This article is Tom’s recollections of driving his father’s ponies to Corrach some forty years ago, and is taken from ‘Moycullen Matters’ issue 61, published in 1998.
We usually had some land taken as extra grazing for the ponies. A few fields in Poilleach and twenty acres of bog in Eanach come to mind. We had a bog and a marginal piece of ground in Cluain nDaimh from Peter Hurley and a lovely holding which surrounded Casleán an Rosa belonging to Chevasse. We even overwintered ponies as far away as An Turlach Mor, An Ghraig, and Cill Cholgain. Paddy Bohan’s holding in Corrach was our best piece. This now belongs to John Goaley, a Galway builder who has reclaimed it, but we grazed it for a decade in the late fifties and sixties and came to know it almost as well as our own. Paddy Bohan lived in Urmston, Manchester, and the rent was sent to him there, so our only contact in Corrach was Tim Bohan, his cousin. His was the only house there at the end of a very long, secluded, semi-public road to the lake.
The long walk with ponies to Corrach needed to start early in the day. Once onto Bothar a’ tSeipeil from the crossroads we immediately relaxed. It was downhill in every respect once we left the village. If driving a batch of ponies, I would invariably be out in front ‘watching the gaps’, running from the head of one boithrín to the next. Older brothers insisted on driving them, the man’s job. Usually things went well though I remember once getting some lively yearlings out of Lee’s sandpit. Another time trying to get ahead of them on Day’s narrow boithrín. And too well we got to know The Rocks.
This area, with its limestone, wild flowers and plants, was later bulldozed and blasted to make a very fine sports field. It was commonage whose owners generously sold to Muintir na Tíre. They took a token ten pounds each. A quixotic gesture towards Community Development and making a pitch there seemed enlightened at the time. Jim McKiernan acted as engineer and Mairtín O Maoilchiarain with John Clancy galvanised the local effort. Gelignite blew to pieces what the bulldozers could not move and many tons of stones were voluntarily picked. A fine playing surface emerged that has served the parish well. It had been a wild and colourful region. A mysterious place with feral goats. One of the most valuable ecological resources in the parish. A small part of The Rocks remains in its pristine condition.
That the ponies would cut loose in The Rocks and destroy their legs was our biggest worry but, though unfenced, it rarely seemed to invite them in. With few exceptions we managed well enough. Another landmark on this road was the house where a small boy always appeared at the door to see the ponies go by. As though he knew we were coming, he invariably stood there. In position, neatly dressed and groomed, he would smile shyly when we spoke. We knew his house as ‘Teach an Leaidín Tidy’. The byroad into Corrach was extremely quiet. Once we turned off the road to Tulach Cadhain at Gort a ‘Chalaidh and took the gravel boithrín through the hazel and blackthorn woods it became an enchanted place. We never met a car on this road. We rarely met people. Walking along, a pony on a long loose rein following. Silent, but for the birds and the scuff of an unshod hoof on an untarred road.
Timeless.
Dreaming.
The Lydons in Gort a ‘Thochaire kept Irish Draughts then as they do now. Their own old line of draughts has served them well in the showing and on the farm for many years. The ponies would prick up their ears and whinnied as we approached the house. The draughts would course around their field in excitement at seeing strangers of their own kind. Tails outstretched, snorting loudly. Phyllis, Thomas or Seamus, alerted by the commotion, would wave to us from the house. We would return the greeting and pass on.
Between Gort a ‘Thochaire and Corrach is the town land of Cill a ‘Chlogain. The Church with the Little Bell. There can be few town lands anywhere with so much mystery, bloodshed, violence and magic. It was here that the widow Maire Bhride got the better of the fairies by getting her baby back and banishing their changeling. Here is Lisín na bPaisti, plundered after every burial by the blood thirsty monster from Lough Corrib. Poll Baite, scene of a battle between the Irish and their ancient foe. A cave, Uaimh an Mhada Alla, guarded by a wolf. Lios an Chait where the wild cat still watches over Viking gold. Cloch an Bhean Sí where a bean sí laments her petrified lover. Fionn was here, the Fianna, and a great deal more. Luckily I only learned this much later on reading Padraig Breathnach’s ‘Maigh Cuillinn, A Taisc agus a Tuaraisc’. Had I known the half of it I would have kept very close indeed to the ponies. And whistled. But, ignorant, carefree, dreaming, I sauntered on.
