Louth Folk Tales E-Book

Doreen McBride

• Herausgeber: THP Ireland
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 307

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Catch a glimpse of the spirit of Ireland in the entertaining company of professional storyteller Doreen McBride as she recounts the local tales, ancient and modern, of County Louth. You will hear of the doomed love of Lassara and her harpist who haunt the waters of Carlingford Lough, of the origin of the River Boyne and of the jumping church at Kildemock. You will also discover St Brigid's association with Faughart, how the Hound of Ulster recovered from war wounds on the Death Mound of Du Largy, and where you might find leprechaun gold. And on the way you will encounter a killer cat, a fairy horse and the Salmon of Knowledge – as well as some talkative toes. From age-old legends and fantastical myths, to amusing anecdotes and cautionary tales, this collection is a heady mix of bloodthirsty, funny, passionate and moving stories. It will take you into a remarkable world where you can let your imagination run wild.

Leseprobe

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks are due to my wee Granny Henry,Auntie Carrie andAuntieTeenie, who flooded my mind with stories when I was a child.They have given me a legacy for which I am eternally grateful. Thanks are also due to: students in my classes both in the Department of Continuing Education, Queen’s University Belfast and the University of Ulster; people I met on the road, especially Sister Betty; Dr Tim Campbell, Director of the Saint Patrick’s Centre, Downpatrick for information about St Patrick; Dr Jonathan Bell, Ulster Folk and Transport Museum, Cultra, for information on folklore; Peter Carr, White Row Press, for information on the‘Big Wind’; Betty Quinn, Brendan Matthews and the staff at Drogheda Museum, Millmount, Drogheda, for inspiration, information about Oliver Cromwell and some great tales; Paddy Rispin, local historian, Trim, for the gory details regarding medieval justice; Canon Sean O’Doherty for information on St Brigid; Dara Vallely, one of the Armagh Rhymers, who is a font of knowledge regarding pagan practices and for information regarding St Brigid; Larry Breen and J.J. Woods, local historians, for encouragement; Kevin Woods, the Leprechaun Whisperer, Carlingford; the staff of Dundalk Tourist Board, especially Sinead, Steve Lally, Liz Weir, Kate Muldoon, Linda Ballard, the late John Campbell, Mike O’Leary and Francis Quinn, who are great storytellers; Father Quinn, parish priest Louth Village, for information and the time he spent showing me the church and tree at Ardpatrick that are associated with Saint Oliver Plunkett; Sean Collins, lecturer, tourist guide and local historian; the late Joan Gaffney for the story about Lassara’s Leap; Crawford Howard for permission to print his comic verse,‘Saint Patrick and the Snakes’; the staff of the Linen Hall Library; the staff of Banbridge Library; Hector McDonnell, author and local historian; the late Ernest Scott for some great yarns, and a mountain of craic; the late DrJack Doyle, Senior Lecturer of English Literature, Sumter Campus, University of South Carolina; the late Archbishop Otto Simms,Armagh, for spending a day enthusing me about Celtic culture; the late Revd Eric Gallagher, past president of the Methodist Church in Ireland, who was the first to tell me the story about St Patrick and the shamrock; Tom McDevitte, alias Barney McCoo, for passing his stories on to me and spending time taking me to the relevant places; Roisin Cox for the story about Willy John’s Big Surprise; DrJim Mallory, Queen’s University, Belfast, for information regarding life in the IronAge; DrKay Muir, Queen’s University, Belfast, for information pertaining tothe Ulster Cycle ofTales; and finally to my cousin Vernon Finlay.

