Bernie, his wife, brought out a pile of dinner plates and began laying the table for lunch! Out came the huge ham, cheeses, homemade bread and cakes, home-grown tomatoes and so on. The three of us sat staring in amazement.
John told me Fielding is such an unusual name for those parts that if my Fieldings did indeed marry in Holy Trinity Church, there would certainly be a link. He said there was always a John in his line. His father was John, and his father’s father was John. I told him that one of the witnesses at my Patrick Fielding’s wedding was ‘John Fielding,’ who I assumed may have been his brother. We chatted more over lunch, at the same time Dan was still with us listening intently. I sincerely thanked John and Bernie for giving up their time and their hospitality and as we were about to leave (or so I thought) John said: ‘Right, jump in my car and I’ll take you to the graveyard where all the Fieldings are.’ ‘Wow, are you sure, you’ve been so kind and we’ve already taken up too much of your time?’ But he insisted.
So off on another adventure we rode! Soon the car stopped on a tiny country lane at the top of a field. We all got out of the cars (Dan was still with us). ‘Follow me,’ said John. So we next found ourselves climbing over a sty, trotting through a field of cows (whom John knew personally – he had names for them all!) and dancing between cow pats riddled all over the place. We weren’t prepared at all as we all wore sandals, with Lesley, my other friend, wearing flip-flops! Hazel was tip-toeing at the back, shouting, ‘But I’m scared of cows!’, with Dan reassuring her not to worry, he’d save her if they turned nasty! Then we approached an electric barbed-wire fenced area surrounding an old chapel, with numerous graves. Most of the gravestones had been worn down by the passage of time, and the wind. John took us to several Fielding gravestones, but the lettering was so pitted and corroded that it was hard to read. Bless him, Dan had a solution and ran back to his car where, surprisingly, he had a wire brush in the boot. He came back and began to scrub the headstones. Bit by bit the wording became more clear. I couldn’t take it all in on the spot, so I took photographs.
Afterwards, as we walked back to the car – dazed, really, at our adventure – John then took us to a modern cemetery, where his parents were buried. After I’d taken more photos, and we walked back to the car, I expected to say goodbye, but John had another surprise for us. He drove a few miles and entered the grounds of a magnificent mansion house. ‘What on earth is he doing?’ I thought. A lane ran through the grounds with a jeep parked in the middle, so we couldn’t pass. John got out of his car and walked into the house, bringing with him the keys to move the jeep. When he’d done so he drove half a mile or so down the lane and stopped outside a derelict cottage with a tree growing through the chimney. ‘The house up the road is my brother Jonas’s home. This is the old house where we were born and my parents lived most of their lives.’ I climbed into the house over piles of rubble and glanced around. The house oozed character and the hairs on the back of my neck spiked – I could almost feel the impressions of its inhabitants. I couldn’t believe what had happened. It was as if it was meant to be, and someone had planned every minute of the day especially for me.
By the time we left, the clock was ticking on and the day was almost over. The last bus back to Cork from Kinsale left at 7.30pm so, sadly, we had to say goodbye to John and Bernie – giving them both a big hug and our thanks. Dan gave us a quick tour of the area on the way back to Kinsale. We hadn’t known this before, but Kinsale is famously connected to the sinking of the ocean liner, the RMS Lusitania, which was torpedoed by a German U-boat during the First World War. Tragically, 1,198 people lost their lives and many of the bodies were washed up on the shore at Kinsale. We thanked Dan for his kindness and he dropped us back where we started that morning, at the bus stop.
Since then, I have kept in touch with John and Bernie. I have sent them all I know on my branch of the family and John has circulated it around his own branch, to see what we can match up. I have managed to decipher the photographs of the gravestones and am in the process of putting together a timeline of both branches to compare. The couple have since invited me over to stay so I’m already planning my next family history trip to Ballinspittle!
It was the best family history outing I’ve ever had, and highlights the importance of actually visiting places your ancestors lived, loved, worked and died. It was a very heart-warming experience, and one which I will never forget.