Two gates stood on this quiet road. Awkward, ancient, heavy timbered things. Sentries guarding hard-won stony ground. Defining rights. Allowing strangers passage. We would open them, go through, and shut them carefully after us. Farm or town land boundaries, they were landmarks, reminding us of where we were and giving the impression of moving through to an inner sanctum. They briefly interrupted my reverie. The ponies, or certainly the older mares, knew their destination. Cam an Ime, Lus na bPog, Smear Mullai, Meantain would all have found their own way in. Ceol Cibe would have managed the gates and all! Good brood mares, beautifully named by my father. Names that explained as much about him as about the mares. Duailin Glas, Carog, Fionnog, Fea Donn, Feileog, Bile Dara, Siocan, Airne. On the last few hundred yards, they would prick their ears and quicken their step. When we drove them into Tim’s yard they knew to turn left and await admission. Corrach was beautiful. Once past the gate the ponies could roam at will through forty acres. It was a farm of endless variety. The natural pasture of grasses and wild plants a delight to the sophisticated palette of the pony. Like the goat, they loved variety. To browse.
The willow catkins in January, full of pollen and goodness, beloved of bees, provided a winter treat. They nibbled at the dreaded prickly blackthorn at this time of year to avail of its early blossom. They sifted through the fallen leaves to find succulent, hidden treats. There was plenty of grass too in the clearings. Fields existed once, and farmsteads. Remains of old houses and broken walls provided evidence. Without constant husbandry, the land had reverted to a semi-wild state. Weeds once kept in check grew freely. Small fields closed in and became impenetrable. The briar, hazel, white and black thorn prospered. the mountain Ash was prolific, the sally and birch in abundance. The farm had Loch Corrib as its eastern boundary. The lake’s edge was limestone pavement and loose stones. Ponies reared in such an environment were foot sure and dependable. They could shorten or lengthen a stride or pull out in a side-step with ease. “Togaigí bog é. Ná bígí a ‘rith”, my father used to shout as we gathered them. But the ponies trotted on, taking the terrain in their stride, their high exaggerated action the only concession to the rough ground.
In summer, the lake retreated. The woods grew green, the pasture flourished. The ponies loved the diversity. The marsh marigold was there and the lady’s smock. Swaths of purple loosestrife, vetch, wild mint, and meadow sweet. The foals and young stock learned from the older ones to avoid the buachallan and the foxglove. The bitterness of the buttercup was a deterrent in itself. They loved the fresh growth of furze. They relished the young shoots. They grazed the succulent rushes as they grew. They systematically clipped the ferns. Plantain everywhere. Autumn brought the knapweed and hawkweed. All were fat by then. A cooling stroll to the water’s edge on a humid day. Shelter in the woods from wind or rain. They were in an equine heaven.
Tim Bohan would greet us eagerly on our arrival. “‘Ce’n chaoi a bhfuil sibh? Ta cupla ceann deas ansin agaibh, bail o’Dhia orthu.’
‘Ara, nil siad ro-dhona…’
‘Tá siad go deas agus an-ordu orthu. Bhfuil sibh tuirseach?’
‘Níl, níl, níl! Tá muid go breá…’”
He and my father would chat while we would busy ourselves with the ponies or talked to the lads. Gaolta I bhfad amach. Tim was tall and thin. Past his prime when I knew him, he always gave the impression of strength and integrity. One could only guess at the single-mindedness and graft that saw him maintain his lovely thatched house, stone outbuildings, and perfectly walled fields of rich limestone land in virtual isolation. At the end of the road, a long way from his nearest neighbour, Tomas O Direain, an agricultural instructor in Mayo and a brother of the more famous Martin, could have been writing of Tim in his poem An tAranach:
‘…le allas a bhaithis,
‘s fuil a chroi,
go ndeana se talamh,
as na scailpeachai.’
