There are many stories about white horses that come in from the sea. Hardly surprising, I suppose, when the western ocean is the land of Mananan Mac Lir, famous for his white horses, which can be seen galloping at the height of the waves in stormy weather.
Although many of these stories start off in the same way, with a farmer’s crops being mysteriously eaten in the night, they lead us in some surprisingly different directions.
There was a farmer who used to grow a garden of oats for his own use in a field near the Shannon. There was no trouble at first, but as time went on he began to notice that in the morning his oats were all trampled and some had been eaten.
He decided to stay up all night to see who or what was destroying his field of oats. A neighbour agreed to spend the night out with him, in case he needed the help. They wrapped themselves up warm and settled down for the night at the edge of the field.
Just after midnight they noticed the first sounds approaching the oat field. They heard splashing and then hooves beating on the sand, and whinnying. Then they saw three white horses and a pure white foal come in from the strand, as if they had come out of the waves of the sea. The four horses began to feast on the field of oats.
The farmer knew that if you throw a clod of earth at a magical creature then it will do your bidding, so he scooped up a handful of earth from the edge of the oat field and threw the clod at the white foal. At once the foal stood as if frozen in place. The farmer went up to it and fashioned a quick makeshift bridle of string around its head and led it home.
He trained the horse to work for him and all was well. The horse grew and gave him a white foal each year for seven years. These fine foals brought him a good price.
When seven years had passed, he was out working near the shore when he heard the sound of a horse. He looked out over the Shannon waters but saw nothing. His horse, who was tackled for ploughing, neighed loudly and then bucked and kicked, shaking herself free of her tackling. Helpless to stop her, his white horse ran for the Shannon waters. As she reached the edge of the shore, seven more white horses joined her and ran for the water. There was no way to stop them. All the horses splashed out into the river and disappeared under the water and were never seen again. Some people say that every white horse in County Clare is descended from that white horse.
There was a farmer living near Spanish Point, who sowed a field of corn, but every morning some of his corn was eaten. One night he stayed to find out what creature was eating his corn and he saw a white mare and a foal coming in from the sea. He tried to catch them but they were too fast for him. The next night he gathered a crowd of people. When the mare and foal came again, the crowd tried to catch them. They caught the foal, but the mare was too fast and wily for them and got away.
The farmer sold the foal to a rich man named Stackpoole. He trained it and the horse from the sea became one of the swiftest horses in the area.
Now, there were two brothers from the Fitzgerald family who lived near Stackpoole. One of the Fitzgerald brothers was called Vreasy and the other was Edmond. Vreasy Fitzgerald was a trained soldier and Edmond Fitzgerald was an ordinary man.
Edmond was up in Dublin, and one night he got invited to a grand ball. It was a smart affair, with the ladies and gentlemen in all their finest. Edmond danced a few rounds with a lovely girl at the ball and went out walking with her a few times after. Edmond was certain he was in love with the girl. The only trouble was, there was an Englishman who fell in love with the same girl. The two men argued over who had the bigger claim to the girl. Of course, in those olden times the men didn’t understand the nature of relationships like we do now. So instead of talking to the girl about which beau she would prefer, the two men argued amongst themselves. They were still arguing about who had met the girl first or which of them could provide the most comfortable living for her, when the Englishman slapped Fitzgerald’s face with his glove. If actions speak louder than words, then that was a genteel way of saying what children do in the playground when they say, ‘You’re claimed!’ It was a challenge to fight a duel, with pistols.
Edmond Fitzgerald, being an ordinary man, was untrained in the use of firearms. He knew absolutely nothing about shooting, so he sent to Clare for his brother Vreasy, the soldier, to come and help him. There was no trains, buses or cars at that time; travel was by horses, which was not always as fast as you’d like it to be.
Vreasy asked Stackpoole if he’d lend him the sea horse so that he’d get up to Dublin in time to save his brother’s life. Stackpoole gave him the horse, and ordered him to give the horse a half pint of white wine in Ennis and a pint of white wine in Limerick and then give it a loose rein to Dublin.
Vreasy Fitzgerald followed Stackpoole’s instructions and it took him just four hours to reach Dublin, the sea horse ran so swiftly. But even for the sea horse, Dublin was a long way, and by the time they got to there the horse was covered in sweat. Vreasy got a vet to see to the horse, and then went on to the duelling place.
