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Bawnboy and Templeport
History Heritage Folklore
a by Chris Maguire
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A Mass Rock and Other
Stories |
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A MASS ROCK - 1938 and Other Stories by the late Hugh Keaney
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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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