CONTENTS

Title

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 Leprechauns and Other Fairies

2 Moyry Castle’s Killer Cat

3 Carlingford’s Fairy Horse

4 Ireland’s Atlantis

5 The Birth of Cúchulainn and New Grange

6 The Hound of Ulster

7 Cúchulainn Becomes a Warrior and Seeks Adventure

8 The Pillow Fight and Cattle Raid

9 The Death of Conla at Rosnaree

10 King Brian Boru’s Talkative Toes

11 The Crow (Preachan) of Omeath

12 The Big Wind

13 The Long Woman’s Grave

14 The Jumping Church at Kildemock

15 Origin of the River Boyne

16 Maiden Tower at Mornington

17 The Salmon of Knowledge

18 The Haunted House Near Drogheda

19 Saint Oliver Plunkett (1625-1681)

20 Willy John’sBig Surprise

21 The Black Death Visits Louth

22 The Battle of the Boyne

23 Saint Patrick

24 Ghostly Footsteps in Carlingford Castle

25 Saint Patrick and the Snakes

26 Saint Brigid

27 The Ghost in the Graveyard of Kileavy Old Church

28 The Proleek Dolmen

29 Lassara’s Leap from Narrow Water Castle

30 Oliver Cromwell’s Siege of Drogheda

Glossary

Bibliography

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

One of my earliest memories is of being taken by my parents to the tiny two-up two-down house on Belfast’s Shankill Road, where my great-grandmother, Martha Henry, lived.We were greeted by old Granny’s youngest daughter,AuntieTeenie, who came to the door in a great state of excitement.

‘Mother,’she said,‘says if we’re good childer, she’ll tell us a story.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Dad snorted, ‘I’m away to see Jim,’ and with that, he disappeared to visit his cousin, who lived further down the street.

Neighbours crowded into the tiny room, which became full to overflowing. We had a memorable evening. I’ll never forget the sight of Old Granny sitting in a stick-back chair, her gentle, melodic voice, the gleam of her silver hair and the way her hands moved gracefully in the firelight to emphasise important points. I can’t remember the gist of the story, just something about a king, a queen, a knave and silver.

The question is, was Dad right to dismiss storytelling as a‘waste of time’? I think he was wrong for the following reasons.

On a simple, basic level, storytelling helps develop appreciation of the past and a closer relationship between adults and children. It counteracts the‘instant’culture in which we live. Storytelling improves powers of concentration, develops the imagination and sensitivity as the ability to empathise with characters develops. It is possible to teach morality through story without appearing to preach, and to allow dreams and subconscious fears to surface and be expressed in a safe environment. Storytelling is central to literature, and it is worth mentioning that Ireland, which is a nation of storytellers, has five writers who have won Nobel Prizes for English Literature.

I was blessed because my father’s mother and her sisters were gifted storytellers. Granny Henry told traditional Irish stories.

AuntTeenie had her own twist on well-loved tales such as Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella. She acted out the big bad wolf and the ugly sisters and had us in kinks of laughter. Auntie Carrie, meanwhile, told outrageous stories about family history, arousing in me a lifelong interest in folklore and local history.Through her I learnt about employment in a linen mill and the fun workers had singing songs together such as‘TheTidy Doffer’, how they played tricks on each other, and the dangers inherent in their work.

Auntie Carrie gave an insight into social customs and folklore of the Edwardian age. She described how one Sunday, dressed in her best, she joined her friends walking up theAntrim Road in Belfast. The girls hoped to meet‘good-looking fellas’. Unfortunately, she had severe bowel problems en route. She described−with sound effects−the disastrous consequences as she ran towards home, providing my family with happy memories of the companionship engendered by mutual laughter.

During my work as an international storyteller I was frequently astounded by the effect of story onadult audiences. Individuals often made comments, such as‘that transported me back to my childhood’, and‘I don’t know why but I found that story very healing’and‘I now have a greater appreciation of what my ancestors’life was like’.

As a child, my favourite story was Cinderella. In retrospect, I think I loved that story because it expressed the possibility of escape from unhappy circumstances. My father was what is now referred to as bipolar.Terrible bouts of depression alternated with manic high spirits and intervening episodes of normality. I never knew what kind of a mood he was going to be in, how he would react to my presence, or how to please him.