The Englishman arrived there with his witnesses, but when he saw no sign of Edmond, he said, ‘Edmond Fitzgerald is a coward. He has not the courage to face me.’
Vreasy looked challengingly into the other man’s eyes. ‘You are mistaken, Englishman. I am Vreasy Fitzgerald, and I am here to take my brother’s place in this duel.’
Vreasy removed his topcoat. The Englishman, who had been sure that he would win the duel, was disappointed to see that he was a military man. They tossed to see who would have the first shot, and the Englishman won. He fired his pistol, but the shot did no harm. When it was Vreasy’s turn, he fired his gun and the Englishman fell down.
All that time the duel was going on, the vet was looking after the poor exhausted horse. He put the horse’s feet into four firkins of butter, and that rescued the poor creature’s feet. But for the butter, the sea horse might never have been able to run again. The horse slowly recovered its strength, but the journey to Dublin had left its mark on creature, for the horse had changed colour, from white to grey. When Vreasy brought the creature back to his owner, Stackpoole did not recognise him.
Vreasy entertained Stackpoole with the whole story of his ride to Dublin and the duel he had fought. Stackpoole found the story so enthralling that he said Vreasy could keep the horse as a reward for his victory.
There are farmers in Clare, especially in the west, who still boast that their horse was descended from the sea horse.
A few miles from Cullaun Lake, there are said to be two sets of hoof prints on a stone at Ballyhounan Farm. The people say that a horse and foal took one great leap from the Fergus Waters, 2 miles away, to that stone, and from there, in one further leap, they jumped another 2 miles to Cullaun Lake, where they disappeared again.
This horse and foal make an appearance in many stories from the area. Here they feature in a story of the MacNamaras.
The MacNamaras were a noble family in east Clare, and the remains of their castles and towers can still be found all over the locality. One of the MacNamara chieftains was famous as a great horseman. He lived in a castle close to Cullaun Lake, near Kilkishen.
Near the castle there was a meadow, but every morning the grass looked as if it had been grazed in the night. The chieftain gave his men instructions to keep watch that night. They were amazed by what they saw. A pure white mare and foal rose out of the waters and grazed for a while in the chieftain’s meadow. When they’d had their fill, they returned to the lake and disappeared beneath the water. When they told the chieftain what they had witnessed, he ordered them to catch the horses, believing that they would add to his fame and power.
The next evening, MacNamara’s men waited for the mare and foal to reappear. They circled around the horses as they were grazing, and tried to catch them with ropes. They managed to catch the foal, but the mare was too smart. She reared angrily and kicked out at them, managed to escape and leapt into the lake, vanishing beneath the water.
MacNamara was disappointed to lose the mare, but he knew the foal would be an exceptional horse. He trained the foal himself, and it was a quick and eager learner. It was not long before it was the finest war steed in the whole country. It was swift and sleek and courageous, and the chieftain and his horse won fame in many battle. The chieftain was proud of his achievement and considered the creature his prize possession, worth more to him than gold or property.
A few years passed by, and then one fine day the chieftain was enjoying his leisure, riding his proud steed along the shore of Cullaun Lake. Suddenly, the noon-day sky darkened, a wind arose from nowhere, and the white mare’s head appeared above the water. She threw back her head, shaking her mane wildly behind her, and whinnied loudly. The steed threw back its head to answer her call with a whinny of his own. The steed reared and kicked, responding to his mother’s irresistible call. Everything happened so fast, that MacNamara had no time to dismount. His horse galloped to the water’s edge and leapt into the lake with the chieftain on its back. Horse and rider disappeared together beneath the waves, leaving nothing behind but the mark of the horse’s four shoes on the rocks by the shore.
In the locality they say that MacNamara can be seen riding on his white horse around the lake once in every seven years, but that whoever sees him will not live out the year.
A long time ago there were no cows at all in the whole of Ireland. No doubt you will find that hard to believe, now that there are cows in all the fields wherever you look, but that is how it was in that old time. The people were hungry, and they desperately prayed that they would somehow get some food.
