Sounds that have long been forgotten

By Tom Gillespie

GROWING up in Castlebar in the 1960s I was lucky to have an uncle, Denny Fahey, who was an avid and highly regarded lover of everything to do with nature.

He fished, shot and was delighted to impart his vast knowledge of wildlife to this young person.

At this time of year he took me along each Sunday to fish Lough Carra, and in winter time he put me on the bar of his bike and we went shooting within a six or seven mile radius of Castlebar.

One of the most abiding memories I have was being hunkered down with Denny and his retriever in a marshy area near Turlough awaiting the returning of wild duck at dusk.

The wait was never dull as Denny, a blacksmith from Newantrim Street, Castlebar, would identify the sounds of all of the waterfowl that flew in our direction, getting me to recognise the different calls and sounds as they approached.

The most iconic was the haunting cry of the curlew, something that has long been embedded in Irish literary culture as well as in individual memory.

Yet, with the breeding population dropping by a staggering 96% since the 1980s, I wonder will future generations have to rely on the tales of their fathers as to the unique call of the curlew.

We lived at Marian Row in Castlebar and in those days Denny often babysat my two sisters and I. He coaxed us to bed with a cup of Coca but not before we had to listen for the sound of birds of the night.

Across the road from Marian Row was Baynes’ Hill, now Glenfort, a vast housing estate, but back then it was a hive of wildlife.

Denny would open the window in the front bedroom and have us listen for the curlew as it swooped in over the hillside.

In 2011, BirdWatch Ireland carried out the first survey in Ireland specifically focused on breeding curlew populations.

These were conducted in Donegal and Mayo as part of the Halt Environmental Loss Programme (HELP), a cross-border initiative funded through the EU Interreg IVA scheme.

Just eight pairs of breeding curlew were found and it was estimated that there were fewer than 200 pairs nationwide compared to an estimation of 5,000 in the early 1990s.

The first national survey was commissioned by the National Parks and Wildlife Service in 2015 and '16. It found numbers to be lower than estimations, with fewer than 150 breeding pairs discovered.

Without action, it was predicted that the curlew will be extinct as a breeding species in Ireland by 2026. What a shame that would be.

BirdWatch Ireland have reported that curlew are still a regular sight along our coasts in winter, when migratory birds from northern Europe come to take advantage of our mild winters, feeding in our estuaries and wetlands in large numbers.

However, they believe the resident breeding population is currently in danger of extinction with only 138 pairs remaining.

Collins Complete British Wildlife Photo Guide describe the curlew as the commonest large wader with a long, down-curved bill, plumage mainly grey-brown with streaked and spotted underparts and pale belly.

In flight, wings uniformly dark brown but shows white rump and wedge on lower back; tip of tail has dark, narrow barring.

It breeds in damp grassland and moors, uses long, blue-grey legs to wade in deep water and bill to probe for worms.

Another bird I have not seen since my youth is the lapwing, also called the green plover and the peewit. It was a common resident and winter visitor on coastal mudflats and mixed farmland all over Ireland.

Despite this attractive wader’s common and widespread status, alarmingly, populations have declined by more than 50% in 25 years.

The last group of them I recall seeing was on McDonald’s land opposite what we used to call The Rocks (now the Rockvale housing estate) on the Rathbawn Road.

The lapwing breeds on undisturbed farmland, on moors and open country. It looks black and white at a distance, but in good light has green, oily sheen on back; winter birds have buffish fringes to feathers in the back. The outstanding feature is the spiky crest feathers, longer on the male than female.

Fishing for trout on Lough Carra in those days was always fruitful and there was hardly a Sunday I did not return to my mother with a couple of fine trout.

Denny had a Seagull engine with a small petrol tank which required topping up several times during the day’s fishing. This was an easy task in calm waters but if there was any wave action most of the petrol ended up in the lake, even with a funnel.

When we pulled in to make lunch on one of the lake’s many islands, the petrol can was brought in and a shot of petrol was thrown on a bundle of sticks to start the fire. An old black kettle was placed on the fire and several handfuls of loose tea leaves were thrown into the boiling water.

After it brewed for a while a sprig of a whin bush was inserted into the spout to prevent the tea leaves from exploding into your cup. The taste of that brew was delicious and it washed down a few ham sandwiches.

As the day progressed and it was time to return to our mooring at Moorehall the fresh air had taken its toll on me and I usually fell asleep on the floor of the boat.

How times have changed but hopefully we will hear the call of the curlew again.