Boyne Currach Heritage Group
Boyne Currach Heritage Group
​Seeking answers to Ireland's
​Ancient Maritime Questions
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The lament ...by JIP,                                   the currach maker's dog

29/10/2015

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As three currachs take shape in the shed it is hard not to lament, sometimes, for the traditional methods. Like the wheel wright telling the story about the countless generations who worked before him. The woven basket clad with leather, stands upright against the wall overseeing the new ways through the dust from rip-saw, that quickly dulls its once well waxed appeal. Time came and went, ripping slithers of oak to steam in a box until its nature is either tamed or broken. A blemish in its hundred years of growth is judged with scorn and discontent. The dust mounting beneath their feet as they work only gives me a comfortable place to lye in wait, anticipating my next swim while lamenting instead the days in the woods with the currach maker who returned home only when he had gathering enough  hazel wands from among the ivy-clad hills that led down to the river banks....lots of swimming then and sticks to fetch.  The smell of oak was always a welcome scent for me, the taste of things to come. Peeling bark from limbs ripped from great oak trees by sudden winds, piled high like an uncaring sandwich maker whose Sunday specials only derived from catering for night club hooligans or  institutionalised and industrial catering. And like the robin so quick to pick through the spoils collecting all the fat and juicy grubs within the bark layers, before the vegetarians had chance to complain. The butcher's van used arrive once the oak bark was broken and soaked. A steaming mass of flesh and fur was rolled onto the gravel for my taste buds to become over whelmed and my inner being reverts to a wolf. Blood dripping as the great hide of cow was draped across the old currach upon the currach maker's wooden bench and flint soon peeled away delicacies of fat and tissue that made the taste buds melt. Belly full, but still the bucket continues to over flow, just room occasionally to press my lips upon the plastic to taste the warm blood still dripping from the upturned beast. Lament indeed for the taste of oak soaked meat I stole from the currach maker after he went to bed and I, left to guard the newly fitted wet tanned hide still dripping of ooze and oak bark handleing. Cans of paint is no substitute for once such healthy juice and the broken slithers of hot steamy oak laths to chew, only to reminisce on good times when the flesh was real. Copper nails are a poor substitute for my master's strings cut enthusiastically from rawhide, cleaned of hair in the pit he filled with lime. My currach then was fitted with a woven seat on which I lay, idling in the summer sun between swims, as they paddled me from place to place. Oh! Lament indeed! What is to become of me, no hides to lick or freshly painted beef fat or fish oil to scrape and peel. The rats will laugh at me from outside the wall, no titbits left behind for them to risk a chase with in my domain. What use am I if rodent control is not my purpose in life. These currachs now have glue inside, and canvas replaces hide. Not fit for river rocks or fast flowing weirs, the boat wont last the rocks and he will soon return to real currach making and I will be back in business at again...... 

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Currach Build......

15/10/2015

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It was a great weekend, helped by the excellent weather. The sound of carpenters echoed from behind the wall as saws drills, chisels and planers began a symphony of music. Holger came with a simple plan from which he gave jobs to almost a dozen people who then repeated their jobs over and over again. Tony soon became a ghostly figure, as the white dust from his rip saw began to grow from his beard and face. Claudia was soon carving oar handles with the other  three, whose lengthy timbers became an obstacle course for anyone looking to leave. Be it Japanese saws or one of an array of old-fashioned planes, there was a job for everyone. All the while the hum of the planner kept people in tune with music. Tea breaks, lunch breaks, evening breaks, it all continued throughout the weekend. Then as minds collided in a mutual space, glue, screws and tacks had us all playing twister over and back. The currachs began to slowly appear from the laughter and crack. Steamed ribs are on the menu next time but for now its paint and oar making.....thanks so much Holger for imparting your knowledge and skills, and thanks everyone who came along, looking forward to the next weekend...!

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When in Spain.....

14/10/2015

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I had the privilege to talk about the boat project in Spain this week and to pose some questions to a group of druids who's accumulative knowledge caused me too often to feel over whelmed. Even before we got to the hotel, questions and locations about the Tievebulliagh porcellanite axe trade thousands of years ago had united the clanns from the North Atlantic once again. Everyone and every thing seemed so fluidal as if content to live in a gold fish bowl for at least a little while. The hotel was immaculate and staff quickly rolled and adjusted to fit the acquirements of English speakers, some of whom didn't eat meat, but nothing was a problem for these cool-living sun-worshippers. Friday began bright and early with a 9am kick  - speakers from six regions along the Atlantean façade presented their paper on various aspects of our Neolithic heritage. It was fascinating listening to all the speakers coming from very different angles yet all wanting to share in the dream of creating something special, a connection, a link with our neighbouring communities who share a common cultural heritage.
Saturday saw us out and about visiting the sites of Menga, Viera and Romeral in Antequera. Like long forgotten ancestors' houses that are still standing, waiting for their owners to return home, feats of plain and humble brilliance and through the millennia these passage tombs have been enveloped by the homes of their descendant's . If ever their was a location to house a world heritage site I think its here. On the tour that was given by a wise man from the local university who said all the things that I wanted to hear as we stood beneath a 120 tonne roof stone of Menga while peering down a 60 metre well shaft within the tomb itself. Predominantly once surrounded by hazel and scrub, it is now an olive tree plantation. I walked about picking up seashells and pottery scraps that had been distributed along the decorative lines made all around the hills by armies of ants. I wanted to take my boat and throw it into the closest sea and begin the voyage that they began 6,000 years ago, home to my neighbour's palace, called Brú, or more recently named the monastic town land of Newgrange.
'Wow!' to the knowledge freely shared and friendships made from the North of Orkney to the Mediterranean coast. The sauce thickens, at this rate we will be so enlightened from aged knowledge that I might take to walking across to Iberia, I know a friend that can part a few waves and perhaps leave the 'ould' boat at home,....thanks guys for a great weekend!
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    Claidhbh Ó Gibne

    An artist and currach-maker whose studio and home are located among the remnants of countless monuments in the Brú na Bóinne World Heritage Park.

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