Then one day a mermaid came ashore from the sea and she lay there on the shingle until some of the king’s men came down and carried her up to the palace. All the people adored her, she was so beautiful and gentle, and not quite like anyone they had seen before. She was clever too, and soon learned the language of the people. Then she said to them, ‘I have been sent to you to tell you that a day will come soon when the cows will come to Ireland. Three cows will come: the black cow, the white cow and the red cow. They will fill the whole of Ireland with fertile and generous cattle, and their milk will flow freely to feed you all.’
The people were glad to hear it, for it meant they would get milk at last. They carried the mermaid about on a platform from house to house so that she could spread the good news of the cows coming soon. Wherever she went the people were happy to see her and there were great celebrations. They treated her like a queen and made a crown of flowers for her. The mermaid was wise and kind, and everyone loved her.
One day, the mermaid said, ‘I am weary of living on the land. It is time for me to return to my own home and people in the sea.’
On May Eve the people gathered and carried her down to the shore so she could swim back to her own companions. Before she dived into the waves, she told all the people, ‘On this day twelve months, you must come down to the shore, and there you will see the cows.’
The days passed by, and there was no sign of the mermaid in all that time. When a year had passed, the people gathered on the shore. All along the sands and the shingle, on the rocks and up on the high cliffs, crowded the people, old and young, watching for the cows. They were waiting from the moment the first light of the sun rose into the morning sky. When the sun was at its height, they heard a hushing, rustling sound and a big wave rose and spilled itself onto the shore, carrying with it the three cows. The people stared. There stood Bo Finn, the white cow; Bo Dubh, the black cow; and Bo Derg, the red cow. All three were sleek and beautiful, with soft, dark eyes and long curved horns, white as the crescent moon. The people cheered to see them there, and the cows answered with gentle lowing.
The three cows looked around them and each set out, heading in different directions across the country. The black cow went to the south; the red cow to the north. The white cow went to the very centre of the country, and wherever she walked, the place was named after her.
From those three cows, all the cows in Ireland are descended.
During the famine times, things were very bad down in west Clare. Crops had failed, milk was scarce, and people were going hungry more often than not.
Mary and Pat lived in a tiny cabin in the district of Querrin with their three small children. They hadn’t much, just what they stood up in, and their own good selves, but they did the best they could with what they had. One morning, however, Mary looked in the meal chest and was dismayed to see that there were only a few grains left at the bottom of it. What was she going to do to feed her husband and children? She had stretched their meagre supplies as far as she could, but now there was nothing left to stretch. Mary knelt down on the earthen floor and prayed harder than she’d ever done before, asking God to send something that would help them in their hour of desperate need. She’d grown used to her prayers going unanswered, but still she asked, hoping that this time sweet holy Mary and Jesus would hear her.
Later that same day a cow suddenly appeared outside the cabin door. It was a bonny grey cow, plump and sweet and seemed well looked after. Mary wondered where it had come from, thinking it must have strayed from some rich landlord’s field.
The next day the cow appeared again. Mary could see that its udders were full of milk, but she didn’t dare milk it. After all, she knew what would happen if she was caught milking the landlord’s cow. Her neighbours obviously thought the same thing, as, although the cow wandered through the whole district of Querrin, no one dared to milk her.
On the third day, the cow came back to Mary’s door. This time her udders were so full of milk the cow was lowing and pleading for Mary to milk her. Mary had the welfare of the poor cow at heart as sat down on her low stool and sang to the beast as she milked her. Mary’s bucket was full to the brim: there would be plenty for Pat and the children today. She thanked the cow, and said a prayer of thanks to her sweet holy Mary and Jesus for sending the beast.
The cow wandered on to the next house and they milked her too, and got another pail full of milk. That cow kept wandering on all day, and at each house it was the same story. She must have been milked ten times a day, and everyone got a bucketful of milk from her. She was a most generous beast and had the sweetest nature.
The cow stayed for about a week in the Querrin district and then moved on to another place. She wandered all over west Clare, and wherever she went the people were glad to see the generous cow, and thanked God for her visit.
There was one man, however, who thought he would shut the cow in a cabin to stop her wandering, so he could keep all the milk to feed his own family. He put her into a little stone hut and closed the door, putting heavy stones outside it, in case she kicked against it. When he woke next morning the stones were missing, the cabin door was open and the cow was gone and she never came back to his house.
When the famine was over, and food was plentiful again, the cow just stopped coming round the houses. No one knew where she had come from, or where she went, but all were grateful.
