I do not particularly like being transported on water, it must be something about the loss of control, the motion of the water worries me. I’ve always felt that way and I’m not likely to change. Thus having decided to join the 400th anniversary walk of the O’Sullivan Bere 1602/3 March from Beara to Leitrim, it was decision time! The organisers had arranged a curragh crossing of the Shannon near Redwood in North Tipperary, at what is believed to be the original crossing point, and I as a core group walker, was afforded the opportunity to cross the river in a curragh.

It was an opportunity that could not be missed, and so, on a windswept dry crisp January morning we gathered at the river bank in anticipation. Within the hazel and whitethorn trees a local farmer was wintering adult cattle, some of which had horns, a rare sight today. One animal with Whitehead breeding, had one horn pointing up with the other down, thus prompting a comparison to Donal Cam O’Sullivan, who, it is alleged, held one shoulder high. The cattle, with their coats ruffled by the northerly wind, stood in a scene devoid of modern influence, the only blemish being their yellow plastic identity tags.

The crossing point chosen was a bank to bank crossing, with no jetties, embarking steps or modern aids. The 2003 curragh, built for the occasion, was of a size to be rowed by two oarsmen carrying two passengers, one fore and one aft. O’Sullivan Bere’s boat was considerably bigger, as dimensions are quoted in written accounts, however, how and by whom they were measured and recorded is not ! Two boats were built for the original crossing, a curragh in Dursey Island style and a coracle in the Connaught tradition. The timber frames, crafted from riverbank trees with whatever implements were available, were covered with the hides of eleven horses and one horse respectively.

Niall Twomey and I were chosen for the second crossing. Thus fully dressed for the freezing temperatures, (the battery of my camera failed to operate, such was the cold), be-hatted and be-gloved, we waited for our call from the last dry patch of the semi-frozen callow land. The curragh approached on the return leg of the first crossing, with Paddy and Frank, our oarsmen, wearing capes reflecting the garments of earlier times over their life jackets. Using my experience of boyhood days in a West Cork farm, I ran to the bank from one tussock to the next, in a zig-zag pattern to the sound of crunching ice. One of our fields at home was wet, uneven and dark-soiled, and thus named “An Manntan Dubh”. Changing land ownership and modern farming methods using square paddocks will result in a loss of a great store of local history and folklore.