Wild Waters E-Book

Richard Nairn

• Herausgeber: Gill Books
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 387

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'I often sit by the bank of the small river that flows through our farm in County Wicklow, fascinated by its many moods ... Getting to know a river is like reading the story of a person's life ... from its young energetic stages in the hills to the slower-moving mature river, through to the tranquil water of lakes and finally to its resting place in the sea.' Richard Nairn is an ecologist who has been visiting waterways around Ireland for over half a century, fascinated by how they sustain and enrich our lives. Here he sets out on a year-long adventure to explore every stretch and tributary of the Avonmore River, which runs through Co. Wicklow. From source to sea, he immerses himself in the wildlife, archaeology, history and people connected to the river. Travelling to explore more of Ireland's rivers, lakes, wet woodlands, ponds and canals, Richard details encounters with dragonflies, crayfish, otters and great flocks of migratory waterbirds, and finds himself awestruck by the sense of a lost wilderness they convey. With our waterways now under serious threat, this is a love letter to Ireland's rivers and lakes, and a reminder of what we stand to lose. 'Opens the window into a watery world. Personal yet panoramic.' Colin Stafford-Johnson, filmmaker.

Leseprobe

WILD

WATERS

THE MAGICOF IRELAND’SRIVERS AND LAKES

RICHARDNAIRN

Gill Books

For Rowan, Derry, Hazel and Tim,now paddling their own canoes

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Preface and Acknowledgements

Introduction

1   Meeting of the Waters

2   Rivers

3   Lakes

4   Wet Woodlands

5   Artificial Waters: Ponds, Canals and Constructed Wetlands

6   Rewilding the Waters

References

Copyright

About the Author

About Gill Books

Photo Section

Preface and Acknowledgements

Rivers and lakes are the veins, arteries and beating heart of Ireland. To our ancestors these wetlands were their highways, as well as providing valuable sources of food such as water plants, fish and wildfowl, vital materials such as reeds for thatching and willows for basket-making. Today they supply us with drinking water and cleanse our waste. Their energy is harnessed to provide power, from the water mills of old to the hydroelectric stations of modern Ireland. They have a rich heritage of history, folklore and distinctive wildlife. They give us beautiful, peaceful places for recreation, including active field sports such as angling and canoeing, and inestimable attractions for tourists. Just think about the value to this country of the River Shannon, the Lakes of Killarney or Glencar Waterfall. And yet we repeatedly undervalue them, ignoring their unique wildlife, turning natural channels into lifeless canals and allowing agricultural discharges to pollute their waters.

My own interactions with waterways have been spread over half a century, from surveying the birds that breed among them to exploring the river that runs through our farm. I am fortunate to live in Wicklow, the ‘Garden of Ireland’, through which flows the beautiful Avonmore River. With my friend the poet Jane Clarke, I have explored many stretches of the Avonmore, which drains most of east Wicklow including the mountain lakes. I thank Jane for her insight and her company. On these adventures we have been joined by a range of other people including Cormac Byrne, Mairead Kennedy, Helen Lawless, Isobel O’Duffy and Paddy Woodworth. These friendships became deeper with our common endeavour to explore the valley in all its moods.

Jane Clarke and her publishers Bloodaxe Books are acknowledged for permission to reproduce her poems ‘Against the Flow’ from The River (2015) and ‘The Dipper’, ‘Rowan’ and ‘Refuge’ from A Change in the Air (2023). We thank Oriana Daphne Conner for permission to publish extracts from two poems, ‘A Soft Day’ and ‘The West Wind’, from Songs from Leinster (1933) by W.M. Letts.

As well as my own photographs, others were kindly provided by Ann Fitzpatrick, John Fox, Will O’Connor, Aoife O’Rourke, Brian O’Toole and Karl Partridge. Fáilte Ireland and the Irish National Heritage Park are acknowledged for the use of several other images.

I am especially grateful to a number of experts for reviewing different chapters. These include Jane Clarke (Chapter 1: Meeting of the Waters), Evelyn Moorkens (Chapter 2: Rivers), Julian Reynolds (Chapter 3: Lakes), Declan Little (Chapter 4: Wet Woodlands), Rob Gandola and Aoife O’Rourke (Chapter 5: Artificial Waters) and Padraic Fogarty (Chapter 6: Rewilding the Waters). I would also like to thank many other people for their help, information and expertise in connection with this book. They include Mark Boyden, Brian Burke, Mary Bourke, Darragh Byrne, Brian Caffrey, Diane Carton, Declan Cooke, John Cross, Barry Dalby, Berian Davies, Christine Davies, David Davies, Oonagh Duggan, John Feehan, Kathryn Finney, Ann Fitzpatrick, Amber Godwin, Rory Harrington, Feidhlim Harty, Colin Kelleher, Angie Kinsella, Stephen Heery, Ian Herbert, Daniel Kelly, Mary Kelly-Quinn, Mark McCorry, Allan Mee, Declan Murphy, Lorcan O’Toole, Karl Partridge, Craig Somerville, Michael Stinson, Courtney Tyler, Graeme Warren and Ken Whelan. With thanks to Nicki, Teresa, Laura, Kristen, Charlie, Paul and all the hardworking team at Gill Books. My special thanks go to Rachael Kilduff, editor with Gill Books, for her tireless attention to detail. My son, Tim Nairn, prepared the map of the Avonmore River System.

