LATEST NEWS


 

Fallen Elms

posted Jan 5, 2012 9:10 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated Jan 14, 2012 3:32 AM ]

The North West winds have hammered the country for the last few days, causing the sheep across the river to give up hiding from a storm that they can't escape from, instead they stand motionless, leaving their wolly bums to accept the brunt of what Mother Nature has got to give. Twisted branches from the tallest oak trees fall through the canopy and onto to the valley floor, the dead skeleton-like poles from the once orderly line of giant elm trees, come crashing down on the ramparts of the Boyne Canal. Cold and wet means extra curry into my cuppa soup for the 11 o'clock break. Its a thankless time of year, pulling plastic back and forth to cover and uncover the currach over and over again, protecting it from the continous barrages of rain. I look above me to see that the high flying hawk has attracted a mate. Wind? What wind?... as they pounce and play like jets high above.  Old seams that were the first to be sewn are closer together and are too low on the ridge, making it harder for me to get at, but the rawhide thread seems healthy and strong. With any luck I will have the seams complete by February and turn her over leaving no where for the elephant to hide. Not even his trunk has appeared in this weather. 
I walked the valley again this Christmas morn and came upon flints from a different time. The river is still full of curiosities, like the leather I found last summer protruding from the river bank. What time was this when bone and charcoal got covered with a layer of fist-sized stones, or the four standing-stones that protrude from the river's floor, 5,000 years out weighs the odds for the seekers.    
 
 
 

Barking Ravens

posted Dec 23, 2011 1:16 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated Dec 23, 2011 1:58 AM ]

The full moon had over shot its target again for another year at newgrange, leaving little to peer at in the sky for this year's winter solstice. Both love and despair could be felt in equal parts as you mingled with faces of people that for most part you hadn't seen for the last year. The stresses of the past seemed a distant concern for friends and acquaintances who genuinely greeted one another with fond smiles and warm embraces. Its certainly not for everyone, perhaps if you are shy of crowds or cameras, check points, queues, stewards in yellow coats or TV, then I don't think its for you. But on the other hand, if you don't see these things, then the human embrace and excitement for yet another year is palpable. 
After stuffing my pockets with apples and jaffa cakes, then donning my yellow reflective jacket and turning my flashing red and white lights on, I was off to Brú na Bóinne on my bicycle. I could already see the commotion of cars and vans jostling for favoured position directly in front of the tombs. As I crossed the river the lights of the visitor centre lit up my path, the reflection of silver and white cutlery caught my eye through the massive windows where breakfast was being set for the visitors to come. But I was on a mission and with breakfast in my pocket, only a few hills lay between my legs and my stomach. The glow from the red sticks in the hands of men in yellow jackets, beside the car with blue flashing lights meant I was there, nervous, until I remembered that I had worn the correct attire for the event. I clung to the handle bars, waiting to be waved through. People in duller attire, not realising the dress code, were made queue, but I was on a mission to find a quieter place and sit with my breakfast on a hill top and say good bye to what was a remarkable year. 
A hare circled my path with a confused look, he left the building, while the 40 crows gathered on an old ash tree to watch the event unfold. 20 whooper swans fed in the barley fields below me. Then the gates opened and the people's smiles were allowed enter for another new year.
After returning home I saw the blackbird sit motionless in the crab apple tree using only enough energy to breath. Sharing blackberries together from last summer, mine are still tasty on toast bread while he contends with red white thorn seeds and sloes. The Ravens barking at each other, all jostling for position to become the one who nests on the hill for the New Year. Work goes on in equal proportions of love and despair, a new season beginning, lots to look forward to and plenty to happily forget.          
 
 

   
 

 

Elephant.....

posted Dec 12, 2011 6:12 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH

Even I can't remember the leather being so brutally tough to push the awl through. Perhaps I'm getting soft, or else the cold weather has had a major effect  on the leather. Over the last few weeks, I've been happily in reverse adding lengths of spun rawhide through each and every loop previously sewn through the ridges, creating a rope that works to lift any remaining slack in the thread after being oiled and left for a time. Thankfully there aren't too many weeks of real tonging to do before the boat is turned over (but lots afterwards)! Meanwhile, the elephant in the room continues to push his trunk out from within the boat, whispering in my ear as I work; "WILL IT FLOAT?".  The cross seams are short enough to be buffered by the strong ridges and the concoction made of natures stickiest  would impress even the students of Hogwarts, sealing the seams with a tough 'gue'. "BUT HOW LONG WILL THE SEAMS LAST FLOATING IN THAT SMELLY OOZE?" whispered the elephant! 'The Atlantic is cold, salty water Elephant, perhaps the only ooze to be seen will be the one from behind the boat, as we leak of fish oil, mixed with cow fat and butter. The smell I suspect is the urine, or tree resin and oak tannin blended with bees wax, now even I'm becoming confused! Wasn't it susposed to be cows that were brought from Europe to Ireland in skin boats, not elephants! I've always fancied making a currach out of elephant...... The sun has appeared time again for work.     


