We were at a crossroads. A literal crossroads, halted on a bramble-hedged rural lane, Gaelic signposts pointed in five bewildering directions. We’d learned the hard way that sometimes a wrong choice might send us veering off down red-dirt cowpaths, into private farmyards, or to the edge of towering cliffs.  Which way do I go? he asked, and I raised my finger from the map to point: “Go that way!”  My new groom had been white-knuckling the Irish driving for the last two weeks. We first met at the facility where my grandparents lived and where, as chaplain, he befriended my cantankerous granddad, Charlie, famous for his daring nursing home escapes.…