My 2nd aunt Marieaid O’Neill is the current owner of “Krugers” a B&B and restaurant in Dunquin that was once owned by Kruger Cavanaugh who was a driver for Eamon DeVelara. We visited with Marieaid last summer when we were over for a visit.

Some years back my sister & husband along with my wife and I visited the Island and took a random photo that turned out to be the foundation of the home of the O’Connors. They were the weavers on the Island.
I am retired and live in Thailand.

Thanks for a great article. I found it by accident just browsing.

Slainte’

Bob Neylon

Background
Around the year 2003 and me being in the Great Blasket, I heard about “Scairt Phiarais”. It was said that this was a cave that was used by the poet and local chieftain, Piaras Ferriter, when the Sasanach or English were after him, in the seventeenth century. When I heard that the location of the cave had been ‘lost’ for some years now, I determined to make an effort to find it again. Even that same year, I spent some time searching, on the north face of the place known as An Dún or The Fort. This was dangerous enough and the worry would be on me that I might fall without stop down cliff, down to sea. In any case, I did not find the cave that year.

Searching
In the years that followed, I would spend time seeking the cave. I could be seen going hither and thither, down to bottom and up to top, between rock, over rock, under rock, around rock and all the time the rabbits and the birds staring at me with wonderment and merriment! I came across hole, cleft and cave but Scairt Phiarais I did not come across.

At home, I would do book research and map research in relation to the Scairt, scrutinising the map of Seán and Muiris Maidhc Léan Ó Guithín most especially.

As a result of all this, by the year 2010, the north side of the island, from ridge to cliff, was known to eye and foot alike, from the Inlet of Siobhán of the Rock to the Cove of the Flat Slabs. But still without the cave having been found by me.

Finding
This year, 2011, I reached the Blasket on Sunday 31 July. I spent myself a dozen days in the island without giving in to the temptation of the searching, continuing with the foot-research in relation to the places marked on the Ó Guithín map. Other than that I would be getting water from well, fishing from rock, going into hole, cove and cave, taking photographs and messing around, coping with bad weather and enjoying good weather. As well as that, I think that the mind-set of the Blasket Islander was coming upon me – the way of description they had, for example, not with the precise accuracy of the engineer but with the imaginative accuracy of the poet or philosopher.

One night it happened that I played Port na bPúcaí, the Air of the Pooka’s, which was on my pocket phone, out the open door of the tent. The music sailed magically over the rushes, through the mist and across to the island of its origin, Inisvickillaune, and maybe to the very spirit who formed the melody in the first place! The sleep came upon me then.

Appointed Day
Arose at nine, Sunday morning, and my heart light due to blue sky and bright sun. Continuing with my foot-research, I determined to go to the cliffs at the Cove of the Flat Slabs and then to drift east as far as the Cladach of the Lóchair, or the Shore of the Distress.

Away with me and with The Bend of the Sickening below, an interesting rock came into sight above me. I denied the temptation to go to examine it and stayed solidly with the plan …but at the next rock, I gave in – isn’t it a wonder how strong it is, the curiosity and the obsession. Onward to the east. I came upon rock and rock again and I went to them to see if there was an opening under them or in them. But nothing and nothing again. And then at the last rock of a group of them, I noticed that there was a sort of a darkness down at its base. With a tired sense of duty, I bent down and I stuck my head into that hole.

Darkness
Torch inside. Depth difficult to assess. But when my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, I saw that the rear of the hole was farther back than would be the case with a normal hole. In farther with me. Clay and wet stones under my knees, my head kept well down. After twenty feet or so, I was able to get into a standing position. It was now that the thought was growing that there was the echo of a chance that this was the cave, the Cave of Piaras. I turned myself around, in the direction of the opening itself. Is this it? Could I be so lucky? A drop of water fell on my left shoulder and the poem of the Ferriter came to mind:

…the drop that is above on top of
the slab heavily
Falling in my ear and the sound
of the waves at my heels.

– “Dinnseanchas na mBlascaodaí”
I was in the cave of Piaras, after all the years of searching for it. And it done with the help of the pookas too!

Cave
The references of the O Crohan, the O Sullivan and others came to mind. Yes, to the left a small ledge and another one of sorts to the right. Drops of water randomly falling, here and there, from the roof. Floor level but well wet and with little stones scattered around on it. A large slab in front of my face and me looking in the direction of the doorway.

