HOGANS IN IRELAND!

My mother first stepped on Irish soil in the early 1980s. She kissed the Blarney Stone, purchased crystal bud vases in Waterford and returned home with an ecru (and itchy) cabled Aran Island sweater that she wore with singular pride. Most dear to her heart was having walked in the footsteps of her grandfather, Edward Hogan, in County Clare. 

Later, at age 73, white-haired Lucille Hogan Burkhardt decided her children and grandkids should do the same. So in 1988, she organized the first “Hogans in Ireland” gathering in Milltown Malbay, a hard-scrabble village snuggled along the Atlantic coast just south of the Cliffs of Moher — but significantly, the birthplace of her grandfather.

(Val, grandson Max and daughter alex take in the cliffs of moher.)

This past July, various “Hogans” boarded Aer Lingus flights for a week-long gathering in County Clare — our fourth reunion there. Thirty passports indicated home addresses in California, Colorado, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, New York, New Hampshire and Maine, but for one laughter-filled, Rummikub-playing, Guinness-sipping week, we were all Irish, ranging in age from three months to 84 full years.

(the oldest hogan — my sister robin burkhardt — and the youngest, three-month-old wells lucille walker.

As always, we stayed in Milltown Malbay at the Quilty Holiday Cottages — unadorned, sparkling-clean, simple white stucco bungalows featuring peat-burning fireplaces and panoramic vistas of the adjacent Atlantic. The cottages surrounded an acred corral where two frisky donkeys brayed “hello” each morning. Sister Robin scissored cardboard signs in an “H” shape for each cottage which we placed in our front windows and helped deter us from barging in on the O’Rourke’s from Dublin in their next-door rental.

The party — whoops, reunion — began at 1 PM on Sunday, July 16 when we filled a back room at Cogan’s Bar & Restaurant in Milltown Malbay. Bleary-eyed and jet-lagged, with happy hugs and “Top ‘o the mornin’ to yah” greetings, we plotted our week — trips to the Cliffs of Moher and the nearby Burren, a medieval evening banquet at Dunguaire Castle in County Galway, a family game night highlighted with a water balloon toss and musical chairs (“Watch out for cousin Ern — he’s got sharp elbows.”).  

We shopped at the Kenny Woolen Mills in Lahinch where many of our young lads left wearing tweed caps. (I bought granddaughter Maddie a silver Claddagh ring, hoping that one day she’ll give it to her daughter.) Some Hogans plotted plans to drive through the “Dingleberry" Peninsula, visit a nearby falconry farm or head to Ennis for a seafood chowder lunch.

Every night after watching the sun set at 10 PM, the whole group headed to Robert’s, Ross’s or our cottage for into-the-wee-hours blood-thirsty games of charades, hearts, spades or Russian bank. Others just sat by the peat fire listening to the repartee and conversations. (“He snores, I can’t sleep in the same room.” “Tomorrow night, let’s go to the pub at half nine to hear trad music.”)

One sunny day (actually, the ONLY sunny day), my sister and I and several cousins boarded a ferry in Doolin for the half-hour crossing to Inishmore, largest of the three Aran Islands. 

(Personal aside: I’d gone there 25 years ago with Mr. Wonderful for a three-day magazine assignment to write about this last bastion of pure Irish culture. Back then, when Bob and I arrived and boarded a pony trap to bounce seven klicks out to a spartan B&B … in the pouring rain … I remember Mr. W. suggesting, “You CAN get this story in one night, right, Val?”)

As the ferry docked, it was apparent that tourism was thriving in Inishmore. This minuscule stepping stone several miles out from the Cliffs of Moher has 900 year-round residents and the majority have learned to capitalize on their short Irish summers by introducing visitors to the best of the island. 

Mountain bike and pony trap vendors stood at the ready, eyeballing potential passengers.  While some cousins hopped on bikes to explore the hinterlands, Robin, Lin and I found an available pony trap driver (with a horse named Bob the Fob) who took us on a peaceful clip-clop ride along the sea, past miles of stone walls and weathered stucco-and-beam cottages. We stopped at a cemetery and strode through knee-high grass, photographing moss-covered tombstones marked O’Malley and McNamara — no Hogans, however. 

The highlight of our week is the Shamrock & Roll Revue, a cacophonous and chortling post-dinner gathering the last night where everyone dons their “Hogans in Ireland 2023” teeshirt, then sings, dances, recites poetry or tells a really bad joke. Emcee brother Robert (aka “Blarney Bob”) introduced each act, including eight-year-old Quinn’s leg-kicking tribute to “Riverdance” and nephews Patrick and David’s raucous rendition of “Whiskey in a Jar.”

Our great-grandfather Edward Hogan left Ireland in the early 1850s, shortly after the Great Famine crushed his lush beautiful island country. He sailed from Cork with his young wife Bridget O’Connor Hogan, also in her early 20s, and landed at Ellis Island to start life anew in New York City. 

Their son John Hogan, my grandfather, became a successful stockbroker who lost it all in the ’29 crash. My mother worked her way through Skidmore College, then met my dad and had four kids. Today her four kids are all in their 80s. As we stood arm in arm at Dunguaire Castle, we recognized that this was probably our last family reunion in Ireland. 

freagh — where hogan ashes were scattered.

When we had come here in 2014, several of us went to a windswept cove in Freagh, three miles from Milltown Malbay, to sprinkle the ashes of younger cousin Sandy Loane Cunningham who had died the prior winter. This year on our last day, a group returned to Freagh to take in the beauty of this spiritual site. “Not a bad place to spend eternity,” brother Ross said.

(the elders — brother robert, sister robin, me and brother ross.

The four “lucilles,” named after my mohter: daughter alexandra lucille Tamis maccannell, niece katie Lucille burkhardt budde holding three-month-old Wells Lucille Walker, the newest lucille; and me, valerie lucille ……