Navigation of the loughs of Galway by canoe.

Having decided to take a canoe for a visit to Ireland, the first requirement was to find some suitable water to navigate. The canoeist's 'Bible', 'The Guide to the Waterways of the British Isles' listed many interesting rivers, some in great detail, but a study of the map fixed my attention on the lakes of Galway, particularly a series of three large sheets of water with a length of some 50 miles lying on the edge of the high mountains of Connemara. These were Lough Carra, Lough Mask and Lough Corrib, flowing out into Galway Bay through Galway city. (The title above is not strictly accurate -- Carra and most of Mask are in fact in County Mayo.)

About these loughs the Guide was very uninformative and dismissed them in a couple of paragraphs. I thought there must be more to them than that, and the concluding words made certain that a visit would not be wasted : " the whole district is very isolated".

So, on August 12, 1959, we were on our way to Ballinrobe. Ann and myself travelling from Newport and Jim from Maidstone, our first rendezvous being, unromantically and unavoidably, midnight at Crewe. We had with us my 'Tyne' two-seater folding canoe packed in its two bags, and were relying on finding a single seater waiting for us in Ireland. I will pass over the first stages rather more swiftly than the events deserve : the five long night hours on Crewe station (a familiar experience to many travellers, no doubt), the three hour late arrival at Holyhead, the four hour late sailing of MV 'Cambria' and its arrival at Dun Laoghaire. One advantage of all these delays was that we had a pleasantly relaxing crossing in the hot morning sun instead of in the cold light of dawn.

Having caught our first sight of Ireland and admired the Wicklow Hills in the distance, we then had the expected queues and scrum to disembark and track down all our luggage and get it and ourselves into the train for the 12 mile seaside journey into Dublin. We had by now missed the four hours in which I had hoped to show the other two some of the sights of the 'fair city', but we did have time for them to stock up with two days' food supply while I manoeuvred our belongings around Westland Row station and got myself into position for the 2.30 to Westport; and somehow we managed to secure two corner seats in spite of the milling crowds. This was a great relief, for this was Saturday afternoon, and if we had missed this train we would have had to wait until Monday afternoon for the next.

So now for the first time since Crewe we had reasonable hope of reaching our destination as planned. We raced through the countryside; and that is something that I could not have written when I was last in Ireland seven years before. Diesel locomotives can now easily reach the current speed limit of 70mph. We ran non-stop to Athlone following the course of the old Royal Canal and crossing the River Shannon as we approached the town. We had been gradually absorbing a little of the character of central Ireland: excessive flatness; flat fields, flat heather-covered peat bogs, and the whole area apparently almost unpopulated.

As far as Athlone was almost due west, and we then turned northwest through Roscrea and headed for Claremorris. We spent about an hour trying to get ourselves a high tea , and by taking turns in the dining car queue we eventually had a magnificent spread. Everyone was so unhurried and unconcerned about time that almost before we had finished we arrived at Claremorris.

6.45pm. Here we had to change. Waiting to take us on to Ballinrobe we found a delightful (to my mind) real Irish train. An old 0-6-0 loco of uncertain age, a single faded green coach and a few vans at the back covered with the peeling remains of a coat of grey paint. And on board we met Wallace. (We knew his name; it was clearly written on.) Introductions were unnecessary. We just knew that Wallace was meant for us without asking. In fact, I never signed for him or accepted him in any way. Wallace, by the way, was the single-seater rigid canoe that we had ordered from Matt Murphy (whom we never met) in Cork. We were soon rumbling along the branch line at a top speed of about 15mph. We stopped at Hollymount, the only intermediate station, spent about ten minutes in shunting operations, and a mile further on came to another stop to give the right of way to a few passing cows. We finally drifted into Ballinrobe station at 7.40. Unloading the canoes was a unique event and caused some amusement. No canoe had been seen there before and never will be again, as this branch line closed for good at the end of that year.

We were immediately accosted by an old farmer-looking type who offered to transport us and all our equipment to anywhere we would like to go. This sounded too good to be true. We had only vague ideas of how to proceed from here. So we gratefully accepted this offer. Whatever we expected, it was certainly not the vast Chevrolet limousine waiting for us in the station yard.; evidently our friend was the Ballinrobe taxi driver and not the farmer-with-a-tractor that he looked.

Somehow we packed everything in or on to the car and asked to be taken to a suitable campsite near Partry on Lough Carra. He knew just the place. He took us through the pleasantly Irish-looking village-town and out on to the Partry road, amusing us the while with stories of local history and all the interesting places worth visiting (by taxi, of course), some of which we could understand, although the language was not exactly English as we knew it. We caught glimpses of Loughs Carra and Mask; the country still very flat, and a mile or so before Partry he turned his huge vehicle down a rough narrow lane, passed through a group of very poor-looking farmhouses and continued until the lane petered out completely in another farmyard. "Sure this will suit you fine", and he introduced us to an old farm wife, but she was unable to give us permission to camp without asking 'himself' first. Himself soon appeared too, and at once invited us to stay for a month.

We had to admit it was quite a pleasant spot. The ramshackle farmhouse stood at the top of a field sloping down 200 yards to the waterside, a reed-fringed little bay of Lough Carra. We gave our driver 30/- which shook him somewhat. He had asked for "sure anything you like", and at that stage our ideas of money values were rather high by Western Irish standards. We were ushered down to our camp site by the barefoot ten-year old daughter who showed us the spring from which they have to carry their water, a spring of incredibly clear pale green water bubbling up in a little sandy hollow on the edge of the lough.

We pitched our tents on a grassy patch among the flat limestone rocks of the shore and looked out over the reeds on to the still, inviting waters of Carra. We had arrived.

In the morning we could not stay asleep for long in spite of our 24 hours travelling. I thought it was about time I went for a swim so I slipped into the lake The water was so cold that a really brief swim was quite sufficient, but I was again struck by the absolute clearness of the water. Then up to the farmhouse to collect the promised milk; I was greeted by the farmer with "What's the time now ?" "Eight o'clock". "Why, sure that's a fine time". The funny part was that the previous evening we had been asked the same question, and they had all rushed indoors to 'put the clock right'. We kept on coming across this extraordinary time question -- everyone very keen to know the time, but yet time is something that they never worry about and is of no consequence whatsoever. Perhaps it is the fascination of meeting someone who actually knows the time. He again invited us to stay for a month, and I had to explain that we didn't really have the time.

Ann had now got breakfast on the go and then Jim and I had to erect my canoe. Luckily none of it was missing and we soon had it launched for its first trip in a new canvas skin. The packing of both canoes then had to be organised, always a tricky job on the first day, and we were all set to go, Ann and I in my canoe and Jim in Wallace. Just then a light drizzle began to fall and at the same time Jim announced that his canoe was leaking.

What a start ! Our minds immediately flashed back to previous trips; the River Teifi, for example, when we were continually repairing torn canvas in rain and snow. This time we soon found a short tear, no doubt a result of the train journey. So out with the indispensable needle and thread and Bostik, and in less than half an hour we were off again.

Really off this time. We slipped through the fringe of reeds out into the lake. The drizzle lasted only long enough to make sure we had a miserable time doing our repairs, and the sun soon gradually got the better of it and it developed into another gloriously hot still day. The previous two months had been really hot; we felt it must continue for just another two weeks even in this West of Ireland.

Now that we were really waterborne, the water of Carra became more and more a source of wonder and delight. Its pale, translucent green through which we could see down about twenty feet as we approached deeper water made it almost transparent and invisible. But it really must be seen to be believed; we had never experienced lake water anything like this. Before the sun penetrated the cloud, the mistiness gave us the effect of gliding through the air, every now and then having to cleave a pathway through the reeds growing out of their own reflections. There was no horizon and we could not see the shore; just shining water and reeds. We didn't try to hurry; it would not have been right in this atmosphere; and anyway this was Ireland.

But a good watch had to be kept on the map. Since the low banks could not be seen for reeds, the only landmark was the wooded headland of Derrinrush half a mile off on the far bank. We thought we would like to have lunch on one of the numerous uninhabited islands with which all these loughs are dotted. We chose Castle Island on the far side of the Derrinrush peninsula. But first we had to get through the narrowest part of the lough where there appeared to be no channel through the reeds. We just charged through and hoped, and emerged in more or less the right place. No sign of Jim following, but he soon appeared, having found a slightly different approach. We soon caught sight of Castle Island behind which was an imposing mansion marked as Moore Hall on the map; we landed on the rocky shore and were immediately confronted by a tombstone. This was in memory of George Moore "who forsook his family for his art but finally returned here to rest". This meant nothing to us at the moment, but we had lunch beside it wondering who he was. The rest of the island was thick undergrowth and trees apparently growing out of nothing but rocks. We groped our way the fifty yards to the island's centre and found meagre ruins of the castle. I had another swim and found the midday water now deliciously warm. Unfortunately, Ann was on a swimming ban due to dental trouble (in fact we were here a week late because of it), and Jim was not a voluntary swimmer; so that seemed a pity for them both. Note: underwater swimming equipment must be considered on any future visit to Carra.

