Some Potholes In Leitrim — Eire

by H. L. Stembridge

Two roads run seawards from Manor Hamilton, the one west­ward by way of Glencar reaches the Atlantic at Sligo Bay, while the other, striking more northerly, passes through the cleft of Glenade in the direction of Bundoran on the Bay of Donegal. Whether he travels by Glencar or by Glenade, the wanderer will enjoy himself, for in these parts there is no discordant note. The hills, fields, cottages and people blend quietly together to form a soothing and a pleasing whole. The jingle-jangle of modern life becomes an unpleasant memory, bustle is unknown, the land is tilled as it was a century ago and the men following the laden donkeys or cutting the turves consider it a natural thing to stop and talk to the stranger. The trees are greener than we know them in England, yellow iris cover the fields with gold and the roadside banks are starred with flowers.

Moreover, in both valleys there is much to ponder over, the tremendous detached pinnacles of Glenade, the curious parallel ridges which cross the valley east of Glencar Lough and the deep ” Swiss Valleys” beneath the limestone cliffs in both valleys are all worth investigation. Deep clefts, some clean cut, others tree-shrouded, seam the cliffs which face both glens, tempting the wanderer to explore their hidden recesses.

The great triangle of uplands contained by the two roads reaches, at its highest point, Truskmore, a mere 2,116 feet, but just as Ingleborough from the Hill Inn looks a great deal more imposing than does Ben Nevis from Port William, so do the limestone cliffs which surround these uplands give to them an appearance of height far beyond their actual stature.

Once up above the cliffs romance goes by the board and hard slogging is the order of the day, for here is a desolate undulating succession of peat hags, tussocks and bog, only occasionally relieved by a peat digging or by an outcrop of limestone or grit. In winter these uplands are swept by the Atlantic gales and, as a result, vegetation is limited to bents and sphagnum moss. Sink holes provide protection for a few rowans whose tops can be seen poking up here and there, a refreshing green among the more sombre purples and browns of the bents.

The whole area appears to be covered by limestone several hundred feet thick and a diligent study of the map indicates the possibility of potholes which induced John Godley, Jack Holmes and the writer to spend a few days looking round in June 1951.

A few miles west of Manor Hamilton we took the wrong turning and pulled up at what appeared to be a dead end just as McMahon the farmer was driving his cows in to be milked. Naturally, we stopped to talk and our eyes grew wider as he told us of all the deep holes on the moor — lots of ’em — all over the place.

Following his direction we urged the car up the steep and stony track to Rocktown above Gurteen. Joe Rooney was on the moor cutting turf, but the eldest of his eight lovely children, Bernadette, shy and timid as a fawn, led us to a hole known as Teampol (pronounced Shample). This place was well known locally, as a few years ago a Sligo girl fell down a 90 foot shaft with fatal results. We scrambled down as far as we could but, having no ladders, we were soon stopped. Yet the place looked promising enough, there was a substantial stream going down and the pitch which stopped us yawned wide and deep.

Anxious to chart as many new pots as possible we set off over the moor and in a few hours found five more shafts, all sufficiently deep to warrant bringing over tackle at some future date. Hunger drove us back to Manor Hamilton, whence, replete with ham and eggs and in great good humour, we blarneyed our way across the frontier two hours after the official closing time.

Then followed several of those gloriously happy days, all too rare in a lifetime, when we wandered in sunshine untied and unencumbered over hills new to us, finding new pots every day. In Glenade we scaled the cliffs of Polnachorry and plumbed the muddy depths of Polnawaddawee. For hours on end we scrambled up and down the innumerable rifts on the fringe of Cope’s Mountain.

Going north we approached Truskmore through Gleniff and found that the poor thing marked on the 6-in. map as ” Cormac Reagh’s Hole” which is no more than a partially blocked boulder jam is more than compensated for by the enormous cave ” Dermot and Grania’s Bed,” high in the cliffs at the head of the glen. Days of hard walking among the peat hags on the southeast slopes of Truskmore were rewarded by the discovery of more deep shafts, and while we had a lurking fear that many of them might turn out to be ” pigeon pots ” we noted the position of about twenty in all which were sufficiently deep to warrant a visit with tackle.

Our time was short and we made the most of it, covering great areas and often forgetting to eat until fatigue reminded us of the need to refuel. From the hill folk we received much kind­ness and great help, they regaled us with ” skilly ” and many a crack we enjoyed, finding them wise in local lore and as full of stories as the hills are full of spirits. Banshees and leprechauns occupied their minds as much as crops and cattle. When a child dies its spirit may marry that of another dead child and the fruits of the union are the leprechauns, tiny fellows about eight inches high who live in the potholes on the moor. We were carefully instructed how to catch them and how to get them home, but this availed us little for, being strangers, the little fellows gave us a wide berth and we were never fortunate enough to see one. There were signs that some of the holes had been occupied but these traces were left by fugitives in the ” troubles,” for the leprechauns, being fairies, leave no trace except the straw stalactites called in some places ” fairy pipes.”

Our leave ran out and we came home full of plans for future visits, but fortune which had smiled so steadily upon us in 1951 showed the rougher side of her tongue when a larger and properly equipped party pitched their tents at Rocktown twelve months later. Day after day great cumulus clouds rolled in from the Atlantic, pelting us with a cold rain which turned the ground into a quagmire and made us realise once more the hmitations of camping when potholing. We attacked Teampol and although two men did get down to the bottom of the shaft and one explored a succeeding passage, they came back half drowned and we retreated to give the flood time to subside.

