Poitín, the drink and the stories.
Poitín stories and yarns are intertwined in our culture, possibly every parish in Ireland has a character who is associated with poitín and tales of outwitting the law.
The Irish critic Sinéad Sturgeon has demonstrated how the illegality of the substance became a crucial theme running through the works of Maria Edgeworth and William Carlton. Many characters in the work of contemporary Irish playwright Martin McDonagh consume or refer to poitín, most notably the brothers in The Lonesome West.[
Here are a few of my favourite's;
This is the story of the short-lived independence of the Poitin Republic of Urris.
It’s not that surprising that Inishowen became a centre of the illegal distillation industry. Remote and barren enough to allow the secret distillation to go on, but close enough to a major port city (Derry) to allow it a major market, Inishowen flourished. In fact, Major Bellingham Swann, the Inspector General of Excise and Licenses of Ireland, estimated that 43% of the total number of private distillers in Ireland were based on the Inishowen Peninsula. The government were well aware of how much revenue was being lost to this illegal trade, and in 1785 they passed an Act making unlicensed private distillation illegal. Large distillers received licenses and were forced to pay the duty, cottage distillers began to be stamped on quite thoroughly. The government initially went after the distillers themselves, but often found equipment abandoned or even gone by the time they got there. Watch systems developed during the period of the Penal Laws to protect those illegally attending Catholic Mass were resurrected to protect the distillers – lookouts on hilltops, and even a relay of burning torches to spread the word at night. One priest was prosecuted for ringing his church bells when the revenue men approached. Soldiers were attacked with stones, revenue officials were attacked, and one family suspected of being informers had their house burnt down. The hornets’ nest had clearly been kicked. Thwarted in dispensing individual justice, the government decided that collective responsibility should be applied, and so the system of “township fines” came into effect. Any parish where a still was found was fined, and the fines increased with the number of stills found. The fines were very high. However one townland, facing severe fines for poitin-making, came up with a more elegant solution. And thus was born the Urris Poitin Republic.The geographical location of Urris was key to the success of their plan. A townland of gentle rolling hills on the western coast of the Inishowen peninsula, it enjoys a sheltered harbour on one side, while the other is dominated by the great mountains of Croagh Carragh, Mamore and Raghtin More, which between them almost seal the entire area off from the mainland. The only entry is through Mamore Gap, a narrow high pass between two almost sheer hills lined with loose boulders. What the people of the townland did, then, was simply to collapse the pass. With it blocked, any attempt to disassemble the blockage could be discouraged with stones hurled from above. ( Some tales even have them arming themselves with cannon taken from a wrecked British frigate and using those to defend the pass.) So for three years the people ruled themselves. They had their fishing boats, and their farmland, and they were basically self sufficient. Finally in 1815 the British attacked in force, and overwhelmed the crude defences with “over a hundred shots fired”. Thus the independence of the Poitin Republic came to an end. In truth, the end of widespread illegal distillation was soon to follow. (http://dailyscribbling.com/the-odd-side-of-donegal/the-poitin-republic-of-urris/ )
Then of course there is the tale of the Famous 'Darcy's Donkey'
The yarn goes...The poitín maker Darcy and his pals were returning from his still with a jug of freshly made poitín, when the Gardaí came up the hill “Lose the booze” cried Darcy and quick as a flash, he dumped it in the nosebag of his donkey. The donkey had a ganky leg, and only one good eye but when he got a lick of the poitín, he'd swear that he could fly, he rocketed through the roundabout, and down by Jamesie's bar. Then he vaulted through the hedges at the track at Ballintra. The Gardaí chased the donkey, along with Darcy and the boys in pursuit, for fear they'd spill the poitín Darcy begged them not to shoot. They all crashed through hedges, and got there just in time, to place their bets before the rest of the horses had reached the starting line. The flag was up, the race was on, the donkey looked behind, he saw the Guard's were after him but sure he didn't mind, he had himself another sip, and a second one as well, then bucked and kicked and knocked the competition all to hell. The donkey passed the post about a lap or two ahead of the rest, he finished off the whiskey, then toppled over dead. Darcy went to check the bets and found when everything was done, the Gardaí came in second and paid 25 to one! So he dragged the donkey's carcass down to Jamesie's for a pint and to drink up all his winnings, and to celebrate the night. He missed the poor old Donkey, but still he had to laugh when Jamesie made a trophy of the Donkey's ass. In Jamesie's bar today the locals all raise a glass, they toast the Gardaí, and the poitín, and the trophy of Darcy's Ass.
A short tale from Galway,
A frustrated 'poitín peeler' offered money to a young lad to 'point me out a private still'. The lad took the money and walked the peeler all around the city and locality, they eventually stopped at the military barracks where the lad pointed out his brother. 'Thats my brother Johnny, sure he could never learn the drill, and even though he is a soldier for years he is a private still! with that the young lad fled.
