Two

I was up early next morning and shortly after breakfast the two companions I was expecting arrived. I was delighted to have them with me. Cruising alone sounds very romantic but there are times when it can be awkward and difficult, especially on entering or leaving crowded harbours or locks. Both my friends were experienced men of boats, so there was no need for me to feel in any way worried or apprehensive so long as they were with me. Even more important still, they were men of a tranquil, pleasant and good humoured disposition. There are few things more disagreeable within the confines of a small boat than moody, sulky, cantankerous companions, the kind of people who lose their precious tempers and lash out at others when things don't go their way. In the cramped conditions of a small boat there can be no room for such unadaptable individuals. But today I had the best of companions with me, and as we moved down the Scarriff river they took over the boat so I sat out on the foredeck, supported by plenty of cushions, Maxie by my side, and enjoyed the cool, fresh breath of this lovely summer's morning. We sailed out into the lake and set our course for Garrykennedy which was about a two hour journey away. It was a magnificent summer's day with the gentlest of winds blowing from the south-west, and the whole countryside became a delicate landscape that could have inspired a Constable or a Turner. The tops of the distant mountains were hidden in veils of shimmering mist; the beautiful rays of the morning sun was bringing life to land and water; the clear blue sky was touched here and there by little fairy wisps of clouds. Everything seemed to bubble over with life and it was easy to understand how such a scene delighted the heart of Merriman:

Do ghealfadh an croi a bhi crion le cianta
Caite gan bhri no lionta i bpianta
An seithleach searbh gan sealbh gan seibhreas
D'feachfadh tamall thar bharra na gcoillte.

On every side of me the prosperous little farmhouses of Clare, with their simple thatched hay-stacks, reeks of black-brown turf and patchwork fields, dotted the landscape and it was hard to imagine that not so very long ago this countryside, now smiling on all sides, saw the most terrible suffering, famine, evictions and death in the history of the nation, at the hands of particularly brutal landlords. With scant mercy they evicted the old, the sick, the feeble, the helpless little children most of whom died in their thousands by the roadside. On the roadsides of Clare there were no wounded, only the dead. One contemporary writer describes what it was like:

Sixteen houses containing twenty-one families have been levelled in one village. As soon as one horde of houseless and all but naked paupers are dead, another wholesale eviction doubles the number. As cabins became fewer lodgings became more difficult to obtain and the helpless creatures betake themselves to the nearest bog or ditch with their little children and thus huddled they die of disease and starvation.

One of these landlords boasted that he would 'whip Ireland into a tame cat'. Shortly afterwards he died and was buried with great pomp and ceremony. When his coffin was lowered into the grave the ragged Irish emerged stealthily from amongst the shrubbery and flung hordes of dead cats into his grave. It was the only way they could protest. Another, in 1870, who arrogantly tried to have a statue erected to himself in a public place, gave up the project when he heard that it would be blown up immediately it was unveiled.

Perhaps the most hated of all English monarchs in Ireland was Victoria, better known as the Famine Queen. Four million people were evicted during her reign, and alone in the three terrible years after the famine she permitted the eviction of some two hundred and sixty thousand human beings most of whom died of starvation. They say in Clare that if hell were a barrel and you lifted the lid off, the first person you would see roasting inside would be Victoria. Her dark memory still lives on in the folk culture of the people who coined for her the name 'Evictoria'. The bloody oul bitch,' a Clare farmer once said to me. 'She starved millions to death and when she was dyin' herself she was such a prude that she gave orders for to leave her knickers on when she was being washed and what's more, she left instructions that the women who would be washing her was to be blindfolded.' But those days are gone, the landlords are gone, their magnificent mansions crumbling and decaying, their pompous tombstones covered in moss and lichen. The people they tried to crush and exterminate lived to see the last of them vanquished. Today the farmers of Clare can grow and prosper in security and peace, and rear their families without fear of hunger. Generation upon generation struggled on, despite being clubbed into insensibility time and time again, until our own day saw at last the end of the road. 'If I had my way,' the late Sir Winston Churchill is reported to have said to the painter Augustus John, 'I would exterminate the whole Irish race.' Sir Winston is gone, and the imperialism that he dedicated his life to is but a memory, yet the Irish race remains. The victory of good over evil is not only found in fairy tales but sometimes in real life too.

