FLOREAT HIBERNIA

By H. L. Stembridge

It has been said, probably with some truth, that if a man wished to escape notice he should make for the centre of London or some equally densely populated area. Be that as it may, the very last place he should go to is the north-west of Ireland. Within a day or two of the arrival of the Y.R.C. party in Enniskillen on Whit-Saturday, 1948, everybody knew about us and our truck, and as we rattled along the narrow dusty lanes the occupants of the many little farms looked out to see the extraordinary phenomenon.

The object of our visit was a matter for conjecture. ” What manner of men are ye ? ” exclaimed the old woman on Slieve Rushen. ” Are ye business men ? ” Our appearance after six consecutive days of potholing should at least have absolved us from such a suggestion – but then, the sartorial standards of the uplands are not noticeably high !

We may not have been business men, but there could be no doubt that we meant business – or at any rate Sam did. Sam was our lorry driver, a Belfast man whose main ambition seemed to be to take his truck where no truck had ever been before – a pioneer if ever there was one. ” The milk wagon ” we were told ” managed to get as far as the bridge. Maybe you can ride to there, but beyond that you’ll have to walk.” With consummate skill Sam eased our truck over the bridge and nosed our way for miles beyond. As he thrust the covered wagon through the mass of overhanging branches the effect inside was that of continuous machine-gun fire, and so narrow were the lanes under Slieve Rushen, our offside mud­ guard scraped the wall of some cabin while our nearside wheel hovered perilously on the lip of a deep ditch. To him this was the breath of life, but neither cajoling nor persuasion would get him inside a cave. ” The only man who’d get me down there,” said Sam, ” is an undertaker” – and he really meant it.

The extraordinary thing about this meet was the epidemic of restlessness to which the whole party succumbed from the very first day. ” Let’s get away earlier ! ” was the cry.

” Get fell in,” was the catch word. Admittedly there was a lot to do, and all new stuff at that, but to the middle-aged climber inured to setting off at 10.30 after a leisurely breakfast, the increasing tempo became alarming.

I am inclined to think that the responsibility for the out­ break rested upon Harold Armstrong, the President, and Chubb. It was my privilege to sleep in the same room as the President and my ambition was to take him an early morning cup of tea. I never achieved this ambition because I am prepared to swear that he was never in bed before I went to sleep, nor was he there when I awoke the following morning. It is possible he may have been there during the interval but that wouldn’t amount to much !

Before six in the morning people were stirring, by seven the place buzzed like a beehive – a party was even known to set off complete with potholing impedimenta by seven and before nine the place was deserted. As some wit put it ” Just for once I’d like to lie a-bed until dawn.” I think it was the same man who apologised for the singularly untuneful dirge he was singing while preparing a very early breakfast by explaining that he ” liked to get a few notes in before the birds started up.”

One would imagine that these early starts would result in correspondingly early returns and long leisurely evenings when the day’s events could be discussed, but nothing could be further from the facts. No one dreamed of getting back before nine, and by the time we had off-loaded, had a swim in the Cladagh to get the mud off, eaten a meal and washed up, we rarely had time to get over the Border into the Black Lion before the bar closed at midnight.

If from what has been said, I have given the impression that this meet was a grim business, all work and no play, I must correct it at once, for in truth, it was a very light-hearted affair, with any amount of fun, and laughter. Moreover the sun shone all day and every day, the hillsides were ablaze with gorse, the May blossom was at its best, and primroses and violets made every bank a miracle. Never, never shall we forget that sweet scented Ulster countryside! Truth to tell we were intoxicated with the beauty of it and with the excitement of new discoveries day after day. It was good to be alive, far too good to waste time a-bed.

The high moors were populous with peat-diggers working hard to cut and stack the peats while the good weather lasted, but not so hard to prevent them downing tools to watch our operations. These Ulstermen were a good humoured lot and their naive comments caused much laughter, although time and again we debunked their long-cherished myths about their local pot-holes. ” Sure enough, there’s no bottom to it ! ” was a favourite remark but, alas, it was invariably wrong and we felt it rather indelicate to disillusion them.

Many were the legends they told us, not glibly, but quietly and sincerely, as if believing in their truth. There was the story of the farm hand who reported to his master that the clib (a clib being a young horse) had fallen down a pothole. Disbelieving him, the farmer accused him of stealing the clib, but the hand persisted in his story. To prove his innocence he was lowered in a creel, with instructions to cut off the clib’s tail and bring it to the surface. This he did and was, of course, vindicated. We assume he went down the first 100 foot pitch only, as from the quantity of loose stuff on the succeeding pitches it was obvious they were in their virgin state.