For more poitín stories in newspapers
Or
Poitín in song and poetry
The Irish critic Sinéad Sturgeon has demonstrated how the illegality of the substance became a crucial theme running through the works of Maria Edgeworth and William Carlton. Many characters in the work of contemporary Irish playwright Martin McDonagh consume or refer to poitín, most notably the brothers in The Lonesome West.[
Here are a few of my favourite's;
This is the story of the short-lived independence of the Poitin Republic of Urris.
It’s not that surprising that Inishowen became a centre of the illegal distillation industry. Remote and barren enough to allow the secret distillation to go on, but close enough to a major port city (Derry) to allow it a major market, Inishowen flourished. In fact, Major Bellingham Swann, the Inspector General of Excise and Licenses of Ireland, estimated that 43% of the total number of private distillers in Ireland were based on the Inishowen Peninsula. The government were well aware of how much revenue was being lost to this illegal trade, and in 1785 they passed an Act making unlicensed private distillation illegal. Large distillers received licenses and were forced to pay the duty, cottage distillers began to be stamped on quite thoroughly. The government initially went after the distillers themselves, but often found equipment abandoned or even gone by the time they got there. Watch systems developed during the period of the Penal Laws to protect those illegally attending Catholic Mass were resurrected to protect the distillers – lookouts on hilltops, and even a relay of burning torches to spread the word at night. One priest was prosecuted for ringing his church bells when the revenue men approached. Soldiers were attacked with stones, revenue officials were attacked, and one family suspected of being informers had their house burnt down. The hornets’ nest had clearly been kicked. Thwarted in dispensing individual justice, the government decided that collective responsibility should be applied, and so the system of “township fines” came into effect. Any parish where a still was found was fined, and the fines increased with the number of stills found. The fines were very high. However one townland, facing severe fines for poitin-making, came up with a more elegant solution. And thus was born the Urris Poitin Republic.The geographical location of Urris was key to the success of their plan. A townland of gentle rolling hills on the western coast of the Inishowen peninsula, it enjoys a sheltered harbour on one side, while the other is dominated by the great mountains of Croagh Carragh, Mamore and Raghtin More, which between them almost seal the entire area off from the mainland. The only entry is through Mamore Gap, a narrow high pass between two almost sheer hills lined with loose boulders. What the people of the townland did, then, was simply to collapse the pass. With it blocked, any attempt to disassemble the blockage could be discouraged with stones hurled from above. ( Some tales even have them arming themselves with cannon taken from a wrecked British frigate and using those to defend the pass.) So for three years the people ruled themselves. They had their fishing boats, and their farmland, and they were basically self sufficient. Finally in 1815 the British attacked in force, and overwhelmed the crude defences with “over a hundred shots fired”. Thus the independence of the Poitin Republic came to an end. In truth, the end of widespread illegal distillation was soon to follow. (http://dailyscribbling.com/the-odd-side-of-donegal/the-poitin-republic-of-urris/ )
Then of course there is the tale of the Famous 'Darcy's Donkey'
The yarn goes...The poitín maker Darcy and his pals were returning from his still with a jug of freshly made poitín, when the Gardaí came up the hill “Lose the booze” cried Darcy and quick as a flash, he dumped it in the nosebag of his donkey. The donkey had a ganky leg, and only one good eye but when he got a lick of the poitín, he'd swear that he could fly, he rocketed through the roundabout, and down by Jamesie's bar. Then he vaulted through the hedges at the track at Ballintra. The Gardaí chased the donkey, along with Darcy and the boys in pursuit, for fear they'd spill the poitín Darcy begged them not to shoot. They all crashed through hedges, and got there just in time, to place their bets before the rest of the horses had reached the starting line. The flag was up, the race was on, the donkey looked behind, he saw the Guard's were after him but sure he didn't mind, he had himself another sip, and a second one as well, then bucked and kicked and knocked the competition all to hell. The donkey passed the post about a lap or two ahead of the rest, he finished off the whiskey, then toppled over dead. Darcy went to check the bets and found when everything was done, the Gardaí came in second and paid 25 to one! So he dragged the donkey's carcass down to Jamesie's for a pint and to drink up all his winnings, and to celebrate the night. He missed the poor old Donkey, but still he had to laugh when Jamesie made a trophy of the Donkey's ass. In Jamesie's bar today the locals all raise a glass, they toast the Gardaí, and the poitín, and the trophy of Darcy's Ass.
A short tale from Galway,
A frustrated 'poitín peeler' offered money to a young lad to 'point me out a private still'. The lad took the money and walked the peeler all around the city and locality, they eventually stopped at the military barracks where the lad pointed out his brother. 'Thats my brother Johnny, sure he could never learn the drill, and even though he is a soldier for years he is a private still! with that the young lad fled.
For more poitín stories in newspapers
Or
Poitín in song and poetry