From my observations I have noticed many animals in a state of light catalepsy – the condition between numbness and lethargy. Burly cows chew slow cud then contentedly munch a mixed salad of tall orchids, grass and seaweed. They have a placid look, slouching as they roll their eyes and swing their heads and tails. Goats move sluggishly, if at all, while dozing geese languish on back roads. Standing stock-still with erect ears, the Burren’s donkeys bring a smile and pop up in all sorts of unexpected places: a field at Rathborney, beside the bridge on the coast road in Ballyvaughan, and on the limestone at Murrough.
Can there be another village in Ireland that has such undemonstrative dogs and cats? The Ballyvaughan cats are alert but unperturbed about their next meal. Solitary ginger toms dart casually down alleyways and at night semi-invisible black prowlers slip around the edge of the village.
But the most admired cat is Mrs Puss who attracts an endless stream of curiosity from her position outside the Village Stores in Ballyvaughan. The cat’s tortoiseshell colouring – a mottled pattern of black, orange, yellow and white – is part of the attraction for tourists and shoppers in need of stress relief. She looks as though she has just been through a heavyweight boxing bout and been inflicted with a nasty black eye. Motionless but with a high strokeability factor, the cat lies curled on a chair, sometimes preferring an unnoticed ground position in the corner.
Like most cats Mrs Puss snoozes a large part of her day away. She seems abnormally relaxed and unflinching at even the slightest touch or interest in her siesta. I have watched the reaction of both cat and customers, many of whom pet her as though a good luck charm. As an entry point for those beginning their Burren journey, she has developed a talismanic quality. After alighting at the bus stop beside the shop, visitors receive their befurred blessing. Tourists like to touch her while delivering a friendly greeting. Once, a Norwegian man, who did not notice her on the picnic table, almost dropped his hefty rucksack on her, just missing her head by a whisker or two; she did not bat a docile eyelid.
Cautiously, children approach, crouching down to stare and sometimes she responds with a half-open eye or a long slow wink. ‘Is it a dog or a cat … is it real?’ a young boy once enquired of his parents. He deliberated over whether or not to touch her, then gently stroked her and followed this with a firm yank of her soft furry tail and an even firmer rebuke from his father. Elderly women are often intrigued by her and, as a sidetrack from shopping, like to tickle under her chin as if a newborn baby. One woman sitting smoking at a table once told me that she ‘just mugs’ everyone who passes through. Frequently tourists drop grateful crumbs to her strategic position at one side of the picnic table although she does not seem to like Guinness cake. When she has had her fill of their leftovers she slinks around the side of the shop to her warm little shack at the back.
Mrs Puss is unconcerned by all the fuss. Nor does she appear interested in birds although Jim, the shop owner, describes her as a ‘great ratter’. She seems to especially enjoy grooming and vigorous tugging of her fur as well as washing all over with her long tongue. In the morning, after a wash-and-brush-up, ears pricked, she is alert to the noisy comings and goings of delivery vans pulling up to restock the supermarket. She often scratches furiously, with her head jerking forward and gazing intently straight ahead with deadly concentration before feverishly slaughtering some flies.
The ultimate accolade came in 2009 when the cat’s own Facebook page, the Ballyvaughan Tongue Cat Club, was set up by students. Quickly Mrs Puss built up a fan base with more than forty friends. Fussed over but unfazed by fame, Ballyvaughan’s glamour puss is the Burren’s most photographed tabby, the animal version of the Poulnabrone dolmen.
The most courteous dog to be seen in public is Trixie, the rheumy-eyed, black-and-white collie occupying the doormat outside O’Donoghue’s pub along the coast at Fanore. Sitting peaceably in the doorway, the collie politely moves quietly out of the way to allow customers to enter, obeying a sign above the door that warns: ‘No dogs allowed on the premises. Management.’
One September morning I watched a dragonfly slowly dry its wings in preparation for its daily aerial acrobatics. The swans seem to preen and indulge in wing-spreading at a tranquil pace. Herons lift on leisurely wings, slow-flapping their way into the air. The blackbird’s song, especially in the evening, is relaxed with its soft lazy fluting pouring over the hills.
