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The History of Connemara, Clifden (2025)

30/09/2025

THE CONNEMARA MAN WHO WALKED FASTER THAN A HORSE COULD RUN (1937)

'His real name was John McLoughlin, a native of Derryherbert.

He died in the year 1900. He was a great walker. He had great big feet. He could never get a shoe to fit himself, he had to go in his feet.

He never wore a trousers but a long coat buttoned down to his knees and his hairy legs was bare from that down. At that time, a mail coach went every day from Renvyle Hotel to Galway and back the next day.

John McLaughlin, or John a Biseach as he was known, said he would beat it walking.

He started out walking and took every short-cut he could and the coach got three changes of horses on the way. But still he beat the mail coach.

From that day out, he was let bring the post from Renvyle to Galway, even until the train came to Clifden (1895).'

This fantastic story was collected in Eagle's Nest School in 1937 by Mrs. Bríd Ní Chadhain (Bridget Coyne) from one of the children, who is unnamed.

It was transcribed in beautifully-written English, unlike many of the stories at the time which were recorded as Gaeilge.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at (With a discount until 3rd October:)

https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Pictured is a mail coach waiting at Galway complete with several passengers. Courtesy NLI.

30/09/2025

'I went into Connemara by way of Oughterard, with the flat plain of the Corrib on my right. Very soon we were in granite country.

Again the cattle had turned black, the sheep blackfaced and horned.

At Oughterard, I first encountered at an inn the kindly practice of setting out the bottle that the customers might help themselves. If it were abused it would not be continued.

A pleasant shy girl of about eighteen passed into the house.

"You'll soon be picking a husband for that one,” I heard a man say.

“She’ll want to do the picking herself,’ returned the mother.

I learned that the old practice of match-making without reference to the young people is fast dying out. In former days it worked well. There was little outward friction, and unfaithfulness was a wonder. A farmer to whom I spoke of the matter approved the old custom, cynically.

"You have to face realities from the start,” he said, “‘and keep your dreams for the next world.”

The day was Sunday. I observed that the young men and women returning from Mass did not mingle, but walked along in separate groups.

It was now that I first encountered in their glory the legendary matrons of Connemara, “great women, like they might be queens,” walking majestically afoot or bestowing stateliness on a donkey-cart.

They were robed, it would seem, in a superfluity of petticoats, of which the topmost one was scarlet; and swathed in heavy and richly patterned shawls.

Elderly women, they were, most of them, tall, white-haired, and proud and keen of eye. One thought with awe of the men who had been taken to those royal embraces.'

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy (with a discount until 3rd October:) at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Above is an account Lynn Doyle (1936).

Pictured is 'Going to Mass in the West,' picture taken by the same writer.

29/09/2025

'This picture shows a gang of men at work on a relief road. (July 1898)

A second group were at work behind the camera, but both were ill at ease, as many among them were superstitious as to the machine, and, in some instances, positively ran away from it.

I mention this fact, to which I might add that many among them spoke Irish alone.

The stronger men are carrying huge blocks of granite, of which the kerb each side is being built, while the older men and women carry the small stone, which is quarried and broken up near at hand.

Just before my arrival, sixteen men, whose families were without food, had walked to Maam, thirteen miles away, to ask for a place on the road, only too glad to obtain a shilling a-day but their errand, plus twenty-six miles, was wasted energy. What would the average Englishman think of life under such conditions?'

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy (with a discount until 3rd October:) at:

https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Above taken from the writing of a journalist of the London-based 'The Sketch' newspaper of July 1897.

29/09/2025

A 1914 account of a visit to Leenane, including Gaynor's Shop, by American author Burton Stevenson in 1914.

'We got a warm welcome from the sergeant in charge of the Leenane barracks, and from the one constable who happened to be on duty there.

They showed me all through the place, clean and bare and Spartan-like, with their kits along the wall, ready to be caught up at a moment's notice, for a call to duty may come at any time, and there must be no delay. It was a real barrack, too, with heavy bars across the windows, and a door that would resist any mob.

They have a beat of twelve miles along the mountain roads, and they cover it twice every day and once every night.

I asked them the reason for so much vigilance, for I could not imagine any serious crime back in these hills among this simple and kindly people; and they said that there was really very little crime; but a sheep would be missing now and then, or a bit of poaching would be done, or perhaps a quarrel would arise between some farmer and his labourers and a horse would be lamed—it was such things as those they had to be on the lookout for.

