May 31, 2022
Gone are the stone walls of County Down. Newly mown fields and hedgerows mark the land in County Armagh.
Today, Cathy and I drive west in search of Ballyhagen, where my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Isaac Jackson . . . so we believe . . . set forth with four sons in 1713 bound for western Pennsylvania as part of Ireland’s first great wave of emigration.
Now bear with me Jacksons; you know this part. This is where the Perrys have some catching up to do.
What we know, or think we know, is debatable. Some clues suggest the Jacksons were Presbyterians who hail from a mythical town called Vermuth in County Armagh. This may have been a mistake of a great uncle, our family’s historian, as despite scouring 18th century maps of County Armagh, and consulting Feargal O’Donnell, an Ulster genealogist, there is not a trace of such a town. The only town in Armagh that as much as begins with a “V” is Vinecash, in the farmland northeast of Armagh City.
The other working theory is that the Jacksons, before converting to Presbyterianism in Pennsylvania, were Irish Quakers. Quaker records confirm that in fact four families left County Armagh in 1713. Their meeting hall was in a hamlet called Ballyhagen; interestingly, just a few hillsides away from Vinecash.
Cathy is a picture of patience as her increasingly unable navigator has her winding narrow country roads. We pull into a parking lot next to a farm to nibble on my ham and cheese sandwich which the kind lady in Armagh has lathered with so much mayonnaise . . . butter was my other option . . . that, despite occasional problems swallowing, I am certain I will have no problem getting down.
As I get out of the car to ask around, I drop my Coke bottle. The carbonation is too much for the cap I forgot to sinch down, and Coke is sprayed all over my side of our ride. Cathy, I can tell, despite her patience, is skeptical of this goose chase, but when I suggest we grab some pictures and call it a day, she encourages me on.
Across the parking lot, a lean man my age, dressed in a gray sweater and black pants is chuckling with two younger men, having witnessed my Coke bottle fiasco. He looks like a cross between Paul Hogan of Crocodile Dundee and Bill Nighy as Billy Mack in Love Actually. He approaches to help. I feel like an idiot, but walk to meet him halfway, leaving Cathy by the car.
I ask if he might mind if Cathy and I park on his lot for a bit of lunch. Seamus . . . his name is Seamus . . . says, “Not at all.” I explain why we are here and ask if he knows where Ballyhagen might have been. He says, “This is Ballyhagen; you’re standing in it.”
He says there are Jacksons up near Portadown, but none nearby. We agree it is a common name. I share what I know, or think I know. He pauses, smiles, and asks, “Did ye say 1713?” When I say yes and begin to apologize for wasting his time, he ponders, “My, that’s a long time ago.”
I say “Well, thank you for your kindness. We won’t be long with our lunch” He asks “Are ye a Quaker?” I answer like the idiot I am now convinced that I am and fear that he is now concluding as well, “I’m not sure; I might be.” He takes hold of my elbow and says, “Come with me.”
We round behind his barn and pointing through a wire fence toward a small flock of sheep in a depression behind, he says, “That was the old Quaker graveyard, but the gravestones are now long gone.
I extend my thanks. He wishes me good luck. I return to the car, tell Cathy what I’ve learned and, satisfied that “well, we’re at least in the same neck of the woods”, suggest we be on our way.
Cathy says, “not so fast” and suggests we look around a bit more. We leave the car behind, walk to the road I had glimpsed on the far side of the sheep. I relay how Seamus said this was once a graveyard. We wander a bit further. The sheep rush to meet us, bleating up a storm. As Cathy reaches out to greet them, I look to the far side of the small enclosure and see a sign.
Neither of us have our glasses and it is, at first, hard to make out. Cathy asks, “Is your DNA tuning fork vibrating?”
It is.
Next to the old graveyard, crumbling, but not yet giving way to the weight of the ivy overgrowing it, we find the old Meeting Hall that, if in fact the Jacksons were Quakers, Isaac likely last visited in 1713 before leaving with his wife and sons for America.
We laugh that Cathy found family in County Down and all I found were a bunch of sheep. But, that’s okay. That somehow seems fitting.
We drive a bit further in search of a “newer” Quaker Graveyard Seamus had explained was “two roads down on your right and over a wee bridge.” We look but cannot find it. We pass by a woman and ask if she might know of it. She says no, but kindly says, “Let me call me mum; she’s a Quaker; she’ll know.” She does, but her “mum” doesn’t know of any graveyards in the area. We thank her.
I plug in the coordinates for Ardtara on Google Maps. It’s an hour away. We’re getting married tomorrow and don’t want to be late to meet our officiant.
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 