North Leitrim is a hidden gem

Cavanman's Diary

A few hours into a weekend in north Leitrim and a native told me something interesting. The schools football team, St Clare’s in Manorhamilton, had enjoyed a brilliant extra-time win in an All-Ireland final against Clare opposition in Tuam earlier that day and, inspired by the obvious effect this had on the locals, I asked a dangerous question: “Which part of the county is stronger in football, north or south?”

“Well,” said the man, “in a lot of ways, they are two different counties anyway.”

He went on to tell me that it was impossible – or almost impossible, anyway – to travel by land from north to south Leitrim, or vice versa, without entering a different county along the way. The county is shaped sort of like an egg timer, with Lough Allen dissecting the centre – and I was embarrassed not to know it already.

Would this claim stand up to scrutiny? I investigated further, like a cop, and, lo and behold, his story checked out and he was free to go. Only, there wasn’t anywhere for him to go, only down, as we stood on top of a ridge over-looking Glencar lake on the Leitrim-Sligo border, its blue water shimmering and glorious in the March sunshine.

To my shame, it was my first time staying in this beautiful part of the world and, with respect to Donegal and Kerry and Connemara, and bearing in mind how lucky we were with the weather, for me, nothing else compares.

I imagine this area is unique. Why it is not mobbed with tourists, I do not know - but it’s all the better for it. We toured around various villages in this deeply rural hinterland; at times, I had the sense of driving through a forest, only with frequent clearings. Narrow roads, deep lakes, mountains standing sentry on all sides.

“This is sheep country,” explained a kindly lady we met while out walking. She wasn’t giving much else away, though.

“Where do we go when we reach the end of the trail?” we wondered. “That’s up to you,” she grinned, like someone keeping a secret. What was the secret? The whole place, I liked to think.

“Sure we might see you on the way back,” I suggested, by way of farewell. “You might…” she replied coyly.

We carried on. Deserted farmer’s cottages were plentiful (although a fair proportion have been restored) and countless fallen trees after the recent storms. There were also some old ‘big houses’ which surely had some interesting tales to tell.

I stopped at a shop along the way. Dim lighting, a buzzing fridge, the counter unmanned. From the backroom, I could hear the Ireland v France rugby match on the television.

The owner emerged with a warm welcome, accompanied by a friendly collie, who promptly plonked his giant paws on the counter.

“How’s the match going?” I asked.

“Don’t even ashk!” the lady proclaimed in mock horror.

The dog, she said, was acting funny because there was a bitch in heat up the town. I sensed this was an event of minor importance.

We went to Kiltyclogher, a sleepy, picturesque village with an impressive statue of Sean Mac Diarmada in its centre and a curious old tailor’s shop with an ancient sign. We checked out Rossinver and crossed the county boundary into Garrison, Co Fermanagh, where a long jetty stretches out like an extended arm into the expanses of Lough Melvin.

Manorhamilton is a lovely town, full of history.

A castle, dating from 1634, still stands and from there, the oldest part of the town flowed.

Its old handball alley, which naturally held a magnetic appeal for me, was constructed nearly 100 years ago adjacent to Bee Park, with local men quarrying the stone themselves and drawing it with horses and carts. I sought out the open-air alley as soon as we arrived and was delighted to see it being used.

Before the plantations, the place was known as Cluainín Uí Ruairc (“little meadow of O’Rourke”); in latter times, the Uí Ruairc part has unfortunately been dropped; maybe some official will bring it back.

Dehydrated from our exertions, before leaving, we stopped in the charming Gurn’s Bar to soak up the trad music and sample what could be the best pint of Guinness in Ireland.

Before leaving, our local guide brought us to Kinlough, straddling the border with Donegal and Fermanagh. Its Irish name is Cionn Locha, meaning ‘head of the lake’, which makes perfect sense. Another lovely, quiet smallish town, the Donegal lilt creeping in.

There is something head-spinningly alluring about discovering a new place which is so close to home yet so different. I found I was almost child-like in my enthusiasm (note earlier reference to handball alley) as we traversed the hills and valleys.

Aside from the geographical features, which have a ruggedness verging on harshness, the landscape is littered with some tiny, two-teacher schools and 19th century churches , several of them lovingly restored (Ballaghameehan Church a great example). St Aidan and St Mogue are the patron saints of many of these; interestingly, research has shown they were the same person, Mogue a derivative of Mo Aodh Óg (my young Hugh). He was born in Templeport, spent time spreading the good word in Wales, was the first Bishop of Ferns and founded 30 churches.

Things have changed since then but, wandering the trails of the breathtaking Glenaniff, one would wonder how much. There are few unspoiled parts of this island remaining; north Leitrim, Ireland’s hidden gem, is one. Part of me feels guilty breaking confidence and letting you in on it – but I know you won’t tell anyone anyway.

Fifteen-hundred or so years on, Mogue has another convert...