There will be moments when you don’t know if you can visit a certain place. There will be a lifetime of knowing that you did.

In 1922, my grandfather, James O’Sullivan, a captain in the fight for Ireland’s independence, emigrated from Ireland to the United States via Canada—one year after the partition of Ireland and simultaneously with the death of his associate Michael Collins. He traveled west, laying Canadian rails, cowboy ranched in Montana, then hitchhiked to Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where he opened the popular O’Sullivan’s Chophouse—in a neighborhood of Irish bars—which he ran for 35 years. Shortly after he established himself in New York, his wife-to-be also emigrated from Ireland.

With that in mind, Mom and I visited Eire in tribute to her parents—and to see if the Irish would reciprocate the hitchhiking hospitality James O’Sullivan enjoyed in 1925 America.

In this land of fiercely independent people who value their poets as highly as their warriors, our strategy was to be road-warrior day-trippers and elegant country inn evening guests—upscale vagabonds. At first, Mom waved at cars to request rides, but the drivers only waved back. We needed a hitching sign, so I crafted four cardboard appeals: Mom, Angel, Innocent, and Pub, which worked best at small-town intersections.

“So, Mom, where should we venture today?” I asked one morning on our trip.

“Never ruin a hike with a reason,” she winked.

At that moment a car—piloted by an 85-year-old woman—pulled over. We rode on narrow, stone-walled roads past thatched cottages, castles, fortresses, churches, and other noble dwellings. During our ride, a prime-time radio talk show host mused about gardens and the comings and goings of birds in the yard: “In the last 50 years it’s been fashionable to sneer at tuberous begonias” . . . “Magpie birdhouse raids scaring off other birds” . . . “The tits will come along quickly.” Real world news. Then a “lost-pet alert” followed by a stolen-bicycle appeal. Mom reports, “Dad won’t put out birdseed. He thinks it’s welfare.” The rain comes again. Our driver acknowledges, “The rain is fond of Ireland.”

The landscape changed to sheer cliffs, wet meadows, rocky moonscapes, and roofless abbeys. We pass a damp, lush, lime-colored farm teeming with cattle. Pointing to cows, Mother chimes in with “mootopia!”

This enchanted Atlantic island foray reminded me of my mother’s many traits—unconditional love, kindness, safety—and introduced me to others: She snores like a house on fire!

We are in for a shock—we are dropped off at a pub, even though we were picked up using the “Angel” sign. We ease into the social glue of pub life with a Guinness. Mom sits closer to the band playing music by the fireplace. Foot tapping gives way to knee slapping; soon she is dancing.

Then it dawned on me—the sign I forgot to make for her, representing what my mom stands for: Love

For more information on Ireland, visit www.discoverireland.com