Traditions
of Omey Island
Family
names: Faherty, Toole, Mulkerin, Flaherty, King, Lacy, Kane, Bodkin
If the
tourist, who contemplates a journey through the majestic scenery which
intervenes between the towns of Clifden and Westport, consent to leave the
high-road after crossing the bridge of Streamstown, about a mile and a half from
the former place, and turn with us in a due westerly direction, we undertake to
conduct him along one of not, the least interesting bye-ways of the wild region
of West Connaught. The road lies for about two miles by the northern shore of
the narrow channel or inlet known as Streamstown bay, which indeed in some
places is scarcely a hundred yards across, and is frequently enclosed among
rugged and blackened rocks of huge dimensions. We pass the old church-yard of
Tempul Athdearg, or the church of the Red-ford; and a little further on, the
ruins of the old house or castle of Doon, which stands on our side of the
inlet, while on the other side of the water are the ruins of the ancient church
of Kill, covered with ivy. This inlet was once a favorite resort of smugglers,
and a good story is told of a contrivance by which they succeeded, on a certain
occasion, in escaping from the crew of a revenue cruiser who pursued them in
boats; a number of spade-handles having been so placed to resemble a formidable
array of muskets projecting from a steep bank, and the king’s people being
induced by these “threatening” preparations to make a rapid retreat to their
vessel.
At length we
obtain a view of the vast ocean, with the islands of Inisturk, Croagh, Omey,
and others, scattered over its bosom, and the grandeur of that prospects
compensates for the dreariness of the scene which immediately surrounds us;
although this same granite wilderness of Claddaghduff rivals for barrenness and
wretchedness any other spot in all Conamara. The road here deserts us at the
low beach from which, at ebb-tide, we may cross almost dry-shod to the once
famous island of Omey. But why do we call it famous? Can there be anything to
distinguish that flat unpicturesque abode of misery from any other spot in
which human wretchedness prevails along the most desolate tracts of the Irish
coast? We answer, yes: that poor unfavoured island in the remote west, nearly
half the surface of which is covered by a lough and spewy marsh, while the
other half is little better than drifting sand, the scanty vegetation on which
is frequently blasted by the “red wind” of the Atlantic—that island, we say,
has a history of its own. It was the “Imagia
insula” of the old Latin hagiologists, and was, as far as we know, the very
last spot in which paganism lingered in Ireland. In the latter half of the
seventh century, St. Feichin, the holy abbot of Fore, in Westmeath, found the
inhabitants of Omey still pagans, and encountered violent opposition from them
when building a monastery there, although he obtained the island from the good
King of Connaught, Guaire the Generous. We are not, however about to ransack
the pages of Colgan or Ussher for ancient references to Omey, but shall for the
present content ourselves with such incidents of its history as we find
preserved in the traditions of the islanders.
