Myths Of Great Britain.

[BIAD]

After my posting of Ireland's reports on strange animals living in the small lakes (loughs -pronounced 'Lock'), I found myself
pondering on this creature, a four-legged otter-like animal that doesn't fall into the 'water-monster' category as we usually
accept it.


The enigmatic Dobharchú.

It's called by the locals of Lough Mask (Lake Mask) the 'Dobharchú', their term for 'Water Hound' and despite the traditional
harmless aspects of the sightings we usually hear about, this beastie holds a feature that should make most monster-hunters
think twice before venturing out onto those remote bodies of water.

Just over the border of Northern Ireland, County Leitrim holds one of these -seemingly forsaken loughs known as Glendale Lake.
The narrow roads struggle to give an adventurous person a clear view due to the tangled and twisted trees that border the lough.
But just off the R280 road, there's a paved track that offers a scenic view of the cold peaty habitat of a monster that mad its way
into a ballad and a legend involving murder.
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On a bleak September morning of 1722, Grainne Ni Conalai (Grace Ni Conalai) was said to have went down to the lough's shore
to wash some clothes or as the old song suggests, bathe. After some time passed, Grace's husband -Traolach Mac Lochlainn,
went to see what was keeping his wife from returning to make their noon dinner and arriving at her usual place near the water,
found a ghastly sight before him.

Horrified at discovering Grace's mutilated body, Traolach was even more appaulled by what was lying on top of his beloved's torn
and bloody form. The beast lying asleep on her mangled breast was the Dobharchú and one of the few versions of this tale is that
Mr Mac Lochlainn drew a knife and stabbed the slumbering beast in the heart. In its death-throes, it is said that the creature cried
out in a forlorn whistle that caused its mate to emerge from the lough.

Not satisfied with the carnage at the water's edge, Traolach chased after the second Dobharchú until cornering it and delivering the
same rage its fellow-Water Hound had accepted for the killing of the man's wife. A chilling story, no...? but like many of these yarns,
there's always another way of telling it.

An alternative ending says that after Mr Mac Lochlainn returned to his home to retrieve a knife, several neighbours from the nearby
cottages came out and observed the slain Dobharchú's partner climbing out of its watery lair. With the small horrified  community
advising Traolach to flee the scene, he and a unnamed Blacksmith took to horseback and rode away with the inflamed Water Hound
in hot pursuit. 

Across the countryside they fled and realising the Dobharchú was not about to let-up on the chase, Traolach and his neighbour
devised a scheme as they arrived at the stone-remains of Cashelgarron stone fort, a ruin that still stands today nestled on a height
under the sheltering prow of Ben Bulben. Placing their horses across the doorway, the beast attempted to reach its prey by rushing
underneath the legs of their mounts, only to find the two men waiting with drawn daggers. The Dobharchú fell beneath the blows and
the lough of Glendale became the empty home of the fabled Water Hound.

Somewhere below that wind-swept rock formation lies the body of the Dobharchú alongside one of the horses killed during the attack.

Proof you say...?! Well, in the quiet Leitrim cemetery of Conwell, there's a well-worn moss-encrusted gravestone where Grainne Ni Conalai's
body lies that portrays her husband's vengeful act upon the beast.


Grainne Ni Conalai final resting place and the depiction of her husband's revenge. (Right) Ben Bulben.
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'By Glenade lake tradition tells, two hundred years ago
A thrilling scene enacted was to which, as years unflow,
Old men and women still relate, and while relating dread,
Some demon of its kind may yet be found within its bed.

It happened one McGloughlan lived close by the neighbouring shore,
A lovely spot, where fairies oft in rivalry wandered o'er,
A beauteous dell where prince and chief oft met in revelry
With Frenchmen bold and warriors old to hunt the wild boar, free.

He and his wife, Grace Connolly, lived there unknown to fame,
There, years in peace, until one day from out the lakes there came
What brought a change in all their home and prospects too.
The water fiend, the enchanted being, the dreaded Dobharchú.

It was on a bright September morn, the sun scarce mountain high,
No chill or damp was in the air, all nature seemed to vie
As if to render homage proud the cloudless sky above;
A day for mortals to discourse in luxury and love.

And whilst this gorgeous way of life in beauty did abound,
From out the vastness of the lake stole forth the water hound,
And seized for victim her who shared McGloughlan's bed and board;
His loving wife, his more than life, whom almost he adored.

She, having gone to bathe, it seems, within the water clear,
And not having returned when she might, her husband, fraught with fear,
Hasting to where he her might find, when oh, to his surprise,
Her mangled form, still bleeding warm, lay stretched before his eyes.

Upon her bosom, snow white once, but now besmeared with gore,
The Dobharchú reposing was, his surfeiting being o'er.
Her bowels and entrails all around tinged with a reddish hue:
'Oh, God', he cried, 'tis hard to bear but what am I to do?'

He prayed for strength, the fiend lay still, he tottered like a child,
The blood of life within his veins surged rapidly and wild.
One long lost glance at her he loved, then fast his footstps turned
To home, while all his pent up rage and passion fiercely burned.

He reached his house, he grasped his gun, which clenched with nerves of steel,
He backwards sped, upraising his arm and then one piercing, dying, squeal
Was heard upon the balmy air.  But hark!  What's that that came
One moment next from out of its depth as if revenge to claim!

The comrade of the dying fiend with whistles long and loud
Came nigh and nigher to the spot.  McGloughlin, growing cowed
Rushed to his home.  His neighbours called, their counsel asked,
And flight was what they bade him do at once, and not to wait till night.

He and his brother, a sturdy pair, as brothers true when tried,
Their horses took, their homes forsook and westward fast they did ride.
One dagger sharp and long each man had for protection too
Fast pursued by that fierce brute, the Whistling Dobharchú.

The rocks and dells rang with its yells, the eagles screamed in dread.
The ploughman left his horses alone, the fishes too, 'tis said,
Away from the mountain streams though far, went rushing to the sea;
And nature's laws did almost pause, for death or victory.

For twenty miles the gallant steeds the riders proudly bore
With mighty strain o'er hill and dale that ne'er was seen before.
The fiend, fast closing on their tracks, his dreaded cry more shrill;
'Twas brothers try, we'll do or die on Cashelgarron Hill.

Dismounting from their panting steeds they placed them one by one
Across the path in lengthways formed within the ancient dún,
And standing by the outermost horse awaiting for their foe
Their daggers raised, their nerves they braced to strike that fatal blow.

Not long to wait, for nose on trail the scenting hound arrived
And through the horses with a plunge to force himself he tried,
And just as through the outermost horse he plunged his head and foremost part,
Mc Gloughlans dagger to the hilt lay buried in his heart.

"Thank God, thank God", the brothers cried in wildness and delight,
Our humble home by Glenade lake shall shelter us tonight.
Be any doubt to what I write, go visit old Conwell,
There see the grave where sleeps the brave whose epitaph can tell.'
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