One for Saint Patrick's Day.....

The Pouca..........

I have been living in London for the past fifty years.   The previous twenty-five were spent in Ireland where I was born.   I identify myself as a ‘Wicklow man’ after my home county of which there are thirty-two in all Ireland, six of which are in Northern Ireland – part of the United Kingdom.   Wicklow is on the east coast of Ireland, south of Dublin..

Here in London, I regularly watch BBC morning television and due to my outdoor pursuits, I take a keen interest in the Weather Forecast.   The display maps regularly include Ireland.......................

Over the years, as the maps became more detailed, I began to notice a large dark ‘spot’ in the centre of County Wicklow close to my home town.   It dawned on me that it was in fact a large reservoir and I remembered that it was called a peculiar name:  Poulaphouca (officially Pollaphuca).  

The name in Gaelic means ‘the Pouca’s Hole’ and was in fact a waterfall near where the River Liffey rises in the Wicklow Hills.   It is now hardly a trickle as a large hydroelectric generating station was built, the river blocked and a large reservoir created.

Upon this realisation, memories began to come to mind and this opened up some weird, yet wonderful times of stories and events from my childhood.

You see, the Pouca, (or Phuca in Gaelic), is one of those fairy like creatures with whom some Irish country folk either have a love, fear or hate relationship.   I have no doubt that still continues in some parts of the countryside......

My mother, (God rest her), was a country girl and very superstitious all her life until the day she died.   She believed in fairies, banshees and everything else under the sun..........

The Pouca was one that regularly came up towards Autumn when white froth would appear on over-ripe blackberries.   She would not allow us children to eat them for fear of ‘the pouca’s spit’ which she claimed could cause you all sorts of ailments.   In other places the froth is known as ‘Devil’s spit’.

The strange thing about the Pouca is that in different parts of the country, it was believed to be in various degrees, kind, helpful, vengeful or evil and cruel.

I suppose that it goes back to the story-telling times when the story being told depended on what humour the story teller was in at that time.

The art of story-telling, the tellers being known as ‘Seanachies’, goes way back in Irish folklore and were what many will think of as Bards and singers in the High Kings court.   They would tell of heroics, wars, loves and in many forms be it song, poetry or story.

Some of the ‘Seanachies’, the more modern type of wanderers, could frighten the life out of children whilst on the other hand, like my Granddad Gorman, the story could become wonderful, loving, funny and to be treasured throughout one’s lifetime.

He told a wonderful story about the Pouca and although it was told to me nearly seventy years ago, I remember it clearly and still treasure the memory.

In County Laois, where my Granddad lived, the Pouca was known as ‘the farmers’ friend’ and if you were kind to him, he would repay you with helpful deeds one hundred fold.

The story goes something like this:  

Patrick was the son of a miller and worked hard throughout his young life.   One day he felt the existance of a pouca close by in the mill.   As the day was cold and frosty, he called after the ‘presence’, ‘Do you want to wear a coat?’   Suddenly the pouca appeared closeby  in  the  form  of a small leprechaun.

He told Patrick to come to the mill at midnight and not to tell anyone of what he had seen.    Patrick did what he was told but feeling very tired after a hard day’s work, he fell asleep on some sacks of flour.

When he awoke, he saw that the entire stock of corn had been milled to the highest quality flour and sacked up ready for sale.

The following night, Patrick again went to the mill but had made up his mind that this time he would stay awake and see what happened.   This he did by hiding in a wooden chest and watching throughout the night.

Much to Patrick’s amazement, a group of poucas appeared and were doing all the milling.  Some were dusted with flour, others sneezing but all working steadily until the entire stock was also milled to perfection.  This continued nightly throughout the autumn for over a month.

Patrick’s father was delighted and between himself and Patrick, they presented the pouca with a beautiful fine green silk suit.    No sooner had the pouca dressed himself to his satisfaction he announced ‘Sorry lads, but we’re now off to see a little of the world’.  (A sentiment echoed by tens of thousands of Irishmen and women, including yours truly, since).

Because of all the riches his father now had from the milled corn this  enabled Patrick to be sent to one of the finest schools in all Ireland.

The pouca did not forget for one moment the kindness Patrick had shown to him on that frosty day by giving him the coat, when Patrick got married, the pouca left a pouch of gold coins and a golden cup filled with drink to ensure the couples happiness for the rest of their lives.

And so, I hope you now see how a dot on a weather map in cold wintry London started a chain reaction, reminding me of something which may well have slipped my memory for some time, but was never, ever forgotten........

Have a great St.Patricks evening - and have a drink for me....................Mike.

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