Boyne Currach Heritage Group
Boyne Currach Heritage Group
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​Ancient Maritime Questions
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Fleshing with Flint

16/11/2014

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Its been some time since a raw hide was delivered to the door of the Boyne Currach workshop, once the butcher agreed for posterity sake that the recording of how to make a Stone Age currach was a worth wile project to be pursued. Indeed the dog looked forward to his new friends arriving again this weekend to play cute and cuddly kitten around the legs of the volunteers as they worked. A totally different approach than that of the well loved Jack Russell  who took on a more wolf like approach to guard his over sized dinner some years back. That was almost twenty years ago when I made my first successful attempt at traditional boat making, when the air by the river was filled with the minty aroma of temptuous love. The boat was a craftsman's dream come true and after learning how to skull the boat, I set out on a 75 mile journey from the source to sea of our little river. I ditched the dog for some far better company by way of my new companion who was keen to accept the offer of a picnic deep down in the slumbering waters of Glenmore. So after the Russell was distracted, we made our escape to the river and floated away in his boat, pleased, for a time at least, to be without him. I sculled as my partner sat back to enjoy the scenery but eventually tiring of talking to my buttocks she and I sat up on the seat together to paddle. The over hanging branches gave off a cool and relaxing atmosphere in which to enjoy the deepest stretch of the water and far away from the walkers and fishermen that appeared occasionally along the rampart over the other side. Just then my partner drew my attention to a hair thin spout of water springing up between her legs. I laughed with embarrassment and began passing it off as the place where the knife carved too deeply into the flesh while fleshing the hide. And on saying that, I reached down to put my finger over the squirt of water. Just then I slipped and my finger drove through the once hair pricked hole to create a torrent of water pouring into the craft. In a panic I pushed my finger back into the hole and with my head firmly placed on my partner's lap, I roared "PADDLE!". It  was the longest and most difficult journey I ever had to undertake and with our zig-zag manoeuvres, attempting to get to the other side of the river, as the boat was slowly filling up. But it taught me a good lesson: never to cut too deep when fleshing........

This time around no knives have appeared at the table, instead only the flint shards knapped from stones a fortnight before. The hide dangled down from being draped over an existing leather currach to help us stretch it into the correct shape. The flint, once you got used to it, cleaned fat and tissue far closer to the skin than I would have ever risked with a knife, the trick of course was to grow a long thumb nail so as to be able to trap the filament of tissues between your thumb nail and fore finger, allowing you to pull as you scrape. By the end of a long day we were finished, the only thing left was to bury the bones as a project for another day. We sailed to Wales in our conversations and the smell..... well it left as soon as we forgot it was there.  

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Fooled by Mice.....

3/11/2014

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Proud of how many hazel trees grew from last years stash, I was keen to get to the woods again this year and pick the fallen nuts from beneath the hazel trees. The mud from the rutting stage deer was splattered across the ivy blanket in a clear statement to say that he still lives here. A beautiful old hazel wood hidden between the hills and surrounding woods, indeed it wasn't so many years ago that I thought this was the perfect place to pitch the tent with the children and enjoy a weekend while my wife was away. The wind was howling and the old trees were cracking and creaking as we fought to put up the tent, but as the night closed in, the wind settled down, giving us a view of a perfect full moon that rose above the ploughed hills that surrounded us. With the fire lit and tent secured all that was left was to cook some food and enjoy the night. But my youngest son, for reasons later told, was staying terribly close and was freaking at the slightest sound out beyond the little stream the ran through the wooded grove.

As the night went on, the older lads were keen to sleep after a long day, but my youngest refused, wanting instead to keep the fire lighting. Eventually, tired myself, I was keen to put my head down by the fire and I began to ready the place, I was looking forward to sleep. But he still wasn't moving. It was then that the story was told; a few nights previous, while we were busy in conversation in the kitchen visiting a friend, his daughter had put on a movie for the lads to watch in the other room. It had scared him lifeless and was convinced that things called reevers were hiding behind every tree. The picture of these half dead humans were so vivid in his mind that I had to call a halt to his stories before he had us all seeing them moving in the woods. Eventually they were all sleeping and I was left alone by the fire to treasure the night. It must have been an hour since they had turned in when suddenly the snapping of twigs drew my attention to something moving on the other side of the stream. Then there was another sound and they seemed to been coming right toward us. I leapt up and pointed the little light in the same direction as the noise was coming from. It stopped suddenly. I moved the light from tree to tree to see if I could catch sight of what was out there, when a little voice whispered from out through the wall of the tent, “Are you looking for reevers Daddy?” “No I'm not! Go to sleep!” I never heard another thing after that and after a welcome lie in the next morning, we packed up the tent and was about to head for home, but the reevers were still alive out there in all our imaginations. We crossed the stream and a little distance into the hazel wood, there we found the reever's den; a mud pool with freshly splattered mud lining the surrounding trees. The stag had passed us in the night, I'm sure he thought we were a bit cheeky to have parked so close to his favourite bathing place while the rutting season was in full swing.

One thing that has always puzzled me about hazel woods was that while so many nuts litter the earth beneath the tree, no new hazel shrubs ever get to grow. Any other tree has a nursery of young trees growing within its reach given a chance, but the hazel seems happy to be without all the hassle of younger trees growing about. But the guilt wasn't enough to stop me picking and before an hour had passed the shopping bag was full of nuts, as was the bag of my friends. On returning home the question was still hot in my mind as to why so many nuts and so few new trees in comparison and after a quick look on the internet, we found that if you empty the hazel nuts into a bucket of water, the good nuts sink and the duds float. Alarm bells began to ring as I thought I was being very smart collecting the hazel nuts which had been caught in the stream thinking the smart mice hadn't ventured in this far to gather their winter's stash. When the wheelbarrow was full of water we emptied the bag into it and would you believe it? They nearly all bloody floated, out-witted by a mouse or a wood full of them.... how do they know which to leave behind for mugs like myself? It turned out that the trees which I had planted years ago out side my back door had good nuts so the old saying 'Is glaise iad na chnoic i bhfad uainn' comes to mind (The far off fields are green!)I picked what was closest to me......a lesson well learnt. 


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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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