When Jackie Kennedy
Came to Woodstown 

The Summer of 1967 

In the summer of 1967, all eyes in Waterford turned toward the quiet coastal stretch of Woodstown. For it was here, rather than the livelier resort of Dunmore East, that Jacqueline Kennedy — the world’s most famous widow at the time — chose to spend her first holiday abroad since the death of President John F. Kennedy.

Her original plan, according to local recollection, had been to stay in Dunmore East. But accommodation there was scarce in those hectic days, and so she settled instead for the serenity of Woodstown. It wasn’t a bad compromise. The strand, with its ever-changing tide, offered a natural rhythm to the day — mud and cockles at low water, soft sands and glistening shallows when the tide returned.

For the people of Woodstown, the news came as a sensation. They were used to a quiet life; Dunmore might have had its fair share of important summer visitors, but Woodstown had rarely seen anyone quite like Jackie Kennedy. The question on everyone’s lips was: where would she stay?

After much speculation, it was announced that Major Cholmeley Harrison, owner of Woodstown House, had agreed to let his home to the Kennedy party. “It is the first time I have ever let my house in the 23 years I have been here,” the Major told reporters, “and it will probably be the last.” His stately Regency-style mansion, built in 1820 and surrounded by 241 acres of woodland and lawns, stood just 40 yards from the public beach — an ideal retreat for privacy and seaside air.

Major Harrison held a press conference in the grand 40-room house to announce the arrangements. He revealed that a string of ponies would be brought down from the stables of famed Irish trainer Vincent O’Brien, to be ridden on the strand by young Caroline and John Kennedy, as well as by the children of Mr. Murray McDonnell, a New York stockbroker who would join them.

“I have been promised a chestnut mare for Mrs. Kennedy from a friend,” he added proudly, “and Mr. O’Brien will be sending ponies for the children.” About fifteen guests in total were expected to arrive on June 15th, with the Kennedys staying for six weeks.

To make room for them all, the Major packed away his own belongings — “everything is in trunks in the stables” — and even purchased a washing machine for the occasion, as there was no local laundry service. Five bedrooms were prepared in the main house, and more beds were to be placed in adjoining quarters. “Some of the visitors may have to double up,” he joked, “and if the weather is fine, they may even sleep on the lawns.”

Inside the hall, reporters noted a small pile of mail already waiting for the famous visitor — letters from England, Sweden, Belgium, and Ireland. Mrs. Kennedy’s bedroom overlooked the main lawn and was decorated in a pink-and-cream palette, with twin divan beds and framed paintings on the walls.

The cook, Mrs. Kathleen O’Mahony from Dunmore East, was modest about her role. “I don’t know what they’ll want to eat,” she said, “but whatever they want, they’ll get.” Fresh salmon was promised for their arrival dinner.

Even the resident black bull grazing on the front lawn was subject to presidential privilege — “the bull will be removed,” declared the Major, ensuring no unexpected encounters for his distinguished guests.

And so, for six luminous weeks in the summer of 1967, Woodstown and Dunmore East found themselves at the centre of international attention. Locals still recall the sight of ponies on the strand, the laughter of children in the dunes, and the quiet grace of a woman who carried both glamour and grief with remarkable dignity.

Jackie Kennedy came to Waterford seeking peace — and for a brief Irish summer, she found it among the sands and tides of Woodstown.

A Tremendous Irish Welcome

“I am just happy to be here in this land my husband loved so much, with his children. For them, I think it is a little bit like coming home. I think we will come back again and again.”

Those were the words of Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy as she stepped down the gangway of the Aer Lingus jet at Shannon Airport on a bright June morning in 1967. Her voice, soft and husky, carried across the tarmac as she stood before the microphones and the expectant press. It was a simple statement, but one that captured the emotion of her return — a widow’s journey back to the country that had so warmly embraced her late husband, President John F. Kennedy, just four years earlier.

A lush green carpet stretched across the runway, and beyond it a crowd of well-wishers pressed eagerly against the barriers, craning for a glimpse of the world’s most photographed woman. Caroline and John Jr. stood close by their mother’s side — two solemn, sun-kissed children, poised and polite in the way only Kennedy children could be.

Behind the flashbulbs and film cameras, Aer Lingus General Manager Michael Dargan waited at the foot of the aircraft steps. As soon as the cabin door opened, he boarded to greet the visitors personally before escorting them down to the cheering crowd below.

