South Meath Driving School

Ancient Irish roads were classified into seven types with regard to size and use. Lovely Gaelic names like Conair, was a road of any kind; Slige was a main road; Bothar, today’s term for a road; Bothereen was a little road or lane, while Bealach was a pass; Tochair was a link road.

In the Book of the Dun Cow, there is reference to the five main roads leading from Tara –

1, Slige Asail ran due west towards Lough Owel. 2, Slige Midluachra ran northwards towards Slane, through the Moyra Pass to Newtownhamilton to the palace of Eamhain and on to the north coast of Antrim. 3 Slige Cualann ran south-east through Dublin, over the Liffey by the hurdle-bridge that gave the city its ancient name Baile atha Cliath, the town of the hurdle ford, and on to Bray. 4, Slige Dala ran south-west through Ossary in Kilkenny. 5, Slige Mor, the great highway, ran south-west and joined the Esker Riada at Clonard leading west on to Galway.

Those roads were constructed mainly of stone, tree trunks, bushes and clay placed in layers and trampled down till sufficiently firm. They were well maintained by those early Gaels and able to support a horse and carriage.

The late Polly Cunningham of Porchfield Cottage and Eleanor De Eto pointed out to me an original road that they said led to Tara. It ran parallel to the road that now joins the Trim by-pass to Marcie’s Tavern through Lackanash and Newtown. Without excavation, let alone preservation, it was silently bulldozed out of existence.

The Anglo Normans, under Simon de Rochefort, built Newtown Cathedral of Ss Peter and Paul in the early 1200s, while the winding bridge there wasn’t constructed for several hundred years more. While the Cathedral fell into ruin in the 16^th century, the bridge and its environs gradually grew stronger and bolder. The only threat to this great carriageway came in the mid 1970s when it was proposed to build a by-pass around the town using the bridge as one of the lanes. Two stalwarts opposed the development, one Michael A. Regan and one Marcella Regan.

While Michael A. rode shotgun on his horse named ‘Business’ in a high profile manner giving interviews from the hip to Telefis Eireann, BBC, CNN and Niall Lacey of Trim pirate radio, his namesake, Marcie was more in the mould of Barbara Frietchie in the poem of the same name where Whittier describes an incident in the American civil war when the Confederate general, Stonewall Jackson, rode through Union territory of Maryland –

‘She leaned far out on the window-sill,

And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this grey old head,

But spare your country’s flag,” she said.’

It was the likes of the Regans, no relation according to Marcie, who saved our heritage from the front-loading pens of Ireland’s planning officers.

Nonetheless, this little ‘bothereen’ that leads from everywhere to Marcie’s wateringhole doesn’t sleep easily. Of late, it has been upgraded to a tochair, with its first coat of tar in two generations, according to Tosh Hollande. With a smart, broken white line down the middle, the men with the black stuff managed to widen it by a foot or two. All was well until this line of longitude arrived at the famous bridge when, for some strange reason, it just ran out of latitude. The old order that was Marcie’s Junction was changed without a shot being fired or an interview given or taken. The main road became a Bealach, the minor road became a Slige and a green traffic light is followed by a snappy ‘Stop’ sign; a carpark occupies centre stage of the  middle of the olde main road; there’s double yellow lines where thirsty men lately laid nose bags for their horses. There’s no elbow room to turn left on emerging from the bridge, even after stuttering to a stop. Then there’s the newest design of a turning lane for those heading over the bridge from the by-pass. It’s in the shape of a reticulated python, fit to accommodate no more than one and a half cyclists.

‘Are you right there  Michael A ..’re you right, do you think that we’ll be home before the night?’

It’s time to jump on your horse again, Michael.

I dropped into Had Rian’s mineral bar, aka Marcie’s, for a breather having surveyed Little Galveston outside. There were many other non believers there. Alababs said it was worse than the destruction of the monasteries by Henri. Tuitenkhaman claimed all would be well in time as it was only a little temporary arrangement. D’olivera Plant maintained it was just an introductory outline but, when challenged by Matthew Rose, he said he agreed that it would most likely be a permanent job.

The exchange was a reminder of a County Council meeting in Manorhamilton in the 60s when the chairman was talking up his latest project. A few times in his address, he used the descriptions ‘Temporary’ and ‘Permanent.’ One councillor was having difficulty understanding those long winded adjectives and asked his friend, Councillor McHugh to explain. However, McHugh had dozed off due to the effects of some laden refreshments he had consumed earlier.

“McHugh, what’s the maening of them big words, timperory and pirminaunt that the chairman is using,” he asked more than once. Disturbed from his slumber, McHugh muttered, “I’m drunk, that’s temporary, you’re ignorant, that’s permanent. Now, let me sleep.”

Away from the Manorhamilton address, Alababs maintained that the Stop sign at the front door outside was akin to a gate in Hadrian’s Wall itself, a stop off point and resting place and that the new Had Rian had a hand in the plan. Tuitenkhaman argued that the new carpark had a similar end result in that those who parked up first had no way out as the last one in blockaded the exit. “I had no hand act or part in that at all,” said Matthew Rose, a shareholder, with a broad grin.

“Well, at least the job didn’t take as long to complete as Polly’s bridge up the road a cupla years ago there,” interjected Franklin D. from the corner. “Oh, God,” says Alababs, “ shur that took longer than the Chesapeake Bay to finish.”

Dear Marcie, don’t interrupt your sleep for you’d quickly return on seeing some modern-day planners at work which you just might dismiss as a total ‘bealach.’