‘It’s in the blood’: The millennial All-Ireland winner keeping currach racing’s flame alive

The currach glides out, passing serenely by the high pier of Ros Muc, and into open Atlantic water. It’s a still day. The only sounds are from the oars revolving on the thole as they swivel back and forth, and a gentle whoosh as they enter the water.

As we round the end of the pier, the inlet opens up before us and a vast Connemara landscape is revealed. It’s like a Paul Henry painting: cloud, blue sky, and the unmistakable profile of the Twelve Bens peaks to the north.

Rowing out smoothly into the waves, the young man at the helm picks up pace. He talks quickly and fluently in an Irish unsullied by 21st century expressions.

He explains that boats in this part of south Connemara (Ceantar na n-Oileán) were traditionally made of wood, and canvas currachs came from the Aran Islands farther west. The canvas ones were lighter and easier to carry from shore to water, handy for the craggy rocks of Aran. As it happened, they were also better when it came to racing.

Micheál Ó Maoilchiaráin is 34 and has the sporting build and cropped haircut of an inter-county GAA footballer. He is an elite athlete but was never a serious Gaelic player. His speciality sport is obscure to most people in Ireland but has a huge cult status in Gaeltacht regions.

Ó Maoilchiaráin is part of a three-man crew that have won multiple All-Ireland titles in probably the only sport conducted wholly through the Irish language.

His day job is in Maynooth University as director of programmes for professional Irish, a pursuit that combines his academic and personal interests. He has a degree in physical education from University of Limerick but is now completing a PhD in Irish and sean-nós singing.

Born and bred in Connemara, he is the grand-nephew of Joe Heanue, one of the most famous traditional singers of all time. Micheál is a well-known exponent of sean-nós singing in his own right and can sing the repertoire of songs associated with the sea.

Still, racing is his main passion. To train during the winter he transported a currach to the Liffey, keeping it in a boat club. For motorists crossing the East Link Toll Bridge, the distinctive tar-black boat with its raised prow gliding down the river has provided an unusual – and anomalous – glimpse of south Connemara in the centre of the capital.

In a way Ó Maoilchiaráin also straddles that anomaly. He is a millennial and lives a modern urban life. He is also the keeper of the flame for unique Irish traditions that extend back centuries and have been passed on from generation to generation, ó ghlún go glún. He is a modern young man and a throwback all in one go.

He comes from close to Carna in the island district of Connemara.

“My mother is from [the townland of] Ard Thoir where I was born. My father is from Maighinis Island, which is maybe 3km or 4k away by road, but if you go by currach, it’s only maybe 400m.

“I suppose that shows the importance of the currach going back generations here. It was the main mode of transport, the sea, so I suppose it’s nice to see the tradition still kept going.

“When you grow up in an area like this, it’s just second nature to you. You don’t really think about the importance of it outside of the community.”

He can’t remember a time when currachs and currach-racing was not part of his life. “It was the talk of the town. Who won last weekend, or who was going to win the next weekend? Rowing was intrinsic.

“It was the same thing with the language and with songs. I come from a family that is well known for sean-nós singing.”

In this part of south Connemara, there are boats, currachs and Galway hookers, that have passed through generations of families.

“My grandfather on my mother’s side, Máirtín, his currach was known locally as Currach Heanue. It’s still in the family.”

Currach racing emerged around the dates of the big holy festivals during the summer, the so-called patron (or pattern) days commemorating a local saint.

In this area, it was Lá Fhéile Mhic Dara (Macdara’s festival) on July 16th, when the whole community travelled to the unpopulated St MacDara’s Island (Cruach na Cara), with its elegant medieval oratory. On that “free” day, currach racing between rival families started on an informal basis perhaps a century ago.

“I would have grown up hearing stories about Lá Fhéile Mhic Dara and all the commotion around the currach racing that day.”

Modern-day currach racing was formalised in 1953 when it was made part of an Irish heritage festival called An Tóstal. The first races were contested on Galway Bay near Salthill promenade. At the height of their popularity, as many as 80,000 spectators thronged along the seafront to watch.

The races were fiercely contested. The most celebrated family of all were the Seoighe (Joyce) family from Inis Bearacháin who won four All-Ireland titles. Later came another great name, Clann Uí Chualáin, and the Mac Donnchadhas from An Cheathrú Rua.

“There’s a song for the Seoighes and a song for the Ó Cualáins,” Ó Maoilchiaráin says. “They were composed maybe 40 or 50 years ago. The Seoighe song is about their exploits at the Tóstal in the 1960s.”