The newspapers of the day spared no detail of her appearance:
Jackie wore a white A-line coat, neatly fitted and fastened with two buttons, over a matching dress that fell just above the knee — a modern look for the time. White leather gloves, flat black shoes, and a subtle tan completed her ensemble. Her children were dressed smartly too — John in a light suit with short trousers, Caroline in a grey coat over a white dress, her hair tied with a white ribbon. Both children wore matching shoes which delighted the photographers, it proved that handing down footware to a younger sibling wasn’t only something that was done in Ireland, she was one of us.

Despite her fame, there was no special treatment on the flight itself. The Kennedys had booked their tickets through an ordinary travel agent in New York and paid the full fare. The secrecy surrounding their journey had been deliberate — an attempt to ensure privacy. But once word spread, Ireland was ready.

At Shannon, every vantage point was filled. People stood on walls, fences, and even car roofs to catch a fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Kennedy as she smiled and waved. Then, with the brief formalities over, the family boarded a C.I.E. coach bound for Waterford, where Woodstown House awaited them.

What followed was a rolling celebration across the Irish countryside. At Limerick, the streets overflowed with cheering crowds, forcing the coach to crawl through the city. Outside the John F. Kennedy Memorial School, the bus stopped briefly so the Kennedys could wave to the children assembled in their uniforms. The young pupils beamed with pride — after all, the school bore the name of the late President, and only a year earlier, John Jr. himself had been sent a blazer embroidered with the school crest, making him an honorary member.

From Limerick the entourage travelled on through Cashel, where they paused for lunch before continuing towards Waterford. Along every mile of the road, the same warm Irish welcome greeted them — people waving flags, leaning from car windows, or standing outside their homes with cameras in hand.

There was, however, one note of disappointment: one member of the accompanying Murray-McDonnell family — the New York friends joining the Kennedys for their Woodstown stay — had suffered a skiing injury and could not travel. It was a small absence, though it did not dampen the excitement surrounding the visit.

At Shannon, among the first to welcome Mrs. Kennedy had been Pat Collins, a young ground hostess from Douglas, County Cork. For her, as for so many that day, the moment was unforgettable — a meeting not just with a celebrity, but with history itself.

And as the Kennedy motor coach disappeared down the winding southern roads, Ireland once again opened its heart — not to a President this time, but to the woman who carried his memory home.

A Quiet Holiday by the Sea

When Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy and her children finally reached Waterford, the welcome that awaited them was warm, but dignified. The people of the city, well aware of her wish for “a quiet holiday,” showed remarkable restraint. There was gentle hand-clapping as the motorcade passed along the Quay, but no cheering, no crush of crowds.

An elderly woman standing by Reginald’s Tower spoke for many when she said softly, “We want to show Mrs. Kennedy that she is welcome here — and beyond that, we don’t want to interfere.” It was a true Irish welcome, understated yet sincere, full of respect for a guest who carried both glamour and grief in equal measure.

From the city, the Kennedys travelled on to Woodstown House, their summer residence amid the green acres and salt-bright air of the Suir estuary. For several weeks, the great Regency mansion became a place of laughter, horses, and sunlight — yet not without its moments of peril.

One afternoon, while swimming off a beach near the house, Mrs. Kennedy was caught in a strong current that swept her dangerously far from shore. Later she described the incident in a letter to the Secret Service:

“In mid-channel I found myself in a terrible current. I could not make the land opposite and the sea was so cold you could not hold your fingers together… I was becoming exhausted, swallowing water and slipping past the spit of land when I felt what I thought was a great porpoise at my side. It was Mr. Walsh.”

It was Agent John Walsh, a member of her Secret Service detail, who reached her just in time. Shoulder to shoulder, they fought their way back to the strand. “Then,” she wrote, “I sat on the beach coughing up seawater for half an hour while he found a poor itinerant and borrowed a blanket for me.” Walsh’s bravery did not go unnoticed — Jackie later recommended him for one of the highest FBI honours. It was not the first time he had saved a Kennedy life; years earlier, he had pulled young John Jr. from a fire.

Despite the drama, Woodstown life soon settled into its rhythm again. Each morning, international photographers stationed discreetly at the gates tried to capture glimpses of Mrs. Kennedy and her children cantering their ponies along the strand. The children rode the small horses sent down from Vincent O’Brien’s famous stables, while Jackie favoured her chestnut mare — the same promised to her by a Waterford friend before her arrival.

Among the visitors to Woodstown that summer was David Harlech, the British diplomat and close family friend. The Irish Times would later suggest that the bond between the two deepened during those long coastal weeks. 

Yet Jackie’s stay was not confined to the quiet of Woodstown. She travelled to Dublin on June 30th, where she met with President Éamon de Valera at Áras an Uachtaráin, a visit steeped in symbolism and mutual respect. The following evening she attended a State Dinner at Dublin Castle, held in her honour. 