A good deal of gardening was necessary in most of the pots and it was felt generally that ” I think we’ve pushed most of the loose stuff down now ” should be registered in the cata­ logue of ” Famous Last Words.”

It was the old man of Aghaboy who told us the story of the two fiddlers who disappeared into their local Pollnagollum and were never seen again, although weeks later, their fiddling was heard coming from a hole under Ben Aughlin, four miles away. It is customary to divide every estimated distance underground by five, but in this case it proved insufficient as the total length of that cave, by accurate measurements, was reduced from four miles to 79 yards.

Referring to the same cave, the old man remarked, quite sincerely, ” I’m after thinking there’s fairies in the place – many’s the time I’ve seen the quarest little footprints going in there.” He offered to accompany us, but when it came to leaving daylight his courage failed him. ” Maybe ye can manage with yourselves now,” said he and gracefully withdrew.

This reluctance to leave the light of day was not uncommon – on several occasions volunteers proffered their assistance to show us the way into a cave but they would never venture far – “I don’t hold with holes,” or ” I don’t want to dirty me clothes,” and him in the raggedest and dirtiest suit you ever saw in your life !

There was one exception and that was- the peat-cutter who will live for ever in a local blaze of glory because he went with us down Polliniska until he could look into the gaping shaft of Pollnatagha. ” Glory be to God ” said he fervently, ” Man dear, it’s terrible ! ” The following day down he went again and this time we took him into a side shaft from which, through a very ordinary hole in the wall, you could see down into Pollprughlish. Afterwards I heard him relating his experience to a wide-eyed audience, ” And there was the loveliest little window you ever saw in your life ” ; in the course of time his exploits will probably assume legendary proportions.

If the curiosity of the peat-diggers was not unnatural their questions were often difficult to answer. ” Who’s the head man ?” “What’s the pay for the job ? ” or was it the near­ ness of some illicit still which prompted a Free Stater to dismiss us with ” Och ! They’re Government fellows – always meddling in what isn’t their business ! “

Nevertheless we had our uses, for on one occasion we rescued Mick Riley’s creel which he lost when his donkey nearly fell down Peter Bryant’s Hole two years ago. Fifteen shillings that creel had cost him and he was overjoyed to get it back nearly as good as new. Invariably, too, our truck was filled to overflowing at the end of the day with peat-diggers wanting a lift to the main road.

So many and varied were the incidents in those crowded days that it is difficult to know where to stop – I should like to tell you the romantic story of the Pint Pot of Swanlinbar, but this may bring a blush to the cheeks of Jack Holmes, or I could recount the dramatic occasion in the Bullock Hole when Roberts’ sarcastic exclamation ” Are you trying to lasso the mayor (or mare) of Swanlinbar ? ” was immediately followed by Nemesis in the form of a stray dog which ate his sandwiches, but these incidents are of interest mainly to those who were present.

Nevertheless some things crowd upon the senses – the scent of flowers which pervaded Killesher, particularly in the late evening and at dawn, the ever-present call of corncrakes, there so numerous but in England almost extinct, the chirping of the crickets on the open hearth as you entered the kitchen in the early morning – the jolly face of Chubb reflecting the glowing peats as he crouched over the fire frying chops – and what chops !

There is an extraordinary atmosphere of freedom in the air at Killesher, freedom from restraint particularly delightful to men who, for a decade, have been bound so rigidly by regulations of one sort or another. Partly it may be due to its remoteness, but mainly it springs from the genial ruling spirit of the place, Mr. Barbour.

It is no small matter for any household to absorb fourteen active men for a week but the serene flow of life at Killesher Farm was unruffled by our invasion. With an hospitality reminiscent of a more romantic age, the whole house and its contents were placed at our disposal and so spontaneously was it done, so naturally and with such grace, that not a man of us but felt that the arrival of the ” boys from Yorkshire ” gave as much pleasure to Mr. Barbour as it did to ourselves. Here, indeed, was the embodiment of goodwill.

To lean on a gate with him some sunny morning, to listen to his talk for half an hour – to understand his generous philosophy – here was a man, I thought, who could teach me a good deal about the art of gentle living. Long may he flourish.