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we’ve hid our faery vats,

Full of berrys;

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world’s more full of weeping

Than you can understand.

From ‘The Stolen Child’ (1889) by W.B. YEATS

Introduction

I often sit by the bank of the small river that flows through our farm in County Wicklow, fascinated by its many moods. After an overnight storm it can be a roaring torrent, racing along with a load of sticks as passengers until it merges with other tributaries and finally reaches the sea. During summer droughts it is reduced to a quiet trickling stream, starved of moisture from the boggy fields on the hill. But most of the time it just flows steadily past, peacefully winding between the ancient trees that line its banks. My thoughts mirror these moods, sometimes bursting with inspiration, at others devoid of ideas, but most days just rumbling along in my chosen path, creating bits and pieces of work that gradually merge into a book.

My early experiences of rivers and lakes were wet and wonderful. As a child in Dublin, I played in a stream that flowed through our fields, using a hand net to catch small minnows and frogs. I loved to construct stick dams to make the water deeper so that I could sail little home-made boats around in the pools and generally mess about in the mud. Occasionally the stream would overtop its banks and flood the basement of our old house and we spent some exciting times wading about the rooms downstairs. During the summer holidays I would go to visit my cousins who lived close to one of the midland lakes where we went on fishing expeditions in a wooden boat. These formative experiences gave me a fascination for water and how it can enrich our lives.

Some nights after dark I stand outside the door of the house in the Wicklow valley where I live now. On cold winter nights with clear skies the landscape is lit only by the moon, the stars and a few twinkling lights from distant farmhouses. Just a short walk away at the foot of the slope I can hear the sound of the river rushing past through the woodland. It is a familiar sound. I can see in my mind’s eye the places where the water rushes around bends and over fallen tree trunks, and others where it trickles over gravel banks as the river widens out. I can picture the otter that I once saw in the fading light, making its way upstream in search of the trout that spawn in the headwaters. The river marks the boundary of our land and the division between two townlands, and it has done so for centuries. I often reflect on the importance of this waterway in the landscape, passing through different farms and touching the lives of so many people in the valley. I would miss it if I could not hear its reassuring sounds.

Getting to know a river is like reading the story of a person’s life from childhood to their inevitable end. The life of a river mirrors our human lifespan, from its young, energetic stages in the hills to the slower-moving mature river, through to the tranquil water of lakes and finally to its resting place in the sea.

Since coming to live in Wicklow more than forty years ago, I have been to visit most of its rivers and lakes – mostly the better-known places like Glendalough and Powerscourt waterfall. During the lockdowns of the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020, I began to explore the biggest river system in the county, appropriately called the Avonmore (Abhainn Mhór meaning big river). Its catchment covers most of the east side of the Wicklow Mountains from its source near the border with Dublin to the sea at Arklow, close to County Wexford. It has ten main tributaries and four major lakes, many of which begin in the classic glacial valleys or glens. So I set out to walk the entire length of the Avonmore system, from its source to the sea, over one year, to meet people connected with the rivers and lakes and to learn more about the nature and history of these fascinating places. This led me to submerge myself in the nature, history and legends of lots of other freshwaters in Ireland, or at least those that became the subjects of this book.

After heavy rainfall, the Avonmore River swells with brown, peat-stained water and powers along filling its channel to the brim. In 1986, torrential rain following the passage of Hurricane Charlie led the river to burst its banks in many places and tore away the supports of several old stone bridges, causing them to collapse. Today, rain is still one of the main talking points among Irish people. Located as we are on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, we tend to get too much of it at once as the moisture-laden winds empty their contents on the green landscape below. A poor summer usually means a wet one, although most tourists who come to Ireland are not here for the sunshine. Every morning I stop whatever I am doing to listen to the day’s weather forecast. Will it bring heavy rain, scattered showers or a dry day? Will I need to water the tender saplings that I grew from acorns last autumn? The weather forecasters frequently talk about wintery showers, persistent rain and flooding.