Yachtmaster Offshore

posted Nov 21, 2011 12:30 PM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated Jan 11, 2012 3:52 AM ]

I do think Laoghaire would be pleased with how Dún Laoghaire's transformation is proceeding from the once busy ferry port,  where I left the country to work in London at the brazen age of 19. From the ship, I roared out, on its departure, "Fág an Bealach!", to my family who were waving me off from the pier, deafening all the strangers that also stood waving to their own. A little embarrassed,  I made myself scarse and soon thought nothing about it, until I returned home for Christmas and over a couple of drinks I was asked why I had shouted such rude profanities at the family, Dad was disgusted on hearing "Buck the Follocks!" and was keen to find out who it was meant for. His hearing never improved after the explosion in the quarry that killed his friend when he drove over the unexploded gelignite. The pier, which I had only known as a place of departure, had become home from home  while learning to sail. And even such a catastrophic event as marrying a native from Laoghaire's dún, still hadn't introduced me to the space they affectionately call 'the pier', apart from the night of the engagement party when I had to return back to pier's end, where I had pleasantly sat, to retrieve my  forgotten shoes. But now after meeting Laoghaire face to face, I have grown to understand why a fellow Meath man, or even King, might want to live here.  I'm sure Laoghaire's return has something to do with this transformation that is going on, and by that I mean the public's attitude toward the importance of space so much now, that creatures who left have returned in abundance, giving the pier an even more important role for the future. 










The seals have, for many years, entertained the children with their puppy like antics and excitable fervor on the sounds of propellers returning from fishing trips of which the fish monger always empties bits from the shop door across the pier walls. But to see their seal calf being cooed by on lookers as it bathes in the sun on the stone steps of the pier, makes you wonder what part of the country you are in.        
At the near end of the pier where the old life boat house stands, a family of otters recently moved in. They happily play chicken with the urban dogs on the weed covered stairs where they regularly congregate, spooked only by onlookers that follow them too closely along the edge of the pier. Foxes also take their daily exercise along this polished pathway around 4am, where they look for tidbits to share in the form of pedigree chum left behind by dogs whose man-servants are either too proud or too lazy to serve their master's needs.  Many a cub has begun it's journey into this world from behind the walls of Dún Laoghaire pier.  Other admirable things to look at that also frequent the polished surface are the spring bucks who do a kind of dressage down the pier while listening to music. The wolf only appears at a quarter  to six in the morning and expects nobody to be there when he takes his run, the bison turn out in force about the same time in the evening as do the breeders who trail their offspring along for the exercise. Komodo dragons and penguins arrive out a bit earlier, the former never speak but observe, the latter don't even know their own where abouts, only that the one in front looks the same as the one behind them, the other horses, donkeys, bears and badgers follow behind the ostriches, who keep well away from the monkeys who are taken on leads for their walk by their loving dogs.   I love Dún Laoghaire pier..... long live the fort of Laoghaire, in all its fanciful forms.  

The Dragon's wings......

