Solo travel. It’s a funny thing. One minute it feels exhilarating, freeing, adventurous, and full of wonder. The next, however, it can feel lonely, isolating, and maybe even a bit scary. I think my trip from Doolin to Westport encapsulated all of those feelings!

From the near-death ride up a sketchy path heading to the Cliffs of Moher, to meeting new friends, then bidding them farewell and realizing how relieved I was to be alone again resulted in quite a roller-coastery day for me! Riding with fellow bikers was fulfilling, but getting back to my own skill level and stopping when I wanted was much better. So, after saying goodbye to Ruben I went back the way we’d come to pick up my missed turn. I felt lighter at heart and more confident in the saddle at my own pace. I stopped along the way for a few photos and just really enjoyed the day.

Shortly after we parted company I stopped at “Murrooghtoohy”; a limestone beach strewn with boulders as far as the eye could see. It reminded me a lot of the beach on the Bay of Fundy in Clare, Nova Scotia. Granted the boulders there are rounded from rolling up and down the shore and not as flat and craggy as these, but the feeling deep in my soul was similar.

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I carried on towards Galway. It was the weekend of the Galway Races, so I have to admit I dreaded the potential heavy traffic ahead. Thankfully Paul and the gang at Celtic Rider set up the GPS so I just skirted the city. There was still some slow going here and there due to the vast number of people attending the races, but all in all it was just like any other city traffic. I couldn’t help but smile as I recalled my own win on the races a few days ago!

I didn’t get too far out of Galway before my heart leapt into my throat, I felt the blood leave my extremities and the overwhelming “I’m-hiding-in-the-best-spot-ever-and-having-so-much-fun-playing-hide-and-seek-that-I-could-just-scream” urge to pee my pants flooded over me. I made a four-point stop in the middle of the road and felt my chin brush past the mic inside my helmet as my jaw fell open.

Back in the early stages of planning this trip, my goal was to find family. Growing up Jordan meant I had the privilege of hearing all these amazing stories about mysterious men travelling from Ireland during the potato famine to find a better life in Canada. Stories of stone houses, hard living, and ties to Ireland were tales I held on to like they were gossamer threads connecting me to something better… something… more. If I held on too tightly they disappeared and I had to struggle to find them again. If I let go, I’d never know how they were connected; how I fit in to everything.

With a growing lump threatening to close off my breath and huge tears promising to breach my lids, I eased off the road and parked my bike. My hands were shaking as I pulled the helmet from my head and fumbled out of my gloves.

Only seconds earlier I’d been toodling along lost in my own thoughts when I saw it. Even now as I type this I feel the surge of joy and excitement I felt in that moment as I skipped across the road toward the front door. Smiling so hard I thought my face might ACTUALLY split in two, I pushed through the doors and found myself standing inside Jordan’s Bar!

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I wondered if the two patrons at the far end of the bar or the bartender serving them could hear the relentless “whoosh-whoosh-whoosh” as the blood pounded in my ears. Now, you have to realize how critically important finding Jordans was for me. It was just something I needed to do and there I was. Standing IN JORDAN’S BAR!

So it kind of went like this:

People at the far end lazily, and disinterestedly, glance my way.

I say, a little too boisterously, “Hi! I’m looking for Jordans!“

The bartender looks up and without moving hesitantly offers, “I’m Jordan.” This is quickly followed by, “What do you want?“

My grin broadens and I chuckle to myself thinking, “Yup, you are TOTALLY Jordan!”. But I say, “I’m Deanna Jordan from Canada and I’m here on a bit of an adventure looking for MY Irish Jordans!“

By this time he is on my end of the bar, but keeping his distance. I’m sure the crazed, manic look in my eyes gave him reason enough. I asked him his name and how long his family had been in this area. Noel Jordan said he bought the place about ten years ago. I asked if he was from the area, or if he’d moved from elsewhere in Ireland. He was not really keen on this discussion, but I was so damned excited to meet him that I wasn’t letting him get away on me just yet.

It turns out that Noel’s family had been outside Galway there for about the last 100 years. Not long at all by Irish standards, and he didn’t know where they might have been before that. When I told him I was hoping to find my family tree in the Crossmolina area he didn’t seem too hopeful for me. He said he didn’t know of any other Jordans outside his own family and even then there weren’t that many.

Not to be discouraged I asked if I could take my picture with him and put it on my blog to show my family. He didn’t seem too eager, but I very excitedly told him he was my FIRST IRISH JORDAN! Well old Noel FINALLY cracked a smile and agreed to the picture.

Clearly it was way more fun for me than it was for Noel ;)

I didn’t stay long because, well, frankly I think I freaked everyone out. Besides, at this point I still believed I was going to find MY Jordans in Crossmolina.

He He He! Had to snap one more before hopping back on the bike!

It’s been almost two months since I stopped in to Noel’s. I wonder if my spirited entrance, goofy grin and big laugh pop into his head every now and then. If they do, I’m sure those memories are also accompanied by a full-body-shudder and a dash of gratitude that I didn’t stay long ;)