A Witness to a Family Eviction, County Galway, 1886

Céad Míle Fáilte – and welcome to your Letter from Ireland for this week. Here in Cork there is a crispness to the morning air and the leaves are turning a golden russet.

I’m enjoying a strong cup of Barry’s tea and do join me with a cup of whatever you fancy as we start into today’s Letter from Ireland, which is longer than usual so you may need that second cup!

This week, I’m excited to share another chapter from my upcoming book: “The Lives behind the Timelines: Stories for my Grandchildren”. The book will be released in early 2026, and in it, I choose 20 of my own ancestral timelines and attempt to bring the person to life through story and conversation.

In the sample chapter below, I share an imagined conversation with my great-great grandmother – Bridget Fahy Loughnane. I hope you enjoy!

Clogharoasty, County Galway – October 1886

Brigid Fahy Loughnane couldn’t sleep. At over seventy years of age, that wasn’t unusual, but tonight her restlessness came from thinking of what tomorrow would bring. She shifted in the bed, careful not to wake her husband Michael, and stared at the thatched ceiling illuminated by thin moonlight. The Broder family would be evicted at dawn—good people who had farmed their few acres in Carrowmore townland for generations, just as Brigid’s family had done in Clogharoasty.

Through her open window, she heard an owl’s soft hooting from back the fields. In her youth, the old people would have called that an omen. Brigid was not superstitious, but sometimes the old beliefs felt more reliable than the new realities of her homeland.

Her mind wandered to distant memories—the years of The Great Hunger when she was in her thirties and with a young family, watching neighbours collapse on the roadside. Those had been the worst of times, but what was coming to Carrowmore carried its own kind of sorrow. The Broders weren’t being evicted by hunger, but by the stroke of a pen on a ledger, and by a man who had never set foot on the land he owned.

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Dawn arrived with thin, grey light lighting up the mist. Brigid was already up, stoking the fire and putting the kettle on. Michael sat at the table, his weathered hands wrapped around a mug, eyes heavy with concern.

“We shouldn’t go, Brigid,” he said, not for the first time. “There’s nothing to be gained by watching.”

Brigid straightened her back, feeling the familiar ache of age. “Mary Broder stood with me at our Nora’s graveside when the fever took her. I’ll not hide in my house when they take hers.”

Their son Patrick came through the door, having already checked on the cattle. At near on forty years of age, he carried himself with the same quiet dignity as his father, though the troubles of recent years had etched worry lines around his eyes.

“They’re already gathering on the Loughrea road,” he reported. “Police and bailiffs, and Burke the agent leading them. Word is they’ve brought the battering ram.”

“God help us,” Michael muttered, making the sign of the cross.

“Father Callanan is heading there now,” Patrick continued. “Says we should all bear witness, but keep the peace. The Land League men are coming as well.”

Brigid nodded, reaching for her shawl and the loaf of soda bread she’d baked before dawn. “Then we’ll go together.”

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The crowd had grown to nearly two hundred by the time Brigid, Michael, and Patrick arrived at the Broders’ small farmhouse. Neighbours from the surrounding townlands stood in quiet clusters, while a line of Royal Irish Constabulary officers formed a human barrier, their dark green uniforms blending with the earth tones of the countryside. Their rifles gleamed dully in the morning light.

Father Callanan moved through the crowd, his voice low as he urged calm. “There’s nothing to be gained by violence today,” he murmured. “Remember, we stand as witness only.”

Brigid spotted Tom Broder standing at his doorway, straight-backed and pale. His wife Mary sat on a small stool outside, surrounded by their five children. The youngest, Eileen, only four years old, held a rag doll to her chest. Their eldest son, just turned sixteen, stood protectively beside his father, his young face tight with a barely contained anger.

John Burke, the land agent for the Clanricarde estate, sat on a well-fed horse at a slight distance, consulting papers with the sheriff. Neither looked at the family whose lives they were dismantling.