posted Sep 30, 2011 5:23 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH

It came as a bit of a shock, or more of a thunder bolt actually, when Mike agreed with me. I wondered first if he had actually been listening to what I had been saying. It wouldn't bother me if this was the case, as Mike usually gets it in the ear as soon as he walks into the yard, mostly about what I had been dwelling on for the past week, since I last saw him, a rant that can continue for some time. But this time at least, he had been forewarned, as the conversation about sails has been the only topic that could lift the pace of work and the adrenalin needed to help sew on the remaining leather plates. 
       From an artist's perspective, the sails add life, energy and movement to the project. If the skin currach was to be a 'Welch Dragon', turned over on the beach, then the sails set outstretched on their tripod masts must have looked like its wings. The picture slowly grew from the account of a captain of a whaling ship who bartered a metal knife in exchange for a substantial sail made from platted walrus bladder. The bladder, first being inflatted then dried and sliced into long panes of transparent material, which the inuit used for a multiple of uses including window panes for their igloos. A very old painting depicting skin boats hunting wales around greenland has a triangular lean-to pitched on one of the islands.
The first sail I attempted came from a similar process of thought after wondering if the wicker mats that covered the floor of the craft could be linked together to form a sail and if the sail had to be reduced in size, you would simply unhook the required number of mats. Instead, we wove a full wicker sail and its obvious draw back quickly became apparent, that being that it was of no use once lowered and acted as an awkward obstruction for all on the vessel, because it couldn't be stowed away. Surley a competent crew of sea voyagers would have had a dual purpose for all things on board, or else would have made it so that it could be sucessfully stowed away. A triangular type shape fits into the contours of the bow of the craft, possibly acting as a spray sheet  to accomodate tired crew resting beneath, or when the  boat is beached, a fast shelter could be made from the sails and a tri-pod mast erected on the beach would make the temporary camp more comfortable.  There is an account of American Indians using the poles of their wig-wam to reinforce the sides of a tempory canoe in which to travel. Therefore couldn't we use our sails and oars to make a tempory wig-wam when needed.  It seems to be a touchy subject, usually beginning with a statment impling that square sails are traditional to  the North Atlantic, but nothing is known of sailing in these waters before 1,000 BC. I always loved that image of when the Roman invaders tried to bring to heel the fleets of ships owned by the Vanetti tribe in Morbian Bay, Brittany. Their boats, crafted of wood, similar to that of the Phenesian merchants who traded with them for tin. But the Vanetti sails were made of leather and could tack into the wind, something the Roman fleets couldn't do. Historically  triangular 'Lateen' sails come from Persia, but triangular style shapes have been used  throughout the Pacific and square sails have been used all around Africa. Of course, least we forget, the people that were meant to have brought farming to Ireland 5,000 years ago, originated in Turkey and the Mediteranian. A wig-wam works for me, if it has multi purposes and after consulting with Mike who always gave thumbs up for the tri-pod mast, explained that the value of having a triangular shape is, that like the Vanetti tribe of Brittany, you can use it to tack into the wind.          

Sailing West

posted Sep 14, 2011 12:25 PM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH

There is an air of satisfaction with every new seam sewn and plate added to the craft, as if the end is creeping up on me. The story of 'The Elves and the Shoe Maker' comes to mind as each morning I wake and go into the garden to find another plate of leather attached to my currach. The craft and time itself,  becoming almost inconsequential and life that evolves around the project has altered so that life will never be the same again.  The term 'boat' is but a space in my garden that has become a theatre where imaginations are freed. Children playing pirates or reading fairy stories to me as I work, artists linking to a vision from which they can present to the world, archaeologists completing mathematical equations for what was possible and architects studying structure and forming ideas for future projects, all with in this space called the wicker currach, that sits out side my window waiting to be completed and live up to our bargain, that we shall sail the high seas. 
For me, this space has grown beyond  my greatest dreams and, by no small means, with the help and guidance of Paul Adamson of Sailing West. When this time last year he started me on a journey that has altered my thoughts fundamentally on the natural world and people around me by introducing me to the sea. Memories of sitting in darkness watching the lights of hollyhead slowly emerge from behind the sail on the horizon, will forever be with me, and the sense of helplessness and dependence upon strangers that I never before had met. But the satisfaction felt when a year later, I pick up a book to revise the rules of the sea or weather and navigation, and to understand their meaning  is almost reason enough now to have begun the project in the first place. Sailors and the sea speak a different language that they can only understand among themselves the sea is their master and the sailor forever drunk of his intoxicating breath, that being the wind.  Thanks for unlocking the door Paul. Wishing you and Sailing West all the best for the future......         
 
 
 

 
 

As shrews shuffle (Heritage Week)

posted Aug 30, 2011 1:03 PM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated Sep 2, 2011 1:31 AM ]

Perhaps it has been a few years since the sound of flint stone being broken  has echoed through the valley below newgrange, as the sound of glassy shards combusting beneath the blows of an antler from a red deer. This, along with attempts to egnite the tinder fungus with a fire bow, kept us all busy through out heritage week. Finger prints and woven mats were popular, while the graffetti sail quickly became a work of art. But the true jewel was the children's faces as they sat to listen to stories told by Liz Weir on Sunday. Thanking all who visited us during the week, the interest shown will keep me sewing for months to come.
As the doors closed and people left I took a walk to see what perhaps I missed and met a shrew almost below my foot, I watched him shuffle in search of food through every leaf his busy nose wishfully encountered. Swallows splashing on the timless river, one at a time, they sang alound so keen to leave, so keen for living, and I will sew until their return, and dream of dolpins and distant shores.    
Any one wishing to submit some photos of the week can do so @ boynecurrach@gmail.com and I will do my best to include them!! In the mean time, sit back and enjoy this footage!!
 

