Rory's Boat

Launching the Currach by Paul Henry
This classic painting would have looked
different if the artist had met us on Aran

Rory O’Connor was a Clareman, the owner of a small bit of land, a dealer in donkeys or anything else that would turn a shilling, and one of the great characters of Doolin.

We were in our favourite haunt, Gus O’Connor’s pub, when Rory suddenly announced that "we" were going to the Aran Islands in the morning. It was not a question - he needed a boat and I had a currach (the regular ferry services were a thing of the future). He had a currach of his own, but it was one the many unused old boats permanently propped against the little wall above Doolin pier. It was years since any of them had made the short journey to the water and most of them would end their days in slow decay where they lay.

There was no arguing with Rory so we set off early the next morning. He had with him a large bundle of plastic sheeting and some rope, but he didn’t enlighten me as to its purpose. He said we had to call to Inis Mean on the way to collect a tackle he had bought for an ass. Inis Mean is a few miles past our destination, Inis Oirr, and obviously not “on the way”, but that’s where we headed. We landed on the middle island and walked the half mile up to the only pub on the island where we met a man and the deal for a donkey halter was concluded over a pint, then we set sail again, back to the small island. Halfway across the sound between the islands we came upon a few young lads in a currach, fishing. Of course, Rory knew them, he knew everyone. 

“Any few mackerel lads?”, he shouted.

“Any money, Rory?”

“Throw over the few fish - I'm good for the money.” Half a dozen fish were duly tossed over, there was no question of money.

We landed on the beach at Inis Oirr with our fish, hauled the small boat above the tide line and headed to the home of a friend where we were to stay the night. He was not at home but his daughter was in and Rory made straight for the kitchen like it was his own.

“Where's the frying pan?” he called out. “I want to cook these few fish.”

“Ah leave them there and I’ll cook them for you Rory,” she replied, the answer not unexpected. “Have you any few spuds to put down with them,” he asked ,“we’ll be back in a while,” and we made haste for the pub.

We returned to the house after a few pints and tucked into a fine feed of fish and potatoes and a big plate of buttered home-made soda bread. We stayed only as long as it took to satiate ourselves on this fine feast before heading back to the pub for the rest of the evening.

The next morning we set about Rory’s business - he was collecting a currach he had bought. I gasped when I saw it, this was no ordinary boat, it was rotten to the core with more holes than a bad argument. He was buying it for a man in Galway who wanted to hang it up outside a tourist castle and it cost Rory £5. The man who sold it would have paid us to take it away - he didn’t know it was worth £100 to the man in Galway. When I asked Rory why he hadn't sold his own old currach in Doolin, he told me the castle owner wanted  a total wreck. Perusing this purchase, I could see he was getting exactly what he wanted.

The purpose of the plastic was soon revealed and we began wrapping it round the old boat. This strange sight drew a crowd of locals who watched in amusement. “You’ll never make it to Doolin with that, Rory,” they laughed as we set out to sea, towing our pathetic packaged vessel out through the small waves.

We were lucky with the day, the sea was as calm as an indoor pond, and we landed without incident seven slow miles later at Doolin pier. We hauled the old currach up onto the slip, removed the plastic and I went to stow the covering in the car.
When I returned Rory was in animated conversation with a stranger. The man was from Dublin and laughing at the old wreck. Rory responded with great feigned anger: “What kind of a smart man are you at all, coming down from Dublin in your fancy car with your fancy talk and laughing at a poor man in the west of Ireland trying to make a living?”  Our diffident visitor didn’t know how to respond to this unexpected rage and timidly mentioned that the boat had more holes than a sieve.

“That’s a fishing boat,” said Rory, “and that boat is my livelihood. It’s an awful thing for you to be laughing at another man’s job. Sure isn’t that a great fishing boat - and you don’t even need a rod - the fish come straight up through the bottom,” Rory explained, his expression as grave as an undertaker.

The stranger hesitated, mindful of causing further offence, but was not convinced: “But the boat would fill up with water” he said, with some certainty.

“Arrah sure a lot you know about boats,” said Rory, “can't you see that big hole in the back where the water goes out!”

The man from Dublin knew when to call it quits, and he joined us for a much needed pint in O’Connor’s. Rory was buying.

© Ronan Quinlan 2012