Days later, she was a distinguished guest at the Irish Sweeps Derby at the Curragh, her presence causing a sensation among racegoers and photographers alike. Whether she won anything or not remains a state secret.

On Sunday, 18th June 1967, Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy and her children attended Mass at the then 100-year-old Crooke Parish Church. The small church, overlooking the Waterford Harbour estuary, had rarely seen such anticipation. Mrs. Kennedy arrived seven minutes before Mass time and was welcomed at the door by Rev. William Phelan, C.C.

She was accompanied into the church by Fr. Phelan, Mrs. Murray-McDonnell, and five of her children. They occupied the first pew nearest the altar and received Holy Communion during the service.

Half an hour before her arrival, the church had been discreetly searched by Special Branch detectives “in case we might find anything.” During Mass, detectives and U.S. Secret Service agents mingled unobtrusively with the 500 local parishioners. Some of the detectives carried walkie-talkie sets inside the church.

The 33-minute service included a sermon by Fr. Phelan on the proposed changes soon to be introduced by the Second Vatican Council, scheduled to take effect on June 29th. About 30 press photographers were permitted to take photographs of Mrs. Kennedy and her children in the church grounds, but were asked not to enter the church itself.

Packed to Capacity

Ten yards from the main church door, Fr. Phelan greeted Mrs. Kennedy with the simple words: “I welcome you.” She replied softly, “Thank you.”

The church was packed to capacity, and dozens of local people who had already attended the earlier 9:30 a.m. Mass returned for the 11 o’clock service in hopes of catching a glimpse of the famous visitor.

As Mrs. Kennedy walked down the centre aisle after Mass, she smiled and shook hands with parishioners. She had a 100-yard walk to her car and continued to greet the crowd along the way. Around one hundred local fishermen from nearby Passage East had gathered by the church gates, and she smiled and waved to them before stepping into her car to return to Woodstown House.

On the afternoon of the same Sunday that she attended Mass in Crooke, Mrs. Kennedy, her children, and their party went for a sea cruise on the Dunmore East-based trawler Misty Mornin’, owned by local fisherman John Roche and skippered by Mick Whittle. Davy Hutchinson was one of the crew on the day.

A member of the Munster Express staff who was present at the time of the party’s arrival reported back to the editorial department the following morning in these terms:

“At about 12.20 p.m. I sensed that something was about to happen. We saw Mr. Don O’Neill-Flanagan and his party. That was not unusual in Dunmore East, because they are particular frequenters of this seaside resort. But knowing that Mr. Flanagan had much to do with the Kennedys’ visit to Ireland, and it being such an odd hour for him to be here, it set one thinking.

Along comes Capt. Des Carroll, all decked up in his best — complete with reefer jacket, brass buttons that shone, a peaked cap that glistened, and armed with his usual binoculars. It looked like something was going to happen.”

 A Blunt Answer

“Bursting with curiosity, I approached the captain and, in answer to my question, I got a blunt reply. The answer was: ‘The Kennedys and friends are coming — they’ll be here any minute.’ I looked around, hoping no one had heard that thunderbolt. But they hadn’t.

After a short while, cars began to swirl up the dust of a very dry dock, and among them was the world’s best-loved lady. Slowly, the small crowd converged on the quay, and Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, her children, and guests mingled easily with the lucky few who happened to be there at that hour. The children roamed a little, but were at all times under the watchful eye of their mother and the guardians who accompanied them.

John-John was the cynosure of all eyes, but merely looked around him, quietly taking everything in. What seemed most precious to him was the camera he tightly clutched. Mrs. Kennedy, dressed in slacks and a polo-neck sweater, appeared more relaxed here than she had been seen anywhere else. Charm oozed from her, and I think she was most pleased that people did not rush to shake her hand or mob her. They treated her, as she wished, as an ordinary person rather than as a celebrity.”

On Board the Misty Mornin’

Waiting for them on board the Misty Mornin’ was John Roche, who shook hands warmly as his visitors came aboard. When the group was ready to sail, Capt. Des Carroll slipped the mooring ropes, and soon they were at sea.

Capt. Roche acted as their guide, giving a practical demonstration of how the trawler’s nets were shot and hauled. That afternoon, the Misty Mornin’ crossed paths with other fishing vessels taking part in the R.N.L.I. competition, sponsored by the Dunmore East Sea Angling Club.

John Roche, as always, took everything in his stride. “We’ll show ye the best of the bay,” he told the group, as skipper Mick Whittle steered the Misty Mornin’ past the harbour mouth and out toward Hook Head, where the great lighthouse stood sentinel at the edge of County Wexford.

