GRANDMOTHER AND THE PIGS

     When I was a youngster, about age 16, my cousin Johnny Kenny told me that our grandmother (my paternal great-grandmother) used to herd pigs on the hills above Iskaheen. I imagined this somewhat to be somewhat like Heidi in the Alps, taking her goats up the mountain in the morning and returning home in the evening. And I had imaginative pictures in my mind of herds of pigs being followed around the hillsides all day by picturesque Irish maidens. But now I know the real story.

     Charles McGlinchey in his book of tales, "The Last of the Name" describes the practice: "In my grandfather's time, that would be about 1800 or thereabouts, people in the different parts of the parish used to take their cattle and pigs to the mountains for the summer months. It was only the women and children went, and Patrick's Day was the time for setting out. They built huts to live in called bothogs and the remains of these bothogs and some old pig houses can be seen about the hills yet [1940s]. There is a place in Clofin bog called the bothogs and it was there that the people from that part took their cattle. William Grant's grandmother [not our Grants] was born in one of these bothogs in Clofin."

     Above is a year 2000 view to the Northwest of Iskaheen, into the hills or "mountains" where my great grandmother may have summered her pigs.

     A short one half mile or so away from the first picture is St Patrick's Church and cemetery at Iskaheen. Here my great grandfather Frances is probably buried, as is Eugene, Son of Niall of the Nine Hostages. The plaque on the cemetery wall reads: "Eoghan, Prince of Iniseoghain, Son of Niall of the Nine Hostages. Died 465 of grief for his brother Conall. Baptised by Patrick and buried in Uisce Chaoin."
                                                                                                                                       Roger Doherty

THE LAST OF THE NAME by Charles McGlinchey. 1986

     In great luck, I recently found a used, water stained copy of The Last of the Name, by Charles McGlinchey of Clonmany in Inishowen. McGlinchey was born here in 1861, a short eight years before my grandfather's birth in nearby Iskaheen. A weaver and story teller, McGlinchey's chronicles of everyday life in Inishowen has helped me to understand my grandparents and others of their cohort. There is a warm feeling to read the continual references to Dohertys and McLaughlins that stream through this book. The book, first published in 1986, is a good and quick read, and I hope all of my relatives will obtain a copy for their libraries. Here are a couple of excerts:
     "It was a common thing to walk to Derry in times ago and people thought nothing of it. I heard of a Clonmany woman heading for Derry up over Pinch one morning and she fell  in with a banvil [group] of men cutting turf about Lagsalach. She told them her errand was to get a pair of shears. One of them said he'd lend her a pair, but she said when she was that far she'd go on. She was a mile from home at that time and had the best part of thirty in front of her. She was back with the shears before the men stopped cutting that evening. But all the women weren't as far travelled. Some of them never left the townland they were reared in unless to go to chapel. There was a woman from Altahall one time and she got to the top of Pinch. She saw the Swilly and the hills of Fanad beyond. She says, 'Who would think the world was so big? And there's America lying over there, you that broke many a mother's heart'."
And:
     "But my time on this world must be getting short. The people I knew and grew up along with are nearly all gone before me. Over our grave there was always an old quarry flag, but it was getting sunk in the ground with grass growing over it. So ten or twelve years ago I gave an order for a new one to Owen Roddy.The making of it cost 5 pounds, but I was out the best part of 6 pounds to get it erected, with the price of drink and all. A pound doesn't go far on drink these times.
     So, whenever I die, they will know where to bury me. And after my day the grave will not be opened again, for I'm the last of the name. And when I do go and fall in with Paddy Mor Roddy and Ogaster and Eibhlin O Kerrigan and all the rest, sure I'll be no stranger to them."

Charles McGlinchy died in 1954, at age 94.
                                                                                                                                        Roger Doherty