Scattery Island

Dawn breaks on Scattery Island on The Wild Atlantic Way.

The estuary of the river Shannon (especially the lower part) is a big, wide, beautiful, ebbing-and-flowing body of water that you have to cross if you’re doing The Wild Atlantic Way.

And as you stand at the rail of the car ferry looking west towards the mouth of the river, you will see, four miles away, a tenth century round tower, one of the highest, best preserved round towers in Ireland standing proud on an island in the middle of the estuary. That island is Scattery. And its magnificent round tower is just one piece of its history – a long and varied history that would spark the interest of the most jaded tourist: St.Senan, Vikings, Brian Boru, Spanish Armada, Napoleonic Battery, Shannon Pilots, the list goes on.

You’re in luck if you’re heading north because you can visit the island by stopping off at the nearby town of Kilrush and taking the trip out to the island with Scattery Island Tours. If you’re headed south… well, there’s always next time.

Scattery is probably best known as the resting place of Saint Senan. (The Shannon, the longest river in all of Britain and Ireland, is believed to be named after Senan.) He was a local holy man, a prolific miracle-worker by all accounts, who, after a stint spent spreading the word around France, Wales and Cornwall, returned home to set up shop on Scattery. Senan’s reputation was such that there was no shortage of eager-beaver acolytes to join him on the island and there they led a life that was at the most austere end of the austerity spectrum. No distractions of any kind, especially of the female kind, were allowed. (In fact, no woman was allowed to even set foot on the island.)

Life was great (if that’s your thing) until early one summer’s morning – this was 272 years after Senan was dead and buried – when one of the monks was solitarily walking on the quieter western shore of the island. Someone called, perhaps, Ailbhe or Aodhán or Aonghas deep in morning prayer, trying in vain not to take pleasure in the warmth of the sun on his cheek, the feel of the breeze against his brow. Something caught his eye way out to the west, towards the jaws of the estuary – the pumped-up sails of about a dozen Norse longships heading straight for the island. You can imagine him, can’t you, thinking “What the actual f**k!” He wondered if his sight was failing him, playing tricks on him? (Remember this was a craftsman, an artisan whose eyes had spent countless hours straining over the intricacies of manuscripts, chalices, croziers, torcs, bracelets, rings, etc.) He looked away; scrunched his eyeballs; looked back again. And as he stood, his gaze trained on the horizon, a malodorous sense of dread descended and engulfed him. He dropped his beads, pulled up his skirts and, with apprehensions and anxieties coursing through his head, ran like hell back over the hill to warn the others. The Vikings were coming.

This was the first of their bloody, plundering raids on the island. Scattery was low-hanging fruit on their way up the watery highway to the very centre of Ireland. They continued to ride roughshod over the country for many years until a man by the name of Brian Boru put manners on them.

Brian Boru was Ireland’s greatest king and is, without a shadow of doubt, Ireland’s greatest hero. As well as being a battle-hardened warrior, a military mastermind and a charismatic leader he was a gifted harpist. In fact, his harp is the official emblem of Ireland as seen on tax demands, passports, presidential seals, Ryanair 737’s and Guinness glasses. That’s right, Ireland’s coat of arms is Brian Boru’s harp. It’s not Daniel O’Connell’s repeal cap, Michael Collins’ bicycle, De Valera’s wire-rimmed glasses or even Bono’s wraparounds. Neither is it Van’s fedora or Rory Gallagher’s 1961 Fender Stratocaster. It’s Brian Boru’s harp, for God’s sake. Proper order too.

Our greatest hero’s greatest day was, undoubtedly, Good Friday 1014 - the Battle of Clontarf. Unfortunately he never got to see out that day, never got to celebrate the victory. The Viking axe that sliced through his skull to the very centre of his parietal lobe saw to that.  

Whereas his second greatest day, the day he raided Scattery, now there was a day he did get to relish. The year was 977a.d. King Ivar, the Norse leader, had brutally murdered Brian’s brother, Mahon, and he was boiling for revenge. He got wind of the word that Ivar was holed up on Scattery Island which by this time had become a Viking trading post and stronghold. With a band of brothers he came down the river on a fast ebb tide, liberated the island and despatched Ivar in bloody single combat.

It was an important day, a day that saw Brian well on his way to becoming High King of Ireland. It was a day that had to be celebrated. And they did. There was a boar-on-a-spit, there was salmon, there was ale, there was mead and, of course, there was music, the music of Brian’s harp which, they say, never sounded sweeter.

So the next time you raise your pint of Guinness, before you bring the rim to your lips, take a moment to ponder that harp. Have a little think about Brian Boru. Think of his plucked notes drifting out across the estuary, in the calm summer gloaming of his (second) greatest day, that day on Scattery Island.

© Don Ryan