She was delighted to learn that I was from the West of Ireland and of the name O’Malley because the land for Pioneer Cemetery was given by the O’Malley family. Most of the pioneers came from County Mayo and County Galway.

Soon we go underway, speeding north for 50 miles through the beautiful Gatineau hills, tinted golden by the onset of the fall. Darkness came down but sufficient light lingered to see the mountains loom up on even side of our ribbon-like twisting road. Up hill and down dale we plunged, coasting along the Gatineau River, a slate of silver in the gathering dusk.

Along this river came the pioneers of old, from distant Quebec City over 450 miles away, portaging their canoes over wild stretches of country. They had availed themselves of government grants to reclaim land through clearance and drainage and make farms. Most of the Irish opted to pioneer the Gatineau valley.

Our first stop was the home of Gladys Gannon, Elaine’s mother, a gentle, refined woman, fussing in Irish fashion over her daughter as if she was still a teenager. She is a sturdy woman, of sturdy stock. She is well read, a teacher, a farmer’s wife, and a repository of wisdom born of experience.

Her log house was snug and unpretentious. She sat me in unusual rocking chair – all moving wooden parts with an adjustable footstool. Promptly, she thrust a drop of the “craythur” into my hand, no protestations accepted. I was home!

It was late when Elaine and I set off in the darkness to meet my host for the night, Martin Patrick Brown, who has roots in Ballina, County Mayo.

We sped off over dirt brown roads, not signposted until at last, we turned into a long unlit winding lane which led us to a large white log house, Martin’s ancient family home. A few yards away was a modern small bungalow. Here I was to stay. First to greet us was the friendly collie dog Monday.

Next appeared my host Martin, tall, lean, with a thousand welcomes sparking from his eyes. His youthfulness belied his 72 years. His handshake was firm, sincere. I felt at home. I was made at home.

His house bore the marks of contented bachelorhood. Out came the welcoming bottle. It had the makings of a long night! Conversation rolled on through the night, anecdotal humorous, new Ireland was meeting old Ireland, hands across the sea.

The next day was a beautiful day in this beautiful setting. I was in a green oasis valley, surrounded on all sides by tree-lined mountains. Martin explained that we were on the edge of the great Canadian wilderness that stretches north to the arctic circle.

I asked him, “how do we get out of here?” for I could see no obvious exit. My question brought gales of laughter from him. I had hit the nail on the head – the wilderness is beautiful but it can be a claustrophobic prison.

At noon, it was time to on our way to Martindale for the memorial Mass in the little church of St. Martin. In the first years of the pioneers, residents of Martindale had to walk 12 miles to Farrelltown for Mass.

Today, their descendants gathered to hear Mass said in Irish, the language of their forefathers. Only a few could understand. Present was Professor McLelland of Celtic Studies at Ottawa University, a Scot formerly of Dublin.

My co-celebrant of the Mass was another Holy Ghost Father and Parish Priest, Father Leo Le Blanc. After Mass, a happy-go-lucky jumble of people proceeded in glorious sunshine to the nearby cemetery for the blessing of the Celtic Cross.

The professor opened the proceedings with a brief history of the early pioneers. He was followed by the designer of the Cross, Eithne O’Kane from Belfast, who explained the symbols of the Cross.

The Celtic design on the Cross includes a ship and a man and woman holding a child. This ship depicts the Famine ships and the family unit is symbolic of the number of family members that died on the 450-mike trek from Quebec City to Martindale.

I then blessed the Cross, taking my theme from the Book of Job 19:23:26.“Would that these words of mine were written down, inscribed on some monument with iron chisel and engraving tool, cut into the rock forever. This I know that my Redeemer lives, and he that last will take his stand on earth. After my awakening, he will set me close to him, and from my flesh I shall look on God.”

I likened the pioneers to Job, who, bereft of all worldly goods, with rock-like faith, placed unwavering hope that God would see them through to the end. On that day, we “with iron chisel and engraving tool” carved on that Cross a poignant reminder.

The ceremony concluded with an exhibition of Irish dancing and fiddle playing. We all then retired to Martin’s for food and drinks.

Next day dawned glorious, so I postponed my trip back to Guelph to Wednesday. My day began with a visit to Martin’s ancestral log cabin. It was quite big, with ample loft space to accommodate a large family. Two things struck me as I entered the centre of the room.

The sheet-iron stove pipe after mounting a few feet was carried through the house before exiting, thus spreading heat round. In a corner stood a three to four foot-high pump shaft which supplied water, thus ensuring no freeze up in the harsh winters.

Along one wall lay a huge old fashioned dresser, still carrying the delph ware. A steep ladder in a corner led to the left where the boys slept in summer time. In winter, they moved down to the warmth of the kitchen.

For the pioneers, the first snows of October were a warning to get down to the task of laying the winter’s store of wood. Beyond the field lay the forest where there was an abundant supply of dead trees – cypress, spruce, and birch. These were loaded onto a big wood sleigh, hauled to the house to be cut into logs and corded in the shed for the winter.

Fire was constantly tended during the long winter. Cypress was best for the morning start, spruce throughout the day, and in the evening, birch.

Elaine told me, “my father told us that his father had often told him that the Irish in the Gatineau Valley participated in building bees. Neighbours gathered to build houses and barns and help each other to clear the land and sow crops.”

In Ireland we called such a gathering a “meitheal” in Gaelic. It happened, I recall, at home when neighbours helped in ricking in the hay or thrashing the corn. Alas, this is now history.