Brigid made her way to Mary, who looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

“You came,” Mary said quietly.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Brigid took the woman’s cold hand in hers.

“Seven generations, Brigid,” Mary whispered. “Seven generations of Broders have worked this land, and now—” Her voice broke.

“I know, acushla,” Brigid said, “I know.”

The sheriff finally dismounted and approached the front door, holding an official-looking document. Behind him, six bailiffs waited, flanked by constables.

“Thomas Broder,” the sheriff called, his voice carrying across the suddenly quiet gathering. “By order of the court, you are hereby required to surrender possession of this property to Lord Clanricarde for non-payment of rent in the sum of eight pounds, six shillings, and fourpence.”

Tom stepped forward. “My lord Clanricarde never once set foot on this land. My grandfather drained the bog which made these fields. My father built this house with his own hands. We survived the hunger while paying what we could. And now, three bad harvests is all it’s taken to bring us to this.”

The sheriff’s expression remained impassive. “You have thirty minutes to remove your personal belongings before we take possession.”

Father Callanan stepped forward. “Surely some accommodation can be reached? The Broders have farmed this land faithfully—”

“The law is clear, Father,” interrupted Burke, not bothering to dismount. “The rent is due, and it’s not been paid.”

Brigid felt a surge of indignation, rare for a woman who had spent decades counselling faith and patience. “The law, is it?” she called out, surprised by the strength of her own voice. “Was it the law that cleared Ballynagar ten years ago? Was it law that took Michael Finnerty’s farm after his son sent money from America that your office claimed never arrived?”

Burke finally looked at her, his eyes cold. “I remember you, Mrs. Loughnane. At the moment your family pays its rent. I suggest you remember that.”

Brigid felt Michael’s hand on her arm, gently restraining.

“Thirty minutes,” the sheriff repeated, turning back to the Broder family.

What followed was a scene of desperate activity. Neighbours came forward to help, carrying out whatever could be salvaged—bedding, cooking pots, the family Bible, tools, the small wooden table where generations of the family had taken their meals. Brigid helped Mary gather the children’s few possessions, whispering reassurances that sounded hollow even in her own ears.

The Land League representatives documented everything, their notepads filling with details of all that was happening. A reporter from the Tuam Herald stood nearby, scribbling notes. These evictions were news now, not just private tragedies unfolding in remote townlands. They had the attention of the nation.

“Time’s up,” the sheriff announced, though by Brigid’s reckoning, no more than twenty minutes had passed.

The bailiffs moved forward. Tom Broder stood his ground for a moment, then, with visible effort, stepped aside. His eldest son did not move until his father placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Joseph,” Tom said quietly. “This isn’t the end.”

The crowd watched in strained silence as the bailiffs entered the house, emerging moments later with the last remaining items—a rocking chair, a small clock, some kitchen cutlery. Then came the sounds that would haunt Brigid’s dreams: the cracking of timber, the thud of the battering ram against stone walls, the ripping of thatch from the roof.

“They needn’t destroy it,” Michael muttered. “‘Tis pure spite.”

Brigid couldn’t speak. She stood with her arm around Mary Broder, who had gone very still, her face a mask of dignity even as tears streamed silently down her cheeks. Little Eileen buried her face in her mother’s skirts, her small shoulders shaking with sobs.

It took less than an hour to reduce the Broders home to a ruin. The bailiffs were efficient in their destruction, ensuring that no one could shelter within those walls again. When they finished, Burke nodded his satisfaction and finally addressed Tom Broder directly.

“The land will be reassigned,” he announced. “You are not to return to this property under any circumstances.”

The family’s possessions sat in a pile by the roadside—the accumulated keepsakes and necessities of seven generations reduced to what could be carried or dragged away.

Father Callanan moved among the crowd, organising assistance. “The Mannions can take two of the children,” he said. “Mrs. Loughnane, could you—”

“Mary and the little ones will come with us,” Brigid said firmly, before he could finish. “We have the room.”