I have observed other children reacting to an old story in unexpected ways. I remember once telling a group of eight-year-olds about the‘Leanhaun Shee’, a beautiful, but wicked fairywho, I said, wanted to kiss the boys. Actually she’s a fairy mistress, but I wasn’t going to tell eight-year-olds that. If they kissed her, she would put an evil spell on them.(I was attempting to tell the class sometimes it is right to say‘No’.)The boys, who were at the age at which they did not like girls, were killing themselves laughing, all except for one poor wee mite. He looked very thoughtful. It was Halloween and the teacher asked me to tell a ghost story. I was about halfway through when the wee mite put his hand up and wistfully asked,‘When will the beautiful woman come for me?’

I could have wept for him.

I love the old traditional tales because they have been honed and edited over centuriesand can be trusted.That was demonstrated to me when I was dazzled by stage lights in a theatre on the campus of Rochester University, New York. I started to tell the traditional story‘TheAmadan of Dough’. It’s about a king’s son who was disliked by his stepmother because he was disabled. Halfway through the story, my eyes adapted to the light and I saw, to my horror, a row of people with Down’s Syndrome. Briefly I wondered if I should have been telling that story, but I had no option but to continue.At the interval the organiser came to complain.‘Doreen,’she scolded,‘do you think it was sensitive to tell a story about an educationally challenged lad with a row of Down’s Syndrome people in the audience?’

Before I could reply something tugged my skirt. I looked down and saw a child with Down’s Syndrome.

‘Doreen,’he asked,‘do you see my shoes?’

I duly admired them and he commented,‘With these shoes on I could fight and win like theAmadan.’The organiser then apologised.

I suggest you learn some of the old stories, tell them, keep them alive and teach others to love them. It’s easy. Simply pick a story and learn the sequence of events. Don’t worry about words, just events. Picture what happens in front of your eyes and describe what you see while telling it.Telling a story is much better than reading aloud. It’s like taking your feet off the ground and flying.

1

LEPRECHAUNSANDOTHERFAIRIES

I am indebted to two people: a student in one of my folklore classes at the Department of Continuing Education, Queen’s University, Belfast, for telling me about leprechauns and O’Hare’s spirit grocer in Carlingford; and KevinWoods, the leprechaun whisperer, who lives in Carlingford, for bringing my knowledge up to date.

In the past, most towns and villages had a single shop that sold everything you could think of.You could buy milk, good home-made country butter, flour, eggs, fruit, vegetables, sewing needles, thread, biscuits, ham, and coffins.Alcohol was freely available and that type of shop was called a spirit grocers.That was before licensing laws spoilt the fun.

Few spirit grocers have survived but there is one in Carlingford−O’Hare’s.It is on the corner of‘The Square’and is well worth a visit.

O’Hare’sis divided into two parts.The door from the street leads to a shop with a counter and some groceries stored on shelves.The door at the back leads into what could only be described as a pub. It’s a great place if you’re looking for good Irish craic. It doesn’t matter what time you go, you’ll always find friendly people sitting round having fun.

The first time I visited O’Hare’s, the then owner,P.J. O’Hare, was still alive. He was a large, jolly, round man with a twinkle in his kindly brown eyes who greeted me in a friendly fashion. I caught sight of a glass cabinet sitting in front of the window and was intrigued by the contents: it held a‘leprechaun’suit and a small skeleton head. I askedP.J. about them and this is the story I was told.

One day, several years ago, a farmer’s son was feeling depressed so, to lift his spirits, he went for a walk up the road and into the mountains. Suddenly, when he was near the top of the pass, he heard a cry. It sounded like an animal in pain. He was a kindly young fellow, with an interest in livestock, so went into a field and followed the sound. It appeared to come from somewhere in front of him. He followed it, walking, through one field, into another and then into a third.

The crysuddenly stopped.The lad was upset; he thought the animal had fallen unconscious or had died. He searched, but couldn’t find anything and, deciding he was wasting his time, he turned and began to retrace his steps.As he reached the gate of one of the fields, he noticed part of the stone wall had fallen down.Animals would be able to escape and he knew how serious that could be. He was a decent lad and not in a hurry, so he decided to mend the breach. He set to work, picking up boulders, judging where they would fit and putting them back in place. He had nearly finished when he noticed a skull and a brown paper parcel sitting in a cavity.The parcel was in a mess, covered in mud and decaying leaves. He picked it up and brought it toP.J. O’Hare.

