Have you ever heard of the theory that everyone in the world is connected by six degrees of separation or less? Well this is the story of how I came to meet my parents’ neighbors’ realtor’s great uncle Tom’s friend’s son—Cyril—somewhat spontaneously in rural Ireland. I say somewhat spontaneously because when I rented a bike in Newport that morning and set off toward a tiny speck on the map called Glenhest, I was in fact out looking for my parents’ neighbors’ realtor’s great uncle Tom. I had a phone number for this great uncle Tom, and while I had called the day before and told him who I was and that I would like to visit, he seemed very confused and hard of hearing and he ended up hanging up on me. I had the name of the town where he lived, Glenhest, and I was hoping that it was a small enough place that someone would be able to point me in his direction once there.

Pedaling along the rolling hills of the R317, I couldn’t believe my luck with the weather. It had been nothing but clear blue skies and sunshine on the Irish west coast since I’d left Dublin a week earlier and today was shaping up to be just as nice. I was effectively in the middle of nowhere, biking through small forests and meadows with a gorgeous view of Croaghmoyle Mountain in the distance. After biking about six miles, I reached sign that proudly proclaimed I’d reached Glenhest. I looked around at the wilderness surrounding me and laughed. There wasn’t so much as a puff of chimney smoke to be seen on the horizon.

I kept cycling down the road until I came to the first house I’d seen in miles. There was a minivan in the driveway and a sign that said “Beware of Cat” in the front yard. I decided to knock on the door. A little girl who looked around five or six answered, crossed her arms upon seeing me and asked in a surprisingly stern tone “And who are you s’posed to be mister?” I couldn’t help myself from laughing nervously. I asked if her parents were home and she shouted to her mum that a strange man was at the door. The woman came to the door and I told her who I was looking for. While she didn’t know great uncle Tom personally, she told me that she thought someone by that name lived about a mile down the road in a farmhouse on the right. As I turned to leave, a white lightning bolt of fur shot outside between my legs, scaring me half to death. “Oh, beware the cat there,” the woman said with a laugh, “he can be a right bastard that one.” I thanked her and her daughter and continued on my way.

After biking what I was sure was another mile without seeing another house, I decided to turn right onto a small dirt road I came across that lead through a field. A car coming downhill forced me to dismount the bike and stand to the side to make room, and the driver ended up stopping to talk to me. “And who might you be young lad?” an older gentleman asked me looking a bit puzzled. I told him I was a friend of a friend of an old man that lived around here, and I when I told him the old man’s name his face lit up. “So your telling me that your American parents’ neighbors’ realtor’s great uncle Tom is my dead pa’s best friend? Well isn’t that something! You know I think Tom’s gone into town this morning, but why don’t you come to mine for some tea and we can try to get in touch with him. I’m Cyril by the way.” So I loaded my bike into the trunk of his car and drove to his little stone house nearby.

Cyril’s house was a humble, lumberjack-worthy abode. We sat in the cozy little living room where a wood-burning stove crackled with warmth. He put a kettle on and also warmed up some hearty stew for me to eat. Cyril was an impossibly kind man. He even gave me a t-shirt so that I could change out of my sweaty flannel. He made a few phone calls while I changed and washed up in the bathroom. We sat down opposite each other in comfy chairs in his living room and talked at length about life, the universe, and everything. One of his neighbors soon stopped by to join us for a drink. Now while Cyril’s Irish accent was decidedly strong, I could still understand him fairly well. But this neighbor of his was absolutely impossible to understand as he was speaking what I took to be hillbilly Irish. So as the conversation continued between the three of us, I did what any good American would do in such a situation and just smiled and nodded every time the man looked in my direction expectantly. We got along famously.

Pretty soon, we were joined by George—my parents’ neighbors’ realtor’s great uncle Tom’s nephew—who was thankfully a bit easier to understand. After learning who I was, George made a phone call to his sister Agnes. The conversation went something like, “Hey Agnes, you know cousin Mary in America? Well there’s a young lad over here at Cyril’s whose parents’ neighbors’ have some cats ol’ Mary is quite fond of. The lad is lookin’ for a place to stay in Westport, could he stay at yours? You’re a gem!” George told me Agnes would come by to pick me up in a bit and that I could stay with her for the rest of the week if I liked. Boy, was I glad I’d decided to come all this way despite old uncle Tom hanging up on me the day before.

The four of us talked and laughed there in Cyril’s living room for a good long time until Agnes finally arrived. She had a friendly face blessed with soft laugh lines and had a certain motherly glow about her. She greeted me like long lost family, scooping me up into a big hug and kissing me on both cheeks. After chatting a bit with everyone, we transferred my bike from Cyril’s trunk to hers and drove back to the dirt road where I’d first met Cyril. It seemed that I was finally going to meet the famous great uncle Tom. He was kindly old man, who despite being well into his 90s, lived alone and seemed to have no problem walking and driving wherever he needed to go. I introduced myself and apologized for my unorthodox phone call the day before. He laughed and seemed relieved to find out that he had not imagined that strange phone conversation with an American stranger. After our visit, Agnes took me by the Greenway hostel in Newport so that I could return the bike, pay my bill, and collect my pack before continuing on to Westport with her.

Westport is a colorfully quaint little town in the shadow of Croagh Patrick Mountain. Three-time winner of the “Tidiest Town” award, Westport is the municipal version of the beautiful girl you want to take home to meet your parents. We drove through it to where Agnes lived, just on the outskirts. Her home was a picturesque ranch-style house at the top of a tall hill overlooking the Atlantic-fed Clew bay. It was just after sunset as we arrived and the sky was a jaw dropping oil painting of deep purple blemished by bourbon-red streaks of cloud. It was only when Agnes called from the door that I realized I had been standing slack-jawed in front of the view for a full minute without saying anything. I went inside and met her husband and oldest son, who worked together as plumbers. After I unpacked my things in their guestroom, we sat down to a warm family dinner together. The six degrees of separation had successfully brought me here—to my parents’ neighbors’ realtor’s great uncle Tom’s niece’s dinner table.