"The only other name I know," I offered out of desperation, "is a 'Josie Logue.' " Their eyes went wide, and they repeated the name softly.

"Josie Logue ran the library!" one said, using the Irish term for a bookstore. They'd frequented the long-closed bookstore many times as young girls. There was indeed a Kerrigan woman, they remembered, who lived with Josie.

They gave us precise directions: Cross the bridge out of town, then look for the third house on the left after the Four Provinces Pub.

It took just a few minutes to get there: two small (tiny by U.S. standards) salmon-colored stucco homes, one of which had clearly been a shop at one point. Were these the homes the Kerrigans left behind when they went to New York?

The windows had been covered with plywood years before, and above the door was a bracket where the shop sign once hung. A notice by the side of the door announced that the building was up for renovation. The notice, like the building (and like my family history, for that matter), was weathered with age and hard to make out.

I reached out and touched the weathered brass door handle, the same one Granny must have used when she last left the "library" a century ago.

We saw some impressive castles in Ireland, and quaint cottages by the score. But for me, the most memorable part of the trip was a visit to a tiny, dilapidated bookstore, long closed.