Initially we row together but as I begin to shoot video Ó Maoilchiaráin rows alone, pulling the thin oars (which have no blades whatsoever) through the water, effortlessly.

At this moment it seems we could be in Connemara at any time over the centuries. But you look over to the ribbons of houses on the shores and see satellite dishes, mobile phone masts, and legions of wind turbines on the horizon. Even here in the biggest Gaeltacht there is a medium-term existential threat to Irish as a first language and as the language of daily discourse. These are the trenches of the battle to keep Connemara Irish and all its traditions alive.

[ ‘It can be magical’: Galway’s swimming, kayaking underwater volunteersOpens in new window ]

“We can’t say we are not affected by English,” he admits. “We are, but there’s things we can do to promote and preserve what we have here, and not to focus on the negatives – things such as life’s going to change here and the language is going to die away.”

“We work hard to ensure we value what we have and to preserve and promote that.”

Ó Maoilchiaráin has rowed for 10 years with his brother Máirtín and with Joe Rua Seoighe from Ros Muc, who is originally from An Cnoc in Leitir Mealláin.

Between them – in the standard currach, the Kerry naomhóg and the timber racers – the three have won nine All-Irelands. “With the naomhóg we were actually rowing with a fellow from Kerry, Jackie Goodwin. People might not know there are All-Irelands for currach racing,” he says.

The racing boats are not what his grandfather would have known. They are 25ft long, against 23ft for the standard currach. Shallower and narrower, they are built for speed rather than rough weather. Builders refine them with each new boat. “You can see that each new iteration is a little bit quicker.” A handful of builders remain locally and in Kerry, and he points out that building runs in families, “in the blood”, as the rowing does.

“For any of the families who are involved in it, it goes back generations. There’s something about currach racing when it’s in the blood, there’s just that extra bit of a push to to go and achieve what you can.

“The locals don’t look at it as something that’s endangered or as an intangible cultural heritage. We look at it as another sport. For tourists, seeing currach racing for the first time, they think it’s brilliant. For us it’s just a regular part of life, and it’s just what’s done in the summer months.”

[ ‘Economically it probably would make sense to close’: Clifden businesses prepare for barren winterOpens in new window ]

Passing the tradition between generations continues. His brother Máirtín’s son, now 16, has started to sit in and row with the team. Most of their competitors are made up of brothers or cousins.

A race takes between 14 and 15 minutes over a triangular course of two or three miles, with four boats drawn by lot for the final. “From the first stroke to the last, it’s pure pain,” says Micheál. “But when you get over the line and if you win, it’s worth it.”

He sits in the stern, known in Irish as the seas deiridh (last stand) and he sets the stroke rate. Máirtín is in the middle (seas láir) and Joe Rua in the bow (seas tosaigh). Joe Rua watches the course and calls for more pace if it is needed. There is almost no talking.

“After a few years of rowing together you can see what needs to be done without saying a word.” And when the crew are under pressure, instructions shrink to one or two words, usually “tarraing” (pull).

The sport has spread beyond Connemara now with strong crews from Kerry and Donegal and there are races in Boston involving Connemara exiles.

I ask whether he fears for Connemara and for Irish as a native language. All around there are obvious signs of depopulation – shuttered factories, villages where the pub and post office have closed, abandoned houses with boarded windows and collapsed roofs.

He admits it is hard not to worry. People are leaving for work, and there are fewer native speakers in the Gaeltacht than there once were. But he points to the Gaelscoil movement, to Irish-language events in Dublin, and to the chance to play football, hurling or camogie through Irish outside the Gaeltacht. “Things might be changing in the Gaeltacht, but they’re changing in the rest of the country too,” he says.

[ State’s failure to provide homes for Irish speakers ‘threatening future of language’Opens in new window ]

His own contribution is a new podcast, featuring conversations with local people.

“It will give us a chance to focus on the richness of the language that we still have in this area of Connemara Lár, and give a chance to hear people’s stories that you mightn’t usually hear. For those from outside the area, it will give them a chance to hear our dialect in its natural setting and allow them to pick up turns of phrase we have here. It will be called “Cé Tú Féin” (Who are you?).

Ó Maoilchiaráin has also become an authority on the heritage and culture of currachs. In September he attended a festival of traditional boats in Verona, Italy, teaching workshops on rowing and how to build a currach. He also sang some of the songs associated with rowing and boatmanship on the west coast.

He had hoped bring a full-size currach there, or even build one, and row it down the canals of Venice. It did not happen this time, he says ruefully, but he’s still hopeful it can be done some other time.

By now the tide has turned and we row back towards the pier at Ros Muc. His ancestors have traversed these waters in currachs like this for centuries.