The sea sparkled under the afternoon sun, and Mrs. Kennedy — who had spent so many summers at Cape Cod — seemed perfectly at ease. The salt air, the steady rhythm of the trawler’s engine, and the spray breaking against the bow all reminded her of home.

The tour went smoothly at first. The party admired the headlands of Creadan, the long golden line of Woodstown Strand, and the distant green hills along the Suir, before venturing out beyond the Hook. But as they neared the Saltee Islands, an unexpected sight caused unease among her Secret Service detail. A large French trawler appeared on the horizon, heading directly toward them.

As the vessel drew closer, several agents shifted uneasily, exchanging glances. To their dismay, the trawler slowed beside the Misty Mornin’, and its crew began lowering a heavy wooden crate onto Roche’s deck with ropes and winches. One of the agents moved quickly toward Mrs. Kennedy, while another placed a hand near his radio, ready to call for backup.

“Easy now, lads,” said Roche, with the calm authority of a man long used to the ways of the sea. “It’s only a part I was waiting on — a bit of engine work I needed done. Saves me the bother of going up to Waterford to collect it.”

There was a tense pause — then a ripple of laughter broke the spell. Mrs. Kennedy smiled, visibly relieved, as the French crew gave a friendly wave before turning back toward the open sea. The agents, though not entirely amused, relaxed their stance, realising they had narrowly avoided turning a routine delivery into an international incident.

The rest of the outing passed without excitement, but with plenty of good humour. Roche showed them the best fishing grounds, pointed out familiar landmarks across the estuary, and told stories of old schooners and stormy nights. Mrs. Kennedy listened intently, her scarf fluttering in the wind, her eyes following the horizon where sea and sky met in a hazy blue line.

Return to Dunmore

When word spread that the Kennedys were in Dunmore East, thousands flocked to the harbour by every means of transport. When the Misty Mornin’ docked at about 6.45 p.m., cheers filled the air.

Security men struggled to hold back the crowds of admirers, but eventually a path was cleared and the party — amidst cheers and hand-clapping — made their way to their waiting cars. Mrs. Kennedy still looked radiant after her day at sea, as did her two children.

She showed no sign of stress, strain, or fright, for she knew she was among people who so dearly loved her late husband — and who had passed that affection on to her and her family. She was, as one local observer put it, “among the true Irish — the trusted Irish.”

The Dunganstown Visit

Another equally enjoyable — if somewhat less adventurous — day was spent visiting her husband’s relatives in Dunganstown, County Wexford, the ancestral home of the Kennedy family. The visit was one of quiet significance for Mrs. Kennedy; it brought her full circle to the place from which the Kennedy story had first crossed the Atlantic.

The small farmhouse, surrounded by hedgerows and meadows, was far removed from the grand settings she was accustomed to, but that was precisely its charm. Jackie and her children were welcomed at the door by Mary Ryan, the late President’s cousin, whose family had long maintained contact with their American relations. Inside, the sitting room was simple and homely — a polished range glowed faintly in the hearth, and lace curtains filtered the soft summer light that fell across framed family photographs.

Gathered there that day were Mary Ryan herself, along with relations Maeve Rowe, Josie Grennan (Mrs. Ryan’s granddaughter), Mrs. John Fenlon, James Kennedy (Mrs. Ryan’s brother), Margaret Kirwan (Mrs. Ryan’s sister), and Miss Mary Ryan (Mrs. Ryan’s daughter). It was an intimate gathering — no ceremony, no press — just a family reunited across oceans and generations.

They sat together over tea poured from a stout brown teapot, the cups rattling gently on their saucers as conversation found its easy rhythm. The Kennedys’ two children listened politely as stories were shared of old times in Dunganstown, of family who had emigrated, and of the long link between the Wexford Kennedys and their American kin. Caroline and John Jr. were treated to Marietta biscuits spread with butter, a simple but affectionate treat that delighted them far more than any grand hotel confection could have done.

Jackie, as always, was gracious and attentive, asking questions, smiling often, and clearly moved by the warmth and pride of the relatives who saw in her visit a continuation of President Kennedy’s own pilgrimage four years earlier. There was no publicity that day, no photographers at the gate — only the quiet sense that something important had come full circle.

As the visit drew to a close, Mrs. Kennedy thanked her hosts warmly, promising to write and to send photographs from America. When she and the children stepped out into the soft Wexford air once more, the family stood at the doorway waving them off — a moment of kinship bridging continents, simple and sincere, much like the land and people from which the Kennedys had first sprung.