P.J. said he was very excited by the parcel. It contained a leprechaun suit with four gold coins in one of its pockets. He bought it from the lad, built the case and put the skull on display along with the leprechaun’s suit.

I lookedP.J. straight in the eye and said it sounded like a tall story to me, a load of baloney.P.J. wanted to know why I thought such a terrible thing.

I replied that the suit was too small to be worn by a leprechaun. Irish fairies are not small dainty things. Leprechauns are a type of Irish fairy and are as big as a child between the ages of two and six years.There are many type of fairy and some are as big as humans.‘You’re kidding,’he exclaimed.

‘No I’m not. There’s a fairy called a Leanhaun Shee, or fairy mistress who appears like a very beautiful woman. She’s looking for love. She’ll be your slave if you refuse her, but make love to her and you’ll become her slave, get thinner and thinner and eventually die. There will be no rest for you, even beyond the grave.You’ll end up wandering the earth as a miserable ghost.’

‘You’re kidding,’P.J. exclaimed again.

‘No I’m not. I’m serious.’

‘Do you mean to say, if a Leanhaun Shee came in here I couldn’t tell her from a normal woman?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And if I made mad passionate love to her, I’d die?’

‘Yes.You’d literally be courting death.’

‘Would she have any benefits, do anything for me?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. She’d inspire you to write beautiful poetry.’

‘That’d be great. Could I grow thin,’askedP.J., patting his corpulent tum,‘write beautiful poetry, become rich and famous, like Seamus Heaney, and then get rid of her?’

‘I suppose you could, but the only way to get rid of her would be to get her to fall in love with your best friend.’

‘Well, I wish she’d come in here,’P.J. replied,‘I’d take advantage of her and worry about the consequences afterwards. I reckon a group of intelligent men could pass her along the line, so to speak. By the time it was your turn again you might be so old you’d be glad to snuff it. Now tell me, are there any other sorts of fairy?Any wee ones that could fit that suit?’

‘There are lots of other types of fairy, but they’re all too big. It’s a take on.’

‘No, it’s not,’repliedP.J.‘It’s the genuine article. It was found up Slieve Foy by a very respectable fella. He was a schoolteacher. Schoolteachers don’t tell whoppers. Perhaps it belonged to a baby leprechaun, or even one that didn’t grow up properly. Maybe it was a dwarf leprechaun’s.We have dwarf humans, so why can’t leprechauns have dwarfs too?’

I admitted he had a point, but went on to argue that the skull could not belong to a leprechaun because fairies never die.They used to live in Heaven with God and the angels, but they annoyed God to such an extent that He threw them out of heaven and told them to stay on earth until Judgement Day.Then He’d decide if Hewasgoing to give them an immortal soul, like humans, or blow them out like puff of smoke.

P.J. looked disappointed to hear the skull couldn’t possibly belong to a leprechaun then smiled and said,‘Perhaps the leprechaun had a pet rabbit and he asked it to guard his clothes. For some reason or other he couldn’t get back and the rabbit died looking after them.’

I gave up arguing, bought a drink and sat down beside some friendly people who had invited me to join them.

Every time I am near Carlingford I make the effort to go into O’Hare’s.The craic is mighty. It has never disappointed, although the leprechaun suit is no longer in a glass case beside the window. It is now framed and hanging on the wall.According toP.J., some eejit came in one day, got drunk, staggered against the case, knocked it over and smashed it to smithereens. Luckily the contents weren’t damaged so they were picked up, dusted down and the glass fragments were removed.P.J. had the new case made and hung on the wall. It’s safer there.

One fine summer evening I decided to sit at one of the benches behind the pub.Two men and their wives came and joined me. I asked if they believed in fairies.The men said emphatically thatanyone who believes in fairies is‘stark, staring mad’.The women−sisters−were annoyed and claimed to have been terrified by a troop of fairies when they were children.

