Whereas mention of Zebra Mussels is enough to raise fears of the horrors they cause in freshwater rivers and lakes, the thought that they can pose a threat to such a lovely body of water as Lough Gill is particularly disturbing, not only to inhabitants of the town of Sligo who are dependent on the lake for much of their water supply, but also to one who paid a memorable a visit to Innisfree over fifty years ago.

Should the mussels clog the water intake pipes, the cost to the people of Sligo could be huge. An artificial water shortage could be created. Infrastructure repairs could be horribly expensive.

According to the newspaper article it is estimated that there could be 10 billion of the foreign invaders in the lake within three years.

In Canada and the United States, environmentalists and scientists have warned of the threat posed by a Zebra Mussel infestation already spreading throughout the Great Lakes.

It is a well known thing that William Butler Yeats, through his poem “The lake Isle of Innisfree”, has made Lough Gill a compulsory stop for tourists in recent years. There are conducted river boat tours, not to mention tourism busses carrying legions of what once were disparagingly called “culture vultures”. That was not the case in the early 1950s. It certainly wasn’t the case the day I essayed my first boat trip.

That was one of those glorious August days that bless the western seaboard of Ireland when there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun shines from early morning until nine or ten o’clock, before sinking slowly below the rim of the Atlantic, and in its sinking creates sunsets beautiful beyond words.

It was my brother Brian who hauled me off to the Garavogue River which empties into the self-same Atlantic at the Port of Sligo. The Garavogue is not a big river, but it is the link between the town and Lough Gill, and in those days you could hire a rowboat for a day and make your own way upstream.

I had never been in a boat of any kind, and to be made sit on a hard wood plank, facing backwards, and to be handed a pair of oars and told to start rowing, wasn’t entirely my idea of fun. And I had no notion of my brother’s abilities either.

Somehow we managed to get away from the mooring (for the benefit of all you dry land morons, a mooring is a sort of a parking place for boats), and out into the middle of the river. Sure you would have thought we were born to it!

But before we left sight of the town we had our first mishap. We ran aground. I have mentioned that the Garavogue is not a big river. I should also have mentioned that it is not a very deep river. In fact it is a very shallow river, at least in places, and we had found one of them. I suppose that comes from turning your back to where you are going.

Things didn’t look too good. I couldn’t swim, and that made them look worse. I nearly panicked.

But Brian calmed me down. “Look down,” says he. “You can’t drown in twelve inches of water!”

I looked, and sure enough that’s about all there was.

By dint of shoving, and poking, and prodding we got the damn boat off the rocky shoal, and it was back to the oars for both of us.

In no time I had blisters on my hands, sunburn on my face, and my rear end—well, I won’t say how it felt. This was fun? This was recreation? This was how other people enjoyed a sunny day on the river? As far as I was concerned, they were welcome to it.

Then, without realizing it, we were there. In Lough Gill. All the hard work had paid off. We were out of the river’s flow and could take it easy. Which we did.

Then my brother said “That’s enough. Lets get going again.” It was good that his back was to me and couldn’t see the look on my face.

To make a long row short, we continued until we reached a spot on the lake shore where there was the historic Tobernalt Holy Well. It was better known than Innisfree at the time, and attracted devout people from all arts and parts. There they said prayers, enjoyed the lake view, and took home a bottle of water from the well. There were devout people in Ireland in those days, some even in County Sligo. I make this admission as a Donegal man, and one who regularly attended the annual pilgrimage to Saint Patrick’s Well on the north side of the Erne estuary, at the spot where the saint reputedly first stepped ashore on a mission to convert my ancestors.

I digress. Returning to the twentieth century, the photograph below of myself in the row boat on the shore of Lough Gill is testimony to that trip on that glorious sunny August day.

But, and this is the point of the whole story, Innisfree was pointed out to us on that occasion. An islet was more like it, smaller even than famed Inis Saimer on the River Erne below Ballyshannon. Yeats would have a tough time finding room to place a small cabin, nine bean rows, and a hive for the honey bee on it.

As a matter of fact, many years after he composed the poem the poet himself, to please his bride on their honeymoon, took her to Lough Gill to see Innisfree, and failed to find it! Verification of this fact can be found at www.pgil-eirdata.org/html/pgil_datasets/authors/y/Yeats,WmB/life1.htm - William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), on the website of the Princess Grace Irish Library (Monaco), a valuable but often overlooked resource on the World Wide Web.

Even today a search of the Internet will reveal different photographs, each purporting to be the original Innisfree.

The poem, which is a staple in many anthologies, speaks for itself.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

I am thankful that Brian brought me there. It is a peaceful memory that lives with me still.

I am also thankful that my googling of the World Wide Web led me to the web site of Áine Chambers of Sligo where the story of Tobernault Holy Well is documented in text and illustrations. Her site is well worth visiting for the wealth of information it contains on County Sligo.

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