Annie Donoghue as we knew her, Tim’s wife, never failed to offer a cup of tea. I’m sure we were often a nuisance but Annie never let it show. Indeed, if we were walking home we had no choice but to accept. Annie insisted before the return journey. Tim was equally generous and if the car was there, he often had a bucket of potatoes in the boot before leaving. “‘Ce’n chaoi bhfuil mam?’” he always inquired.
Mam would echo the inquiry when we got home – “‘Ce’n chaoi bhfuil Tim? A’ bhfaca sibh Annie?’
‘Tá sé go brea Arno, thug sí an tae dhúinn’”
Over thirty years later, I can still see Tim clearly. Standing, welcoming beside his house. Smiling with those soft eyes. Tall, gaunt, safe, beautiful.
Definitions
Below I have attempted to assist those unfamiliar to the language to understand some of the words and phrases Tom uses in his article.
A (country) lane, its spelling is often anglisized phonetically to ‘boreen’. Typically untarred or overgrown, it is the diminutive of…
A road. The principal example of this in the article above is “Bothar a’tSeipeil”. This is three words: Bothar (road) an ((of)the) Séipéal (church – or strictly speaking, chapel). Church Road.
A castle.
Again three words; muintir meaning the people of, the inhabitants of, or even the family of; followed by “na”, meaning ‘of the’; and “Tíre”, which is a version of tír, a country or land. Together they are ‘the people of the(that) land’, i.e. the locals.
A field or meadow. Very common in Irish place names.
A Children’s Graveyard. These are unfortualtely not uncommon in Ireland, particularly dating from the 19th century and the time of the famines. Children that died before their parents could have them baptised were not allowed a burial on consecrated ground. Desperate, grieving parents took to burying their loved ones next to holy wells and other religious sites which dot the landscape. Many of these then became de-facto children’s graveyards.
Strictly speaking, this means a hole, a pit, or an aperature of some kind. Often used in place names to denote a hollow, or a dip in the landscape.
A cave. In this case, Uaimh an Mhada Alla, the cave of the wolf – although ‘mhada alla’ is closer in meaning to ‘maddened/bloody dog’ than wolf. Not a point to argue if you see one, I’d imagine!
Loosely translates as the ‘lair of the cat’. Being on the same road as the ‘cave of the maddened dog’ must have led to difficulties.
Defined and pronounced as banshee. Its literal meaning however translates as ‘a woman, or lady, of the Sí’, and Bean Sí should not automatically be imagined as a disney-type witch. In Irish mythology, the Sí were a race apart and comprised of both sexes and generally blessed with uncommon beauty. Any ‘fairy woman’ could therefore be called a bean sí. It still tended not to be an altogether good thing to meet one however.
‘Ce’n chaoi a bhfuil sibh? Ta cupla ceann deas ansin agaibh, bail o’Dhia orthu.’
‘Ara, nil siad ro-dhona…’
‘Tá siad go deas agus an-ordu orthu. Bhfuil sibh tuirseach?’
‘Níl, níl, níl! Tá muid go breá…’
‘How are ye? Ye have a few nice ones there, God bless them.’
‘Ara, they’re not too bad…’
‘They are nice, and in good condition. Are ye tired?’
‘No, no no! We’re fine…’
‘…le allas a bhaithis,
‘s fuil a chroi,
go ndeana se talamh
as na scailpeachai.’
‘…by the sweat of his brow,
and the blood of his heart,
he makes soil
from the rocks.’
‘Ce’n chaoi bhfuil mam?’
‘Ce’n chaoi bhfuil Tim? A’ bhfaca sibh Annie?’
‘Tá sé go brea Arno, thug sí an tae dhúinn’
‘How’s mam?’
‘How’s Tim? Did ye see Annie?’
‘He’s grand sure, she gave us the tea.’
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Greatings, Super post, Need to mark it on Digg
Have a nice day
Nadine