We sat and talked for a long time about America and Ireland, and intelligent fellows I found them, though perhaps with a little of the soldier's contempt for the shiftless civilian.

And then I walked on to the village which nestles at the head of the bay, a single street of slated houses.

Everybody wanted to talk, and I remember one old granny, with face incredibly wrinkled, who sat in front of her door knitting a stocking without once glancing at it, and who told me she was eighty-five and had nine children in America.

And I met the girl who, with her brother, teaches the village school, and she asked me if I wouldn't come in, before I left, and see the school, and I promised her I would.

Then I noticed that one of the little shops had the name "Gaynor" over the door, and I stopped in to ask the proprietor if he knew that was also the name of the mayor of New York.

He did—indeed, he knew as much about Mayor Gaynor as I did. There were two other men sitting there, and they asked me to sit down. One of them was a mail carrier, and he told me something of his trips back up into the hills, and how almost all the letters he delivered were from America, each with a bit of money in it.

"When there is bad times in America," he went on, "and when men are out of work there, it pinches us here just as hard as it pinches them there—harder, maybe, for if the money don't come, there is nothing for it but the work-house.

A man can't make a living on these poor hill farms, no matter how hard he tries, and there is no work to be had about here, save a little car driving and such like in the summer for visitors like yourself."

"Why do they stay here?" I asked. "Why don't they go away?"

"Where would they go? There's no place for them to go in Ireland—America is the only place, and every one that can raise the money does go there, you may be sure.

Them that's left behind are too poor or too old to cross the sea; and then, however bad it is, there is some that will not leave the little home they was born in, so long as they can stay there and keep the soul in their body.

There be some so in love with their home that they won't even move down into the valley farms which they might be getting from the Congested Districts Board!"

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy (with a discount until 3rd October:) at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

28/09/2025

STRANGE ENCOUNTER WITH A CONNEMARA MERMAN (1938)

Sightings of 'The Renvyle Merman' were such a big story that by 1938 it had been featured in dozens of newspapers, including the Times of London and the New York Times.

Two local men swore that they saw the creature in 1937 when they were out fishing in Ballinakill Bay and he chased their currach, only relenting when they threw him a fish. (See comments)

A further article appeared in the Tuam Herald in July 1938.

Written by 'Seamus,' it told the story of how the writer had been sitting in Eyre Square when he struck up a conversation with a nervous-looking student boy.

The boy stated that he had had a shock the previous day so the pair shared a drink of whiskey together. Eventually, he opened up to the writer the cause of his great shock.

He stated that he had been touring Connemara when he began to feel tired at 7pm. He lay down on a beach at Letter in Renvyle and must have fallen asleep, only to be woken by a splashing sound.

He saw a man lying on the broad of his back smoking a pipe on a rock near him. He looked about five feet in height and had a blue blob of flesh around his middle. He spoke to the student in Irish, asking 'What are you doing here?'

The boy, in poor Irish, stammered that he was a tourist. The merman angrily told him that his Irish was akin to gibberish and that they would have to speak English thereunder.

The merman then informed the student that he and his people had lived in the Letter district since the dawn of time but were not now as numerous as they had once been.

The merman explained that he and his nephew, whom he named 'Meehaul Fada,' (Long Michael) had gone for a swim looking for newspapers, as the younger merman was a keen scholar, and had been spotted by some local men explaining their notoriety.

After a pleasant conversation, the merman eventually took his leave shouting 'Up Dev,' and 'Slán leat,' as he did so.

This article may have been tongue in cheek although it is difficult to tell for sure. It took up a huge amount of page 4 of 9th July 1938 edition of the paper.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Picture 'Merman and Mermaid,' courtesy ResearchGate.

27/09/2025

Hundreds of years of British law and order in County Galway arguably came to an end on 19 July 1920.

By this point, Sinn Féin courts (or Dáil courts) were in operation throughout County Galway and many people were bringing their legal disputes here instead of to the British justice system.

There were no policemen to speak of in rural Galway to enforce British law by the summer of 1920 as almost all rural barracks had been abandoned.

Many were quickly burned to the ground afterwards by the IRA to ensure they were not reoccupied.

Irish Republican Police became the new arbitrators of law and order.

John Feehan, IRA volunteer in Connemara, later described some investigations carried out by them, including the recovery of stolen furniture belonging to Kylemore Castle from the attic of a local man and the fining of several Connemara men for sheep stealing.

The RIC themselves admitted the fact that they were no longer the predominant police force.