We then made our way south following a chain of little islands, making first for a channel between the Hog and the Horse. On the shore of the Horse was a boat pulled up and a group of fishermen, one of whom started shouting to us while holding aloft a vast kettle. Something told us that here were the signs of a cup of tea in the offing, so we pulled in to join them. They were a friendly crowd and were so enthusiastic about tea made with the water of Carra that we soon had to agree that it was the best we had ever tasted. They were obviously really pleased to meet complete strangers and filled us in with stories of local lore and were very proud of this George Moore whom we had 'met' at lunch. He was evidently a famous novelist of about 1910 vintage, so we assured them that of course we knew of him. (I have since read his 'The Lake', about Lough Carra, which did not inspire me to try any more of his works). The castle was one of the strongholds of Queen Maeve of Connaught. Ann was determined to find out all she could about the fishing in these parts, and ended up with a whole mine of information. When she asked about fishing rights, licences, etc. they thought it a great joke -- all fishing is free to anyone on all three loughs. They extolled the trout and pike, particularly on Carra -- 14lb trout and pike tasting like salmon seemed to be what we could expect to be feasting on in the next two weeks. But they did just mention the fact that this year had been the worst for many years because of the too good weather. Apparently on Carra there can be no bottom fishing because of the clearness of the water. The usual thing is to use a spinner (which they call simply 'bait'), and one of them produced a tin of grasshoppers, which are 'infallible'.

We asked if the water is always this colour, and were told Yes, but only in Carra. Mask and Corrib are the usual dark peaty brown of most lakes. This is because Carra is entirely on limestone, a solution lake formed by standing water, whereas Mask and Corrib, although of the same origin, are on the edge of the peat-covered granite mountains with a plentiful supply of peaty water. Disappointed to learn that we were to have only the one day on this beautiful glassy water, we made the most of it, wandering very slowly down the lake, and stopped on the Cow Islands to enjoy and photograph the rock garden scenery. Little bushes and red and yellow rock plants growing among the grey rocks beside the palest turquoise of the shallow reed-fringed water made an unforgettable scene.

But we now had an added interest in pushing on towards Lough Mask. Our friends on the Horse had approved of our canoes on Carra, "but whatever you do, do not take them on to Mask". They told alarming tales of submerged rocks rising out of 40ft of water, and of the 'swell' which swept dangerously across the lough at the approach of a storm. At least it sounded interesting.

Of course there are rocks on Carra, but they are of an extraordinary sort of rotten limestone which crumbles at a touch and could hardly harm any craft. On the Cow Islands we found rocks riddled with solution holes, some about 1/4in diameter through a rock a foot thick.

Before reaching the end of Carra, we found ourselves heading for a dense belt of reeds, dense enough to impede progress completely. However, by skirting round in open water, we did eventually find what might be a thinner place and made a charge. We were just about to get stuck again with paddles entwined in reeds, when we noticed signs of clear water ahead, so made a special effort and did win through. By now we were covered with tiny flies we had disturbed in the 'forest'. Not deadly, apparently, but deflying did take a considerable time.

Now we had to find the entrance to the Keel Canal. This may sound a bit Continental, but it is actually the waterway that joins the two loughs. Only a canoe can enter it now. We found two entrances, both nearly blocked by deep mud. In the first one we were soon grounded but somehow managed to push off with the paddles (too soft to get out and push), and did slither through the other one with less difficulty. The canal itself was a deep but very narrow channel. We passed under Keel Bridge and soon met a weir where we had to get out, unload and carry canoes round. So this 'canal' could not have been intended as a navigation. It then developed into a pleasant little winding river, twisting about between small fields divided by rough stone walls; and we even saw a fish -- at least an eel, of great length. It is little over a mile from Carra down to Mask, and we were expecting to meet the 'forbidden' lake at every turn. But we nearly never did. In a deep stretch of water we suddenly felt the scrapes and jerks of a submerged rock threatening our thin hull. So this was what we had been warned of ! We duly warned Jim, gingerly bypassed the obstacle, passing more visible rocks on the way, and then we were really in Lough Mask. Immediately our lovely green water turned into the almost black brown colour of peat. This change occurred within the space of merely about one yard, but it was still very, very clear.

We found ourselves at the head of a little bay, with miles of lake stretched out before us. We could see across several islands, and tried to locate Castle Hag, which we thought an intriguing name for a night's camping site. We were not a little worried about this rock menace, so kept a good look out even in the deepest water, and did see several nasty jagged things lurking below us. Thankfully, the clarity of the water ensured that, with ordinary care, they could be seen in time.

Anyway, we made straight for Castle Hag. Before long, the mirror-smooth water became transformed into what looked like a sheet of corrugated perspex with row upon row of tiny wavelets rapidly approaching from the west. 'The swell', we thought, the second menace of Mask, 'in which no canoe can hope to survive'. We were only about three minutes from the island, but by the time we landed the disturbance had become a mass of small waves dancing all over the lake, and we had to make a very circumspect landing on the rocky shore. However that was the maximum effect of the 'storm' -- not one likely to capsize a canoe.

Now to look for a campsite; difficult; the shore was all rocks and the interior a mass of impenetrable brambles protecting the castle ruins. But after walking halfway round we heard the sound of voices, and found a boat and two fishermen who, of course, were brewing a kettle of tea. And, of course, we were invited to join them. Once again we learnt much useful knowledge. The storm, they said, was a common occurrence at this time of day (6.30) after such a hot still day, and would only last for an hour. This turned out to be true. They also showed us the way to a perfect camp site; a barely noticeable path was the only way through to the castle, and within its walls was the only soft spot on the island with very long grass for a really comfortable bed. They did not forget to mention also that the Hag herself still haunted the place. We enquired whether we could expect to meet leprechauns as well, and they just smiled. They must have known what was in store for us.

So we canoed round to this side of the island and set up camp., and looked out from our castle walls westwards over the whole extent of the lough. The pink and mauve of the evening light made an idyllic picture of the dozens of little islands sitting on the now placid water, with the background of the Connemara mountains and the Partry Hills running round the whole length of the scene.

It was nearing dusk when we sat down to supper, just about the time when the little people should be stirring. We thought we heard a rustling in the bushes. No, impossible. Then again. We looked anxiously round. It was Ann who first noticed it, a pair of eyes watching us from the long grass only ten feet away, and, behind the eyes, the body of a large rat, sitting there quite unconcerned hoping, no doubt. to be invited to our meal. Impudence ! And then we began to notice others, in fact no less than three others, scurrying round us or just sitting and watching. Ann chucked a stone at one. He merely moved over a little and carried on watching. Our first thoughts were naturally how to preserve our food supplies till morning. We had no container that could not be gnawed through, so we packed it all into one kitbag and strung it up in a tree hoping that the rope itself would not be gnawed through. Another alternative, of sending it out to sea in a canoe at the end of a long painter seemed even less safe. We then began to wonder about our own safety; starving rats were not what everyone would choose to go to bed with. We decided on barricades of stones holding down the walls of the tents, so that if an attack was launched we would at least hear their efforts to break through.

Now, what next ? To add to our discomforts, I soon found that I was sitting on an anthill; not just ordinary ants, but big black Irish ones. So the only thing to be done about that was to move away and hope that they would have the decency to steer clear of the tents. Then we became conscious of a mysterious humming sound, like wind in telegraph wires. As it grew louder we realised that it was coming from the long grass just beside us, and suddenly it became much louder and sounded like rushing water down below, as if we were at the top of a pothole with a raging stream at the bottom. We half expected that at any moment the whole castle keep would open up and disgorge witches, leprechauns and sundry other wonders of an Irish night. At last we noticed a little crawling thing emerging from the long grass -- a hornet. He was closely followed by others and soon a whole crowd was flying round us. But we were saved by the lateness of the hour. They were only out because of our disturbance, and when they realised what time it was, turned round and went back home. We carefully marked the spot with a twig, and hoped there were no more inside either of the tents.

By this time we too decided to try and get some sleep. Jim and I soon stopped thinking of rats, ants and hornets and slept peacefully, but Ann was no sooner in bed than she was aware of further rustling sounds followed by the patter of tiny feet across the edge of her tent. "This", she thought, "is it", and made preparations for invasion. But everything remained calm and soon she too was asleep.

Such was our first night on a supposed uninhabited island.

Next morning (Monday now) dawned dull and misty. Looking west the mountains and far shore were invisible, so we abandoned for the moment our plan of heading that way for shopping in Tourmakeady, and made for Ballinrobe instead, canoeing as far as we could up the River Robe. Only a short way to its mouth, a deep channel with more menacing rocks, until we came to a small weir, with weeds and rushes above, so we landed, tied up and set off to walk into the village. Here Ann was determined to find fishing tackle, having been encouraged by our contacts yesterday. The walk was a long, but pleasant two miles, with the sun now shining again. First along the river bank, where we spent much too long sampling the huge blackberries, then past ruined barns or stables and into a 'demesne' where we joined the drive leading to the 'big house'. A dusty lane, passing a couple of little whitewashed cottages; children playing round in the dust disappeared as if by magic as we approached, and appeared again to stare after we were safely past Were we so frightening ? Then an avenue, almost a tunnel, of beeches, and finally a tarmac road into the town.

Entering Ballinrobe, we felt we were back in France, as we were the year before; the long straight road gradually became the main street of the town, with the little houses on both sides set well back forming a wide empty approach. As we crossed a bridge over the river we noticed a substantial quayside or retaining wall; but surely no ship of any size could ever have got up here. We learnt the extraordinary reason for this maritime influence later. It is not even a suitable place to launch a canoe, the river being too shallow and weedy. Above the bridge is an unshootable weir.