There was a man named Mickie Devaney who had a dog that he loved and adored. It was an Irish Terrier by breed. That is one of those big dogs, with a beard and moustache like the ancient Celtic warriors, and big bushy eyebrows. Mickie just loved that dog, and he had trained it well. He used to let the dog sleep in the room by the fire at night.
Mickie lived in a small cottage with just the two rooms: one where the fire was kept going all day long and another where Mickie had his bed.
Before going to his bed, Mickie would rake up the fire so it would be easy to get it going again in the morning. Then he’d fill the kettle with water and hang it on the hook. He’d say goodnight to the dog and watch him do his three circuits round the mat by the fire before he’d settle himself down for the night. Then Mickie would go through into his bedroom and settle himself down for a good night’s peaceful sleep. Mickie always slept like a log after his day’s honest toil, and nothing would disturb him until the morning.
Mickie didn’t have an alarm clock in the house, for he had no need of one. You will remember, he had the dog trained well. At seven o’clock every morning, the dog would get up and scratch out the ashes in the grate. You know how it was with the turf fire, it would just get going again as soon as there was a bit of air around it. The dog would drop a couple of turfs onto the fire from the basket. Once the fire was going, the kettle that Mickie had filled the night before would be warming up nicely. When the kettle came to the boil, the dog would jump up on Mickie’s bed, lick his face for his morning wash, and bark in his ear to let him know the water was ready for his tea. He was a great dog altogether. You couldn’t help but love a dog like that.
However, a neighbour’s dog took exception to Mickie Devaney’s terrier. Whenever Mickie and his dog were out walking near the boundary with that neighbour’s fields, this dog would come throwing itself against the fence, barking ferociously with his hackles raised and his teeth bared, ready for a fight. Now Mickie Devaney’s terrier was no angel. For all he was a most intelligent creature, he was after all a dog and he did what dogs do. When the neighbour’s dog came running, he would bare his teeth, raise his own hackles, and bark every bit as loud and fiercely as the other dog. There was no love lost between them. If the two could have reached each other they’d have had their teeth in each other’s throats in no time.
After many years of loyal companionship, one sad day, Mickie Devaney’s beloved terrier died. Can you just imagine it? The poor man was distraught at the loss of such a faithful old friend and servant. So, did he bury the creature under an apple tree so he’d have something to remember him by? Not at all. Mickie Devaney loved that dog so much he got the creature skinned and had his pelt made into a waistcoat. Then he could wear his old friend close to his heart every day.
It wasn’t long after that when Mickie was walking by that neighbour’s field one night, wearing the dog-skin waistcoat. The neighbour’s dog came throwing itself against the fence, just as it always did when Mickie’s dog was with him. It must have caught the scent still fresh from the waistcoat. That neighbour’s dog was barking and baring its teeth just like before, with its hackles raised. And do you know what happened? The hairs on Mickie’s waistcoat stood straight up, preparing for a fight, just as if Mickie’s own dog was still present!
There is an old country belief that if you see a weasel when you are out walking, you should raise your hat and greet it and treat it with the utmost courtesy.
There was a man named Mikey living in the village of Loughisle, near Scarriff, who saw a strange sight as he was walking to his work one morning.
He saw a rat and a weasel together in a struggle to the death. Remembering to treat the weasel with courtesy, Mikey put his boot on the rat’s back so that the weasel could escape. The weasel looked up at him gratefully, and quickly ran off. But the rat turned its head around and bit Mikey on his ankle just above the top of his boot. Mikey stepped off the rat and it too ran off.
Now, although the rat’s bite is not a terribly big wound, you never know where the rat has been. After a few days the bite on Mikey’s ankle turned septic. Soon Mikey’s whole leg was red and swollen and he had a fever that gave him chills and sweats at all hours of the day and night. Poor Mikey was at death’s door. It went on like that for several days and nights. Mikey would toss and turn, and mumble strange words. Every now and then he would sit up and shout something unintelligible, and fall back into his fevered sleep.
Every morning, while Mikey lay in bed with the fever, the weasel came to his front door and sat there for a while, then went off on its way.
There was a travelling woman called Mrs Scott came by Mikey’s house one day. When she heard the news of Mikey’s fever and how he had come by it, she asked, ‘Is there some creature comes to the house each day? Anything behaving strangely?’
