So I met a real, live Irish Civil War buff in a Tennessee pub ...

Irishman Cóilín Ó Coigligh (right) bought a copy of my book in Ireland and
brought it to Tennessee for me to autograph.

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Only one week into his very own Civil War road trip of a lifetime, Irishman Cóilín Ó Coigligh has put 1,200 miles on his rental car, visited the Shiloh, Corinth, Brices Cross Roads, Vicksburg, Big Black River, Champion Hill and Kennesaw Mountain battlefields and made at least one American friend: me.

Over drinks Monday night in Franklin, the delightful Irishman and I bonded over the Civil War and compared road trip notes. I signed a copy of my book for him — an honor for me — and peppered him with questions about Ireland and his epic journey.

“I’ve always loved America,” said Ó Coigligh, who years ago made a swing of Eastern Theater battlefields.

Cóilín Ó Coigligh at the cannon ball
monument on the Franklin (Tenn.) battlefield,
his first visit to the hallowed ground where 
fellow Irishman Patrick Cleburne fell.

Cóilín — pronounced CO-lean — is a 66-year-old retired principal and teacher from Virginia in County Cavan, roughly an hour drive from Dublin and 3.5 hours from the boyhood home of one of his heroes, Confederate Major General Patrick Cleburne. During our 90-minute visit, I also learned Ó Coigligh’s name means “Little Pup” and his great grandfather toiled at the Guinness Brewery in Dublin.

“She doesn’t get it,” he said with a grin.

Join the club, “Little Pup.”😬

Minie balls purchased decades ago by my dad — “Big Johnny” — in Gettysburg hooked me on the Civil War. I was 12. Topps Civil War bubble gum cards purchased at Mrs. Moloney’s shop in his hometown hooked Cóilín. He was six or seven.

Since then, Ó Coigligh has fed his obsession — visiting battlefields and reading everything he can on our war. “I have 183 books on the Civil War,” he told me. On a rainy day in County Cork, he even visited the graves of Cleburne’s parents.

After drinks, I suggested a drive down Columbia Pike to the Franklin battlefield for his first visit to the killing field. We parked, crossed the pike and briefly examined the cannon ball monument near where  Cleburne fell. Night had fallen, leaving only the beams of passing vehicles and street lights to illuminate the monument.

Minutes later, my new friend and I parted.

“May God bless you, John,” he said.

God bless you, “Little Pup.”