Our native language has no shortage of expressions when it comes to describing precipitation. Rain may simply be described as báisteach or fearthainn but there are plenty of other words for different types of wetness. The words ceobhrán and brádán describe drizzle or misty rain. Ceathanna, múrtha or scrabhanna báistí suggest showers of rain while aimsir cheathach or aimsir spairniúil describe showery weather.1 The twelfth-century Welsh author Giraldus Cambrensis wrote, after his travels in Ireland, ‘there is, however, such a plentiful supply of rain, such an ever-present overhanging of clouds and fog that you will scarcely see even in summer three consecutive days of really fine weather’.2 The comedian Hal Roach famously said, ‘you know when it is summer in Ireland as the rain gets warmer’. ‘A soft day’ in the country is one where the atmosphere is humid and moisture is held in the air. Or, in the words of a poet:

A soft day, thank God!

The hills wear a shroud

Of silver cloud;

The web the spider weaves

Is a glittering net;

The woodland path is wet,

And the soaking earth smells sweet

Under my two bare feet.

And the rain drips,

Drips, drips, drips from the leaves.

Extract from ‘A Soft Day’ from Songs from Leinster (1933) by W.M. LETTS

The result of all this water falling from the skies is that Ireland is one of the wettest parts of Europe. Annual rainfall totals in the west of Ireland generally average between 1,000 and 1,400 millimetres per year and in many mountainous districts this may exceed 2,000 millimetres per year (enough to cover a tall person). A lot of this moisture is absorbed by the soil or finds its way into groundwater, more runs off in streams and rivers to the sea, while a large proportion of it is held in lakes, marshes and bogs. These waterways and wetlands are occupied by a dizzying variety of native plants both above and below water. They also hold a good variety of fish species, and Ireland is well known as an international destination for angling. There are wonderful wetland insects, such as dragonflies and water beetles, and one of the healthiest populations of otters in Europe.

The prevalence of rivers, lakes and other wetlands, especially in the midlands and north-west of Ireland, is one of the principal attractions for the great flocks of migratory waterbirds that arrive here in the autumn and depart again in spring for their breeding grounds in the Arctic. I have many happy memories of watching flocks of whooper swans, recently arrived from Iceland, trumpeting out their loud calls across flooded fields in the Shannon valley. Vast swirling flocks of golden plover circle above lake shores, their bright plumage picked out in the low winter sunlight. The stirring sound of a drumming snipe above a marsh in early summer will be etched in my memory for ever.

Surprisingly, rivers and other wetlands offer some of the best conditions for the preservation of historical and archaeological remains. The archaeologist Aidan O’Sullivan wrote:

In the past, some of the most striking archaeological discoveries on this island have been made in its wetlands, whether they are Iron Age human remains or trackways in bogs; early medieval crannogs and dwellings in lakes with their abundant collections of objects; or intact late medieval wooden fish-traps and baskets quietly eroding out of estuarine mudflats. Archaeological survey and excavation in wet environments can uncover spectacularly well-preserved dwellings with their occupation and midden deposits present; or wooden vessels with their tool-marks surviving and traces of their last contents within them. Protected from the annihilation of time by their anaerobic, waterlogged environments, the sense of wonder that these discoveries evoke is often traceable to the fact of their unlikely survival and existence.3

There are many different definitions of what comprises a river or lake, but a broad understanding is a piece of land that is inundated by water for at least part of every year. This can include moving water such as rivers and canals or still water as in ponds, lakes, lagoons or special temporary lakes known as turloughs. Wetlands, by definition, are transitional habitats between open water and dry land. They include marshes, bogs, reedswamps and wet woodlands. They often contain a number of parallel zones into which the plants and animals are organised. Some international agreements, such as the Ramsar Convention, include shallow coastal waters and tidal estuaries as wetlands, but as these are saltwaters I have not included them in this book.

The frequency of words for different types of wetlands in the Irish language underlines the historical importance of these features in the landscape. Examples are abhainn meaning river, loch meaning lake, móin a bog, caladh a river meadow, seascann a marsh, saileán a willow grove and tuar loch a dry lake (or turlough).4 Historically, these areas were treated with respect because they yielded valuable resources – fish and shellfish for food, reeds for thatching, willows for basket-making, waterpower for mills and many other things that were useful in everyday life. In the twenty-first century there is a growing realisation that rivers and lakes have an important role to play in the fight against climate change. Freshwater for domestic and industrial use has become one of the more valuable commodities as our consumption levels continue to escalate and the climate becomes increasingly warmer and drier. Water shortages are more frequent in summer and there is an active proposal to lay a pipeline across half of the country to transfer water from the River Shannon to Dublin. Undisturbed peatlands can store much more carbon than forests on the same area of land. Filtration of pollutants through the root systems of wetland plants such as common reed and bulrush is a valuable nature-based solution to water pollution. The conservation of Ireland’s rivers and lakes demands our attention in the future.