The town is more English than its approaches, but still definitely Irish, chiefly, I suppose, because of all the horse traffic mingled with the cars and bicycles. And the chemist's shop is the Medical Hall. In fact, we came to the conclusion later, Ballinrobe was the most Irish town we did see. Ann spent a long time in the fishing tackle shop, and emerged with a reel (made in Japan), two 'baits' (both 'certainties' for this time of year), and eyes and twine so that Jim and I could make her a rod. We again met our taximan, keen to offer us more transport, and we bought up another two days' supply of food; we were offered sweets while doing the shopping, and the bill of two pounds two shillings was obligingly rounded off to two pounds. By now it was two o'clock, well past lunchtime, so we made for the Commercial Hotel, which looked just the place for a substantial affordable meal. It was. The dining room had not been altered in a single detail, I should imagine, since about 1900, dark and gloomy, a huge dresser at one end, ancient prints on the walls and 'Commercial Hotel' engraved on the window behind lace hangings. We were the only diners, but sitting by the empty fireplace was an old priest deep in whiskey and conversation with an equally old friend. I think I must have seen just such a scene in some picture somewhere; it seemed to me that nothing could be more Irish; they were still deep in whiskey and conversation when we left. No one was in the least surprised at our coming in to lunch at two, and not leaving until 3.15. But a really satisfying lunch was surprisingly swiftly produced. By the time we had walked our way back to the canoes it was about five o'clock.

Out into Lough Mask again, over the smooth-as-a-millpond water, past Castle Hag, and westwards towards Devenish Island. Out in the open sea (we could not help calling it the sea, even though it is all drinking water), we passed a reef of low rocks just above the water, and also a fair sized island, but neither shown on the map. Apparently, we learnt later, the level of all the loughs has dropped in recent years due to drainage works in Galway to reclaim bits of land round the shore. The dates on the Ordnance Survey maps explain why nothing of this is shown; the most recent 1" map of this area is 1951 and the Ballinrobe sheet is 1906. So our map reading will need intelligent interpretation. We passed a fishing party, but no tea was forthcoming. We enquired if they were having any luck and they turned out to be English. So that explained no tea.

We reached Devenish Island, a fifty yard long wooded ridge, almost in the centre of the lough, and were paddling round it looking for a good landing, when suddenly along came our friend the swell again. It was 6.30, punctual to the minute, just as yesterday. We landed on the lee side, and the lough was soon covered in waves and little white horses. But there were only rocks to sleep on, but we could select small patches of shingle to make slightly more comfortable beds. Rocks had to be used instead of tentpegs. Up in the middle of the island in the thick woodland were the ruins of a tiny church surrounded by luxurious vegetation, ferns and long grass. As we landed we were met by one small rat, and this time we had to feel quite sorry for him. Dragging himself along the beach, obviously in the last stages of life, we thought we would be kind to him and finish him off. The last inhabitant possibly; we saw no more. These rat populations must have survived from when all these castles and churches were in use. As last night, the wind had again ceased by the time we were ready for supper.

Next day we made a late start, partly due to Ann's order for Jim and me to produce a fishing rod for her, which we did eventually with the help of an ash branch, partly due to my deciding to go for a swim when the sun pierced the mist after breakfast, and partly because there was just no particular reason to start early. And it was a good swim; the beach shelved steeply under water so it was twenty feet deep only ten feet from the shore; the light under water gradually changed from a bright bronze to a deep umber as one descended. An interesting beach formation on our northern tip of the island showed the prevailing wind direction; a shingle bank had been formed by the waves into a sickle-shaped curve enclosing a tiny circular natural harbour.

The water was once again flat calm as we paddled away from Devenish. We were now following a string of little islands and rocks which form a chain down the centre of the lough. Jim and Ann were in my canoe now and I was trying out Wallace. We soon found ourselves among the Carrigeen Islands, a jumbled mass of flat rocks, mostly only just above water, and twice as many as appeared on the map. On close inspection they are seen to be exceptionally jagged and dangerous; thin spikes and sharp edged flakes making a weird and interesting exhibition of waterworn limestone; and just as many below the surface intersected by gorges of deep water, which combine to make navigation somewhat precarious. Not a pleasant spot to be in a storm.

But today the solid pale grey rocks seemed like rafts floating in a shimmering sea and a distant heat haze made the background of mountains look detached from the horizon like a mirage. From a seat on water level the whole scene looked almost unreal. Even the canoes seemed to be sailing on air with hardly a ripple to mark our passage. It is one of the pictures I will always have in my mind of 'summer 1959'.

As we made towards Ram's Island the stillness was broken by the drone of an outboard -- a fishing party circling round and trawling. We also had our line out; Ann had it fixed beside her in the bows ready to strike at the first sign of a bite; what she would do with her 14lb pike when it appeared we never worked out. We had lunch on Ram's Island, which supports a herd of goats, and is mostly bracken covered and no woodland. It might have been an awkward place to camp.

We now wanted to head for Ferrybridge in the southwest corner of the lough. This meant a longish crossing of 2.5 miles without touching land. As it happened the day was rather different from the previous two and a breeze started getting up as we set off. From the southwest, of course, dead against us. But it was a pleasant crossing, a change from the flat calms we were now so used to; in fact the water became quite lively and Wallace certainly enjoyed it.

Ferrybridge almost completely cuts off the Glen Treig arm of the lough. It has only a single arch just wide enough for one canoe at a time. Once through the bridge one might be in a different lake altogether; a long tongue reaching into the foothills of the mountains, with a ridge on each side sloping gently to the water's edge.

This is Connemara, almost a different country from the plains to the east.

We landed on a grassy bank to visit a cottage for milk. They were delighted to give us as much as we wanted; our payment was reluctantly accepted and not expected. The family had been watching us the whole way across from Ram's Island with great interest and seemed to have been expecting that we would not be completing the voyage in such frail craft. They could not believe that we had come all the way from Ballinrobe.

We now had to battle our way towards the mountains against an increasing wind. After two miles we gave up and put into the southern shore for the night. Only four o'clock, but it felt far enough for that day. We put up tents on a grassy strand sheltered by blackberry and gorse bushes, and prepared for rain. But rain advancing out of the hills soon petered out after reaching us. Jim and I took a stroll up a little peak that overlooked our camp site, and left Ann picking blackberries and preparing to cook. We wandered through the hamlet of Cloghbrack, a typical Connemara village of a haphazard sprinkling of cottages with a post office and one other shop. We admired the wonderful display of fuchsia as we walked on up a rough lane lined with hedges of its magnificent colour in full bloom. After clambering over numerous drystone walls as we ascended, we looked down over a crazy patchwork of tiny shapes of green and gold divided by thin grey lines with here and there the white blob of a farm or cottage. Cultivation continued up to about 400ft above the lough, and then the walls gave way to boulder-strewn slopes of the steeper sides of the U-shaped glacial valley. We steeply reached the top of this ridge at about 700ft and surveyed the scene right across Lough Mask as far as the country around the town of Cong, where we would be heading for later.

We returned to camp for supper, after which Ann took Wallace and her fishing rod out on to the water to enjoy the peacefulness of the still evening, all signs of rain and wind having vanished again.

Wednesday. A bit of shopping was essential for today, and a mountain walk the next item on the entertainments programme. So we canoed another mile or so up the lough to the mouth of the Finny River on the northern shore to approach as near as possible to the village of Finny. There should be a shop here. There was, and a huge startlingly white church looking very Italian; and a scattering of cottages. An old man warned us that the shop would hardly be open yet (it was only just after 9 o'clock), and he seemed a bit surprised to see anyone about at this early hour. However the shop was open, and we were able to get most of what we wanted except meat. Meat was delivered only once a week from Cong; the only fresh meat normally being bacon, which was in short supply that year. Tinned meat is just too expensive to be worth stocking. The standard diet is potatoes and fish. It was here that we introduced ourselves to 'square biscuits', a tough-looking ship's biscuit type of thing, but remarkably good to eat, and really cheap. The only name they could give them was plain biscuits, so they became 'square biscuits' to us and formed part of our staple diet from then on. Delicious with butter and marmalade. We also found 'brack' in Finny, a succulent currant malt loaf (brack meaning malt) which was difficult to stop eating once started.

Back to the canoes with our load, then up into the hills. As we climbed the ridge we looked back from time to time across the loughs; Carra looking its pale green even from here, and Corrib coming into view for the first time. Early hill mist soon evaporated and bright sun appeared between dark clouds. We had lunch on the first peak near a convenient little tarn bordered by cotton grass, overlooking Lough Nafooey, the source of the Finny, with the precipitous slopes of the Maumtrasna Mountains beyond.. Here Jim and I left Ann, and plodded on over peat bog intersected by six foot deep gullies and flat 'pools' of peat, formed by a natural rather than human peat cutting process. We eventually reached the highest point of the ridge and also of the horseshoe forming the head of Glen Treig. This is Benbeg, 'the small peak', at 1745ft. A magnificent circular viewpoint; the whole of our canoe route was visible all the way to Galway. A silver strip of sea beyond the end of Lough Corrib told us that must be Galway Bay. The southwest view, a jagged skyline of dark peaks disappearing up into the clouds and reaching over 2000ft., made us realise that we had only just reached the mountains, and would have to come again for a proper appreciation of the real Connemara. Mountains as well as lakes were just too much to cope with in one fortnight. Westward were still more mountains and another glimpse of the sea, the long thin finger of Killary Harbour which penetrates far inland. To the north could we make out the pinnacle of Croagh Patrick, the holy peak of Connemara ? Quite possibly.