“And Tom and Joseph can stay in the outhouse until something’s arranged,” Michael added. “It’s clean and dry at the moment.”

“That’s grand so. The Land League will have a hut built within the week,” one of the representatives promised. “We’ve already sent for materials.”

As the police and bailiffs finally departed, the community closed ranks around the dispossessed family and the men began loading salvaged furniture onto a cart.

Brigid found herself standing with Mary before the ruins of the Broder home. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through gaping holes where the roof had been.

“How do you start again at my age?” Mary asked, her voice barely heard.

Brigid, older still by more than a decade, had no easy answer. Instead, she said, “You start with one day, and then move to the next. We’ve weathered worse.”

“Have we?” Mary looked at her directly.

Brigid thought of the Famine years, of watching more than half the townland emigrate or die, of burying her own daughter. “Different sorrows, just not lesser ones,” she said. “But we survived.”

“To live long enough to see it all happen again,” Mary said bitterly.

“To live long enough to help each other through it,” Brigid countered, taking her friend’s hand and squeezing it gently.

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That evening, the Loughnane house was crowded but warm. Mary and her three youngest children shared the small bedroom usually occupied by Patrick, who insisted he was perfectly comfortable by the hearth. Tom and Joseph Broder were settled in the clean straw of the outhouse, with proper bedding and a lantern.

As Brigid prepared a simple supper, she heard young Eileen Broder ask her mother, “Will we ever go home again?” The question hung in the air. What answer could a mother give to her child?

Later, after the children had finally fallen asleep, Brigid sat with Mary at the kitchen table, sharing a single candle between them.

“I remember when you came to Carrowmore as a bride,” Brigid said softly. “You were so proud of that little house.”

Mary nodded, her fingers tracing patterns on the worn wooden tabletop. “Tom’s grandmother planted the rosebush by the door. It bloomed every year without fail.”

“I’ll get a cutting,” Brigid promised. “Wherever you settle, you’ll have that piece of home with you.”

“If we stay in Ireland at all,” Mary said. The words didn’t shock Brigid as they might have years ago. Too many had already left.

“My sister’s boy in Boston says there’s work for anyone willing,” Brigid offered tentatively. “He sends letters regular as clockwork.”

They sat in silence, the candle burning lower. Outside, an owl called again, the same haunting sound Brigid had heard the night before.

“What would you do, if you were me?” Mary finally asked.

Brigid considered the question carefully. Over her married life, she had seen the land give and take away, and had watched young people leave as the old certainties of life crumbled away.

“I’d remember that home isn’t just a place,” she said at last. “It’s the people who shelter you, the memories you carry, the work of your hands. They’ve taken the house, but they haven’t taken everything.”

Mary reached across the table and squeezed Brigid’s weathered hand. No more words were needed between the women who shared both the weight of hard times and the support of friendship.

Through the small window, Brigid could see stars emerging in the night sky—the same stars that shone over Boston and New York, the mills of Manchester and even over the exotic land of Australia where so many Galway people had gone, over Lord Clanricarde’s fine estate in England where he lived in luxury, never troubling himself about the consequences of his ledger books and eviction orders.

To the best of her knowledge she would be seventy-two next month, old enough to see the pattern of history repeating, young enough to still feel the injustice burning in her chest. Whatever tomorrow brought for the Broder family, Brigid Fahy Loughnane would bear witness. It was all she had to offer—that, and the shelter of her home, the warmth of her hearth, the promise that none of them would face the uncertain future alone.

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Epilogue:

Brigid Fahy Loughnane would live to see the turn of the century, passing away in early 1901 at the age of eighty-six. She had witnessed the Land Wars, and the beginning of land reform that eventually allowed Irish tenants to purchase their farms.

The Broder family, like many evicted during that turbulent period, eventually emigrated to America, though not before Tom Broder had participated in many local Land League activities.

The rose cutting Brigid salvaged from the ruined cottage at Carrowmore took root on American soil – a small piece of Galway flourishing in a new world.