The Storyteller

By Blanaid Coveney Metaphor and language 16 Aug 2018

I stopped at the graveyard of a local poet and philosopher. It’s in a wild spot on the west coast of Ireland. I’ve always thought it was a magnificent place to be laid to rest. Overlooking the Aran Islands and the Atlantic, you can see all the way to the mountains in Connemara on a clear day. Wandering past the turnstile, I see an old man coming towards me. His eyes meet mine and he says, “Well, how are you?” Sensing he is happy to chat, I linger a while. A born storyteller, he tells me the ruins of the church are from around the 12th Century, but to be wary “for that gable is going to come down sometime soon!”

Ruins of 12th C Church overlooking the Aran Islands. County Clare, Ireland

His people are buried here, he remarks, telling me that the big gravestones are more of a modern invention; for generations people were buried here with just a stone to mark their final resting place. “The people who knew who they were are long since gone now,” he says ruefully, “and their stories with them.” The graveyard is bumpy, drumlin-like, dotted with many stones. Each one carrying a secret.

He speaks of the weather and the endless sunshine after the bitter winter. The talk turns to the drought. “Incredible,” he says, “even drilling a well here a kilometre from the shore and you could bring up salt water; while I’ve known people not 100 feet from the sea who sank a well and found beautiful fresh water. You can never tell.” I tell him of my luck growing potatoes this year, one crop fair and the other barely the size of marbles. I even had blight one year, I admit. A sobering experience. My friends told me to “spray those spuds … there’s a blight warning! ” The dreaded potato blight. But I’m not for spraying so I took my chances. I tell him I returned home to a crop destroyed, blackened and withered leaves and sludgy, foul smelling potatoes. Not a single one saved. But I am only growing for fun. Imagine if that was the crop to feed your entire family?

Sea salt and wind

My storyteller friend says that now animals are being brought indoors and given the feed meant for next winter, there is so little grass, with the endless sun and no rain. He tells me of friends who had to plough their first crop of potatoes up after the big freeze in March, then their next crop was destroyed by a big storm which followed. “Sea salt and wind blackened them and uprooted them. Nothing to salvage,” he said quietly, “not even for eating at home.” Potatoes and famine are not far apart in conversation. He talks of emigration and the need to leave to make a living, of empty houses and generations torn apart by the separation. “But what if all the young people leave,” he asks me, “who will tell the stories then?” He tells me that during the Great Famine  families who lived up on the hills above this graveyard suffered terribly. Starving inland they came down to the coast to find food. A village made of dry-stone walls was built, potato ridges dug. Weakened from successive years of famine, eking a living from fishing was never going to feed a family. Fishermen pawned their nets for food or to pay the rent. If they had nets, the perilous coastline, treacherous Atlantic swells and inadequate boats made fishing life threatening in all but the calmest conditions.  Most died… the old, the young, and the infirm. Those who survived left, America or Australia bound, taking their chances on the  “coffin ships”. The population was decimated.

“A famine village remains,” he says, “fourteen houses, down by the water’s edge. It’s down that bóithrín [little road] there,” he gestures to me. “You should go down and look.”

Stories told and stories lost

Taking my leave I mull over the stories told and now lost. Most of the estimated three million who died or departed were speakers of the native language. Legendary stories and fables shared in our native tongue and passed from generation to generation, were lost, mostly to America or to the grave. Reports surfaced of pipers and fiddle players ending their days in the poor house, instrument makers and collectors of traditional music and songs perishing and their knowledge with them. What was described as ‘an awful unwonted silence’ fell in the ‘land of song’. The landscape, stories and language changed forever.

The road down to the sea

The road down to the sea is overgrown, dry-stone walls, blackberry briars, and ferns all leading to the waters edge. A friendly local dog keeps me company.


It’s picturesque and wild – postcard stuff – but then the famine village reveals itself. Not more than 50 feet from the ocean lie the bones of a small village in ruins. The gable ends are a ghostly reminder of what once stood. It is impossible not to think of those who lived here, their suffering, their pain and their loss.

An unbearably poignant place. I don’t enter. It’s not a graveyard where people were laid to rest. This is a place where desperate people died from hunger, typhus and dysentery. There is no peace here. It’s an important ruin however, a reminder of those long gone and maybe even forgotten. A reminder not to forget.

As my friend in the graveyard said, our stories need to be told and if everyone leaves who is there to tell them? So linger a little, fall into conversation with a stranger, there may just be an important story to hear… and even, perhaps, to retell.

-Blanaid Coveney


Ruins of fourteen famine houses all along the waters edge



Gable ends, a ghostly reminder of what once stood.


Blanaid  is a senior clinician in Castleknock, Dublin, Ireland where she specialises in treating patients with persistent pain. She is also a regular writer for noijam. Her interests include pain, epidemiology and storytelling.


  1. Helen Cowley

    As an Australian whose great-grandparents arrived here from County Clare in the 1850s, seeking a chance at a new life, after the tragedy of the famine, I am often saddened at the stories I will never know of their early lives.
    As a physio, I am happy to find such a beautifully evocative piece of writing on this site.
    Thank you Blanaid.

    1. Many thanks Helen. Your G.Grandparents journey is the story of so many millions who left to make a better life and not only survived but often thrived in a new country, a testament to their tenacity and determination. Perhaps you are now the custodian of their tale. Its an important one to keep and retell! So glad you enjoyed the piece. Blanaid

  2. davidbutler0noi

    Thankyou for this Blanaid. It’s such a pleasure to read it on noijam and I want you to know that the piece now sits in a very welcoming home.

    When I ride home from work on my bike I always ride though the main Adelaide cemetery (unless its dark!) I veer down one the countless intergrave tracks and stop randomly at a grave, read the story, ponder a moment or two, get some sort of minuscule feel for the person and ride on. I often think ‘that person was once indispensible, so loosen up Dave!.

    Your writing reminds me that I am only reading the big old stones, I should ponder the rocks, the damaged Jewish graves, the repetitive military graves and more.

    Two months ago , I stopped at a random grave and on the tombstone was only the name of the person, date of death and simply “someday we shall understand”.

    I couldn’t leave for a while – too many possible forgotten stories to comprehend.

    Many thanks


    1. Hi David, Such a lovely account of your travels through the local graveyard! They can be such peaceful spots for quiet contemplation, a kind of touchstone for humanity with the inscriptions giving a little window in the world of those cherished but departed. Nice to know someone all those years later passes by and pauses to reflect. Many thanks Blanaid

  3. Rory McKenna

    Excellent piece, beautifully written!

    1. Glad you enjoyed it Aideen. Hope you are still keeping the storytelling tradition of Co. Clare alive! All the best Blanaid.

  4. Keith

    Beautiful and thought provoking. Thank you.

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