Now we had to make our descent back to the canoes and to Ann, carefully taking this memorable view with us in our minds. As we descended on a more or less direct route, only avoiding the occasional vertical cliff face, we were looking out for a monument; that is to say, something printed in Gothic type on our map. Irish map printing is by no means perfect, and when it turns to Gothic is virtually illegible. On reaching the lane that runs along the bottom of the valley, we noticed, just above it in the middle of one of the little fields, a group of whitewashed stones. On inspection we found that the stones were forming a shelter for a small puddle of stagnant water. A board laid across had a cloth draped over it, and on the cloth a silver (?) cross and two or three ointment jars containing money; a wooden cross lay on the stones above. Obviously a holy well, and what we were looking for. But what a meagre supply of water, and what a poor answer to the offerings ! Admittedly this was the exceptionally dry 1959, but there was plenty of faith, no doubt, in the future. We called at a farmhouse nearby for milk, and we were not allowed to pay anything this time. Here we discovered that the well is Tober Feehan. Feehan, whom, of course, we were expected to know, was presumably the saint who gave his name to Finny village. We also asked for eggs from the many hens all over the farmyard and farmhouse but they had none to spare. Then grandma appeared, and held forth about two people who had called a couple of years ago who were climbing the mountains. We could only understand a word here and there, but got as far as realising that those two must have been the last strangers she had seen. (Jim thought she had said twenty years ago.)

Now a long hot dusty lane led us homeward, and we soon met Ann again looking for fuchsias to photograph in suitable artistic locations. There were plenty of them, and fuchsia, lake and sunshine made this a very pleasant end to our expedition.

Peat cutting was in progress as we neared the canoes. We inspected the little pyramids of cut 'bricks' piled up to dry before being carted away. It must be a record summer for the drying process.

Back at the canoes we wasted no time in plunging into the little river for a longed-for swim. The water was deep, clear and beautifully cold. This was followed by tea on the bank in the boiling sun, during which we were disturbed by the loud shouts and the clatter of horses' hooves tearing along the road. It turned out to be a party of gypsies, apparently having a pony and trap race, or maybe just out for an evening in Finny. They were certainly enjoying themselves and letting everyone know it.

We then set off again, crossing to a small island that we had noticed from above as promising a good night's resting place. This was (inappropriately) Island More ( 'large island'), half covered with a hayfield and half with dense bracken., and encircled by a ring of small trees. The field had been cut, and we set up camp in the shelter of the haycocks; a perfect spot in a sun-baked hollow filled with the sweet scent of new-mown hay on a hot evening. The hay had been cut by hand, of course; a small island such as this was sufficiently immune to the import of machinery.

While we were eating supper surrounded by a confused jumble of bits and pieces of camping paraphernalia we were surprised by a figure suddenly appearing through the bushes from the direction of our landing place. Not a leprechaun, but a full size farmer. I think we were all a bit taken aback All we could find to say was : "Do you mind if we camp here for the night ?" We were so obviously in complete possession already that he could hardly say no, but what he did say was : "Sure, but wouldn't you like to stay for a month ?" He had come over to inspect his rabbit snares, but was even more interested in the canoes, being something new and strange. We had to explain carefully all their good points, and where we had come from and where we were going. After we had finished eating, we found him still down by the shore carrying out a thorough inspection of our craft. Jim took Wallace out to prove that they really were seaworthy. Perhaps we should have let him try too, but he was getting on in years, and we feel that he had already enough novel impressions to spin into the topic of conversation in Glen Treig for many months to come. So we said goodbye and he rowed himself away leaving us in sole possession for the night.

Early bed. Far to go tomorrow. But little did we guess where to.

Thursday.

The early morning was ominous, but rather impressive. At 6am, looking east down the length of the lough, the sky was a mass of sinister black clouds framing the brilliant red and orange glow of the rising sun, which lit up the water with a dark purple-red light. By 6.30 there was no sign of sun, and a stiff breeze was blowing up from the north-east. And we, of course, wanted to go east.

We started soon after eight, and again battled our way into the wind, which was increasing all the time, until we at last reached Ferrybridge again. We had been wondering all the time what we would be in for out in the main lough. We soon knew. As we approached the bridge we could see great rollers coming towards us. We stopped and landed for an inspection on foot.

No sooner had we touched the bank than we were surrounded by a crowd of gypsies; at least 30 of them , including about 20 children, who took great delight in lining themselves up for photographs. And they insisted in standing posed in straight lines for this purpose. They were so curious about us and the canoes that we retaliated by making a careful inspection of them and their caravans. There were three families living in four vans and a tarpaulin hut. The vans were of the 'covered wagon' type with circular canvas roofs. There were at least eight horses grazing nearby; we watched one of them being shod, and a rough job was being made of it. Ann was asked to have her fortune told; she refused. But we did need to know what were our future canoeing prospects for the day. We decided that the chances of canoeing and surviving were slight.

But there was still a chance worth trying -- keeping close to the shore in the lee of a series of islands. I tried it. Taking Wallace through the bridge out into the tempestuous sea, it was pleasant enough riding over the waves for the first hundred yards or so, until I had to round a little promontory, where the full force of the wind was dashing the waves on to the rocky shore. I kept out from the rocks in order to turn, which I managed successfully between one wave and the next, but then all I could do was to keep stern on to the waves as they raced me to the shore. By nipping out smartly as soon as it got shallow enough, I somehow managed to pull Wallace clear before the next wave crashed over the stern and dashed us both to pieces on the rocks. Ann and Jim had by now taken fright too, and landed safely, merely shipping half a wave in the process. To have continued a coastwise course with the wind on the beam would have been impossible.

We made a cup of tea. We sat on the rocks to think. We thought that the storm would last at least all day, and how right we were. So why not carry on with our plans for a portage ? We were going to have to do so somewhere -- there is no navigable connection from Lough Mask into Lough Corrib, only underground rivers and an empty canal (more about that unfortunate undertaking later). But the nearest point of Lough Corrib was some five miles away. So some form of transport must be procured. The gypsies ? They had horses, carts and probably time; but back at their camp, all the men and horses had disappeared. The women could only suggest trying at a farm nearby that possessed a tractor, an uncommon sight in these parts.

We set off back across the bridge and were greeted by the farmer's wife who had sold us milk two days before. "Och so you're still living ?" She had given up all hope after seeing us passing through the bridge back into the storm-tossed lough, but she was pleased to tell us how to find John Somerville and his tractor at his farm a further half mile along the lake side. He was out till six o'clock, but his father assured us that he would be delighted to take us anywhere we liked then. So we booked tractor and trailer for the evening, and wondered what to do for the next six hours.

Then it started raining.

We decided to go for a walk to look for, and find, a small lough up in the hills with views over both Mask and Corrib -- Coolin Lough. All a bit damp and depressing amongst the heather and peat bog, but we were thankful we were not tossing about in canoes out there on the troubled waters. On our descent we cheered ourselves up on finding abundant supplies of the biggest blackberries we had ever seen, and we passed a couple of real Irish 'cabins' with grass growing on the roughly thatched roofs and the smallest possible window on each side of the 'stable' doors.

Back at the bridge, we made full use of a shed kindly offered by the farmer's wife (who was glad we were still alive), to change clothes and brew up more tea.

By now six o'clock was approaching, and it was not long before tractor, trailer and John Somerville himself appeared at our service. We were just able to load everything on, particularly pleased not to have to collapse my canoe to do so. Little room for us as well, but with Ann and Jim on the back of the tractor and me looking after the piles of stuff on the trailer, we set off on our journey as comfortable as could be expected.

We had no idea where we were heading for, but were relying on our driver's assurances of a perfect campsite somewhere on the shore of Lough Corrib. That was all we wanted at this moment, to get established on the right lough and out of the rain. Rain persisted, and even became heavier; I was facing backwards unable to turn to see where we were going; we clattered through a village which I assumed to be Clonbur (what did they think of us ?), and finally stopped high on a windswept hillside about 200 feet above (presumably) Lough Corrib. I jumped off to see why, and immediately the whole equipage was swung round in the road and dexterously backed down a steep narrow grassy track which dropped down to the lakeside. This remarkable feat made me wonder how many times before he had delivered loads of canoes to the lough, but apparently he had not been here for several years and did express surprise at how much the track had overgrown since. He charged us 25/-, informed us that we were now at Coalpark Quay, drove away and abandoned us to our fate.

The place was certainly a quay, or had been, and even through the veil of rain we could appreciate the beauty of the scene. The rough stone quay was on the side of a small bay with a promontory on the far side covered with Scots pines. The top of the quay was grass-covered with a bank of thick brambles rising behind. Several boats were pulled up on to the shore, long thin rowing boats as we had seen fishing on Carra and Mask. We were on the south side of the hill we had just descended, so sheltered (theoretically) from the wind. Looking out to 'sea', the stormy grey water was dotted with grey misty islands. But at least this WAS Lough Corrib, and we had arrived at our third and last lough.

Needless to say, we did not spend long admiring the view, but set about finding sheltered sites for the tents. There was only one. Ann immediately commandeered this, leaving Jim and me out on the cold quayside. Her hideaway was completely enclosed by the thick brambles, whereas we two had only a miserable bush for shelter. Bur we all three had to have supper in our tent (and cook it), so after demolishing part of the quay for useful stones to reinforce the tentpegs, we did manage to pitch the tent and feed ourselves and reckoned we were reasonably safe for the night. But not a bit of it. Not long after getting to sleep I was woken by bangings and thumpings and realised that the wind had changed completely; I lay awake listening to the crack of the canvas as sudden gusts hit the tent broadside on. But I knew it was a good tent and slept again. Next time it was less good; I woke to find the tent pole lying between our two heads; it did not seem to be worrying Jim, but I thought it worth taking a stroll outside. By great good luck it was no longer raining, although the wind was stronger than it had been all day. I found a couple of pegs pulled out (just the ones unfortified with stones, of course). A few adjustments, and the rest of the night was bearable.

Came Friday. What to do today ?