Mikey’s wife said, ‘Well, there is a weasel been coming to sit on the doorstep every morning since Mikey got sick. Why do you want to know? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘If I was you, I’d keep an eye on that weasel. Watch out for it tomorrow morning. See if it brings anything with it. If it brings something, then put that on the wound. It could be the weasel is trying to help Mikey, just as he helped it.’
Mikey’s wife didn’t know what to think. It sounded like superstitious nonsense, the very idea of it! But then, nothing else had helped Mikey so far, so maybe it would be worth a try? So next morning she was up and watching for the weasel. Sure enough, the creature brought a leaf off a briar bush in its mouth, and left it on the doorstep.
Mikey’s wife took the briar leaf and put it on the wound, binding it there with a bandage.
It wasn’t long before the swelling in Mikey’s leg began to subside. The colour changed from red to something more ordinary and the wound started to heal. The fever passed and Mikey started to eat again, and soon was good as ever he’d been. His strength returned and he went back to his normal everyday work.
Ever since that time, everyone in Loughisle remembers never to mistreat a weasel. They say it is unlucky. So, if you should meet a weasel when you are out walking, raise your hat to it and greet it politely.
One man, however, forgot this piece of advice, and had a run in with a weasel that taught him a thing or two. He was bachelor who kept a number of geese and ducks around the place. There was no trouble there at all, until in one unfortunate night he lost ten ducks and two of his geese. He wondered if it was a fox, but soon he discovered the cause of his losses was a weasel. The man determined that he would put an end to that scoundrel, and went out searching for the weasel’s nest. When he found it, there was six kits in there, as well as the two adults. He was so angry, he had no mercy for them after what they had done to his birds, so he killed them all, except one of the fully-grown weasels, which ran off and escaped.
When he got back home the man made himself a pot of tea and sat down in his comfortable chair, feeling justifiably avenged. He was about to put some milk he had in a jar in his tea, when a weasel came right up onto his table up and spat in the milk jar. It was the one that had escaped his revenge.
The man belated remembered the danger of crossing a weasel and knew what he had to do. He went back and tried to make good the damage he’d done to the weasel’s nest. He did the best he could and when he got home again, there was the weasel waiting for him by his chair. The creature came up on the table then and spilled some of the milk from the jar onto the ground. Then it covered it over with dust and dirt. The weasel looked the man in the eye, then looked back at the spilt milk and shook its head. The man knew the weasel was telling him not to drink the spoiled milk.
After that the man and the weasel had a kind of understanding between them. Neither one did any harm to the other. No more geese or ducks were taken. No more kits destroyed. Every day the weasel came into the house and the man gave it food and milk from his own table. At first they just respected each other, and kept a bit of distance, but as time went on they became good companions. When the weasel died, at a great age for a weasel, it was in the arms of his old friend that he took his last breath.
There must have been a lot of rats about in the old days, for there was a whole profession known as rat charming. Croohore Tadg was a well-known rat charmer who lived in the parish of Feakle. He had a black dog, and wherever the man went, the dog was always in his company. It was a huge beast, the size of a calf, and had eyes that shone red like fire. People said it was enchanted, and were scared if they saw it at night.
Now, Crohoore Tadg had a fearsome reputation: he could kill you or cure you if he liked. All he had to do was say the word and the rats would leave and go wherever he told them to. That was rat-charming for you. The rats would do whatever the charmer told them to. Whether they wanted to or not just didn’t come into it. I can’t say that he was a popular fellow. He was probably feared by people because of his strange power over the creatures, but he was obviously needed at times.
He didn’t mind who he worked for or where he sent the rats. If one neighbour fell out with another and wished him ill luck, he could pay Croohore Tadg to send all the rats from his place to his neighbour’s. All the rats would turn up at the neighbour’s place like a plague of rats, scuttling in under the barn door, into the house. When he did this, the rat at the front of the pack would have a message for the neighbour. There would be a note in its mouth or tied with a bit of string around its neck. Tadg wrote the note himself, saying that if they had a problem with rats they could contact him: he was the man to rid you of rats. The note said where they could find him and how much it would cost. It was just like leaving a business card advertising his services.
