The joys of kayaking around Lough Ramor

Cavanman's Diary

I was once described as notionate. I’m not sure if this hiberno-English sounding expression is even a legitimate word – spell check says no but I’ve heard it and used it myself so I am saying yes – but I liked it anyway. As the years have gone on, I have worn the description like a badge of honour.

There have been many passing fads. Some, like golf, have endured. Others, like table tennis, come and go.

Last summer, I dabbled in table tennis a lot. I got a table as a present and started playing games against my friend, who fancied himself as a sort of prince of the paddle.

In the end, my interest fizzled out a little. Competition was too limited. I only played against two others and I soon came to the realisation that either the three of us were world class or bang average. It was impossible to say.

The beauty – and the horror, depending if you were on the receiving end or not – of having such a small pool of competitors was that one of us would learn a new shot, say, or a fancy serve – either copied from YouTube or improvised on the spot – and it would prove a game-changer. The others would take weeks to catch up.

With the lockdown and the cold weather, my ping pong career was put on hold although I’m sure the table will come out again in the next month or so.

My latest craze is kayaking. Back in January, on a whim, I bought two kayaks online. They were delivered by a company from Waterford. I was going to buy one but wisely, in hindsight, realised that unless I had a comrade with me on the water, I’d soon get bored of it. So I purchased two, a major undertaking for a skinflint such as myself.

The day they arrived, I was giddy with excitement. I went down to the lake and found it frozen over. No matter, out I went, crunching through the ice like Shackleton.

Before this latest fad, my experience of kayaking was limited to a couple of tries while on holidays. Regular readers will not be surprised to know that am I now, having been out half a dozen times, something of an authority on this hobby. I study the wind charts and know my knots from my metres per second ratio. Where once I was an expert on porter and starbars, now I know my port from my starboard and everything in between.

My kayaks are of the sit-on variety which means that you will get wet. There is no getting away from this. I bought protective gear which claimed, on the packet, to be 100pc waterproof. Was this false advertising? Technically, probably not. The clothes themselves probably are 100pc waterproof; that doesn’t mean that the person inside them doesn’t get soaked to the skin.

Anyway, having dipped my toe in it on that freezing day, literally, I plunged in headfirst. Unfortunately, I am again speaking literally here, as I will get to.

A week or two after that first foray, I went out with my wife and we began to explore the many picturesque islands.

Before this, I knew little about Lough Ramor. I looked at it every day but I may as well have been watching on television. And now here I was, in the middle of it. It was a liberating feeling.

Sacred place

What I did know about the lake is that it is something of a sacred place. An article in the Breifny Antiquarian Society Journal from 1920 states that “while the present town of Virginia, neatly situated on the wooded shores of beautiful Lough Ramor does not possess any features of historical interest before the 17th century since its foundation was consequent to the plantation of Ulster, yet Lough Ramor itself and its immediate neighbourhood, from the many references in the older Annals and Manuscripts, seems to have been of great historical importance from the earliest times.”

The lake is about five miles long and a mile or so wide. There are over 30 islands, each with their own name. There is Illinakirka island, Stony Island, Ballaghnea Island, Sloe Island, Scrabby Island and many more with intriguing titles.

I’d say by now I have walked on about 10 or so, big and small. I have kayaked the length of the lake, stopping randomly here and there to explore another island. It is an exhilarating break from the norm at the moment.

What’s it like viewed from out there, on the islands? Quiet, mainly. I wrote before in this column about my friend, the heron, and how he stands motionless on the Blackwater, awaiting his lunch. I was surprised to find that, out on the lake itself, you don’t see that many, although there are lots of ducks, swans and what I have learned are black-headed gulls.

There is something mesmerising about it all. Dean Swift is said to have completed Gulliver’s Travels while sitting on a pier at the lake. I could empathise when I too was shipwrecked. Below Glanbia, a wave blindsided me and I capsized. Thankfully, I was close enough to the shore to make my way in without incident but I can imagine it must have been quite a sight for anyone looking down from the offices.

The islands themselves are beautiful although on some of them, there is litter. Some disgusting people have been out there and left rubbish behind them. And I don’t just mean a small amount – there is enough to fill a few bin bags on one of the islands, while a couple have dilapidated tents and the remains of campfires. One even had a clothesline.

Woodward’s Island is possibly the most picturesque and the one that passing motorists will be familiar with from driving past on the M3.

In the early 1800s, a magnificent brooch was found on the shore near here. It was forged over 1,000 years ago, belonging to the same era as the Book of Kells. It is now commemorated by a piece of art at the junction with the Bailieborough road in the town. Who found it back then, God knows; nowadays, it is housed in the National Museum of Ireland although it was displayed in the County Museum in Ballyjamesduff for a few days back in 2012.

In 1938, a Mrs J Brady from Lislea told a folklore collector, Maureen O’Connell, about Woodward’s Island.

“About 20 perches from the northern shore of Lough Ramor lies what is commonly known as 'Tighes Island' or 'Woodworth's [sic] Island'. There is a raised causeway approaching this isolation about two or three feet beneath the water so that it can in dry weather, be reached on foot.

“It is believed that a monastery once stood on the island, the ruins of which still remain. Many stories are told about this ruin. It is said it was raided by the Danes who came up the Boyne to Navan and reached the island from the Blackwater river.

“It is also said that robbers from the mainland gained access to the monastery by a clever ruse. The retreat stood in the centre of the island, which is about an acre in extent. There was also a cemetery on this island and corpses from the mainland were left on the shore and taken over by the monks in a boat or burial.

“The robbers planned to put a live man in a coffin and leave him on the shore to be taken over for ‘burial’. The coffin was placed in the chapel during the night, and the supposed corpse escaped from his hiding-place and robbed the monastery while the monks slept. The robbers divided the spoils in a field in Drumaheel, which is supposed to be cursed.”

There are many such references in the archives and I’m sure there are locals with a vast knowledge of the lake and its surrounding area. If you have any folklore or interesting tidbits, do let us know.