Shamrock Roots

I woke up this morning to the sounds of the The Cranberries & Pogues coming in through the open window.
 
The brooch belonged to my mother. Annoyingly, I can’t remember the story of where it came from; there was always a story. She liked to wear it on St Patrick’s Day.
 
The maternal line goes back to a small fishing village near the mouth of the River Shannon in County Clare. I grew up hearing stories of the fisherman ancestor who surprised the village by sailing home one day with a Spanish wife as well as the usual pile of fish. Details varied a lot depending on who was telling the story, but supposedly when she was a very old lady, she came to join the grandchildren in Australia. Personally, I liked to think she was really a Selkie.
 
Bonus shot (literally): Took me forever to get out of the house with Doggo today. My plan to pick up coffee beans turned into yet another “maybe tomorrow” when I realised what time it was. I was expecting the shop to be shut when I walked past, but they had extended their hours so I got my beans and a free cup to go at 4 minutes to closing time.
Linger