The Galway county inspector's report for June 1920 stated bluntly:

'Sinn Fein have set aside Petty Sessions courts and the Irish Volunteers are in control everywhere.

The police cannot go on patrol anywhere except in considerable force. They cannot sleep at night during the dark hours apprehending an attack at any time.

No one speaks to them in a friendly way.

No one will give them any information. The old form of police control is beaten to the ropes and it is as well to recognise the situation.'

Nationally, the courts were also struggling to maintain their grip on the law.

One Kerry judge, Charles Crane, entered his court in early 1920 to find just one man there insolently smoking a cigarette. He ordered him to leave, only to find nobody to carry out his orders. ‘I could do no more than adjourn,' he later said.

There remained attempts to ensure the operation of the British court system within County Galway, however, and on 19th and 20th July, 1920 criminal proceedings were scheduled for Galway Courthouse.

The IRA were determined that they would not proceed smoothly and demanded a boycott.

They sent a notice to jurors beforehand stating categorically:

'You are requested not to attend as a juror at the coming British Assizes at Galway. No decent Irishman can do so without acting traitorously to the nation.'

John Curran, a carter and resident of Prospect Hill in the city, usually drove the judge to court. He also received a letter, warning him not to carry out his duties on the day.

Monday 19th July got off to an inauspicious start when the judge, Mr Justice Pim, had to be collected from his hotel and brought to the court under an armed guard in an armoured car as part of a military convoy .

A manned machine gunned was also visible on the roof of the court.

Meanwhile, the IRA had mounted blockades on all the rural roads leading into Galway City.

Motor cars and other traffic were stopped and asked their business - anyone who was on their way to the court case, in any capacity, was politely requested to turn around. Few argued.

The railway station at Athenry was also kept under watch and anyone on their way to Galway Courthouse was told to return home, something which the Freeman's Journal stated they did 'without demur.'

The foreman of the grand jury, William Mahon, was also stopped, meeting an IRA roadblock near Ahascragh.

Whatever transpired here, Mahon was relieved of his motor car and, in what the Irish Independent described as 'a Galway fiasco,' he was then forced to walk several miles home.

One man who did manage to attend the court proceedings arrived in the late afternoon, explaining that he had been stopped and forced to turn around and seek an alternative route on several different occasions.

The assizes proved an unmitigated disaster and an embarrassment for the Crown.

Almost all the cases had to be adjourned on the first day, just 52 out of 480 jurors attending.

Mr Justice Pim bemoaned that 'men were becoming a law unto themselves' and warned the following day's jurors that they would face harsh fines of £2 if they did not turn up.

It did not have the desired effect, however and on the Tuesday just 27 jurors answered the roll call.

This was celebrated as a huge victory for Irish republicanism in Galway and the dawn of a new legal system.

Although there would be many suppressions of Sinn Fein courts in the year to come, it appeared that the writ of English law no longer ran in County Galway.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Pictured are the Royal Irish Constabulary 'on their way to a gathering to maintain law and order armed with rifle, sword and pistol.'

Taken from the Sphere newspaper, April 1914.

27/09/2025

'The best time of all to come down to Connemara is in winter!'

Summer after summer, I heard the same words when leaving the little Connemara village perched along the wild Atlantic shore. Just before Christmas, when it was good and truly winter, I went down again.

It was miserable going out in the bus from Galway. Not a trace of the distant purple and gold clad hills of Clare, not a trace of the Aran Island's glow under the setting sun, as I had seen a few months ago; instead, the grey cold mist of winter mantled all.

It was disappointing, or so I thought.

A great welcome awaited me, however. Leaping shadows from a huge turf fire fell on eager faces, and how wonderful to hear again the softly spoken Connemara Irish! After tea (and here the tea is really good!) a circle formed around the fire.

Fear a'tí (the man of the house) as usual in his favourite corner, smoking a little of the tobacco I had remembered to bring him.

Quietly, the door opened every now and then, and a neighbour joined us. Conversation began - events of the day; the war; the scarcity of candles, paraffin and tobacco, but delight all around at the white bread.

The night wore on and the wind seemed louder, until it almost seemed to shriek.

And still I waited patiently, because I felt that soon now the sean-chaí (storyteller) would start. And he did.

In a very little while, the windswept, white, thatched cottage was left many leagues behind and our journey began. We were wafted on the magic carpet of imagination, and followed the wild, stirring adventures of Mac Ri Eireann as he combatted with two, three and four-headed giants, and outwitted cunning wizards, and so on to the rescue of the fair and beautiful princess from Kingdom of the Western World.