Ann, quite unconscious of the storm, wrapped up cosily behind her barricades, said "What, has this storm being blowing all night ?" But any thought of canoeing never entered our heads. One thing was a must on our programme, and that was to visit Cong. But how to get there ? Cong was at least seven miles away. Perhaps there would be a bus. A silly thought ? Maybe. But I just happened to have with me a copy of the CIE Provincial Bus Timetable. This turned out to be the best sixpenceworth I have ever spent. From this I discovered that the road above us was on one of the bus routes from Galway to Clifden. Not only that, but the only bus of the day would be passing our 'door' at ten o'clock on its way to Galway -- via Cong. And what's more, it would be returning from Cong at 6pm in plenty of time for supper. It was now 9.30. So we quickly prepared ourselves for a day out in the 'big city'.

The bus duly arrived as predicted (what a wonderful timetable !), and within half an hour we were in Cong. Not a big city, but a not unattractive village in an interesting watery setting, surrounded by the streams rising from the resurgences of the waters of Lough Mask. Shopping first (including meat !), then off to see the sights.

Cong Abbey first claimed our attention. A fourteenth century ruin much restored in the eighteenth, with lovely carvings of both dates on pillars and doors. The whole place filled with tombstones over the centuries, very much impeding the modern visitor. And in the chapel every flagstone is a memorial. No more room.

Next we followed the Cong River down to the lough about a mile away. We had to pass through the gates of Ashford Castle, which cost us a reluctant shilling (each). This is a hotel, and apparently a world-famous millionaires' fishing paradise (world-famous in America, anyway). We wandered down the drive through the dripping woods. What an extraordinary sight the castle was; an eighteenth century attempt to look like a far more ancient fortified stronghold, plentifully sprinkled with towers and battlements. A bridge across the small river formed an impressive gateway; with a gatehouse at each end flanked by two battlemented turrets it was a remarkable sight, lit up by an even more remarkable burst of sunshine as we crossed. Just long enough for a photograph, the only two minutes of sun in two days. It sparkled on the waves out in the lough. Then the rain set in again.

Back into the village for lunch in a cafe. News on the wireless was chiefly about the storm -- a man struck by lightning in Galway, fishing boats lost off the west coast. We sent postcards home to prove that we were on more or less dry land.

We then set out to look for the famous Cong Canal that never held water. We first passed the 'Rising of the Waters', one of the resurgences of the waters of Mask from a Vauclusian spring, an under water pothole at the base of a small cliff, with a mill building close by. We did find the canal behind the mill, and one of the five locks. Deep, wide and solidly built from huge blocks of local limestone, but no sign of water. In the middle of the lock was a fives court or 'ball alley' for handball, the Irish national form of the game. Not exactly what one expects to see in a canal lock.

The canal was constructed, of course, in the hope of bringing navigation up to Lough Mask and to Ballinrobe (hence the warehouses and quayside we had seen there). There was plenty of labour available in the famine time after the 19th century potato blight disaster, but apparently no suitable engineers with experience of the quirks of limestone country. They must have known that the water between the loughs travelled underground, but expected that it would also travel down their canal when ordered to. It didn't. And never did.

A dry rocky gorge close by with a few pools led us, via entanglements of brambles and gorse, up to a lane and a fine bridge over the canal, just as solidly built as the lock. We followed the lane back into Cong. At least we had proved that to canoe from Mask into Corrib is just not possible.

Now there was still time left to visit one cave, one of the many 'bottomless' holes of the district, all full of local lore and fairy tales, according to our newly acquired handbook. We chose the Pigeon Hole. A mile back along the Clonbur road past the horseshoe forge ( with doorway of that shape), the witch's footprint (which we failed to find), and somebody else's cross ( a roadside memorial to a legendary celebrity). At a cottage we were shown a small path into a wet wood, and soon found the hole. About 60 feet deep, with convenient stone steps down one side, as befits a feature of the Ashford Castle 'demesne'. To one side was a chamber with a high roof above a huge boulder pile with no way through. A little water flowed gently on its way from Mask to Corrib through a deep pool in a narrow rift. Wonderfully quiet and peaceful down there after the driving rain and wind we had been in almost all day. Then back into the village, passing three other resurgences -- what a watery place! -- to our dry cafe for a bit of tea. A relief particularly for Ann, who had been having a revival of recent toothache trouble; but she insisted on going back to camp. A shop next door sold us not only bacon but oilskins. These for me, having had two anoraks now completely soaked, even a nearly new one 'guaranteed' (but perhaps not for Ireland).

At 6 o'clock our bus duly arrived. It must be the right one and going to Clifden, even though clearly labelled 'An Clochan'. But then, in the morning it had been labelled 'Gaillimh' even though we knew it was going to Galway. And this one did take us back to Coalpark Quay, even though the conductor had never heard of it. He must have wondered where we were headed for when we got him to stop on a lonely clifftop with no house in sight.

After another cramped supper, relieved by more wonderful blackberries, we settled down to another stormy night, but this time without mishap.

A sparklingly wet morning, thanks to glimpses of sun breaking through the clouds. But no canoeing. So back up to the road and our faithful bus. For the first time we were able to see the lough as it should be seen, the blue water speckled all over with white wave flecks, the golden fields of stubble and corn stooks in the foreground and grey mountains in the distance.

We left the bus between Clonbur and Cong, and set off to explore the extraordinary country of the southern shore of Lough Mask to look for the sinking of the waters. A signpost told us we were eight miles from Ballinrobe --after seven days' travelling. Come to Ireland for a leisurely holiday !

As we approached the lough, the fields gave way to acres of apparently flat limestone pavements. Yet not flat, being made of inclined strata dipping at about 10 degrees to the SE laid on top of each other, the broken end of each layer forming a jagged drop of about five feet to the smooth surface of the layer below. The shore is a series of little bays and arms of the lough eating into the limestone, and all completely different from the map because of the change in water level. More fantastic formations to discover: solution holes have cut into the rock from underneath leaving overhanging roofs of pendants like stalactites of rock. We made for what looked like a bit of sandy shore, which turned out to be a yellowy messy mass of dried-up sphagnum moss. We suddenly realised that water was flowing under the rocks we were standing on; we were on one of the sinks. And just round the corner we came across a substantial river of water flowing into a cave entrance. Only a short way inside it filled the cave, preventing any further exploration. So this must be THE sink, and we were satisfied to have found it.

We had lunch in the sun which had by now almost completely vanquished the rain, and it was warm again. One more short shower was the very last of the storm, and we then walked on a little way to the entrance to the canal and its massive useless sluice gates, and followed it more or less back into Cong, footpaths leading us into massive bramble entanglements in places. We stopped to have a look at Ahalahard Castle, one of those typical Irish ones -- a single square tower with one and a half walls still standing.

A cup of tea in Cong again, this time at the 'Quiet Man' cafe. The name intrigued us (as intended, presumably), and refers to a film of that name made in Cong several years before. Stills from the film decorated the walls, and they were still proud of their brief period of fame. We also met an old inhabitant there who enjoyed giving us a complete history of the canal. Perhaps his oddest tale was being in London two years before and seeing television for the first time and what should appear on the screen but his so familiar Cong canal !

Back by bus again to enjoy our first supper for three days not huddled inside a tent. The wind was dropping and the lough becoming almost calm. Tomorrow we could be off.

Sunday. Breakfast, packing and away. Five minutes later, back again. Our enemy the wind had returned after a calm and peaceful night. And now increasing. So, why not enjoy a rest day in the sun and shelter of our safe and pleasant harbour ? We all agreed: swimming and sunbathing became our morning occupations. After lunch, Jim and I decided to walk into Clonbur for more food to avoid having to find any shops for another couple of days. It was about two miles, but we found a good route over the hill missing the main road. In spite of being Sunday, one shop was open, we managed to knock up a second, and a third opened up just for us. Very friendly is Clonbur. Jim was asked whether he came from California. American -- that means money to spend in our shops. The only thing not for sale was polythene bags. "They have not come this far yet".

Back at the quay, the wind was now diminishing, and at about 4.30 we really did set off. By this time, a crowd of children had suddenly appeared from nowhere and two fishermen had come down for their boats. Life was returning to Lough Corrib after the storm.

We headed southwest into the wind, a pleasant run against small choppy waves, and enjoying being on the water again, until we reached the little island of Inishdauwee. Here we watched as a farmer embarked a boatload of sheep. The wind was still dropping, so we decided to continue on towards Inchagoill, the largest island in the lough, with the burial place of St. Patrick's nephew as its main claim to fame. We were now travelling across the wind when, without warning, it suddenly backed to southeast, and in no time at all waves started coming at us from two directions at once; from straight ahead as well as continuing on our beam. Ann came out with alarming theories of the dangers of such crosswaves. We put into the shelter of another convenient little island to await developments, but things soon settled down again, and we struck out again for Inchagoill. We approached the island in almost a calm.

Inchagoill (pronounced Inchagill without the 'o') is about a mile long, and we found a bay to put in to halfway along its southwestern side, gliding over rocks a few inches below the surface, to a miniature stone jetty enclosing a miniature harbour just right for two canoes. A charming-looking island, with groups of Scots pines on the higher ground at each end, and our bay leading into the low central neck of land joining the two hills. In plan an hour glass, and in elevation the hour glass on its side. Passing through the bushes lining the stony shore, we came upon a clearing dotted with pines , and here, on lovely soft short grass, we settled in for the night. A pink sunset over the Maamturk Mountains was turning the water a pale mauve as we unloaded, and soon we were treating ourselves to a large and leisurely supper. But we were not quite alone. A passing rat or two no longer caused us any concern (but we did string the food bag up in a tree), and later, as Ann was washing by the waterside after dark, she was convinced she saw a large black cat-like form lurking in the bushes. She mentioned this to Jim (but not to me), but she could not really dismiss from her mind the possibility of encountering hungry wild-cats for the rest of our time on the island.