The Glass Factory

One morning, accompanied by their guides and security men, John-John and Caroline Kennedy, Mrs. Murray-McDonnell, and the Murray-McDonnell children, were taken on a tour of the Waterford Glass Factory.

A spokesman for the factory, describing the visit, said: “They stayed for about an hour and were shown through the factory. I must say, and mind you some of the children that come in here are little monsters, that I have never seen better-behaved children. Little John-John had a camera, he seemed to be very camera-conscious, and he took a lot of photographs of the blowers. Imagine, at six years of age.”

Before leaving the factory, John-John and Caroline were each presented with a Waterford Glass goblet bearing their names, and engraved with the Kennedy crest. Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy did not visit the factory. However she did place a special order for several chandeliers to be installed in the new Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C.. The gesture was quietly symbolic — an enduring connection between the memory of her late husband and the artistry of Ireland. To those present, it seemed more than a purchase; it was an act of remembrance, a way of ensuring that a little light from Waterford would shine forever in his name. From that day on, Waterford Crystal and the Kennedy legacy would be intertwined in both Irish and American memory.

The Dunhill Community Hall 

Not all her cultural visits were grand, however. On another evening, Mrs. Kennedy made her way inland to the small village of Dunhill, where a local amateur drama group was performing Sean O’Casey’s The Plough and the Stars in the community hall. News of her attendance spread quickly, and for the cast, it felt as though Hollywood itself had arrived in their midst.

The play went ahead as usual, though the performers later admitted that nerves were running high. From her seat in the modest hall, Mrs. Kennedy watched attentively throughout, her expression thoughtful and intent. At the curtain call she joined warmly in the applause, smiling and nodding her approval.

“It was very good of her to come all the way from America to see our play,” one actor later remarked. For the Dunhill Players, that quiet applause from the former First Lady was worth more than any review. It was the kind of night they would talk about for years to come — when Jackie Kennedy, elegant and gracious, sat among them and made their small stage feel like the Abbey Theatre itself.

The Trip to Rome

On Monday, July 10th, 1967, the Evening Echo reported that an Aer Lingus flight from Dublin to Rome had been delayed for more than half an hour — all for one very special passenger. Twenty-eight travellers bound for Zurich and Rome were kept waiting at Dublin Airport, their departure held up due to the late arrival of Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy.

She had been booked on the scheduled Aer Lingus 111 jet, but by the time the other passengers were seated and the aircraft was ready to depart, there was still no sign of her. Airline officials, aware of the delicate nature of the situation, informed the passengers of the reason for the delay and offered them refreshments while they waited.

More than thirty minutes later, Mrs. Kennedy’s car — escorted by Special Branch officers — swept up to the airport’s V.I.P. lounge. She was swiftly ushered aboard the aircraft, smiling politely but moving with the discreet efficiency that had marked her entire visit.

An airline spokesman later confirmed, perhaps with some relief, that “no complaints” had been received from the other passengers about the delay.

It was believed that Mrs. Kennedy was travelling on to Rome, accompanied by a small circle of friends, where she planned to pay a private visit to the Pope before his departure for his summer residence at Castelgandolfo.

Back in Woodstown, her two children, Caroline and John Jr., remained behind in the care of their attendants. For a short time longer, they continued to enjoy the sea air and familiar faces that had made their Irish holiday so memorable.

The whole family returned to New York in mid-July 1967, bringing to an end a six-week Irish holiday that had captured imaginations on both sides of the Atlantic. When she arrived home, Mrs. Kennedy told a reporter that she had greatly enjoyed her time in Ireland — the quiet beaches, the friendly people, and the chance to show her children the land their father had so deeply loved.

She spoke fondly of their days in Waterford, recalling with amusement how Caroline and John Jr. had been a little afraid of the spirited Irish horses. “They’re used to riding their pet donkeys at home,” she laughed. Then, with that trademark touch of wit that endeared her to so many, she added: “Next time I come to Ireland, I’ll be sure to bring my own asses.”

It was a light hearted remark, but it revealed something genuine — a woman who, after years of public sorrow and scrutiny, had found in Ireland a rare moment of peace and laughter. Her summer at Woodstown had been private, gentle, and deeply human. And though she would go on to live many more extraordinary chapters, for the people of Waterford, Dunmore East, and Woodstown, the memory of that quiet summer — of Jackie, Caroline, and John Jr. by the sea — has never quite faded from memory.

Jackie didn’t ever return to Ireland with her own asses, but she did marry Aristotle Socrates Onassis on 20 October 1968 on Onassis's private Greek island, Skorpios.