Bawnboy and Templeport
History Heritage Folklore
a by Chris Maguire

 
 
A MASS ROCK - 1938 and Other Stories by the late Hugh Keaney
 

This Old History is taken from Folklore in Ardmoneen N.S. 1938, By Hugh Keany N.T.

A Mass Rock

Tradition tells us of a large Mass stone known as such to the generations just now passed away and which now according to the historians is buried deep in the earth, to the west of Corlough Catholic Church. It was to be seen a couple of generations ago on a farm owned by a man named McVitty but now belonging to a man named Meehan, living in the townland of Corlough.

Patrick McGovern of Ardmoneen told me it was on his maternal grandfather's land and that his mother told him that she saw the stone many and many a time. She said that a gravel pit was sunk in the immediate vicinity of the stone and that her memory of it was to see it in an overhanging position close to the gravel pit. She also said that finally the bank slipped in and with it the once prized Mass stone.

Note: The gravel pit is an excavation from which gravel is raised and used in the reclamation of bog or mountain land.

 

A Fairy Tale

James McGovern alias Captain living in the townland of Tullyveela told me of his father's experience one evening when coming from looking at sheep on the Ardmoneen mountains north of Ardmoneen N.S. The old Captain, James's father when coming down the face of the mountain one fine evening towards the end of October, stopped to talk to an old man named Prior who was covering up a heap of potatoes that he had dug during the day. The slanting rays of the sun which to them was already set were lighting up the face of the mountain so lately trodden by the Captain.

On looking back our hero could distinctly see what he describes as myriads of people moving about in and out through each other as if they were going through part of the intricacies of a very complicated form of dance.

Jimmy told me that his father then directed Prior's attention to what he saw. Prior never stopped to look, but replied: 'Don't mind them strange beings. I often see them myself, but it's better to pass no remarks on them'. And so my father turned his head in another direction and hurried home thinking over the strange phenomenon.

 

The Battle of Seltan Na Sourán

Tradition says that a terrible battle was fought in ancient times in the immediate vicinity of Ardmoneen School. It took place on the slopes of the Slieve an Iarainn mountains for the most part in the townland of Ardmoneen. It seems to have been a running fight until they came to the field in which the school was situated. My reason for saying that it was a running battle is that human remains have been found further west in the townland of Garryfliugh. An old crooked ditch has been pointed out to me in this townland and an old man living there told me that it was so crooked because when it was being made by his ancestors they had to change their direction of running the ditch on account of the number of skeletons, or human remains they were meeting. Patrick Prior an old age pensioner living in the townland of Ardmoneen told me that the field in which the school is situated has been called by the old people 'The Graveyard'.

Although this field and all those around it are of a black or boggy nature there is a little round hill or bank in the left-hand top corner of this field which is composed of white sand. The story says that this sand was carried there in bags from the sandhills on the other side of the river, that here forms the boundary between Ulster and Connaught. The tradition is, that the sand was carried there to cover the dead bodies when collected after the battle. This might have been a battle between the peoples of Ulster and Connaught, perhaps in Queen Maeve's time or between the De Dananns and the Fir Bolgs for the possession of the mountains. If between the latter people the right men were there to carry up the sand in their bags to form the mound or Cairn - the Fir Bolg or Bag Men above-mentioned. The old people of Ardmoneen say that they heard from their ancestors that long ago when candles were made from rushes, they had to go abroad for the rushes, as candles made from rushes in Ardmoneen would not burn on account of all the blood that was shed there at the time of this battle.

 

Pre-Christian Industry and Ancient Colonisation of this locality

The Slieve an Iarainn mountains lie to the north and west of Ardmoneen school. The name signifies the mountains of iron, and here there is every reason to believe that it is not a misnomer. Tradition states that the De Danann and Fir Bolgs wrought the iron mines here thousands of years ago and carried the iron to An Muileann Iarainn for smelting. The same tradition says that it was in bags that they carried it and hence the name Fir Bolg.

An Muileann Iarainn, the Iron Mill or Swanlinbar was so called because it was here that they had their furnaces or mills for smelting iron ore. But apart from these large and important mills traces of minor and less important furnaces and even the roads leading to them have been discovered in recent years under hard bogs, often at a depth of fourteen or sixteen feet below the surface.

Tradition tells us of many such roads and small furnaces but I will just instance one that I saw myself. I saw a turfcutter dig the bottom floor of a bog bank to expose a nicely made dry road made of broken free-stone and covered over with remains of buried wood which I suppose was a substitute for sand. The stones were like what we see today (1937) in piles along our country roads, but somewhat larger in size. A very remarkable thing about the broken stones was that they looked quite clean and fresh as if they were broken quite recently. Of course the road is still there but covered up in the mud. It is in my brother's farm, Charles Keany of Cornabraher, in the parish of Oughteragh in Co. Leitrim.

Seeing what the broken stones are covered with there can be little doubt that there are the remains of a furnace in the immediate vicinity and that this road is leading to it. These roads, furnaces and mills were not constructed without some purpose and to my mind it is quite plain that they were made for the purpose of procuring the iron ore from the mountains and also of smelting it. These mountains also contain coal and are most likely to contain other valuables as well.

 

FAIRIES OR THE GOOD PEOPLE

Stories are told of a mythic people known as the fairies having been seen very often along the slopes of the Slieve an Iarainn mountains. I shall here relate a few such stories that I myself have heard from those who saw them - the Sidhe Beings. The old storytellers commonly affirmed that there was no doubt whatever about the truth of their stories.