The men laughed and accused them of being imaginative eejits who’d been fooled by changes in the light at dusk.

The women became very angry and told me what had happened. When they were children they used to play on the Yellow Hill outside Drogheda. On this occasion they were having so much fun that they didn’t realise how late it was and before they knew it the sun was beginning to set.They became frightened because their mother had warned them never to be near the yellow hill at twilight as fairies come up from the Otherworld and steal human children.

The girls looked up the hill and were alarmed to see a troop of fairies, singing and dancing in the field above them.They turned and ran home as if the Devil himself was after them.

There was a real sense of fear in the women’s voices as they recounted their tale and I feel very privileged to have heard it. Elderly folk in Ireland often tell second-hand stories about fairies−‘I know a man/woman who saw the fairies’and so on−but it is very rare to find somebody who says something along the lines of‘I saw …’

The men continued to scoff at their wives’tale, but the women went on to recall a family experience.

They had a brother. He was the only boy in a large family of girls and he was spoilt rotten. Everything he wished for was granted. He was given the best chair at the table, the largest portion of meat, he never had to do any chores and the women waited on him hand and foot.As a result he grew up to be a charming rascal with no sense of responsibility. He refused to hold down a proper job and broke their poor mother’s heart by refusing to go to Mass. He laughed at her warnings about fairies and said he did not believe the‘stupid, superstitious nonsense’their mother spouted about religion and fairies.

One Saturday night, he drove over toArdee to attend a dance. (He always came home late and in a drunken state.Their mother worried something terrible about him.) On this particular night she had gone to bed and was dozing fitfully when she woke with a start and jumped out of bed. She was crying and shivering with fear. She woke the whole household by yelling at the top of her voice.

‘Girls! Girls! Get up! Get up!Your brother is in mortal danger. Come on, come on.We’ve got to pray for him. Get up, go into the parlour. Come on! Hurry up!We’ve got to get going before it’s too late.’She even hauled their father out of bed, while he was grumbling and griping about hysterical women who wouldn’t let a poor auld fella sleep in peace.

Their mother marshalled them into the parlour where they spent the whole night praying, and‘darned uncomfortable it was too, being on your knees for such a long time’.They continued their vigil until shortly after first light, when their brother walked in the back door. He was in a terrible state, shivering with fear and cold and he had his jacket on inside out and back to front. The girls’mother burst into tears and made him sit down by the fire and tell them what had happened.

He said he’d driven over to the dance inArdee because he’d seen a wee girl he fancied and hoped to meet her. Sure enough, she was standing at the back of the hall, chatting to friends when he arrived. He had a few snifters to give him Dutch courage and asked her for a dance. She refused, saying she never had anything to do with a lad who had taken drink. He was terribly upset and decided to drown his sorrows, so drank what he described as ‘a skinful’. He was as drunk as a lord when he climbed into his weeAustin 7 to go home.

There wasn’t much traffic on the roads in those days and there were no laws banning drinking and driving. He was within a couple of miles of home when his car suddenly stopped beside the gate of a field. He got out and started to fiddle under the bonnet. He couldn’t see anything wrong and what with the cold night air and the fact he’d had what he described as‘a skinful of drink’, he had to do what a man has to do. He was a modest sort of a bloke, so opened the gate and went into the field. When he’d relieved himself,he turned to go home and, what do you know? He couldn’t find the gate. He walked round and round the field. It didn’t have a gate. He thought he was just being stupid because he was one over the eight. Perhaps he’d been staggering around the field at random and had simply missed seeing the exit? He decided to be sensible and conduct a scientific experiment. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, tied it to the hedge then walked all round the field, staying close to the boundary. He found his handkerchief again but no gate.At that point he remembered what his mother had told him about fairies and was terrified.‘There’s nothing like a good dose of fear to make a drunkman sober,’he said.