Breathlessly, we listened as the tale ended, and then once more we were off again.

This time on board a magical ship, sailing through uncharted seas, and visiting fairy islands, wherein lived beautiful sea maidens whose haunting music lured men to their doom. Finally, back once more to Ireland, to an Éire of long age, to a country of forests and woods, teeming with game and deer.

When the seanchaí had ended his storytelling there was silence - a tribute to the artistry of a man who had us enthralled for four hours; even the wind outside had ceased to rage and the night was still. He left, promising to return early the following night.

When I looked out of my window next morning, the sun was shining and I could see the Clare Hills, and stretching far out into Galway Bay nestled the Aran Islands.

Walking an hour later across the brown-tinged moorland, and breathing in the cold clear breeze that swept down from the distant Twelve Bens.

Returning home later, I found a delicious hot meal awaiting me, after which I watched the afternoon's work in the kitchen, bread being made and baked in the pot-oven over the highly-banked fire, while fear a' tí busily mended nets in preparation for the next fishing trip in the currach; so many jobs indeed had to be finished before night fell once more.

Here in this corner of Connemara one heard no complaints of gas restrictions; there were no bus queues, no queues for anything; everything was just, as it had been before the shadow of war had ever loomed - at least so it seemed to me.

Then when night came we had our seanchaí and our wonder journeys started once more to the lands of make-believe in the sky, to long submerged countries and islands, through gigantic forests and caves where man has seldom trod, through plains of sweet, perfumed flowers.

As I listened I really envied that seanchaí, for he had a wealth far richer than any gold or jewels; his, indeed, was the wondrous treasure of the mind and heart- he was a storyteller.'

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Above written in 1944 by Máire Ní Cheallacháin.

Pictured is a famous seanchaí, Henry Blake (The Blind Poet), of neighbouring Co. Clare, courtesy NLI.

26/09/2025

TWO BULLETS FIRED AT CONNEMARA CLERGYMAN (1880)

The years between 1879 and 1881 were particularly dangerous in the West Connemara region.

Along with famine-like conditions, there was a drive amongst Protestant missionaries to convert locals to their faith. They ran schools and often offered inducements of food and clothing to locals in return for their attendance at scripture readings.

This proved unpopular, and in 1879 a crowd attacked a school teacher named MacNeice at Claddaghduff after he was involved in an altercation with a local priest. (MacNeice's grandson would go on to be the famous poet, Louis)

In the aftermath of this incident, the Protestant churches at Tullybeg and Ballinakill were attacked, with a number of windows being broken.

One local curate, Reverend Canon Fleming, was particularly active in the group, regularly writing letters to national newspapers discussing the movement's success in enticing Connemara people into the established church.

He had also set up a colony at Ballinew for several families who had left Catholicism for the Protestant faith.

The reverend had been denounced at Land League meetings and his servants had allegedly been warned to leave their posts for their own safety.

On St. Stephen's Day 1880, Fleming was driving a vehicle, described as a wagonnette, home from service at the church in Tullybeg. It was about six o'clock.

When he was a quarter of a mile from his own home, two shots was fired at him in quick succession from a distance of six or seven yards.

Both bullets missed their intended target, although the second passed between Fleming and his servant who was sitting beside him. Police stated afterwards that the gunmen had been barefoot and had consequently left no footprints. They added that an Enfield rifle had been used.

The three men that were alleged to have been involved had run to the shore where they had escaped by boat. A reward of £500 was offered for the capture of the gunmen, but as far as I can ascertain no-one was ever apprehended.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Picture of the church in Tullybeg, later to be knocked in the 1920s, courtesy NLI.

26/09/2025

KYLEMORE IN 1901

Kylemore is the second biggest townland in the whole of Co. Galway and the 14th biggest nationwide at 7.86 square miles, or over 5,000 acres.

Much of its area is bog, water and mountain and its name comes from the Irish 'Coill Mhór,' meaning big wood. It had a population in 1901 of just 68 people, despite its enormoussize.

There were 11 households in Kylemore in 1901, five of which belonged to Conroys (Spelled Conry in two cases).

There were also several Joyces. Others names present were Walsh, McNamara, McNabb, Coyne and Mannion. There was also one uninhabited house, recorded as a first-class dwelling and owned by Lord Ardilaun.

The McNabbs listed their religion as Episcopalian and were born in Co. Mayo while all other residents were Roman Catholic and born in Galway. Jobs present included domestic servant, herd, national school teacher (there was at this time a national school in Kylemore), farmer, land steward and shepherd.