Throughout most of my adult life I have been visiting wet places around Ireland to seek out their wildlife, understand their archaeology and history or simply enjoy the sense of a lost wilderness that they can convey. I always bring wellington boots because even walking through wet vegetation can be a miserable experience in normal shoes. A change of socks is another useful standby for the times when water levels are over the top of my boots. I love to follow the course of a river, walking on the banks or wading in the shallows, discovering the source at a tiny spring bubbling out of the soil. Or I might take a boat out onto one of our larger midland lakes where it feels like a trip on an inland sea with the landscape all around reflected in the water surface. As well as the familiar lowland lakes and rivers, we have a number of very special wetland types in Ireland such as turloughs, coastal lagoons and deep mysterious mountain lakes. Following my exploration of the Avonmore catchment in Wicklow, this book dives into a series of other watery features throughout Ireland – the rivers, lakes, wet woodlands and artificial waters such as ponds and canals. The final chapter surfaces again in an honest appraisal of the threats to these wetlands and what can be done to ensure their survival.

Meeting of the Waters

There is not in the wide world avalley so sweet

As that vale in whose bosom thebright waters meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and lifemust depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fadefrom my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shedo’er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest ofgreen;

’Twas not her soft magic of streamletor hill,

Oh! no, – it was something moreexquisite still.

’Twas that friends, the beloved of mybosom, were near,

Who made every dear scene ofenchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms ofnature improve,

When we see them reflected fromlooks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm couldI rest

In thy bosom of shade, with thefriends I love best,

Where the storms that we feel in thiscold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, bemingled in peace.

‘The Meeting of the Waters’ (1807) by THOMAS MOORE

Thomas Moore, poet and songwriter, was certainly in a romantic mood when he wrote these words about the Vale of Avoca in the centre of County Wicklow where the Avonmore and Avonbeg rivers converge. At a younger age he was somewhat more daring, as a collection of his verse included a celebration of kisses and embraces that was considered to be on the verge of erotic in the British Empire of the early 1800s. After an extended dalliance with British politics, Moore returned to Ireland, where he wrote the lyrics to a number of Irish melodies that became immensely popular. Among the best known of these songs was ‘The Meeting of the Waters’, which he wrote in 1807 after a visit to the famous beauty spot near Avoca village.

I went there again recently to see what inspired Moore, and I too felt that this was an important meeting place where friendships might grow as common interests outnumber differences. So, as a source of inspiration for this chapter, I decided to walk the entire length of the river from the source to the point where it enters the Irish Sea. I hoped in this way to gain some understanding of the evolution of the river, the stages of which reflect the span of a single human life. Fortuitously, I discovered that another person I knew had the same ambition. This was Jane Clarke, a poet who lives in Glenmalure, one of the Wicklow valleys, and who was already engaged in writing a series of poems about the river. Others joined us at intervals, all of us united by a common aim to explore the river valley in depth and to understand its secrets. This was a meeting of minds as well as a meeting of the waters.

With these friends, all experienced hill walkers, I set out to explore the Avonmore and its tributaries, the lakes fed by the rivers and the beautiful habitats that fill many of the valleys. The main channel of the river is some sixty-five kilometres in length. Downstream of the Meeting of the Waters it is known as the Avoca River. The entire catchment contains many different landscape types: mountain bogs, beautiful valleys carved by glaciers, deep ribbon lakes and waterfalls, old woodlands, modern forestry plantations and beauty spots, some scarred by mine waste and industrial pollution of the past. I wanted to see the wild plants and animals that live in these places and that make the riverbank their home. There are many public riverside paths but there are also some stretches of waterside that are protected by landowners who value their privacy. Along the river there is a scattered community including sheep farmers, foresters, large landowners, conservationists and people who value the peace and tranquillity that the river valley offers. To explore nature in such a peaceful setting, with a group of like-minded friends, was a privilege indeed.

The source

On a cold winter’s day I set off with my friends to reach the source of the main river high in the Wicklow Mountains. As we left the road and trekked uphill along the rushy banks of the White Sand Brook, we were accompanied by a dipper, a plump little bird perching on rocks in the fast-flowing stream and diving into the water to catch insect larvae. Our objective was to reach the source of this mighty river on the flat bog between the mountain peaks of Kippure and Tonduff. In the surrounding landscape, as far as the eye could see, unbroken vistas of acid grassland were dominated by tussocks of purple moor-grass and heather. Occasionally, we came upon isolated birch and rowan trees, clinging onto steep slopes where the nibbling teeth of sheep could not reach them. The poem ‘Rowan’ by Jane Clarke captures the harsh conditions in which rowan trees survive in the mountains:

When grief

like a river

is set

to burst its banks

the rowan

has already lost

its berries

and leaves;

it sways

in the wind,

steadies,

sways.