The Mower's Experience

A very old man, Michael McCabe, alias the Blackman told my father in my hearing, of an experience he had as a young man on a very bright moonlight night in the month of September. Micky McCabe had the name of being a great mower and a great 'sojer', as the people said, and to use his own words he wasn't afraid of either man or devil. He said there was a very wet harvest this particular year and farmers were experiencing difficulty in getting their hay saved. There happened to come a good day or two when he got all he had mowed into meadow cocks. The evening looked good when Micky was leaving the meadow and when he went home he felt very sorry at not having any more cut down to be working at in the approaching good weather, for Micky firmly believed the weather to be on the mend. The full moon rose about nightfall and flooded the whole countryside with a dazzling light that almost turned night into day. Micky didn't go to bed so he perceived this and made up his mind that when all his neighbours had retired for the night he would sit up and mow the big meadow. After his examination of the various signs of good weather that presented themselves, Micky went into his house to take refreshment and to rest for a while so as to be able to mow on during the night. Well, at about one o'clock he got his scythe and betook himself to the big meadow with the intention of having a good deal of it cut down for the scorching weather that he expected to follow such a lovely night and also to give his sleepy neighbours a surprise next day.

At any rate, says Micky, I got as far as the meadow and after divesting myself of my coat and vest proceeded to sharpen my scythe, whistling a merry tune as I did so. But, he went on, as I had hardly started the sharpening, I both heard and perceived thousands of men ranged along the sides of the meadow, sharpening and whistling just as I had been doing. I finished my whetting and looking around with delight on all my helpers I dashed into the mowing, so as I was first and didn't want to be left behind. The noise of their numerous blades whistling through the grass and the falling of the latter was music in my ears and though the swathes were long they didn't last long, Micky asserted.

Well, says the Blackman, after finishing my swarth I got my scythe under my arm and walked back, giving a side glance to my helpers, as I did so. 'But you know what - of course I intended to start another swarth' says Micky, 'but there was none left'. The whole of that big meadow was down. I then gave a look of delight on all I had mowed for the expected good weather. And as is usual with mowers I proceeded to light my pipe before going home and my strange helpers did the same and then all of them disappeared just as they met and went as they came.

I then went home says Micky a very contented man, went to bed, and slept soundly until ten o'clock, so I wanted to give the sun time to dry the dew off the freshly cut grass but in going into the meadow great was my surprise to see that the seven swathes I had cut myself was all that was cut in the meadow.

The hero of my story lives in the townland of Pottore adjacent to the N.S. bearing the same name. I knew the Blackman quite well and he told the story to be absolutely true in every detail. I even knew the big meadow above-mentioned but to my mind the fairies fooled the Blackman that night or they just played a trick on him.

 

THE KNOCKMORE KINGS

When very young I heard the following story from an old woman named Nancy Loughlin of Longford, a story in which her own sister, a Mrs. Curran of Lannanerriagh was the heroine.

John King and his brother Tom who lived in the townland of Knockmore, Corlough parish, were two very big and powerful men, great singers and whistlers. Tom died about eighty years ago. John passed away in living memory. Some time after Tom's death, John who was standing in his own door one bright Autumn night heard a wonderful clamour of people as if they were coming up the glen towards his own house. The song then started and John King recognised the song and the singer to be that of his own brother, Tom. Then a tune was whistled which he at once recognised to be one of Tom's favourite tunes and whistled in the same shrill manner and in the very same key that used to be Tom's during his life.

When Tom and his merry followers were approaching close to the door, John stepped out on the street intending to bring in his brother Tom, but Tom left his hand over on John's shoulder as if to push him aside, leaving the mark of his hand on John's shoulder - a mark that never became obliterated during John's life. A trustworthy neighbour not long since passed away had seen this mark.

When pushing away John, Tom said 'I cannot go in tonight for we are just going up for Pat Curran's wife - the Mrs. Curran above-mentioned. The next morning the people of the locality were shocked to hear of the death during the night of Mrs. Pat Curran, who was then quite a young woman.

(Department of Irish Folklore, U.C.D., Belfield, Dublin 4. Folklore sources used, Cavan County Library. Ardmoneen N.S. Schools’ Manuscript No. 962 pp. 293-303. Tullybrack N.S. Schools’ Manuscript No. 963, p. 3, pp. 27-55.)

 

 


Author’s Comment:

There are those who would deride the traditions of our ancestors. I would like to draw tradition into our own time, giving it continuity and credibility. James Maguire, Altinure had no apology to make for his beliefs. His stories are the truth as he saw it. They are not so much folklore as an affirmation of what our ancestors believed in and openly stated. It wasn’t just one odd crazy individual in the long ago who gave expression to the tales of the supernatural. It was the plain ordinary, sensible members of society, our parents, grandparents and neighbours, who believed in what they spoke of – and it wasn’t or isn’t meant to be offensive.

I lived in the generation which followed Frank Maguire and I heard the same tales in my time, not just the stories of my youth, which struck fear in my heart but those of my adult days when, for example, my landlady counselled me against swimming in Brackley Lake on Whit Sunday. I did swim that day and came back to her for my tea. She remarked quietly that there were some who would not drown and others who would. My landlady has, I confidently believe, taken her place among the saints in heaven. She was not alone in her beliefs – the banshee is still credited with visiting Bawnboy, even in the present decade.

It is not my intention to draw down ridicule on those who inherited the love and beliefs of our ancestors. I just want to draw into the present time a glimpse, however fleeting, of the early 20th century as understood by our parents. If we make of ourselves a photocopy of the human beings that Frank Maguire regarded as normal, in his time, we are only putting before the eyes of the present generation an idea of what went through the minds of those people who went before us. We believe that they have gone to the happiness of the eternal life prepared by the Almighty for all of us.

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