Omnibus – Mrs Brown’s granda and Lough Hacket

DIDâ€Ë†YOUâ€Ë†ever feel like a complete eejit? Once in a while you did, Iâ€â„¢m sure. I certainly did last week when this column was well ensconced on the printed page, out there beyond the point of rescue, free to view by all and sundry. The subject was Michael McHugh of Caherlistrane, who left his employment in this newspaper in 1900 and went on to the Freemanâ€â„¢s Journal in Dublin. He was in Michael Collinsâ€â„¢s inner circle and had numerous close calls during the War of Independence and the Civil War. What I forgot to mention is what would be most important about Michael McHugh to most readers â€â€ he was the grandfather of Mrs Brown, she of Mrs Brownâ€â„¢s Boys. By whom I mean the comedian Brendan Oâ€â„¢Carroll. He is the son of the late Labour TD Maureen Oâ€â„¢Carroll, the first woman ever to take a seat for the party in the Dáil. Out in Caherlistrane right now they are preparing for their Gathering celebrations which take place from August 18 to 25, and they have invited Brendan Oâ€â„¢Carroll to be the Grand Master of their Gathering Parade on Sunday August 18. I hope he can make it. Anyway, back to Mrs Brownâ€â„¢s granda. I mentioned last week that Michael McHugh was a local historian, a republican, and a bit of a poet. In The Tuam Herald of January 10, 1891, was published a column by him which consisted of a historical sketch of the parish of Caherlistrane, concluding with a poem telling the legend of Lough Hacket, the only lake in the parish: The sun was slowly sinking in the west, On a pleasant eve in May, As a young woman to the spring, with a pitcher made her way. She runs along, great haste she shows, The sweat starts on her neat brow. But she cares not if sheâ€â„¢s not seen By a human being now. Her babe was born two days ago, Her husband is now from home, For him she can no meal prepare, Until water in does come. And she has not before a priest, Yet knelt, since that trying hour, Therefore she cannot go to work, Til relieved by divine power. The people round would prate, she thinks, If they saw her out of doors, So in the darkness she goes forth, And in the pitcher water pours. The spring is covered by a slab, â€â„¢Tis raised and the pitcher lowered, â€â„¢Tis filled and then she draws it forth, And moves on without a word. The slabâ€â„¢s unturned, the springâ€â„¢s uncovered, The water rises high and fast, That night the place was flooded oâ€â„¢er, That night the slab was seen last. For never since there could be found The stone by which the well was closed. And ever since the well around, A lake exists: My storyâ€â„¢s told. That is an interesting composition, and not just because it tells the legend of Lough Hacket originating in an over-flowing spring â€â€ which it must do, because no river flows into it, to the best of my knowledge. But why was the young mother going out under cover of darkness, two days after the birth of her child? It was because she had not been â€Å“churchedâ€Â, a practice of the Catholic Church which is still in living memory. This was inspired by the Jewish rite of purification after birth, although why such a natural and necessary function as giving birth should imply impurity is beyond me. In Ireland during more superstitious times a woman who had not been churched was considered attractive to the fairies, and might be stolen. So presumably the flooding of the area around Lough Hacket was blamed on a woman. As usual. â€â€ David Burke