To the right an alcove somewhat drier than any other part of the Cave. A bird’s egg there, in the middle of the scattering of bones: in the way of the Phoenix, growing out of its very own bones.

Piaras
My thoughts with him now. Softly and respectfully, I said a couple of prayers. A peacefulness came upon me. Strange to be in a place and it having changed but little over the hundreds of years. The same picture of the sea framed by the opening of the Cave, the same half-darkness with dim light falling on back-wall and on roof, the same sound travelling in from the sea. And Piaras – was he able to sit down or lie down on a floor so wet? And the noises – ‘drip, drip’ – Chinese torture – without rhythm and coming randomly from spots in the roof. And at night, without fire, heat or light for fear of it being detected from seaward, without food that was hot or drink that was hot, oh miserable! And with every new sound, increased anxiety that he would be found. Piaras was a special, unique man: strong in mind and with a deep trust in himself. After maybe half an hour I suppose, I left the cave and me very pleased indeed. Up with me to the ridge of the hill and home to the tent.

Slab
Two days after that, (the weather was too foul on the Monday), I paid my second visit to the cave. Under the light of a torch, I noticed that there were marks inscribed on the large slab that is in the cave.

Ten names ”cut” onto it – seven men (possibly James Dunlevy, Martin Kearny, P Dunlevy, S Tom and some other names that were not too clear) and three women: Eibhlín Ní Guithín, Mary Dunlevy and Mary Devane.

The number 1940 inscribed onto it as well. The only living creature I saw was a spider, a relation of the one mentioned by Piaras perhaps? I left my bottle under the dribbling water and out with me to the house of Peatí Dunlevy, to breakfast and to work. Strange was the feeling, to be going from a cave in which Peatí was in, in 1940 to his house, in the year 2011.

The morning after that , I collected my bottle from the cave and back with me again to the Dunlevy house. A sort of lonesomeness on me and me in the cave again.

Rubbings
On the Thursday, I went to the cave for the fourth time, this time to take a rubbing of the names that are on the slab. With me I brought a biro, a lead pencil and paper.

I made an attempt to take a rubbing. With the torch in my mouth, I used one hand to keep the paper on the slab and the other hand to take the rubbing; it wasn’t long before the tiredness was on the two hands. And I did not succeed in getting a clear representation either. I was under the pressure of time now, therefore I left the cave and went eastward directly; tough was the route that I picked and a hurry upon me – wet, very steep, dangerous.

I was in the Dunlevy cottage around ten, to help the family to get organised prior to their going home. With the coming in of the evening, they were drifting out to the slipway. And then they were gone.

I do always be a little sad when a person departs the slipway. An air of loneliness then comes upon the surroundings, I think. It was good to spend the evening with Donncha, the shepherd – a quiet, calm evening, the weather itself waiting for a storm. Conversation and a fine meal. Candle in the window and spots of light on the mainland. My tent reached and the moon in the sky and the lights of the boats at sea.

Storm
Awoke on Friday and it dry but windy outside. Would I be visiting the Cave today? I would not – the wind increased and thick rain began to hit the tent. Before long, the eastern corner of the tent was bowing before wind and filling with water. The worst weather in the Island so far, I think! A number of times I had to jump out of the tent to effect an urgent repair. With the coming of the evening, silence fell on the surroundings, not the silence of mist but the silence of stillness. A new day starting in the middle of the same day. The breaking of the waves and the bleating of the sheep coming into my hearing. My last stroll – to Ceann Dubh or Black Head. Enjoyable but with the shadow of crying over me during the walk; later, I prepared for the leaving the following day.

Departure
I departed on the Saturday, the twentieth day of August 2011, with my bottle of Cave water, with a souvenir stone from the floor and with a quietly-proud heart.

Farewell said to hill and to cliff, to gull and to sea, to rabbit and to rock; haversack on my back, another on my chest and other gear in my hands. I lifted foot upon foot: Croaghmore, The Mouth of the Sickening, The Fat Peak, the north path, the village. Tea and conversation with Donncha and Tomás. The slipway. The boat. The end.

© Lorcán Ó Cuinneagáin 2011

With thanks for any insight.

Kate Kearney