Their mother had said that fairies lure people they want to steal into fields and cause the gate to disappear. He was panic-stricken. He recalled that they don’t like ugly people so, to make himself look as unattractive as possible, he took his jacket off, turned it inside out and put it on back to front.

Fairies do not like humans with food in their stomachs. Luckily, he had half a bar of chocolate in his overcoat pocket. He took it out and began to eat, very slowly, making it last as long as possible.At this point in his story he burst into tears and hugged their mother.

‘Mother,’he said,‘thank you. I’d have been stolen if it hadn’t been for you. I’d have been doomed. Doomed. I’d never have seen you again.’

He’d spent the night praying as he walked around the field looking for the gate. It didn’t reappear until dawn. He opened it and went back to his car, which started without any problem and he drove home. He said he was a changed man.And he was. He no longer scoffed at his mother’s beliefs. He went to Mass every week, stopped drinking and gambling, got himself a good steady job and became a pillar of society. He’s now on the local council and works hard to support his wife and growing family.

‘What about the wee girl he fancied in the dance hall atArdee?’I asked.

One of the sisters laughed.‘Aye,’she said,‘my brother doesn’t give up easily. He went back, stayed stone cold sober and asked her to dance. She looked a bit doubtful but he told her he was a changed man and pleaded for her to give him a chance.The upshot was they’ve been married for years. She’s a great wee wife and they have four children with another on the way’.

Years afterP.J. O’Hare died, I met KevinWoods, the leprechaun whisperer. He told me he was once walking around his garden when he saw something glinting on the wall. He investigated and found four pieces of leprechaun gold. He knew within his heart that the leprechauns were trying to contact him so immediately climbed up Slieve Foy, the mountain that towers over Carlingford. He sat down and waited at Slate Rock, where local tradition says leprechauns live in a souterrain deep under the earth’s surface. Sure enough, within minutes, several leprechauns came to talk to him.

They said they were worried because of falling numbers.There are only 236 leprechauns left in Ireland, because so few people believe in them: they have been forced to emigrate.They told him that Irish leprechauns are an endangered species and need to be protected.As a result, Kevin applied to the EU, asking them to pass a law making leprechauns on Slieve Foy a protected species.They refused, stating that nobody could prove that leprechauns exist.

Kevin said,‘That was really annoying. It took me nine years to make those foolish EU bureaucratspass a law protecting the leprechauns on Slieve Foy. Eventually they did sobecause I insisted they couldn’t prove leprechauns don’t exist.’

Slieve Foy, and in particular the area around Slate Rock, is now a protected area which is included under the EU Habitats Directive that protects the flora, fauna and leprechauns. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

I asked KevinWoods, the McCollite, why the leprechauns he talks to today are so much smaller than leprechauns in the past. He said as their numbers have decreased, so has the energy they can produce.They cannot muster enough to look as large as they once did.Also, they are spirits and materialise in different ways to different people.

According to folklore, leprechaun gold is buried in the Cooley Mountains. Every year a gold hunt is held during the Carlingford Festival.Anyone can join and people come from miles around. If you want to have a chance of finding gold on Slieve Foy, you can buy a license in O’Hare’s Spirit Grocer’s Shop.

I may be sceptic in thinking the local tourist board doesn’t really believe in fairies; just in attracting visitors.That doesn’t alter the fact that the Leprechaun Hunt is great craic and well worth joining. However, personally I am convinced some year somebody will find real leprechaun gold, not just stuff planted by the tourist board.That’ll shuck them.

2

MOYRYCASTLE’SKILLERCAT

I always loved telling this story because of the audience reaction to the play on words as the killer cat compiles a catalogue of cats prepared to send humans into a state of catalepsy and so on.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced the story contains a hidden meaning which is applicable today. The cat and his master, the wizard, were prepared to live off the environment in a sustainable fashion until a foolish human upset the balance. Thoughtlessly killing the wizard caused the cat to become filled with bloodlust with unexpected consequences. Today we are suffering from global warming with acid rain, diseased trees and so on because we are thoughtless and are not taking sufficient care of our environment.

