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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