The Burren hares run but only after walking a few paces and even then seem to proceed in a series of slow springs not unlike a joey. For sheer daring nothing beats the wildlife encounter I once experienced on the road at Lisgoogan. For several minutes one day in June a leveret caused a traffic tailback on the road. The young hare, no more than six months old with long hind legs and light brown fur, surprised me on a straight stretch of road driving to Carron. I braked sharply, expecting it to run off at speed. But once it saw the car, instead of scampering, it started a gentle run, more of a slow-paced glide, down the middle of the road in a straight line not in any particular hurry to scurry off. I nudged the car forward a few metres, paused and watched it trying to work out its next move. My bemused passengers burst out laughing when it began a jig, twisting and turning, agonising over its route and changing its mind.
Like the pied piper it continued its easy-going run, decelerating, stopping again, casually looking around over its shoulder, eyes wide open, sizing up the metre-high stone walls on either side of the road, hesitating uncertainly for a few moments, gazing into a gap then thinking better of it before continuing its road journey. It was searching for an off-road opening and no gaps were visible in the tightly built walls, but the leveret gave the impression of not caring about finding one. Pausing again, turning right, then left, surveying the landscape, ears twitching, it carried on tarmac-bashing. Driving slowly behind it, keeping a 30m distance with a grandstand view, I again paused, stealing a glance in my rear view mirror. Behind me a cavalcade of a dozen cars, two minibuses and a coach load of tourists queued patiently. One man got out of his car, binoculars clamped to face. No one had any thoughts of overtaking and wanted to watch this spectacle in awe as though a high-definition TV nature programme was replaying before our eyes in real time.
Still not versed in the ways of the cruel world, the leveret clearly had no fear of humans or cars and had no qualms about its athletics interrupting the flow of traffic. It was trying carefully to select its exit point – all in its own time and at its own pace without pressure. After another thirty seconds of road running, more to-ing and fro-ing, it finally decided its merry dance was over. Jack-in-the-box like, it reared up on its hind legs springing through a small opening at the side of a gate, performing a slick disappearing trick.
All told, the Burren animal kingdom seems to pride itself on its love of dolce far niente – the sweet business of doing nothing, or, at least, giving the impression of doing very little. Other notes from my journals over the years, reflecting not just the animal world but the wider aspect, illustrate the point: a red and white rescue helicopter on its way to a mission at Fanore cliffs seems in no particular hurry. I watch its rotor blades move at a genteel pace. A navy trawler from Ballyvaughan harbour heading out into the wider waters of the Atlantic moves at a slow rate of knots causing only the smallest ripple in the water.
The sunsets have a delayed magnificence. On quiet days the sea is so calm it can look positively comatose. Waves slop lazily over boulders and rocks. The wind can be lazy too. It does not cut through you in the way that it grabs you in other parts of the west of Ireland. Stand on higher ground and it can surprise you but generally it does not provide the lift-you-off-your-feet experience that you get on a windy day at the top of O’Brien’s Tower at the Cliffs of Moher.
There are few places where food is held in such awe and treated in such a dignified manner. In mid-May the Burren Slow Food Festival in Lisdoonvarna attracts large crowds. Cookery demonstrations, farmers’ markets and food talks as well as workshops for children’s cooking are h
eld, all in a relaxed manner. The summer torpor seems to affect visitors and locals alike. Tourists sip their hot flasks of tea and soup at an unhurried pace. A woman snoozes at the steering wheel lulled into a siesta at the beauty of it all. Two cyclists leisurely freewheel downhill, arms wide apart. And naturally enough the pint-pulling server will inform you that you cannot hurry the stout. For you must never forget: we are in the Burren. Time passes. Everything runs to its own dreamily slow geologic time. Festina lente – hurry slowly – whether cyclist, walker, driver or loveable leveret.
Stonewall and bloody cranesbill © Marty Johnston
8
Grazing around Gleninagh
Touch the earth, love the earth, honour the earth, her plains, her valleys, her hills, and her seas; rest in your spirit in her solitary places. For the gifts of life are the earth’s, and they are given to all, and they are the songs of birds at daybreak, Orion and the Bear, and dawn seen over ocean from the beach.