The following day we gave our attention to some of the shafts on the moor above Gurteen and bottomed four or five, none exceeding 120 feet in depth. We found the limestone thoroughly unreliable and dislodged a lot of loose stuff.

We were up at Teampol in good time next morning and to our relief found much less water going down. This pothole is divided into two sections by a large open pot which is easily accessible from the moor. A substantial stream goes underground about fifty yards north-east of this pot at an altitude of 600 feet. Entering by a passage three to four feet high the stream goes over a ten foot pitch below which the passage assumes majestic proportions, at least fifteen feet high and, in places, twelve feet wide. Ten yards from the pitch the passage forks, a minor branch going straight ahead while the stream takes a sharp bend to the right.

Beyond a pillar which divides the stream the passage is sufficiently narrow to bridge but it becomes very high indeed. A dry passage goes off to the left and another somewhat tight passage on the left runs parallel to the main stream passage at a rather higher level. The stream goes down an eight foot scoop into the large open pot already mentioned and immediately goes through a hole in the floor over a thirty-foot pitch. It is easy to by-pass this pitch by moving to the left, passing behind a huge boulder which divides the open pot and climbing down a dry fifteen-foot pitch. The bottom of the thirty-foot waterfall pitch can now be seen a few yards to the north.

Turning south, and scrambling down through a labyrinth of small passages a rift is reached running roughly south, which in ten yards ends in a fine shaft fifty-five feet deep, roughly circular and about twenty feet in diameter. When the stream is in spate the roar of the water going down this shaft is intimidating, streams enter at the four points of the compass and the luckless potholer who hitherto has kept moderately dry cannot avoid a soaking. In such conditions the bottom of the shaft becomes a boiling cauldron.

On our second visit when the flood had subsided we found the pitch wet, but not uncomfortably so and on reaching the foot of the ladders we could scramble down large boulders to the opposite side of the shaft where the stream left by a fine passage. This we followed for well over a hundred yards. Its width varied from five to ten feet and it was always high; overhead could be seen the edges of three or four old floors. There seemed to be only one deep pool, the rest being wadeable.

Finally the passage narrowed and the stream vanished through a two foot wide slit in the floor. Relieved that we need not go with it, we continued a little further down our passage, climbed down a fifteen-foot pitch and rejoined our stream in a large chamber. A dry passage ascended to the right but the main stream passage continued straight ahead, still broad and high. There were indications here of flooding to the roof. In a few yards the stream leaped twenty feet into a further chamber and as the only ladder run was down the waterfall an attempt was made to climb down by traversing to the left but this proved impracticable as the ledges were rotten and the lower part was undercut, so down the waterfall we had to go.

Leaving the chamber we crawled with the stream along a low passage until we reached a canal whose still waters were covered with several inches of froth. Crawling through this it was obvious that the end was near. Ahead lay the still black waters of the sump, so still indeed that at first glance it looked like another pitch. Beyond, the roof joined the water.

It is possible that further progress could be made if the side passages and the false floors were thoroughly explored. The limestone in the lower reaches is very unreliable and in spite of the size of the stream the walls give the impression of being corroded rather than eroded.

We came out to a steady downpour and blessed the Land-Rover which had been taken to within a few hundred yards of the pot.

Piling the tackle on the car we returned to camp thoroughly soaked, the evening was cold and wet and when someone suggested that we should spend the night in Sligo it was agreed to, almost with acclamation. Wet clothes were heaped on ground-sheets, tents were closed, and within two hours we were enjoying the warmth and luxury of a comfortable hotel.

Even that feeling of well-being induced by a good meal and a good fire could not revive our enthusiasm for potholes and we decided that on the morrow we would leave the holes alone and spend the day walking the hills. Evidently this was what fortune was angling for, the following morning dawned bright and fine and in the words of a real Cave enthusiast we ” wasted two fine days walking.”

The first of these days took us up into Gleniff from the north, past the slender spire of Ben Wiskin and away to the head of the glen, shut in by the great cliffs which surround ” Dermot and Grania’s Bed,” up the steep hillside on to the ridge and along it as it narrows to the knife-edge of Ben Wiskin itself.

As you He on the crest you see far below and within a mile or two the great waves pounding on the white sandy beaches. Fifty miles away the mountains of Mayo hover on the south-western horizon and away to the north the hills of Donegal hang, a misty blue across the great stretch of Donegal Bay. The cliff falls sheer for hundreds of feet and you can see on the flat coastal plain below, as on a map, the marks of the folk who lived there thousands of years ago, the green mounds and ditches and the stone circles.

Although a gale may be blowing in from the Atlantic you can strike a match on the edge of the great cliff and it will burn with­out a flicker and this is only one of its marvels, for if you lie on the edge and drop over a piece of orange peel, the up draught is so great that it will fall thirty feet and then come up again and hit you in the eye, as it should do for not being litter minded.

And, it you don’t believe that contrast is the spice of life, try slogging, as we did, across the peat hags of the Ox Mountains of Sligo (Ox-like they are indeed!) beneath a cloud that followed us around all day until, unable to withstand temptation any longer, we raced down to a little cove on the Atlantic shore whose sun-flecked waters had beckoned us for hours. Into its clear green depths we plunged, coming out tingling, and as we dried in the sunshine the great Atlantic rollers thundered over the rocks.