On the slopes around us, herds of deer bounded away from the greener grasslands along the river where they had been grazing. The granite and quartzite rocks, everywhere to be seen, lead to acid conditions and low productivity in the river. But this paucity of nutrients is compensated for by the sheer energy of the water, powering along through the bog, around boulders and over small waterfalls. As we climbed higher, patches of snow appeared on the banks and some of the slower-flowing sections were covered with a layer of ice. Then the bog became more level and we were no longer climbing. Among still pools filled with colourful mosses we paused to marvel while the river that drains most of a county emerged in a quiet trickle. There was no gushing from the earth or dramatic waterfall. Just the gentle sound of water running through the soil. With satisfaction and vivid memories, our little group descended the mountain in the setting sun.

The blacksmith

Later, at a small waterfall in the mountains, we sat for a while marvelling at the power of the water and the clouds of spray that constantly filled the air around the pool where it landed. The low cliffs were damp and clothed in mosses, liverworts and ferns. My attention was caught by a dark little bird, flying into the crevice with beakfuls of winged insects – maybe stoneflies or caddisflies. It was here that a dipper had made its nest among the slippery wet rocks. Like the wren, the dipper has a jaunty posture with a cocked tail, but it is slightly larger in size than a robin. Its black and brown plumage, with a striking white bib, have given it the Irish name Gabha dubh or blacksmith. This poem, ‘The Dipper’ by Jane Clarke, evokes the character of the dipper that we watched in the mountain stream:

You fly upstream while I tramp

among snow-dusted rushes

along the suckering edge.

True as a mandrel

you dive, flickering

into the narrow rill.

I think I’ve lost you –

but beyond clumps of sedge

and withered asphodel,

little blacksmith,

you bob on an anvil.

Droplets fall from your bib.

Hammer to chisel,

you hurtle notes

higher and higher

above the river,

your treble bell

pealing across the heath.

When hunting, the dipper flew rapidly along the river, perching occasionally on boulders in midstream wherever there was broken white water in riffles. Here it bobbed up and down, dipping its tail, apparently to get a better view of potential insect prey flying over the water. It often dived into the water, where it swam or walked on the riverbed, turning over small stones to pick off the larvae underneath. The dipper has been intensively studied for many decades in Munster, where most nests are built under stone bridges with only a small number on natural bank, rock or tree root sites. When the rivers are flooded, the dippers feed more on terrestrial insects, but they never fly far from the water unless they take a shortcut across a meander in the channel. Dippers are widespread across Ireland but concentrated in the uplands and foothills of the mountains where there is fast-flowing water. They are absent from most of the midlands, presumably because the rivers are slower and deeper and there is less opportunity for finding their preferred prey.1

The origin of the dipper’s English name may be connected with its ‘dipping’ habit when standing on a rock or with the feeding behaviour of dipping in the water. Older English names include the ‘water ouzel’ or ‘water blackbird’, and this similarity also emerges in its alternative Irish name, lon abhann, meaning ‘river blackbird’. The dipper was once believed to be the female kingfisher. This is not surprising as both species can be found on the same stretch of river and both fly low over the water. In Victorian Britain the dipper was persecuted, as it was mistakenly believed to feed on the eggs of salmon and trout. Many dippers were killed by overzealous gamekeepers as a result. In nineteenth-century Ireland a sighting of a number of dippers was believed to foretell the arrival of a malignant disease in the area. The skin of a dipper, when worn on the stomach, was said to be a cure for indigestion.

The Irish dipper (Cinclus cinclus hibernicus) is a unique subspecies found only in Ireland. It is distinguished from its cousins elsewhere by a rusty brown band where the bib ends on the breast. The ecology of dippers is intimately linked to river ecosystems, as they rely on them for food and nesting sites. They rarely leave the river even in winter. Researchers at University College Cork have found that breeding occurs earlier than in other songbirds, with egg-laying often beginning in March, because it is synchronised with the peak of aquatic insect abundance.

Today, the dipper has an important role as an indicator of good water quality, and the birds may decline where pollution or acidification occurs. Streams overlying acidic rocks like granite and quartzite and with catchments that are extensively planted with conifers are especially vulnerable to acidification. When it rains, a weak acid is formed on the needles and drips onto the ground, running down drainage channels and into streams. Aluminium in the soil is mobilised by the acidic water and this is dissolved in streams and rivers where it becomes highly toxic to fish and some invertebrates like mayflies. The absence of prey resources makes such rivers poor breeding grounds for dippers. Those that do attempt to breed have fewer eggs and smaller chicks than dippers on good-quality waters. This leads to poor survival of the birds and inevitable decline. I will be keeping an eye out for the young birds during the summer as they zip up and down the river here. On the Avonmore River, dippers are the commonest river birds, occupying a series of adjacent breeding territories from the lowland stretches right up into the higher hills.