Henry Beston, The Outermost House
The strains of ‘Amazing Grace’ played animato on a concertina float across the night air as a summer drizzle and mist enfolds the townland of Gleninagh along the coast road to Black Head. Fifty people of all ages pick their way carefully through a grassy field for the annual pilgrimage to a holy well said to cure eye infections. The Well of the Holy Cross, Tobar na Croise Naoimhe, is tucked into a corner where the becapped musical maestro Chris Droney from Bell Harbour is perched atop a stone under a tree.
As the grey trestle tables are laid out for mass, the atmosphere is hushed and reverent. Fr Des Forde welcomes the umbrellaed and anoraked pilgrims standing hugger-mugger in a semi-circle round the well. Several cars and a people carrier have been driven into the field. The sky has turned into a solid blanket of grey and the rain appears to be on for the evening. Although it looks uninviting, the murmur of the sea adds to the tranquil background.
The sixteenth-century well-house with its pointedarch doorway shows signs of having been recently visited. Handkerchiefs and pieces of white rag cloth are tied to branches of the overhanging ash tree in which two pigeons are answering a higher call to prayer. The date is 3 August 2010 and for ten years Fr Forde has officiated at a revival of a centuries-old tradition of well-worship. I have gatecrashed the ecclesiastical outing to learn about its place in people’s lives.
‘The well is a symbol of our faith,’ Fr Forde tells the pilgrims. ‘We are 75 per cent water – perhaps a little bit more tonight – and this is a very special place that we’ve come to. Water is a powerful symbol and we are brought together in unity. There is power in being together and in walking down here and that is why the pilgrimage is important. This is a place of great energy. Just like getting petrol in your car you refuel, so in the same way you come to Gleninagh to be energised and refueled.’
He thanks the O’Donoghue and Scheunemann families who maintain the well. Unlike pilgrimages to many holy wells, Gleninagh does not hold a traditional ritual pattern called deiseal where people walk in clockwise circles repeating Hail Marys, Our Fathers or Glorias. The ceremony involves a structured mass with responses and Eucharistic sacrifice conducted like a church mass. After a biblical reading and a prayer, Chris picks up his concertina again and ‘Lord of All Faithfulness’ spurs an elderly woman to clutch her rosary beads. Two other women huddle together sharing an umbrella on the newly whitewashed stones surrounding the well. The drizzle continues unabated. A young couple beside me reflect on the weather.
‘My socks are wringin’.’
‘Put your mobile in your handbag, you can’t answer it here,’ comes the caustic reply.
Undeterred by the rain, the priest puts a positive spin on the dampness. ‘The place where we live in is what matters. We need to make time for each other as we are always busy in this life. The rain will help us all to grow.’
He lapses into Irish then offers bread to worshippers. Wet hands are shaken in peace. Although I am standing on the margins he gives me a firm handshake and returns to his makeshift pulpit.
‘Music,’ he concludes, ‘is a beatitude for us tonight and in the same way as Christ spoke to us, we are lifted by music and song.’
The resonance of his words hangs in the air for a few seconds, then on cue, and accompanied by a guitarist, Chris crackles into the first of three swift Clare jigs with great virtuosity: ‘The Trip to the Cottage’ followed by ‘Scully’s Fancy’ and ‘The Master’s Return’. The volume is pumped up for the rousing ‘Fiddler’s Green’ finale and by the end of the service the only dry thing left is Fr Forde’s wit: ‘You can all take your clothes off and get into the well if you like but you’re invited firstly to come and partake of the hospitality wagon.’
Soul-cleansed, the pilgrims queue up at stalls laden with trays of salad, ham and cheese sandwiches. Strong tea is poured from large silver pots into china cups and biscuit tins passed around. Children drink lemonade and scoff cheese and onion crisps. Three young boys in football jerseys throw loose stones at each other beside the castle. Convivially we squelch around making the most of the mingle-opportunity, the music animating everyone. Fr Forde is a genial Galwegian with a sense of humour. After he came to Ballyvaughan and Fanore in 2001 he revived the pilgrimage. During our soggy supper he chats to me about how he sees pilgrimages fitting into life in the twenty-first century.