Close your eyes in the valley leading through the Slieves of Armagh and the Mountains of Louth and you can almost hear the sound of war. The battle cry‘croachan’, the clash of swords, the groans of the wounded, the stench of death.There is a strange haunting atmosphere.This is‘The Gap of the North’, where birds never sing as a mark of respect to the dead and the air seems filled with ghosts. It was the scene of many fierce battles, a‘real Bearna Baoghall’, a Gap of Danger.

It was here that Hugh O’Neill fought Queen Elizabeth I’s soldiers during the Nine Years’War. Eventually, after much bloodletting, the Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Mountjoy, managed to conquer the pass after the besieged O’Neill ran out of ammunition and retreated. Mountjoy kept control of the border zone by building Moyry Castle in 1601 inthe Gap of the North. Moyry Castle is an Elizabethantower house, the stark ruined skeleton of which dominates the pass and adds to the atmosphere of desolation.

Moyry Castle was originally a simple building with different levels connected by ladders, not stairs. It was surrounded by a stout, protective bawn wall and, because of its defensive position, it had an unusual number of gun emplacements.There was a drawbridge leading to the entrance and a hole above the door used to pour boiling oil and other deterrents on to unwanted visitors. Deputy Mountjoy stationed a warden and a garrison of men in the castle to control border movement.

One day, as the sentries walked the ramparts, they saw a strange, old man with a large tiger cat coming out of the woods and heading towards them.The old man was wearing native Gaelic costume but there was something strange and foreign-looking about his lean, tanned face and the way he moved. He looked somehow as if it had come from the East.He approached the drawbridge and asked permission to enter and entertain the troops.

When questioned, he said he was a wizard who had visited all the principal castles and families in the country.The guards invited him in and enjoyed his skill in juggling and his magic tricks. Most of all they appreciated the fantastic feats performed by his tiger cat, who could jump through rings of fire. They were intrigued and asked how he had come to own such a wonderful creature. The wizard said,‘I rescued him when he was a tiny cub. He had been abandoned by his mother. I hand reared him, slept with him at night and gave him milk whenever he appeared hungry.You know something, I learnt to love that big cat as if he was my own child and it loves me. He’s very affectionate and follows me around like a dog, protecting me and keeping anyone from hurting me. He can be the wild fierce boy, so he can, but the funny thing is, he likes my friends.’

Every time the cat performed a trick, the wizard petted it and gave it a little catnip treat. It rolled over in delight and purred loudly.

When they finished their performance, the guards gave the wizard gifts. He bowed and said he would call again sometime.

The two strange friends went and lived in a cave in the mountains. Each day the wizard sent the beast out to forage for food and he gave a shrill whistle when he wanted the animal to return. He replied with a loud‘murrow’and came bounding back, carrying prey in his mouth.

The big cat was an expert hunter. He didn’t kill for pleasure; just sufficient to feed his master and himself.The wizard always rewarded it by stroking him, petting him and giving him little catnip treats. He cooked the prey over an open fire before dividing it into two portions and giving one to his friend.After dark the big cat and the wizard slept curled up together, covered by furs on a soft pile of leaves.They looked as snug as a pair of bugs in a rug.

Eventually the wizard decided they’d spent enough time in the one place and they should set out on their travels again.They were away for a long time and when they came back, the guards at Moyry Castle had changed.The new guards were suspicious of strangers and not nearly as friendly as the old ones. When the wizard went up to the drawbridge, the sentry lifted his bow, took aim and shot him through the heart.The cat stood still, shocked and furious at the death of his master. He took a deep breath and leapt soundlessly up on the ramparts.The sentry stiffened. He hadn’t seen the cat, just a shadow and wondered what was going on.

‘Who goes there?’he shouted.

‘Murrow,’mewed the cat.

The sentry laughed.‘You Irish have very peculiar names.Well Murrow, where do you come from?’

‘Maaa-yo.’

All cats come from Mayo.

‘Give me the password,’demanded the sentry.

‘