Water twisters

My companions and I were following a section of the Avonmore River in east Wicklow that flows off the Sally Gap Bog and plunges into the deep, spectacular valley of Luggala. As it descends over multiple cascades and around moss-covered granite boulders, the river gathers speed. In the 1930s this natural power was harnessed with the installation of a small dam and turbine to provide renewable energy for Luggala House and estate. Situated in a bend of the river, the gothic-style house was built in the 1780s by the La Touche family and then passed into the ownership of the Guinness family and its heir Garech de Brún. The house is nestled in the natural amphitheatre of Luggala valley, which must be one of the most spectacular settings for a residence in Ireland. As we walked past the classic house I could imagine the entertainment put on by its wealthy owners over the centuries. It has now been acquired by the family of Luca Padulli. Writing about the land here, this committed conservationist remembered a Native American mystic who once visited Luggala and remarked that he could hear the ancestors whistling through the trees. Padulli says, ‘I often hear these words echoing through my mind and feel the weight of them on my shoulders. In the end they epitomise my goal with Luggala – it is a place to be saved and treasured for eternity.’2

Close to Luggala House are the deep, dark waters of Lough Tay, whose setting is one of the most iconic views in the east of Ireland. As the wind whipped across the surface of the lake it snatched the water into a swirl and sucked it vertically into a twister that skated across the lake at high speed like a kite surfer. Then it was followed by another and another in a natural show of movement and light that would rival any fireworks display. If I half-closed my eyes, I could imagine it was a column of water nymphs dancing across the lake. The image reminded me of a painting of dancing fairies by the Swedish painter August Malmström, where a swirling line of ethereal female forms sweeps across the surface of a moonlit lake.

By the shores of the lake we walked along a pristine beach of white sand beneath the impressive cliffs and scree slopes of Fancy Mountain. On the steep eastern slopes above the lake is an impressive stand of pure native oakwood fringed by giant beeches and Scots pines, planted by the previous estate owners. A red squirrel scampered up a trunk in the winter sunshine. Some of these centuries-old trees are approaching the end of their natural lifespan and showed many rot holes and broken limbs. They also had the twisted spiral form so characteristic of veteran trees, as if mirroring the twisters that danced across the lake below us.

Riffles and glides

Lower down the valley between Lough Tay and Lough Dan I sat on the bank of the river, savouring the peace and quiet, broken only by the babbling of the water as it flowed between overhanging trees. The constant sound and movement of the river was mesmerising. It was hard to take my eyes off the sunlight glinting on the water surface. In places there were riffles or rapids where the fast-flowing water was broken by shallow banks of gravel and cobbles, in others deep pools where the flow was slower and resting trout waited to lay their eggs. I thought about the tale of Mole in The Wind in the Willows, discovering a river for the first time:

By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

From The Wind in the Willows (1908) by KENNETH GRAHAME

This sequence of riffle, glide and pool is common to most rivers in their middle or lower reaches. It reflects the varied gradient, sometimes level, sometimes descending over a series of rapids where gravel bars reach the surface. These features are important for the wildlife in the river. The faster-flowing water in riffles is well oxygenated and ideal for the larvae of many insects that live beneath the stones holding tight in the fast flow by some ingenious methods. The larvae of the caddisfly develop from eggs that are laid in a mass of jelly. On hatching, the larvae make a kind of protective case or tube to protect their soft bodies from fish and other predators. This case may be made of small stones, sand or plant material. These tiny animals are no pushovers for predators, though, as the only thing that protrudes from the case is a set of biting mouthparts. The riffles are also a favourite spot for foraging dippers and grey wagtails. Pools are generally quieter places. In late summer, dragonflies dip the surface, while swallows and sand martins feed on the abundant insects that hatch from the water. Occasionally, a heron pays a visit and stands motionless with its feet in the water, waiting to stab an unsuspecting fish or frog.

Brown waters

The section of the main river called the Cloghoge carries a large amount of peat silt in suspension from the mountains, giving it a dark brown colour. It enters a series of sweeping meanders and then, surrounded by dramatic mountain landscapes, it discharges into Lough Dan (Loch Deán), the largest natural lake in the county. We crossed the river by a slippery line of stepping stones, before walking along a sandy beach that would grace any holiday resort. I had arranged permission to access this very private estate called Ballinrush, which is owned by an extended family called Archer. Ancient oak and birch trees grow from the lake sand, their twisted knarled trunks witness to centuries of human change. We paused here for a while to enjoy the ‘lake water lapping’ and to take in the immense views.

