I spent the following week in the Public Records office of Northern Ireland, but didn't find many more clues. In the Griffith's Valuation there was a record of a James Nixon of the Tyrone area having rented land - a large farm, a couple of houses and an 'office' (outhouse) - from a landowner around 1850, but no proof that it was the same James and no exact address was given. I further checked a few kilometres of church records on microfiche and found many Anna and William Nixon's but none others with names I recognised. The Presbyterian church records were completely destroyed and the Church of Ireland records for the Gavaughy area contained all the members of the Nixon family I had met on my previous trip to Omagh but no further links.
However Hazel Coulter (nee Nixon) had invited me back to Omagh with plans for some further investigations. She said she knew of a church in the Newtonsaville area where all the Nixon's of Gavaughy had been buried. After studying James' death certificate we'd decided that the death had simply been registered in Sixmilecross, and he was not necessarily buried there.
So once more I headed west on a Sunday morning bus and arrived to meet Hazel
after church. We drove south out of the town through winding fields and lanes to
the Gavaughy area, and at the end of a long stone walled lane we found a small
Nixon settlement where Hazel's cousin Francey lived.
He and his family were lounging about outside their cottage in the rare Irish
sun with dogs and children, but soon jumped up and engaged in a determined
discussion about our possibly related past.
On my previous trip I had told Hazel little scraps of what I could remember from
various bits of Nixon folk lore, such as the story of William leaving Northern
Ireland in 1890, jumping on a boat for New Zealand, and meeting his wife on that
boat who also happened to be from Northern Ireland. (Daniel has since told me
this may not be true.)
In our discussion, Francey recalled a story his cousin had told him, ah it was
while back now, of a young Nixon man who'd gotten on a boat to sail to some far
off place - possibly NZ - and had met his sweetheart on that boat on the way
over ; and was never heard from again, he added enigmatically. I said I'd heard
this same story and we grew excited - Francey said it was too much of a
coincidence to overlook, I mean after all how many people really were there
leaving Northern Ireland at that time on boats, very few I suspect, he said. And
the chances of meeting your future wife on a crowded ship at sea for months and
months - huh, very little.
Reaffirmed, we headed off to the Newtonsaville church, where Francey was sure
James would be buried.
On the car ride further into the countryside the houses of various Nixon
sisters and cousins were pointed out, large farm houses appearing affluent and
proud. And strangely (for me,) all in very close proximaty to one another.
And so we arrived in time at Church of Ireland, Newtownsaville. It was a large,
grey stone building on a hill overlooking the townland of Garvaughy, spring
coloured fields and gentle undulations of dark green, and trees. In the
graveyard we found the Nixon corner, and there we identified, and rediscovered,
many of the relations of Francey and Hazel. There were, as usual, many unmarked
or unnamed graves in that corner, and these we pinned our hopes on.
Off we went again, to find the reverend for the church, and check the hard copy
records. These attained, we scoured pages and pages for mention of a James, or a
John, or even a Someone James from 1878, but although the records predated his
year of death, we found nothing.
Skepticism was neigh once more, and I only meekly agreed that of course these
records weren't complete - fires, great floods, raging bulls, and so on.
The fun wasn't over however, as we continued on our quest, venturing through the
towns of Fintona and somewhere else to Fivemiletown. Here we paid a visit to
Pearl, another cousin who possessed a memory exceeding the greatness of an
elephant's, I was told.
Pearl welcomed us in to her cosy stone cottage, which dogs and children were
again making merry. As we drank tea we discussed the whole feverishly mysterious
case once more. Pearl seemed to know a lot, she brought up names of grandfathers
and third cousins and, bizarrely, a not so distant relationship to George Best,
(the Manchester United football player who has recently bought a new liver.)
At Franceys mention of the man who went off on a boat to meet his wife on the
way and never be heard of again, the lights dimmed and Pearl reclined in her
chair. She began in hushed voice to tell us the story in full detail. Aye he was
a fine man, so he was. A head of hair like fire, a thick mane that flowed after
him as he walked, with his strong, slow gait........... When the story was over
and I'd felt we'd spent enough time in reverential silence, I asked Pearl from
which long dead soothsayer she had heard this story.
"Why Hazel of course - she told me the other day on the phone!"
Back in Omagh we discussed over dinner how most of our leads had fizzled off to
their own conclusions. There were still a few churches which had not been
checked, and more information could be added to the family trees, but my time in
Northern Ireland was nearing an end and I felt there was not much more I could
delve into.
It had been fascinating nonetheless, to see the land where distant ancestors had
lived for a couple of hundred years and moved on from, to get a sense of history
and continuance from a place and feel somehow connected to the past, and to know
that I would not exist if those people had not existed.
So i said Goodbye to Hazel and Gavaughy and sixmilecross and headed off, not in
a boat but a modern day Ulsterexpress bus, in which despite the appearance of
many intriguing characters I did not, unsurprisingly, meet my future wife.