And by the time we left the island we felt like old inhabitants.

We were already half under the spell of Inchagoill when we went to sleep, but still with every intention of carrying out a quick inspection of the island next morning and leaving in the afternoon.

But on Monday morning we soon realised that this was not to be. We were woken by the howling of the wind in the branches high above. None of us seemed to want to get up. It was too obvious; our storm had returned. Inchagoill was to be our home for -- how long? We had no useful time table to tell us the length of the storm. When we finally roused ourselves our first thought was of food. We cut down our breakfast to porridge, one slice of bread and butter and a square biscuit. We then carefully laid out and counted our assets. We budgeted for four days and did not dare look beyond that. A meticulous division was carried out, and the miserable results recorded as a menu for each meal. Thank heaven that Jim and I had made that expedition into Clonbur the day before; that tin of salmon we had bought for Ann as a joke no longer seemed funny but almost a meal in itself, and there were a few bright spots : plenty of tea, porridge at standard rations (which was a lot), and lashings of sugar (I had accused Jim of lavishly overstocking) to go with the blackberries we were sure to find on the island. And lastly the 'Farola' pudding would now come into its own. This is a nasty semolina mess that Ann had found in Dublin that we had attempted once and not been able to face since. And we had 68 square miles of drinking water around us.

We went on a blackberry search into the interior. Drizzly rain, but this soon petered out. However, before blackberries we came upon a scene demanding immediate exploration. We emerged from a brambly path into a dark grove of dark yew trees, and in the midst of the trees stood the ruins of a charming little church. The whole place had an air of mysterious tranquillity, helped perhaps by the darkness and its seclusion from the raging storm. We approached the roofless walls at the east end, a narrow path took us along the north wall until we could see out of the trees into an open clearing in which stood yet another little church and a graveyard. We felt as if we were discovering some forgotten outpost of religion in the heart of a desert island.

So this must be where Lugnad, St. Patrick's nephew lies, We have learnt since that this second church was actually founded by St. Patrick himself, and the other one a later model, and known as Templeneeve (later, but by no means recent, being early 12th century). We then inspected this Templeneeve more closely. It is very much more ornate than the earlier rather austere church. The west door is a wonderfully carved Norman doorway (or Hiberno-Romanesque is, I believe, the correct term). The diminutive entrance, only about 5' 6" high, is made to look large and impressive by the series of concentric arches of its porchway, carved with dog-tooth designs and fantastic heads, and all very well preserved. Inside, the rectangular nave carpeted with fallen leaves led to the chancel arch which filled the whole width of the building, and so into the tiny chancel. The east window was still intact (or restored), and below it a few rough stones by way of an altar. Patching up restoration work was visible along the tops of the walls and elsewhere, and on the west wall was a small notice telling us that the Irish equivalent of the Ministry of Works would take a grave view of further damage. In the southwest corner of the nave a large block of stone from the wall bears an inscribed cross of elaborate Celtic design. Nearby stood a loose upright stone about three feet high with a simple cross inscribed on each of its four faces, but broken in two halfway up. Out in the graveyard we did find the memorial stone of Lugnad himself, one of the oldest Christian inscribed stones in this country of early Christians; about two feet high and with an almost readable inscription. The latest stone we could find, in contrast, was dated 1922, the grave of a local inhabitant of the western shore of the lough.

Having satisfied our curiosity for the moment, we continued the quest for blackberries, but they seemed to be in rather short supply compared with our mainland camp sites. And they had to be fought for through dense bramble thickets. But worth having, even if not a matter of life and death just yet. Across the width of the island we came to a large sandy bay with a jetty rather more lifesize than the one where we had landed., presumably the island's chief 'port'. A few crumbling ruins of walls among brambles and fuchsia marked the site of the last habitation where one man had lived until at least 1942, we learned later. So this was just 17 years of neglect. The far side of the bay was enclosed by a pine-wooded hill, marked on the map as Birr Island but now joined to the island. The sandy beach and sheltered scene was all a strong contrast to the wind and rocks on the other side.

We then made a circuit of the southern half of the island on small footpaths, before returning to our camp for the 'main meal' of the day (a sausage and two slices of bread and butter, a square biscuit with a dash of marmalade, a custard cream and tea) This naturally failed to satisfy us until we attacked the blackberries and 'Farola' pudding, which made a luscious mixture, and we felt better. We had by now built a fireplace and were enjoying making full use of the plentiful supply of pine wood. We were preserving our paraffin for the next downpour when we might have to retreat into the tents with the stove. Until now we had not bothered with fires, having been too lazy to collect wood -- a small instance of what one misses by making too much use of modern comforts. More foraging after lunch, adding elderberries, nettles and a few unripe hazelnuts to our larder. Not the choice young nettle shoots we would have preferred, but boiled with salt and eaten with a dollop of butter they tasted like asparagus to us.

We found that the centre of the island is covered with a network of low field walls, the remains of the old farm, now almost unrecognisable under a sea of dense bracken. Across the neck of the island is an impenetrable trackway, and near our camp site we found the disintegrating remains of an old boiler. The more we saw of Inchagoill the more fascinating it became.

Towards evening Ann and I went out on a fishing cruise. We carried my canoe over to the harbour bay, and I paddled up and down the sheltered coast while Ann trailed the line. No luck, but a pleasant evening was spent dreaming of fish suppers, and even the sun put in an appearance. But the wind was still wild and we met considerable rollers as we rounded Birr Island at the entrance to the bay.

Tuesday. Inchagoill (second day).

Still an overdose of wind, but a day of glorious sunshine. After another meagre breakfast we set off on a church photographic expedition. All a bit dark among the yews for our colour film; the west door of Templeneeve must never see the sun, but a five seconds exposure did produce a good result. We had plenty of time ! Then still more blackberries had to be found (successfully), and the afternoon was spent exploring the northwestern 'bulb' of our 'hourglass' island where the land rises to about 100ft above the level of the lough. A decent path encircles the hill (so someone must be interested in looking after it), and on the farthest corner, where the pine-covered hill drops steeply into the lake, we came upon an extraordinary building -- a square stone battlemented blockhouse, the front of which is a 'Norman' arch framing a bare room, and steps leading up at the back to a flat roof. Intended as a summerhouse and lookout, presumably, although no view out now, even from the roof. A Victorian 'pleasaunce'.

It had been a perfect afternoon for such a pleasant stroll, and back at the harbour bay the sun and sand were inviting us in for a swim -- and bath, and clothes wash. The water was definitely cold after the storms, but when we came out we could again imagine ourselves on a tropical island in the sun. Far from being an island of enforced imprisonment, I think we will always remember Inchagoill as an island of welcome to a little holiday out of this world. We would have been happy to stay there a week if we had not had to starve meanwhile. Jim was even wondering whether the farm would ever again support a future inhabitant.

Another unsuccessful fishing cruise followed, and therefore another frugal supper. And then the sun set. One of those sunsets that can always be remembered but cannot be adequately described. Imagine the wide expanse of lake backed by the purple-black mountains and a silhouette of trees in the foreground and a blaze of colours round the setting sun reflected brightly from the high mackerel clouds and darkly from the stormy water. But all this can only really be appreciated by being there that evening.. The glow of colour reached over the whole sky from west to east. We must have been watching for half an hour when we realised that the glow in the east was brightening. Of course. It was the night of full moon. We crossed the island to the harbour bay to see the huge orange disc roll up over the horizon behind a 'palisade of pine trees'. As it rose it seemed to reduce in diameter, the brighter light sparkled across the water and shone sombrely through the trees. On our way back the ruined church stood dark under the yews, the ghostly light filtered through the surrounding trees and formed pools of pale light on the ground; and the wind still kept up its whispering in the tree-tops.

Wednesday. Inchagoill (third day).

'Hunger setting in' might well have been written in the shipwrecked mariners' log (which never was written), but also 'hopes rising'.

Wind easing off occasionally for short periods, so we adopted a hopeful 'island-hopping' plan: pack up, wait for any suitable moment and head for the string of three or four islands between us and the nearest shore, landing as necessary on the way. We had to get my canoe back from the harbour bay, so Jim and I decided to canoe round rather than carry. It would be a good test of conditions out to sea. On rounding the point we met the waves and had to keep well out to avoid the rocks of the lee shore. We were pitching nicely into the waves for a time but then had to turn. We chose a suitably wide gap between two rollers for this, so that the next one would carry us forward while completing the turn on its crest. Now we were running before the wind and being swept forward rapidly by each wave; we had turned a bit too early and would soon be on the rocks but for some skilful cross wave paddling to counteract the yawing effect of the waves on our stern. Successful, but we did purposely land just before our bay, knowing how menacing the rocks were there. An enjoyable little trip -- in an empty canoe with nothing to lose, but we decided to wait a little longer before attempting our getaway.

As I was carrying some of our luggage down to the beach I became aware of an animal shape lurking in the bushes. It soon revealed itself as a large black cat, and slunk away as I approached. A complete surprise to me, but on reporting it to Ann she of course realised that it was what she was still positive she had seen on the first evening. This new revelation was quite a relief for her. But why a cat ? Left over from the last inhabitants ? Left stranded by someone who had too many cats at home ? Or perhaps purposely imported by the Ministry of Works to control the rat population - a civil servant, in fact. Anyway, wild enough to want to avoid us almost entirely for three days.