One day, a publican refused to serve Crohoore Tadg a pint of porter. The rat charmer took offense at this and sent a big pack of rats to the publican’s house. He told the rats to eat and drink whatever they found there. You know as well as I do the damage that one rat can do, let alone a whole pack of them. The unfortunate publican had to send for Crohoore Tadg and make an apology to him. He said he’d pay him well if he’d take the rats away. That was how he operated, so you can see he wasn’t a popular man.
He could be very cruel too. One day a rat chewed a hole in Croohore Tadg’s boot. Well, a good pair of boots cost a lot in those days, and he was mad with that rat then. He took his razor and fastened it to a piece of turf. He spoke to the rat and told it to go and cut its throat on the razor. The rat went up to the razor and sat there on its back legs, squealing and turning its face away. It didn’t want to go any further. But when Tadg told it again, it had to do it – it had to cut itself on the razor.
The parish priest was no friend of Croohore Tadg. He thought he had no right using magical power to interfere with creatures, or to help others wish ill on their neighbours. One day they had a contest between them to see who was more powerful, the priest or the rat charmer. They were out in the field and the priest saw two black crows sitting on a branch of a tree. The priest said, ‘We will take one of these crows each, and see which of us can get them down first.’
‘I will beat you for sure,’ said Croohore Tadg. ‘I’ll have mine down and plucked before you have even started!’
The charmer won the contest and the priest was mad with him. They fought against each other with words rather than blows, till the priest shouted at him ‘Croohore Tadg, you will be buried alive one day!’ The priest spat the words out like a curse, which is not quite what he had intended, but he was so angry he could not help himself.
Tadg replied with a laugh and a curse of his own, ‘Hah! You would die even if I was never born, but if the stones of the chapel should fall on you and lie there like a tombstone, then it is myself that wished it there!’
Not so long after that, a storm blew up and the wind shook the trees around the chapel. Suddenly a heavy branch broke and fell on the gable wall. A large stone fell loose, and hit the priest on the head. The people looked on in shock and amazement, as the priest was crushed under the big stone. It was too heavy for anyone to move it, so it lay on top of the priest like a tombstone until four strong men arrived to move it, so the man could be given a decent burial.
A while after that, Tadg was at a wedding at Derrynagitta. The house was packed with neighbours, friends and relations of the happy couple. People were eating and drinking. The women were back and forth with plates and glasses, but Croohore Tadg was there a good long time before anyone offered him a drink. He was fed up with the wait and got up from his seat in the corner, ready to leave for home, saying, ‘I always heard Derrynagitta was a wet place, but it is mighty dry here tonight!’
When they heard him, the women brought him a jug of whiskey, and bade him sit back down and enjoy his drink. He stayed and drank his fill, and he didn’t leave until late in the night. It was a dark night and he fell in a ditch when he was walking home. When the people found him next day, they thought he was dead. They fetched a coffin and put him in it, and put the lid on the coffin. Later a boy heard scratching inside the coffin and he thought it was a rat shut in the coffin with the rat charmer.
The truth was that Croohore Tadg wasn’t dead at all. But they did not get him out of the coffin. They were glad to be rid of him.
After Croohore Tadg died, they could not find his black dog anywhere, but people said it was still seen sometimes after dark, on the roads around Feakle, Tulla and Drumcharley.
White Horses by the Shannon Shore: SFS (1937-38) Arthur McGuire, Cross, told to Patrick MaGuire, Kilkee.
The Sea Horse: SFS (1937-38) Norah Howe, told by Patrick Crowe, Caherduff, Dunsallagh NS, p.230.
MacNamara’s Foal: SFS (1937-38) Patrick Benson, Kilkishen, p.348.
The Three Cows Come to Ireland: Concerning Cows, in Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, And Sperstitions of Ireland, Lady Jane Wilde (Chatto & Windus; London, 1919); SFS, Michael Rynne, told to Patrick McNulty, Cahereskin, Ennistymon.
A Plentiful Cow: SFS (1937-38) no name.
Mickey Devaney’s Terrier: SFS (1937-38) James MacNamara, Ballylickey, Quin told to Eilish MacNamara, An Daingan School, p.3.
The Weasel’s Cure: SFS (1937-38) Patrick Dillon, Loughisle, Scariff, An Capach Ban, Moynoe, p.178.
The Rat Charmer of Feakle: Heard around Tulla and Feakle many years ago.