As we sailed along over the gleaming waters of Lough Derg the day became more and more awake. The woods, the islands, the shores seemed to become more beautiful bit by bit. Wild birds of the lake ventured out over the surface as answering some strange primeval call to the fullness and joy of life. There was an air of cheerfulness and hope everywhere as if the world were being re-born. In such ecstatic moments it was great to be alive and it was easy to believe in God.

It was high noon when we arrived at Garrykennedy. We tied up at the tiny western harbour in the shadow of an old castle. This was once an O'Kennedy stronghold and a neighbouring tribe, the Keoghs, cast anxious eyes on the rich O'Kennedy's islands. Unexpectedly they attacked, surprised the chieftain Brian and killed him - by no means an unusual event in those far off days. But Brian had a few handy sons and grandsons who were not willing to let such things pass unnoticed. They paid a surprise visit to the Keoghs, executed fifteen of them, and made the journey home with hundreds of their cattle. A fair warning to all others not to trifle with descendants of Brian Boru! Garrykennedy is a tiny harbour with room only for a few boats and in any kind of crowded conditions there can be some difficulty getting in and out. The pier itself is constructed of very rough stone, taken from the castle, which goes to show that disrespect for national monuments is not something peculiar to the present day. A sort of a new harbour has been created here but it is not deep enough for cruisers so one cannot help asking the question-why build a pier if boats cannot tie up alongside? After a cup of coffee we went for a stroll around the tastefully laid out parkland, Maxie delighted to be on dry land once more. Local tradition has it that on the site of this little park a famous incident took place in the thirteenth century which had far-reaching consequences for Ireland. The English Pope, Adrian IV, sent a cardinal over to Ireland on a tour of inspection since he wanted to collect enough evidence on the barbaric Irish to justify handing over the country to the King of England, Henry II. The cardinal's baggage was carried by over forty mules and asses, and on his way from Lohrra to Killaloe he made a detour around the lake to view the beautiful scenery and camped overnight here in Garrykennedy. While the sacred party were sound asleep the locals stole all the mules and asses and left the portly cardinal and his entourage with only their feet to carry them to Killaloe. Back in Rome the cardinal reported this to Adrian who is supposed to have angrily said: 'I must do something at once to convert these savage Irish,' whereupon he issued his famous Bull handing Ireland over to England. Incidentally, Adrian was a cousin of Henry II, and as they say in Tipperary, 'Cousins are useful betimes.'

Back again on board we had some difficulty in manoeuvring our way out of the little harbour because a number of other boats had come in while we were strolling around the village, but with that co-operative and friendly attitude one finds among all Shannon boatmen we were helped out of our difficulties and in no time on our way to our next port of call, Dromineer, which is but a short hour's run from Garrykennedy. This is a very richly wooded and luxuriant part of the lake which probably accounts for the high proportion of ascendency houses located in most scenic positions. There was a time when the ascendency were firmly in the saddle of public affairs and looked down upon the Irish as lackeys and stable-boys. Although born in Ireland their loyalties were to the British crown, and they gave unquestioning service in building the empire and crushing minorities wherever the interests of that crown demanded. They were the brigadiers, generals, colonels and majors of the last century, men of impeccable ignorance, but with the advent of Irish freedom their days of supremacy and influence came to an end. They then retreated into themselves, a sad decaying lot, who became figures of fun and objects of caricature. They drank the royal health on birthdays. They put their flags at half-mast on the lawns when some old warrior from one of the regiments died; indeed one, who had an ex-bugler as a valet, was known to have the last post sounded...