Boyne Currach Centre Heritage Week

Gathering of Currachs

posted Jun 27, 2011 2:13 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated Jun 27, 2011 4:51 AM ]

Written by Cormac O Gibne (13yrs):
On the 25th of June, all of the people who made currachs, came here for their first time out on the Boyne. Some local currach men also joined in this exciting event. Sinéad's friend, Caitríona, and her two sons joined us aswell. We all paddled for joy from Stackallan to Slane. We all were tired and happy when we saw Slane Bridge. The kids had a funny, little race down the weir and a joyful swim in the river.
  That night, we all had an excellent barbecue with burgers and burnt marshmallows. Later that night, Bruce Crawford came and gave us a lovely surprise of books.
  The next day, on Sunday, people from Lough Neagh came and brought with them Donegal Currachs! It was Day 2 of this brilliant weekend and we were back on the currachs again. But from Oldbridge to Mornington it was very different. No weirs, rocks or falling out, this was a stretch of the river that had tidal waters and strong winds. Fortunately, the tide was going out, so we were able to just let the tide pull us to the sea. But just before Mornington, the tide turned and we had to go to the shore because we couldn't do anything about it. At the finish line, the children went swimming in the salt waters. 
 
 
More photos to come!!!
 
                 

                 

On behalf of Claidhbh and myself, I wish to thanks most sincerely every one who took part in this years 'Imrámh'. I'm sure we can all agree that it was a fantastic weekend. It was in 1997 when we had our first ever 'Imrámh' on the boyne in our little leather currachs - and now 14 years later, to see such a diverse gathering of people and such a variety of currachs from both sides of the border is inspirational for us to continue this tradition of currach trips down the River Boyne. We are looking forward to many more!
Sinéad Uí Ghibne
 
Photos to follow!!!

Sticky Doors, Phones and Cameras

posted May 9, 2011 12:12 PM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH

 



The winter had been hard with the road impassible for up to a month due to the ice and snow. Meanwhile, undisturbed, the currach saw out the winter under a layer of duvets, wrapped in plastic, after it had been thickly greased last November. The rawhide thread seemed to absorb lots of the grease and the leather plates had toughened up to reject the cold weather. Now the  currach's duvets have found favour with the lads after school and on weekends, where they entertain me as I sew in the makeshift tent with books full of dragons and voyages! I look forward to them breaking up the hours of endless sewing, day after day, feeling sometimes that I must fight to stay away from the beast who has taken up residency in the middle of the garden for the past two years. My dogs love the company and sleep under her in the rain and at night, but I myself have mixed feelings about this vagrant hound ( An Cú Glas), and although the sewing is moving faster than expected, I can't but look forward to seeing vegetables and flowers growing outside my bedroom window once again. The sticky lanolin that is used to coat the thread has left its mark, like a slug's trail, from the toilet to the kitchen, and back to the bedroom and was even once felt on the steering wheel of the car. If this keeps up, I'll be banned from my own home.  

Bushmills Weekend

posted May 7, 2011 8:56 AM by NEWGRANGE CURRACH   [ updated May 8, 2011 3:16 AM ]

 It took only two hours and twenty minutes to reach the town of Bushmills on the coast of North Antrim. A road sign offering two suits for the price of one, alerted us to our arrival. My daughter had slept all the way and a toilet stop was immediately called for.  We were to meet with Robin in the  Bushmills Education Centre for a gathering of water crafts on the River Bann.  The centre was an old secondary school that had been altered to allow for expos of things like whale skeletons and bones of various kinds, plus photos of local happenings like the minky whale stranded on a beach and  other environmental information. Robbie and Alison cooked up a bit of tea and people from Donegal to Larne, Carrickfergus to Banbridge slowly arrived. There was no time wasted as the next morning we were all on the river. Currachs, drascoms, drondoms and others, all made their way to Mountsandel where Alison and Robbie made pickle cheese or cornedbeef sandwiches beside the weir, where the first settlers had speared fish for dinner. Finding lots of shards of worked flint on the river bank, we slowly made our way to the 9,000 year old site that Peter Woodman excavated in the 1970s. The evening concluded with a barbecue, to the sounds of thunderous waves and fiddle music at Ballintoy harbour. The next day we found ourselves in Dunseverick harbour, rowing and sailing through breaking waves and roasting sunshine. The Carrickfergus men knew how to pull an oar while encouraging shouts of 'keep her lit lads', kept us in rythm. Thanks to Robin Ruddock and all his friends, we had a great time and hopefully, soon, we will meet again on the Boyne. 
 
 


 

 
 
 

1-10 of 59