We were now seriously wondering whether we were ever going to reach Galway by canoe. We had a train to catch in three days' time. Not a nice thought in a place like this. Moving on as fast as possible as soon as possible was now our chief concern.

At 11.30 we were at last able to seize our opportunity. The wind became noticeably slacker, and white horses on the waves diminished. We checked buoyancy bags in bow and stern, including a half blown-up lilo in the bow of Wallace who had not come with bags. I think we must have expected a calamity, as I remember Ann and I tied our cameras to the canoe -- we were prepared to lose everything else. Cameras of course enveloped in several polythene bags, but that is normal procedure.

When loaded up we finally said goodbye to Inchagoill and set off on our travels once more. Our first goal was the nearest island to the south, Morgan's Island, about a mile away. But this meant heading straight into the wind (again). Slow progress, but the easiest direction for handling the canoes. Once out of the bay, we had great fun riding over the swell; each wave could be felt rolling under us, and the canoe seemed to bend itself over the crests as the bows cleared the top before dipping into the next trough. The woodwork creaked and groaned, which we hopefully interpreted as a good sign, like the safe cracking sounds when skating over doubtful ice. Only occasionally did a bigger wave break over the bows and spray into the cockpit. Jim, in the smaller shorter canoe seemed to be having less of this problem. Halfway across we passed a couple of fishermen with an outboard (the first human beings we had seen for three days), and soon realised that our calm spell was now over and wind was rising again. It was comforting to see that they anchored off Inchagoill and were staying in sight of us. For the rest of that crossing we had just one thought -- to keep going towards the only object in view over a sea of rising waves, the little clump of pine trees that was Morgan's Island. We did keep going, but by the time we reached the lee of the island, the lake was once again a mass of white horses. We landed , and realised with satisfaction that it was now lunchtime.

We leisurely prepared lunch, denuded the island of all its blackberries, and wondered what it would be like to spend the night here with nothing but rocks to sleep on. It was nearly an hour later that the wind suddenly eased just as quickly as it had started. We hastily stuffed ourselves with the remaining precious blackberries and 'Farola' pudding, bundled things into the canoes and were off again.

On leaving the shelter it was obvious that we could not continue on our preferred route which would take us broadside on to the waves, so Ann and I chose a 'safer' course cutting across the waves at as wide an angle as seemed reasonable. This set us heading southwest, and with another comforting possible landfall ahead in the form of Annagh Island. We signalled to Jim to follow. It was hard paddling to keep the bows from being swept off course as each wave tried to roll us to one side. But we soon noticed that Jim was still keeping to our original course. However, he looked quite happy so we just hoped he would win through. In about twenty minutes we did reach the shelter of Annagh Island. This was a significant moment. The far end of this island is only a couple of hundred yards from the mainland. All our troubles should now be over. But...

...we could not see Jim and Wallace. They had disappeared. We looked towards an island that they had been more or less heading for. Were they sheltering behind it or never reached it ? We turned round and sped back to pick up the bits. And what a speed ! We flew across the water with the wind directly behind us, each wave shooting us forward. We paddled hard to keep on top, but it would always overtake us and we would drop back into the trough until the next wave picked us up and we surged forward once more; we thought we were planing at times. Just as we were being swept on to the beach of his island, Jim appeared strolling out from behind a clump of trees. "Isn't this the island we were heading for ?" Of course he was right; he had not seen our signal to change course, but had ploughed on stolidly on his own, expecting to be swamped any minute, and had just now been emptying his canoe of all the unwanted excess of water. We celebrated our reunion with an iron ration chocolate bar, and now he was enjoying his success.

Then the hard work to get back the way we had just come, passing Annagh Island, and reaching the shelter of the mainland. The mainland. This meant FOOD. And food would surely be abundant in Oughterard, the nearest village (in fact, more a town than a village) along the coast. Still over a mile away, but an easy paddle through a channel between Illaunwaranny and the mainland, across a wide bay to a headland, another very narrow channel to pass Inishdauwee, and into Oughterard Bay. Here we really began to see signs of life, fishing boats out, cars on the lakeside road, people camping. The town lies a little way up the Owenriff River which we now had to find. This led to an unfortunate incident: as we approached the river mouth we were becoming gradually bogged down in half an inch of water over soft mud. We had to suffer navigational orders from a small boy on the bank to lead us to the real river mouth: a new cut had been made since the date of our ancient map. I had to wade knee deep in soft slimy mud in order to free us. So that was not quite our longed-for landfall in Oughterard. But once in the river it was a mere few hundred yards up to the yacht club and we were soon making a more conventional landing at the concrete steps of the 'promenade'.

Into the town with empty rucksacks and empty stomachs. The search for food was not as simple as expected. Although only just after five o'clock, nearly all the shops were shut -- half the population were away at a wedding ! However we did manage to obtain sufficient stocks before making our way into the best hotel, the only one still open. Now for the meal of the week. A vast pile of scones and butter soon disappeared, and we had to demand more to accompany the Corrib trout that was our main delight of the occasion. At last we had found the trout that we had never been able to catch for ourselves, and we were by now in a position to appreciate it at its best. It was a good meal.

Back to the canoes with our loads, and off again down the river. We had intended to stop half a mile or so along the shore for the night, but, on reaching the lough, there was a light breeze blowing from the west and we now wanted to go east. This seemed too good to be true, so we decided to make as much progress as possible before dark. This was the first (and last) time that we had a good following wind during the whole two weeks (except of course when we were racing back to 'rescue' Jim that morning). A slight drizzle now starting did not worry us, and we made four miles. A highly satisfying evening, paddling into the gathering gloom in this glorious helpful breeze. We passed one or two islands on our left, skirting the shore headlands on our right in a more or less straight line towards the Point of Ard and Illaungarraun, a fair-sized island separated from the shore by a 50 yard wide channel. Here we landed when it was nearly dark, and set to a second supper which we reckoned we now deserved. This was to be our last island home, and Galway now seemed really within reach.

Before going to sleep that night I mentally christened my canoe. It had never before had the distinction of a name, but today had earned itself one; its name is 'Inchagoill'.

Thursday, and our first decent breakfast since Sunday. An east wind was only a light one, and we had to head east for a while, passing Devenish and Rabbit Islands, and soon becoming involved in the Eagle Islands archipelago. This was such a jumble of low flat rocks, bearing no resemblance to what was on the map, that in the end we had to skirt round them as best we could. Ann and I navigated a channel, gingerly easing over barely submerged jagged rocks and Jim came tearing along behind not apparently aware that there were any rocks within miles -- and missed them all. In the middle of all these rocks were sticking up red and white posts like navigation markers, and that is what they turned out to be, no doubt from the days of steamer traffic from Galway to Cong. So we gratefully followed them, keeping the circular red ones to port and the diamond black ones to starboard as we were now technically heading out to sea. The lough was still littered with rocks on both sides and some of the posts rose from cairns of rocks dredged from the channel. All this demonstrated the former importance of water-borne transport, but must have been a trivial work compared to the Cong Canal. But now much appreciated by two small canoes. At its narrowest point the channel passed between two small islands only about 20 yards apart and was only a few feet deep, which was not a route we would have chosen if it had not been for the markers.

Then we emerged into open water and were faced with a hard pull against another annoying breeze (but brilliant sunshine) for the next mile or so to Kilbeg Ferry. This proved to be an excellent place to stop for lunch. The ferry is no longer and we had our meal sitting on the grass covered track leading down to the deserted stone jetty. An unexpectedly tranquil setting; our treacherous map showed a car ferry at the end of a good road.

Kilbeg Ferry is at the narrowest place on the lough. A sharp right turn here led us southward into the lower half of Lough Corrib; almost a separate lough. We were still following the marked channel through more amazing rock formations, and just had to have one more stop to have a closer look. We landed on one 'pavement' undercut by solution holes with great lumps of rock lying around so riddled with holes held together by razor-edged fins that they had been transformed almost into limestone netting. Some were so eaten away that a mere empty frame was left.

The afternoon had now become really hot and almost windless. We had now lost all sight of the mountains, and were surrounded by the empty spaciousness of flat open country. The channel led us winding through another group of islands, the Illaunatees, and we chose a convenient Illaunatee for a stop for tea and a bask in the sun. A surprise item turned up in the form of three motorboats full of happy holidaymakers, an incongruous intrusion into our peace. Then the mass of densely packed islands suddenly came to an end, the marked channel became redundant, and we were faced with a wide stretch of completely open water. This southernmost circular 'sea' of Lough Corrib is in fact the largest island-free area of any of the three loughs. We were now passing our very last island. We had thought to camp here, but the favourable weather and less favourable time factor persuaded us to carry on. So we set forth straight across the middle of this sea, leaving on our left the giant cairn by Rabbit Island which marks the entrance to the channel, and took a course for, we hoped, the entrance of the Corrib River. Three miles away.

By now there was a light breeze again, against us of course. Jim was nearly swamped by the wash of the returning pleasure boats which swept past quite unnecessarily close (fun for them, he thought), but they then veered off and left us in peace. So we had a pleasantly hard crossing with comfortable waves but no help from the wind, and a nice feeling of loneliness, being over a mile from any sort of land for the first time. In the middle of the ocean we passed a solitary pinnacle of rock, less than a foot above the water and no sign of a bottom anywhere round it -- so you never know ! Our friends on Lough Carra probably knew more than we have ever given them credit for. Anyway we did finally land on Annabellowna, the tongue of land that divides the lough from the river. Here we were taken aback to find our prospective campsite occupied by an unsightly 'beach bungalow' shack populated by too many people. We had to press on and thus make our last farewell to our last lough, and find a way into the Corrib river. This was not as easy as expected. Most of the wide entrance is a sandbar and blocked by reeds. We chose the most obvious way and did get through with only a little scraping on the mud. The river was then wide and deep.