The archaeologist Chris Corlett described the valley above Lough Dan as ‘the largest example of a fossilised 18th/19th century farming landscape in Wicklow, if not in the country’. Scattered across its heathery face are the tumbled remains of several small settlements. On one of the few level areas of ground at the western side of the valley we walked among the walls of a ruined sod house with lazy bed cultivation ridges stretching up the slopes all around. In the 1841 census of Ireland the townland of Cloghogue was home to 148 people living in 19 households. Just twenty years later, following the convulsions of the Great Famine, there were only fourteen people living here in two houses. In the intervening years, the landlords had initiated a wholesale clearance of the tenants to make way for a new sheep farm with imported Cheviot sheep ‘from the purest flocks in Scotland’.3

I tried to imagine life here, isolated from neighbours by the hills, with mostly relatives for company. Beside these houses there is evidence that cereals, probably oats, were grown here, as there were the remains of corn ricks: four upright stones on which a platform would have been placed to dry the crop and keep it free from rodent damage. In one small group of ruined houses we found the remains of a well, with its characteristic flat stones. The location of the farm buildings was thus not random. They were built along the spring line to avail of a ready source of fresh water. Where the Inchavore River joins Lough Dan at its western end there is an area of flat grassland that is still farmed today. This is essentially a floodplain across which the river meanders to empty into the lake at a beautiful sandy beach covered with old birch trees. Close to a small stream is another cluster of six ruined cottages. Here there are the remains of a series of circular and rectangular hay ricks, which suggests that the area was used for extensive grazing and the saving of hay.

The waters of Lough Dan are dark and mysterious – up to forty metres at their deepest point. One experienced angler described ‘a hatch of sedges here with trout rising everywhere.’ This was once one of Ireland’s best-known lakes for Arctic char, a very rare species today. This relative of the trout is a relic of a time when Ireland still had an Arctic climate, but it is now thought to be extinct in this valley. Records of char in Lough Dan date back to 1822. The last authenticated specimen was lodged in the Natural History Museum of Ireland in 1988, although an angler by the name of Tom Sutcliffe is reported to have caught one in 1991. Repeated attempts since then to find them have drawn a blank. Increasing acidity of the water caused by modern forestry in the lake catchment may be the cause of their decline, as there has been little change in the variety and abundance of invertebrate food.4

Further south along the shores of Lough Dan we entered some very old oakwoods that reach right down to hang over the lake water. The 1760 map of County Wicklow by Jacob Neville shows woodlands in this very location, so it is probably ancient woodland that has stood here for many centuries. Huge moss-covered boulders line the lake shore and among them is a fine traditional boathouse, painstakingly restored by the present owner of the property, Simon Pratt. He kindly showed me around the woodlands and the lake shore. His family home, nestled among the giant trees, is called Lake Park House, a fishing lodge built around 1835. ATopographical Dictionary of Ireland described Lake Park in 1837 as ‘the admired residence of Gerard Macklin Esq … formerly a wild and barren spot, which has been reclaimed and formed into a handsome demesne commanding fine views of Lough Dan and the adjacent mountains’. Previous owners of this romantic location include the poet Richard Murphy and the novelist Edna O’Brien.

Historic estates

From Lough Dan we walked along the river through a wooded area with old oak trees, which were multi-stemmed as a result of past coppicing. Through the wood runs a track called the Old School Road. Walking along it, I imagined groups of schoolchildren passing along by the river from their homes in Annamoe a century ago. They would have learnt first-hand about nature in their local area as they made their daily journey to the schoolhouse at Oldbridge.

The right bank of the river is fringed by a number of large estates, the first of which belongs to Glendalough House. This property, originally named Drummeen, was built around 1760 and belonged to Thomas Hugo, a former high sheriff of Wicklow and a firm supporter of the British government. He was notorious for repressing the rebellion in Wicklow and was described as ‘a cruel and inhuman tyrant’. There was once a ‘hanging tree’ near the river. In revenge, the house was burnt by the rebels in 1798. Following reconstruction, the house and lands were purchased in 1838 by Thomas Barton. Erskine Childers, a relative of the Bartons, was arrested at the house in 1922 during the Civil War and later executed in Dublin because his gun was a prohibited weapon and to carry it a capital offence. Robert Barton farmed the estate benevolently during his long life; it was then inherited by Robert Childers, brother of Erskine Hamilton Childers, who later became President of Ireland.5

Further downstream at Annamoe we walked along the river near The Glebe, originally a Church of Ireland rectory and later owned by the film director John Boorman, who lived here for over fifty years. In recent years Boorman wrote several books including a Nature Diary and a series of poems about trees and the river that flows through his land. He would sit for long periods beneath a favourite tree, the twin oak that still overhangs the riverbank. I sat on his wooden bench and I too found a sense of peace here, watching the waters swirling by. Although Boorman has become seriously disabled in later life his son Lee helped him to continue swimming in a favourite deep pool. In an addendum to the Nature Diary, Lee wrote that, when his father was waist-deep, magic happened. ‘In the river he stood without my aid, supported only by his arms paddling in the water and by the gentle embrace of the current. After a few minutes of swimming, the river gave another gift. It returned to Dad his confidence.’6 This river is continually giving gifts to all who know it.