Children as young as 6 and 7 in Kylemore, namely Anne Walsh & Peter Conroy, could speak Irish, although several teenagers could not.

Patrick Walsh and Ellie Conroy, aged 1, were the youngest residents of Kylemore.

The oldest was Pat Joyce, aged 82, meaning he must have been well into adulthood when the famine took place.

By 1911, there were Cunninghams, Kings and Nees present in Kylemore and the population had risen fractionally to 70 people.

Interestingly, Kylemore Castle (pictured) is actually situated in Pollacappul, although it took its name from the adjoining townland as Mitchell Henry believedit had a better ring than Pollacappul Castle, and consequently information on its many residents and workers were not collected under Kylemore in the census.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

25/09/2025

THE EVACUATION OF INISHARK (1960)

After thousands of years of habitation, Inishark Island, about seven miles off the Connemara coast, was finally evacuated in October 1960.

The island was difficult to access during inclement weather and the population had been dwindling since the end of the nineteenth century due to emigration.

Tragedies, including the drowning of three men on the way home from Inishbofin and the death of a young man from appendicitis on the island as a doctor could not be summoned, meant that in 1960 the inhabitants reluctantly chose evacuation rather than facing another storm-filled winter.

It was also cheaper for the government to provide the small number of Inishark families with small plots of land on the mainland rather than build a modern harbour.

One man, George Murray, aged 20, stated plainly in a video made at the time: 'During last November and December (1959) there were only six days when it was possible to leave or land on Shark.

We were without tea, sugar and paraffin for six weeks. Nights are long when you have only the light of the peat fire to see by. Christmas came and went like that."

The film also showed currachs laden down with beds, windows and other furniture as the 24 inhabitants made their way to their new homes on the mainland.Thirteen cows, twelve dogs, ten donkeys. eight cats, scores of hens, a hundred sheep and a stack of hay were also amongst the last cargo to leave Inishark.

Inishark was not the only Galway island to be depopulated in the 20th century, although it was amongst the most prominent.

Nearby Inishturk South and Inishturbot would soon lose their populations.

Smaller islands, such as Cramp Island, Mason Island, Island Eddy, Inishlacken and several others would also be home to families in the 1911 census but devoid of human life within decades as the cost of life on a remote island, largely ignored by government, took its toll.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Picture 'Inishark Fishermen,' courtesy NLI.

25/09/2025

'It is 63 years (1903) since Patrick Pearse came to Gort Mór in Rosmuck to examine the native Irish speakers who were suitable to be Irish teachers.

He was never in the area before this but it is obvious that he enjoyed the place.

He saw that everybody around spoke Irish fluently, something that can still be said to this day, and in his head he thought it was a beautiful place.

Looking out the window of the school in Gort Mór, he saw Loch Eiliúrach and the colours on it changing every hour.

There was nothing at all to connect the area with the outside world except telegraph wires.

Pearse made up his mind to build a house here and spend some time there each summer.

After a while, he came back again and he looked at the place anew. His eyes set on the island in the lake and people thought it would be there that he would build his house but, of course, it was at the side of the lake that he built the house instead.

He gave 20 pounds to Jeanaín Mhichil, a local fisherman from the area, for the ground.

He then made a deal with the builder, Máirtín Labhráis Uí Niadh (Nee) to build the house.

He came down from Dublin year after year and spent a month in the house until 1915.

It is here he wrote many of his best stories.

It was here he wrote the speech for the funeral of O'Donovan Rossa.

He could make people laugh or cry at will.

His own family came to visit from time to time and stayed here too.

Pearse was executed in 1916, but when the war of Independence started, the Black and Tans did not forget about Pearse's Cottage. They razed it to the ground, along with the house of Colm O'Gaora, Phat Mhac and the teacher from Gort Mór, Padraig Ó Conghaile.

The house was rebuilt again after the war.

People are still coming to the place looking at Pearse's Cottage from every corner of the world and it's little surprise to me, as Patrick Pearse was the greatest man of the twentieth century.

For more stories of life in Galway and the west of Ireland, see my book 'The Little History of Galway.' In all good bookshops or pick up a signed copy at:
https://www.etsy.com/ie/listing/1867494645/little-history-galway-ireland-colm8.htm

Piosa os cionn tógtha ó agallamh le Criostóir Mac Aonghusa i 1966 and translated from the original Irish.

Pictured is Patrick Pearse and his beloved cottage in Rosmuck.

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