Colby Holtz is a student at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and a Featured Blogger. He is interning with ISA in Dublin, Ireland.

Celebrating my grandfather, Jon, while working in Dublin has continued to prove a very rewarding and sentimental experience. I’ve stayed persistent in pursuing every expedition I can to extract the absolute most out of my time in Ireland. This philosophy has recently brought me on a few lovely hikes and day trips nearby.

County Cork was the first place I went outside of Dublin, and I took a bus to Blarney Castle and Gardens upon my arrival. I aimlessly walked around the gardens for hours with no map and got slightly lost, just as Jon would. I then waited in line to tour the castle, where I took my time squeezing into each and every corridor for pictures, reading the descriptions, and soaking in the history. At the top, I kissed the famous Blarney Stone and, according to folklore, received the “Gift of Gab,” or “the ability to speak with eloquence and fluency.” This is a skill my grandpa didn’t have to peck a rock for; he was just effortlessly well-spoken and welcoming to the people around him.

Me in the middle of kissing the Blarney Stone.

The gift didn’t wait long to rear its head. When I made my way to Cork City, I immediately became acquainted with a very whimsical saxophonist at the pub. He was from Baltimore (Maryland, not Ireland), and we bonded over our experiences as progressives growing up in environments that showed adversity to these ideas. He was a political activist who lit up when he noticed the anti-war messaging on my shirt and the country on my tote bag. “I knew you were a fellow comrade!” he enthusiastically blurted out with an infectious grin you only see from those who genuinely appreciate the presence of a stranger, those like my grandfather. We shared drinks and talked politics until my train to Dublin was due.

The Mutton Lane Inn pub in Cork City.

Before his health deteriorated, Jon loved everything about traveling and nature. He rambled about the places he’d been and the sights he’d seen all the time. I knew that not getting outside to see the countryside would be an affront to his memory I’ve been honoring.

The day after my trip to Cork, the cohort of interns I arrived with and my already tired legs hiked about five miles through the village of Howth. I’ve never seen anything like the scenery there, nor the weather conditions. It was fairly sunny for the first part, but fog swept through, making the sights even more surreal. I couldn’t see further than about fifty yards ahead of me before the landscape faded to grey. We trudged off the main trails through fields of flowers, which our guide noted are both purple and yellow only for a short time of the year. That happens to be the same color combination of Jon’s favorite NFL team, the Minnesota Vikings. When the fog cleared, the cliffs were even more breathtaking. Our group’s hike in Glendalough was incredible as well; the lakes were gorgeous, as was the bus ride through the Wicklow Mountains.

The astounding cliffs of Howth.

My most recent excursion was to Athlone, Ireland, a small town of just under 23,000 residents. This may seem random, but it happens to be where my ancestors are from. The gravestone of my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, John Fallon, still stood in 2003 when my great-uncle found it, but I only had a couple of pictures to go off of in order to locate it. My grandma and great aunt weren’t even sure whether the church ruins and graveyard still stood.

Thanks to the internet and about ten minutes on the train searching “old graveyards in Athlone,” matching results with the images I had was shockingly easy. I went to the location I’d found and began taking pictures of the area before I started looking at headstones.

Franciscan Abbey & Graveyard in Athlone, Ireland.

I wandered around the place and peeked inside the church through the barred-off entrance. When I was about done and started walking back to the front, a headstone barely caught my eye. When I realized it was John Fallon’s, I was simultaneously shocked and chilled. I checked the old pictures, and it was undoubtedly the right one. I thought I would be circling the place for at least an hour trying to find it. I took some of Jon’s ashes along so he could rest at the same place our family came from. To say this was humbling would be a drastic understatement.

The gravestone of my ancestor, John Fallon, who died June 21, 1788.

I spent the rest of the day in Athlone walking along the banks of the River Shannon, where my grandma likes to note our family once had a farm. I spread more of Jon’s ashes in the river, sat on a bench, and quietly wept to myself while listening to Bob Dylan, an artist he loved.

I ate, visited the local art gallery where a magnificent revolutionary exhibition curated by women artists was being displayed, and visited the supposed “oldest pub in the world.” I talked with a woman at the pub who was interested in why I was there and how I was finding Ireland. On the topic of gravestones, she coincidentally mentioned the timid grave of the late great actor Oliver Reed in County Cork. How could she have possibly known that he’s one of my favorite performers in multiple of my favorite movies? These charming and spontaneous interactions are accumulating to a point where it’s become jarring.

The River Shannon at the point where some of Jon’s ashes were spread.

I’m not one to subscribe to supernatural or theological beliefs, but around every corner has been an inviting character waiting to relate to me on an utterly unpredictable level. Maybe it’s just chance, or perhaps having my grandfather at the top of my mind during these experiences has had a smidge of his personable nature rub off on me. Either way, I’m certain he would be thrilled to know that I’m meeting so many kind-hearted, like-minded people and seeing more of Ireland’s beauty.