IN 1929 FOUR OF US, Brian, Richard McManus, Thomas Kenny and I, went camping in County Wicklow. We travelled by bicycle and spent a fortnight in Glenmalure, penetrating deep into the glen. Swimming, climbing the mountains and exploring the neighbourhood occupied much of our time and the venture proved to be a good practice run for a far more ambitious camping trip which we planned to undertake the following summer.
The Gaeltacht of Donegal was our target – the intention being to spend a fortnight under canvas there. Five undertook this expedition: Brian, myself, Joseph Kenny and his brother Desmond, who lived near us in Blackrock, and Thomas Kenny, who had been with us in Wicklow but was unrelated to the other Kennys. When we were ready to leave there was so much baggage and equipment loaded on the bicycles that it was difficult to mount them. Joseph and Desmond Kenny enjoyed fowling so they brought two guns with them – a good two-barrelled fowling gun and a .22 rifle. The licences they had for the guns were from the Free State so we were unable to take them across the border. That meant that we could not take the direct route through Monaghan, Strabane and Letterkenny, but would have to cross the country on the south side of the border, approaching Donegal through Bundoran. The planned route would then take us through the Glens, Cloch Liath and Gaoth Dobhair to Gort an Choirce. Our journey’s end was to be Gort an Choirce in Cloch Cheannaola – that was the part of the Gaeltacht that we knew best. It was the first visit to the Gaeltacht for the other three and we did not mind the longer journey as we wanted to see that part of the countryside.
The expedition took place in August 1930. We had little money so it had to be carefully managed. None of us were drinking at the time – if we had been it is unlikely that we would have got much farther than Lucan! But we were all smoking and the cigarette that puts the finishing touch to a meal, even if it’s only a Woodbine, was almost as important as the meal itself. Many of our meals were simply large quantities of bread and butter washed down with a big can of strong black tea.
I do not remember where we slept the first night; it had been showery during the day so we had not managed to travel very far. We went through Virginia on the second day, having spent some time on the lakeshore en route. By the time we reached Belturbet it was raining again with no sign of a clearance. Somebody told us there was an empty house on the outskirts of the town, so we broke into it and spent the night there. It was a fine big house in good condition and it even had a billiard room.
From Belturbet to Drumshanbo in County Leitrim was a pleasant journey over twisty, hillocky roads, and although it was only a short distance travelled we decided to spent the night there. We asked a policeman if the owner would mind if we camped in the corner of a large field on the bank of the river Shannon. He was a talkative, exuberant man, the sort of man who if asked would it be any harm to set fire to the church would have answered, ‘Why in the name of God wouldn’t you set it alight?’ It was an answer like that we got about the field. ‘Why wouldn’t you camp there? – What’s stopping you?’
However, no sooner was the tent erected in the field when we heard shouts and were confronted by a crowd coming across the field towards us, some of them armed with sticks. As they looked aggressive and were bearing down on us, we moved to meet them, thinking to stall a raid on our camp and our gear. The incident was quickly resolved when they realized we were passing campers. Apparently a week previously half a dozen evangelical preachers had visited the town. They can hardly have been Jehovah’s Witnesses – that group had not appeared in Ireland then – but another group of that kind. They had been driven out of town. We never heard whether it was by stick, stone or simply threatening language, but they were told not to return. They had come, like ourselves, on bicycles with lots of baggage, and when we were spotted setting up camp in the field it was assumed that the preachers had returned – what appalling cheek!
Once it was clear that we had nothing to do with the evangelical group, our would-be assailants departed apologetically.
The weather showed no sign of improving. Camping in the floods of rain in a little ‘bivy’ tent that had barely enough room to allow the five of us to stretch out was far from comfortable. So when we reached Cloneen and heard about another empty house we decided to break in. It was in the middle of the town and surrounded by big trees. On entry it was clear that the house had been unoccupied for many years. The dust, like a layer of fur covering everything, was a quarter of an inch thick in places. We chose one of the rooms upstairs as our base, but the place was so bleak and cold that we thought of setting up the tent in the middle of the floor even though the roof was quite sound. I’m not sure if we used the tent or not but we spent most of our time in this room.
The window of ‘our’ room was half open, with the result that at twilight the room was invaded by scores of bats. We killed some of them and it was the first time I had an opportunity of examining a bat at close quarters. It had the mouse-like head and fur that I had read about and seen in illustrations. What was extraordinary was the lightness and delicacy of the tiny creature – it was almost like a large butterfly And a flick of the hand was sufficient to stretch it dead on the floor. The bats did not return the second night – no doubt news spread in their colony that some fierce enemy had taken possession of ‘their’ room!
This house proved to be unlucky for Brian. One morning when he was shaving, his razor became contaminated with the ‘fur’ on the shelf in the bathroom – he nicked himself with this dusty razor and an ugly scab developed on his upper lip. Afterwards he spent a year attending a skin specialist in Dublin, trying one ointment after another to try to heal the skin. What vexed Brian most was that he could not come with us to Donegal the following year because he was detained in Dublin attending the doctor.
We spent a total of three days in this house and to pass the time we began to do something that campers rarely bother about – cooking! On the second day, while shopping in the town, I discovered that the owner of the house lived nearby. It is curious that he did not notice the light at night as we had ‘our’ room well lit with candles. Perhaps he did notice but was reluctant to investigate.
Our departure from Cloneen took us on a back road to Rossinver and Loch Meilbhe. The Kennys wanted to visit this lake, reputed to be the best in Ireland for fishing. They had brought fishing rods and also hoped to bag a few duck. I cannot recall whether they had any success with either the fish or the fowl.
It is difficult now, through the mists of forty years, to remember the people we met on our travels, but one old man impressed us because he had the same outlook as the policeman we had met earlier. If you said you intended to do something he’d say, ‘And why wouldn’t you?’ It seems, on reflection, that it may well have been a shrewd strategy to avoid giving information to strangers.
Another man that we got to know quite well was a small farmer in the neighbourhood of Loch Meilbhe. He lived in a cosy house on a side road near the lake. As it was pouring rain again he allowed us to occupy one of his stables. We spent a couple of nights in his warm kitchen discussing world affairs. He was very proud of his wife’s cooking and gave us a pot of her home-made jam. He held Dáil deputies in high esteem – unusual at that time – even in remote rural areas, and said his wife would be able to cook for the best of them!
After a few days in the neighbourhood of Loch Meilbhe the weather brightened and we were able to make the last leg of our journey to Gort an Choirce in a single day. Approaching Gaeltacht territory I always find myself looking around to see if we have reached that border where supposedly everything is a little different – the women more beautiful, the men more manly, the apples redder, the fields greener. However, the line is invisible and the only way you can be sure that you have arrived in the Gaeltacht is to hail somebody on the road and hear their greeting.
It was late at night when we reached Gort an Choirce. We went straight up Cnoc na Bealtaine to Gallagher’s house. A field behind the house was chosen to pitch our tent, which necessitated hammering wooden stakes into the ground with a mallet. God knows what the Gallaghers made of these strange noises in the middle of the night!