‘By meeting and talking to each other people get a huge amount out of it,’ he reflects. ‘I walked down here from the pinnacle well along the main road and down a lane with a ninety-year-old woman who had no stick and no glasses. She is a retired teacher and we talked about things that are coming up in her life. It was a wonderful social and pastoral discussion with her.
‘What has happened in general with pilgrimages is that it’s not faith in a dogmatic kind of a way – it’s not religious, but it’s spiritual. There is no saint here but it was through the Cross that Christ rose and it’s interesting that the Gleninagh blessed well is called the Well of the Holy Cross. A few years ago the cross was stolen so we did some fund-raising and have a new one that is now firmly embedded. Someone said to me tonight if it’s going to be stolen again the thief will have to take the whole well. You’d be amazed at what people do – some of them would even take stones off your wall and plunder the limestone.’
We talk about the healing power of the well and the common practice of leaving rags tied to trees beside it. This is based on rubbing the diseased part of the body with the rag, then transferring the ailment to the rag which gradually leaves the body as the rag rots away. It has produced positive results for local people.
‘A woman who had an eye problem used to visit the well and rub her eyes and it went away. That is not of course a scientifically proven miracle but nonetheless it cured her. There is a theory that I have heard people around here saying – that if you go to the well and you see an eel in it then that means that the healing potential is there. It is a lucky omen to see the eel although most people don’t see it but this woman may have seen it. People keep going to the well in the hope of being healed and they have a very strong faith.’
Despite the persistent drizzle, the night air stimulates talk. People stand chatting in knots of three and four. Some shout greetings to each other, exchanging banter as though at a county agricultural show. Many who attend the ceremony grew up in the area and some still live here while others have moved away. John O’Donoghue, who was brought up in Gleninagh, moved to England in 1958 and now lives in Milton Keynes. He has returned specially for the pilgrimage and reminisces about life as a young boy.
‘People didn’t have very much back in the 1950s when I lived here,’ he says. ‘My father, who spoke Irish, was the last fisherman. There was a bit of fishing and farming and we played card games such as 25 and 45 but that was about it. Some people picked winkles and carrageen moss to make a few bob and then made jellies out of it. At one time there would have been more than a dozen currachs fishing off Gleninagh pier and their catch would have been sent to Limerick an
d Galway.’
John looks up at Gleninagh Castle and recalls the time in his childhood when a bullock once got inside and made its way up the stairway to the top. His father had to be called to help get it out.
Munching on his sandwiches, Pat Browne, who spoke at the end of the service, says he is impressed by the community spirit. He grew up in Gleninagh and now describes himself a ‘permanent visitor’.
‘Our family had a house here which was built by my grandfather who was Church of Ireland rector in Ennis. It was an impoverished area in the late 1940s and 1950s when I was a boy. There was no employment in those post-war days. Most young people left although there may have been one person in the family who was given the land and stayed on. What’s interesting now is that quite a number have come back. It’s changed now; in fact it’s almost middle-class and quite refined whereas forty years ago it was a working and fishing area.’
Pat says it is called the Well of the Holy Cross because the whole area was under the ownership of the diocese of Kilfenora and therefore it came from the Bishop’s Cross. His mother used to swim in the sea off Gleninagh every morning until she was in her eighties. Local tradition states that German submarines regularly refilled with water from the well.
‘The well-water is very low down the table. It has a high mineral content and has a higher content of dissolved oxygen than most other places.’
By 9.30 p.m. many worshippers have left but a few linger as darkness closes in before making their way back up the lane to the road. Dampness permeates my clothes, shoes, notebook and thoughts. Across the bay the lights of Connemara are coming on, the sea is surly, the sky has turned dark and the summer stars are hidden. The ash tree which is ideally positioned somehow seems to belong perfectly to the history of the place. I step down to look into the well. A simple wooden cross says ‘Seek Within’. Votive offerings, including small crosses, fragile waxed candles and jam-jars, have been placed by the faithful on shelf-rocks, and a cracked Mother and Child gaze out at me with untroubled serenity. In this treasured place of pilgrimage and prayer lie shells, white stones, coins and a red rose all in a small pool of dark water. Tonight, Gleninagh keeps the faith but the elusive eel is nowhere to be seen.
Burren Country Page 11