Now there was not even a sign of a landing place. Banks of reeds, yards thick on both sides. We had to continue for another half mile before we could land on the left bank on a stony shore. Here we pitched camp in a field of long grass, hoping we were not spoiling too much hay. A bit late for haymaking anyway. The evening became still and cloudless once again, but the murky water of the river did not invite a swim, which I would have enjoyed. It was lucky that we had filled our water can while still out in the clear lake.

We reckoned it had been a highly satisfactory day. We had made 15 miles, our longest day, the weather was back to summer 1959 standards, and we were now only a mere few miles from Galway with a day in hand.

I woke up early to find ourselves enveloped in a damp mist, through which the rising sun glowed, as if seen through a frosted glass window. Everything was soaking wet and large waterdrops hung from every blade of grass. The air was still as silence.

I went back to bed. Half an hour later, the sun had shone the mist away and sparkled on the glistening grass, and in another hour even the grass was dry.

We paddled on down the placid river (I was having another day in Wallace), and passed the entrances to the two short canals leading back into the lough. These are in fact canoeable, but we had not thought them worth trying after our experiences at Cong. We had a short stop to visit the ruins of Menlough Castle, an imposing structure right on the river bank. A 19th century castellated mansion burnt down, presumably at the time of the 1920s 'troubles'; another typically Irish relic that can be found all over the country. It must have been a vast place with its own quayside and landing steps, but it had also been an ancient site; behind it we came across bits of old castle walls and a derelict cemetery.

In another mile or so we entered the city of Galway. A town with a river should always be first approached by water. This is sure to give a better impression than can be had from a road or railway, and specially applies to Galway, a city of watery ways.

We entered between the piers of the former bridge of the one-time Clifden railway, but were then faced with a large dam and a conglomeration of cranes, excavators, workmen, wheelbarrows and an interminable noise. In fact, the new river-deepening and lough-level-lowering operations. The only hope of further progress seemed to be a canal over on our right, beside which was the raft of the local rowing club. We called in here, to be told that the canal led only to disused locks. We tried it nevertheless, and it took us on a delightful cruise through the back streets of the town, under low bridges barely high enough for a canoeist, and past a couple of swift flowing mill races, until after a mile we did meet a very closed lock gate. We landed and were immediately surrounded by a crowd of small children. This looked ominously like the end of our quest to canoe down to the sea. We had so wanted to do just that.

So we started to walk, accompanied by our willing small guides. Only a quarter of a mile away past two more locks we came to the Claddagh Basin and looked out to sea. The tide was out. Not an inspiring sight. This home of the former Galway fishing fleet was a muddy bay with no sign of anything that could float, only a few decaying wrecks that obviously couldn't. The river entered the bay over swirling rapids, but could not be reached, so we swallowed our disappointment, and returned to the canoes. Back up the canal against the stiff current that had carried us so swiftly down, to the dam. Here we landed among the boats for hire (including the three we had seen yesterday), and were invited by the proprietor to tie up alongside. We were told that the great drainage works had started five years ago, were being carried on with unlimited American cash and the usual Irish enthusiasm for work, and were therefore not expected to be completed for another five.

Our investigations had now brought us to lunchtime, so we canoed back up the river a short way and stopped at a grassy place suitable for lunch and a swim. It was another hot day.

Regardless of heat we then spent the rest of the day getting better acquainted with Galway. A pleasant town. The centre full of life and good shops, the streets all narrow and leading sooner or later to the river which is crossed by many bridges. We walked along the sea wall road past The Claddagh where the fishermen live (or lived), and westwards out to Salthill, admiring Galway Bay and the hills of West Clare and the Aran Islands in the distance. Salthill: 'Galway's seaside playground', 'holiday centre of the west', and even 'one of the most popular resorts of all Ireland'. We did not agree. We bought one ice cream each and caught the next bus back to Galway. Salthill has a beach of a sort (rocks and decaying seaweed), a long dull promenade, a series of flimsy wooden cafes, an air of trying to force one to be cheerful against impossible odds, no scenery, and, best of all, buses back to Galway. So safely back there we visited the Spanish Arch, had a ramble through the near deserted dockland, watched the making of fishnets on the quayside, went shopping for a shillelagh (Ann was determined to find one), and had a good tea in dingy tearooms.

Then back to the canoes, where we discussed with our friend the boatman the prospects of transport to the station tomorrow morning. He assured us that he would have a suitable conveyance ready for us. We left it at that and went back up the river to find our last campsite. Galway has no suburbs (except Salthill) and we were soon out in the country. We paddled up a creek behind a small island and landed in a field leading up to a farmhouse. As on our first night we were invited to stay for a month. We reluctantly declined. Another beautiful still evening finishing up food supplies in a vast supper and trying to prevent a herd of cows from inspecting us too closely.

As yesterday, Saturday morning's early mist soon gave way to hot sunshine, and we canoed somewhat uncomfortably back into Galway. Uncomfortable because we had reorganised our packing to be handier for a train journey, and we were seated on, and surrounded by piles of luggage. We reached the landing slip at 9.0 as arranged and found waiting for us a two-wheeled trailer. We carried out the sad ceremony of dismantling my canoe. In a few minutes 'Inchagoill' was merely a couple of canvas bags, and stacked on to our transport with everything else, helped once more by a crowd of willing young assistants. We asked where our motive power was coming from; a silly question -- our motive power was human. So we all set to and pushed our strange load through the narrow streets of Galway at the height of the Saturday morning shopping traffic. We ourselves did not need to do much pushing; we merely marched alongside like three explorers, with the native bearers doing all the work. But we did have to try and curb their enthusiasm; they were racing along regardless of traffic; we had no brakes, so that when we reached a crossroads on a downhill stretch we took the right of way and cars on both sides came screeching to a halt. We shot across Eyre Square, narrowly missing market stalls and being narrowly missed by a taxi as we cut the top corner and somehow arrived safely at the station, and paid off our helpers. We said farewell to Wallace, now dispatched as a mere 'parcel' back home to Cork.

At midday we finally departed from Galway on the Dublin train. But only for twenty minutes. We then had to change at Athenry on to a train to Limerick. This turned out to be another relic of old Ireland: another ancient 0-6-0 steam locomotive with half a dozen old wooden non-corridor coaches. We rattled along at a leisurely pace for the 2 1/2 hour run, which must surely have been one of its last journeys. We passed numerous castles, several loughs, stopped at tiny wayside stations, climbed up over the edge of The Burren and down to Ennis. At one small station I had to get out to fetch part of our lunch from the guard's van, and I was a little surprised to be asked the time -- not unusual, I know, but this was the guard of the train ! We then arrived at Ennis ten minutes early and had to wait for the railbus from the West Clare line to arrive. Then on down to the head of the Shannon estuary and into Limerick.

We had three hours in which to see Limerick. A large town of wide streets, prosperous shops, slums, a long length of deserted promenade, and the Shannon itself which we had the misfortune to see at low tide when it looked and smelt like a mud-banked sewer to the great delight of hundreds of seagulls. We climbed the tower of the Protestant cathedral, saw the Treaty Stone and the castle walls, drank Guinness in a canalside pub, had a steak tea and bought 'square biscuits' to take home as a souvenir. This proved more difficult than expected. We knew that they were made in Limerick, but none of the better looking shops sold them. We had to buy them from a tiny one-woman shop in an obscure side street; apparently they are beneath the ordinary townsfolk, and are made solely for country consumption and the back streets of Limerick itself.

At six o'clock we left, this time in a diesel railcar, a through train to Rosslare Harbour. We went through Limerick Junction, or rather in and out of Limerick Junction, that extraordinarily Irish station where trains from four directions all meet, and no train can get into any platform without reversing (our train had to reverse out as well); through Tipperary, Cahir and Clonmel, with the Knockmealdown Mountains away on our right, and keeping close to the river Suir (a river of great canoeing possibilities) all the way into Waterford. Then it got dark. We kept on down the Suir estuary; it was high tide and we were travelling only just above water level as we twisted our way along the shore through the clear starry night, then turned into the estuary of the Barrow, crossed it by a long reverberating bridge and settled down into our seats for the remaining hour to Rosslare. The approach to the harbour is fascinating; the train passes within full view of the steamers which are a blaze of light across the bay, then makes a wide semicircle round the harbour walls, finishing up alongside.

Ireland departed from us at midnight.

As a contrast to our outward journey, the whole operation was meticulously punctual. 'St. David' took us calmly across to Wales in four hours; from Fishguard we travelled the length of South Wales through a murky dawn, and were home in Newport in time for Sunday morning breakfast.

Statistically we have no figures to gauge the success of the expedition, except that we canoed only 6o miles in the whole fortnight. But when we look back on each of those miles, mostly in adverse winds and never helped by tides or currents, and when we think of all the times we were not even on the water, we realise that every hour was well spent, and that the modest object of the undertaking had been achieved: to absorb something of the atmosphere of a small fragment of Ireland, and to prove that there is more to Loughs Carra, Mask and Corrib than a few paragraphs in the 'canoeists' Bible'.

And anyway we had enjoyed it.

[ 1992: I have discovered that 'square biscuits' were known as 'Geary's Penny Biscuits'. They have vanished. Geary's still make biscuits, but only more expensive ones in packets (with 'added value', no doubt). ]