The next section of the river runs through a large, wooded estate owned by Paul McGuinness, former manager of the Irish band U2. The water is overhung by old oak and ash trees but is also overgrazed by deer and infested with invasive rhododendron, which will shade out any significant regeneration. I was accompanied along this stretch of the river by a local naturalist, Declan Murphy. He has written about his personal quest to find a kingfisher here:

Flying towards me from further downstream, its call heralded its approach long before I saw it. Seconds later my eyes picked it up flying low over the water, tilting its body this way and that, before coming to land on one of the rocks that formed the weir in front of me. I was able to regard its plumage in intricate detail. Each of its blue feathers revealed itself to be composed of endless tints and shades within that one colour.7

Walking further along the bank we came upon the flat stepping stones that cross the river at Trooperstown Wood. Here I was able to jump from stone to stone across the flowing river to reach the other bank. The townland is so named because it is said that British troops camped here during the 1798 rebellion. Nearby is the headquarters of the Wicklow Mountains National Park, suitably hidden in dense woodland, as well as a base of the Dublin and Wicklow Mountain Rescue team. From here the river makes several turns before it meets another tributary, the Glenmacnass, at Laragh.

Valley of the falls

Across the Wicklow Hills he came,

The herdsmen heard his great wingsbeat,

The waves of Lough Nahanagan

Were ruffled by his flying feet;

The Vale of Clara felt him pass

Swift-foot across the meadow grass:

They heard him where the watersmeet,

He made the pines and larches sway;

He crossed the stream atGlenmacnass,

And blew the falls to silver spray.

Extract from ‘The West Wind’ from Songs from Leinster (1933) by W.M. LETTS

Glenmacnass (Gleann Log an Easa, meaning ‘the valley of the hollow of the waterfall’) has an eighty-metre-high waterfall situated at the head of a deep glacial valley through which this tributary of the Avonmore flows. We approached the top of the falls from the Military Road, hopping from rock to heather-covered rock. This old road runs north–south along the spine of the Wicklow Mountains. It was constructed in the first few years of the nineteenth century, in the wake of the 1798 rebellion. Its purpose was to open up the mountains to the British Army to assist them in putting down insurgencies and capturing any rebels who were hiding there. I could imagine battalions of red-coated soldiers marching along in tight formations beside the river with loaded muskets over their shoulders. This was, in fact, one of the first purpose-built roads across the mountains. Four large barracks were built along the way at Glencree, Laragh, Glenmalure and Aghavannagh.

Above the waterfall a small stream flows down the sides of Tonelagee mountain. We crossed the stream and trekked uphill through wet boggy ground and long heather. High on the north-east side of the mountain is a dark mountain lake, Lough Ouler. Shaped like a heart, this lake is one of the most photographed in the Wicklow Hills. It is a classic example of a corrie lake where a patch of ice left behind by the last Ice Age finally slipped downhill, taking parts of the mountain with it and creating the steep cliffs around the lake in the shape of a giant armchair. The water is peat-stained and cold enough to freeze the fingers of any brave swimmers.

River of two lakes

Another tributary of the Avonmore flows from the valley of Glenealo, high in the Wicklow Mountains. It plunges down a steep slope into the Upper Lake at Glendalough, a classic glacial valley set in the heart of County Wicklow and probably its best-known tourist attraction. The most striking features here are the steep slopes carved by ice and now clothed in woodland as they might have appeared in prehistoric times. This landscape was very different in more recent centuries when, as etchings and black and white photographs show, the valley was stripped of timber to provide fuel and wood for making charcoal used in smelting. In those days, the famous monastic remains of Glendalough stood out ‘like ruined teeth in a bare gum’.8

The monastery was established here in the sixth century at a key location where the valleys of Glendalough and Glendasan converge. It is believed that the monastery was established by St Kevin, who sought out the remoteness of the valley to avoid the company of his followers. Here he lived as a hermit in a hollowed-out cave in the rock face above the Upper Lake. The cave (sometimes incorrectly described as a Bronze Age tomb) is now known as St Kevin’s Bed, and it is recorded that he was led here by an angel. The cave is still quite visible, looking across the lake from the north side. There have been accidents here when modern sightseers, clambering along the cliffs to reach the cave, have fallen down the rocks. They are usually rescued by boat from across the lake. The legends tell that St Kevin lived the life of a hermit here for seven years wearing only animal skins, sleeping on stones and eating very sparingly. Here he was surrounded by forests and wildlife, his only companions. One of the most widely known poems of Nobel prize-winner Seamus Heaney, ‘St Kevin and the Blackbird’, relates the story of the saint holding out his hand with such stillness and for so long that a blackbird built a nest in it and laid eggs from which the chicks fledged. While this legend is hard to believe, it does suggest the undisturbed nature of the valley in the sixth century.

From here, we walked up the track that parallels the Upper Lake through tall pine trees that were planted here over a century ago. They were originally intended to be harvested and used as pit props for the lead mines that flourished in the valley in the nineteenth century. This is where the eastern margin