Le linn mo sheanathar, Éamon, bhíodh nead ag an bhiolar i bhFaill na

hInse in Inse Fearann na gCléireach sa Ghleann Mór. Dheineadh an

fiolar ár ar na huain óga san Earrach. Bheartaigh na fir nead an fhiolair

a scriosadh agus na huibheacha a bhriseadh inti, ach conas a thiocfaidís

ar an nead – ba shin í an cheist. Bhí an nead sa dreapa in áit achrannach

sa bhfaill is gan teacht ag éinne uirthi. B’í seo an tseift gur chinneadar

uirthi sa deireadh, fear a ligint síos i gcciseán chun an nead a scriosadh.

Fuaireadar ciseán láidir déanta de shlata choill is cheanglaíodar

muicirisí nó súgáin go daingean sa chiseán. Tháinig triúr fear láidir,

scafánta go bárr na haille agus fear óg aicillí leoleo, is gan é bheith ró-

throm.

Chuireadar eisean isteach sa chiseán agus corrán ina láimh aige chun é

féin a chosaint ar ionsaí an dá fhiolar, nuair a bheadh a nead á slad

aige. Rugadar triúr greim daingean ar cheann gach súgáin – bhíodar

san thuas ar bhárr na haille, achar maith in áirde ón dreapa mar a raibh

an nead. Ligeadar an ciseán anuas le cúram ar an dreapa.

Bhí an fear óg díreach ag scriosad na nide nuair a tháinig an fiolar de

sciúird ós a chionn, á ionnsaí go fíochmhar agus í ag scréachaigh le

teann feirge. Dhein an fear sa chiseán a dhícheall chun é féin a chosaint

uirthi – é ag bualadh roimis leis an gcorrán, ach ar mhí-ámharaí an

tsaoil, cad do thárla ná gur ghearr sé ceann des na súgáin.

Thug an fiolar fogha fíochmhar faoi arís. D’ardaigh sé an corrán in a

coinne, ach má dhein, nár ghearr sé súgán eile le méid a mhearathail.

Ní raibh fághta anois ach súgán amháin.

Bhí an triúr thuas as a meabhair le mí-fhoighne go n-imeódh fear an

chiseáin le faill síos is go marófaí é. Níor imigh.

D’éirigh leis an dream thuas am ciseán d’ardú agus gan de cheangal air

ach an t-aon súgán amháin. Tháinig fear an chiseáin slán ach an

mhaidin dár gcoinn chí a chuid gruaige chomh bán leis an sneachta

séidte.

Seán Rua Mac Gearailt ó Inse Fearann na gCléireach d’inis an scéal seo i Mí

Lúnasa 1989 agus an deich mbliain is ceithre fichid geall le bheith sroiste aige.

Ón a athair Jack Ned a chuala sé an scéal.

 The Eagles’ Nest

In my grandfather’s time, Éamon of Inch, the eagle had a nest in the

Cliff above our house. That same eagle used to wreak havoc among

the young lambs in the Springtime. The men of Inch were determined

to destroy the eagle’s nest and to smash eggs in it. But how to get at

the nest – that was the big question. The nest was built on a narrow

ledge in a difficult location on the cliff, inaccessible to human beings.

After much thought this was the plan they finally came up with – to

Lower a man in a basket to rob the nest.

They got a fine new basket woven of hazel and they attached three

sling ropes firmly to it. Three strong men of the townland came to the

verge of the cliff. They had with them a lively, light young man who

would be let down in the basket with a reaping hook in his hand to

defend himself from attack while he was robbing the nest. The three

men above caught a firm grip on the end of each sling rope – they were

above on the verge of the cliff, a good bit above the ledge. They then

lowered the basket carefully on to the ledge.

The young man in the basket had just started robbing the nesst when

the eagle swooped down over him, attacking him fiercely and

screeching with rage. The young man did his best to defend himself,

striking out at her with the reaping hook, but as misfortune would

have it, what did he do but cut one of the sling ropes. The eagle made

another fierce rush at him. He raised the reaping hook again, but if he

did, in his fear and anxiety, didn’t he cut a second sling rope! He had

only one rope left now, holding up the basket. The three men on top

were nearly out of their mind, afraid the young man in the basket

would go down with the cliff and be killed. He wasn’t. The three at

the top succeeded in raising the basket with nothing holding it but one

solitary sling rope. The man in the basket came up safely without a

scratch but his head of hair was as white as driven snow.

Seán Rua FitzGerald told this story in July 1989 when he was nearly ninety years old.