Lough Corrib, the lake sacred to the god Manannán, is situated north of Galway city and touches Mayo on its northern flank. It is the second largest lake in Ireland and is bordered by a variety of landscapes. Approximately 56 kilometres (35 miles) long, it varies greatly in width and is dotted by no fewer than 145 islands. It is said that Manannán, taking on the shape of a mortal called Oirbsiu, was killed by Uillen Red Edge at the battle of Cuillen. Loch Corrib rose where his blood spilled, bringing his mortal flesh back into the watery, immortal world that is his realm. If that is the case, and god is dead, the lake is a worthy tomb. Rushes, sacred to this particular god, grow around it and it changes shape and character as often as a cloud blows across the sun and shadows cross this world of water and mist and wooded islets. Manannán himself was a trickster, changing shape as often as water – sometimes an old man in a grey cloak, sometimes a great warrior riding the waves like horses. He was called Manawyddan in Wales and was also the three-legged solar god from which the Isle of Man takes its name. His wives were Áine, the sun-goddess of the south (though some say that she is his daughter) and Fand, the woman of the Sídh who loved Cú Chulainn so desperately. He shook his cloak between Fand and Cú Chulainn so that the memory of their mad love should fade from their hearts. He had many children, and his daughter lakes are Sheelin and Ennell, Owel and Derravaragh. One of his sons was the great king Mongan, the shape-changer; one of his foster-sons was Lugh, the many-skilled god.
Lough Corrib.
He gave the Sídh the gift of invisibility and shape-changing, and some say that it was he who divided the palaces in the hollow hills among the Tuatha Dé Danann after their defeat by the Milesians. It was he who instigated the feast of Goibhniu, where food never runs out, and the people of Danu are renewed and made young again. The pigs of Manannán, when killed and eaten, rise up the next day, ready again for the feast.
The eastern side of Manannán’s lake is flat and less beautiful than the west, although there are still interesting sites to visit. One of these is Annaghdown, a village with a substantial complex of ecclesiastical remains, and the site of the drowning of Annach Cuan. The story of this tragic drowning gave rise to one of the loveliest songs in the Irish language, ‘Annach Cuan’. Knockma, the home of the fairy king, Finvarra, is also near this part of the lake.
In contrast to the east side of the lake, its north and western perimeters border Connemara, which has some of the wildest and most dramatic scenery in Ireland. It is this mixture of landscape – pasture and woodland, rock and bog, islands and lake – which give the lake its unique character. One of the most beautiful parts of the lakeshore is around the villages of Cong and Clonbur on its northern tip. The towering mountains are relieved by the presence of the lovely wooded slopes of the river which flows through Cong. Cong itself is a tiny village and, although it is heavily frequented by tourists, it is still, with a fine Augustinian priory, a beautiful place to visit. The monastic settlement here originally dated from the seventh century. The underlying rock in this area is limestone, and is fissured with caverns and underground rivers – a world of constant subterranean activity. To the north of the village is the Plain of Moytura – the place claimed by William Wilde, the famous Oscar’s father, as the site of the first battle of the Dé Dananns against their enemies the Fir Bolg. Most authorities now assert that both battles took place at the site near Lough Arrow in Sligo, but Wilde’s theory was supported by the very large number of prehistoric antiquities – particularly cairns – in the surrounding district. Early Christian remains are also plentiful; some of the most atmospheric are on the island of Inchagoill, which can be reached by ferry from Cong. This wooded graveyard was in use until relatively recently, and there are substantial Romanesque ecclesiastical remains. There is also the Stone of Lugha, which is one of the earliest Christian inscriptions in Ireland.
Ruins of Cong Abbey, County Mayo.
Travelling on the lake is probably one of the easiest ways to get a sense of this watery, woody landscape. Another, slightly more difficult one is to hike up into the mountains around Clonbur and Cornamona. Here one enters a world of shifting mists and unexpected sunlight, of rain that covers the patchwork of bright fields in a watery haze and then, just as suddenly, passes over. Our minds stained by our technicoloured culture, we find the effects almost too much. How can these colours, this light, be real? Is Maureen O’Hara about to come tripping over that emerald-green hilltop? Where is the Hollywood cameraman hiding – the master of illusion who just this second decided to light up that particular island with yet another rainbow? Or was that improbable band of colour beaming in a message from that other great trickster – was that really a sign from Manannán’s Many-Coloured Land?
A view over Lough Corrib.
MANANNÁN AND THE CRANE BAG
A fine, mackerel-skied evening over the silver sea, and the Son of Lir was out riding his great horse, Waterfoam, skimming over the waves, surveying his realm. To him, the ocean is a purple-flecked pasture of flowers, the salmon its lambs, leaping high in the water. He is equally at home over and under the waves, bringing some chosen ones, like Connla and Bran and the great King Cormac, to visit him in the Apple Isle, the Land of Promise. In his kingdom, blue and crimson horses graze, gold and silver birds sing in trees with shining leaves, and there are houses of white bronze, set with jewels and crystals and thatched with white feathers. This day he had been out hunting, with his spear and his bow in his hands, scanning the skies for birds to bring home to the feast. Now it was evening, with a golden sky to the west, and he had turned in towards the mountains, hoping that there he might capture an eagle or a sparrowhawk.
He narrowed his eyes against the setting sun – surely there was a bird, an exceptionally large and beautiful one, flying high over the lakes in the valleys between the high hills of Connemara. It was a crane, by the look of its red crown on the black plumage of its head, he decided as he fitted an arrow into his bow and took aim. He had no time for the thought to form in his head that there was something strange, not quite normal, about the path of the bird’s flight or its high, lonely call. The arrow had already sped from the bow and was shimmering in the evening sunlight, its path straight and true to the bird’s heart. Then there was a cry, and the feathery mass plummeted through the air and sank to the ground on the far side of the lough. Manannán raced his horse across the water to where it had fallen, and was in time to see the change shimmering through: the fair-skinned face through the brownish-grey feathers, the slender limbs through the bird’s trailing legs and webbed feet. And the dying creature spoke to him in a human voice: ‘Whoever you are, man or god, you must know that you have killed Aife, daughter of Dealbheath, himself the son of honey-tongued Ogma. I was the most beloved of princesses, and I wished no harm to anyone, until the enchantress Luchra turned me into this form, for she loved the man who loved only me. Since then I have flown over these hills and islands, seeking to keep track of my beloved. He is a poet, and he has wandered all over Ireland searching for me, for he thinks that I have forsaken him. The poems he writes about me and the love that he has for me break my heart, and yet they are the only consolation I have known since I took this body. But now I think that I must be leaving this body too, for see how the blood flows …’
Aife’s voice faded, and the bird form again took over – a lovely creature with soft plumage and the light dying in its eyes. The god looked on helplessly, for even his powers could not restore life to her. Then he said to the dying bird-woman: ‘I will take your body, the body of this winged creature, at home in the water and in the air, and from its skin I will make a bag. This bag will be a thing of great power and enchantment, for when the tide is in and the sea is full, the treasures of the crane bag will be seen, but when it is in ebb, it will seem empty.’
Aife died then, and the god Manannán kept his word. From that day, cranes became sacred birds, never to be killed or eaten. The bag he made from the skin of Aife holds the secret things of the Tuatha Dé Danann: the bones of the sacred boar, the smith’s hook and the magical knife, shield and shirt. Whoever has these weapons is safe from all enemies. And Manannán gave the bag one further power, perhaps greater than all of these. The crane bag holds the source of inspiration for all the poets of the land. In this way, Aife’s loving heart was made immortal.