THE LEGEND OF
The imposing mass of Loughmoe Castle, anciently the resident of the Purcell family, lying nearly midway between Thurles and Templemore, is sufficiently conspicuous to catch the eye of most travelers speeding along the G.S.W.R. to and from Dublin. The part seen, however, from the train is the back of the castle; the front faces the river Suir; and from the ruined entrance door there runs an avenue down to the water’s brink, which it is said was formerly carried over the river by a bridge, of which no trace now remains.
One either side of the avenue there are shallow pools, which were originally fish-ponds. The oldest part of the building is that which lies towards Thurles, and it would appear from the Down Survey that it was given the name of the “Black Castle.” Most of the windows in this latter were re-modeled at the period when the major portion of the edifice was constructed. Without dealing further with its external appearance, one curious feature may be mentioned and described. In the upper story there is to be seen a small pointed door-way, the bottom of which is about five and a half feet off the ground. On climbing up the wall and entering this, the floor that is reached will be found to suddenly drop sheer down to a ledge about four and a half feet beneath the observer. At the far end of this ledge is a square hole, so constructed that a heavy trap-door could be fitted upon it. This is the actual entrance to the prison, the floor of which lies some ten feet deeper. This system of up-stairs dungeons is to be found in many of the castles in this part of the county, though in no other instance is the entrance-door set above the level of the ordinary flooring. For example, in the castle of Cloone, about a mile nearer Templemore, two such rooms are to be found, one above the other, and neither of them more than a couple of feet high. It may be noted also that in the Down Survey map a water-mill is drawn on the exact spot where the present disused one now stands. Concerning this castle of Loughmoe, two curious legends were related to the writer by an old man who had so far passed the limit of life allowed by the Psalmist that his articulation was most indistinct, and it was difficult to understand him. His very age, however, was in itself a guarantee that the stories he told were not intended on the spur of the moment to oblige “his Reverence,” but that they had been stored up in his memory for years, probably from the time when he, a bare-legged urchin, sat by the winter fire, and listened to the local “shanachie” relating these tales of long-ago to an audience who hung, spell-bound, upon his every word.
The first of these relates the manner in which the first of the Purcells won the place. It must be stated by way of introduction that the name of this castle, and parish, is pronounced by the peasantry in three different ways, viz., Lockmoe, Lockma and Lockmore. The two former have the authority of the Fiants; the third, according to the which the place would appear to mean the “great lake” is utterly wrong. Dr. Joyce has pointed out that the correct old name, according to the Four Masters, is Luach-mhagh, or the “field of the reward.” “Why these places were so called, we know not,” he continues, “but we may fairly conjecture that in old times some tenant held them free of direct rent, as a required for some signal service, or on condition of fulfilling some special duty.” The following story, shorn of some superfluous adjectives and interjections, gives the explanation of the name as preserved in local tradition.
“Many years ago the entire country-side was covered with a dense forest, which principally consisted of ash-trees. So closely set together were they, that a man might step from branch to branch for the entire length of the wood. At this time a king lived in Loughmoe Castle, and but for one thing, his life would have been entirely free from care. In a place called Clonmuckoge, there lived a boar and sow of gigantic size, who spread terror through the land, as they constantly uprooted the crops, and killed whomsoever they met with. Naturally the king desired to be rid of his troublesome subjects, and promised that their slayer should receive as reward the hand of his only daughter, the castle, and as much of the adjacent lands as he wished.
Tempted by love or cupidity, many men went forth on their perilous errand but one and all met with the same terrible fate. At last a youth name Purcell arrived at the castle, and craved permission to attack the monsters, which was readily, though not hopefully, granted. Information was brought to him by some of the king’s people, that the boar had moved off to some distant part of the forest, while the sow had betaken herself to a place called Coolaculla, there to rear up her young brood. Purcell, finding the moment propitious, made his way thither in search of her, not walking along the ground, but going from branch to branch, and from tree to tree, till finally he arrived over the spot where she lay. He carried with him his “boarra” (anglice, bow and arrows), and commenced to fire a shower of arrows as soon as he caught sight of her. So thick was her skin that the arrows refused to penetrate it, while she, roused to fury, rushed at the tree in which Purcell was, roaring and bellowing in her rage. At last, seeing that it was of no avail to attempt to pierce her body, he waited his opportunity, and, when her mouth was wide open, he sent a shaft straight down her throat. She uttered one tremendous roar, and fell over on her side, stone dead.
The boar, hearing her death-cry, and instinctively guessing what was the matter, came like a hurricane through the wood in the direction of the sound, pushing aside the trees in his path as if they were so many blades of grass. When he arrived at the spot, and caught sight of the dead sow, and her slayer, his rage knew no bounds. He reared up on his hind legs against the tree, and shook it to and fro in his endeavours to uproot it. Purcell, however, seeing that he, too, was only vulnerable in the one spot, bided his time, and sent an arrow between his jaws. At this time the boar turned tail, rushed off through the forest, and finally died at some unnamed locality beyond Thurles. In proof whereof there is to be seen in the ruined church yard by a stone which has carved upon it the boar, and sow, and the boneens (i.e., the Purcell coat-of-arms). Thus Purcell won the prize, and Loughmoe was its name.”
The second legend brings the reader some centuries nearer the present day. At the Templemore end of the castle, near the high road, and bounded on one side by the railway embankment, will be noticed a remarkably level stretch of green field. Along one side of this, at right angles to the railroad, and from some part of its length leaning against the garden wall, may be seen a long low mound. It is said that one of the Barons Purcell was so enamoured of the game of hurley that he kept a private team of hurlers; the above-mentioned field was their playing ground and the mound served as a kind of “grand stand” for the spectators. Amongst his hurlers one Londergan was undoubtedly the best. A favourite feet of his was to stand at one end of the castle, throw up the ball and strike it with his hurley high over the roof. Quick as lightening he would rush to the far end of the building, strike back the ball before it had time to reach the ground, and so would cause it to pass and repass nine times in all over the castle without ever allowing it to fall to the earth. But he had two grave faults: he was very quarrelsome, and so eager was he for the fame that he would never keep his proper place in the field, but must ever be where the ball was. A very important match was to be played on a certain Saturday, and the Baron, fearing Londergan’s quarrelsome disposition, devised a plan to get rid of him for that day. On Friday morning, he gave him a letter, which he bade him carry to a friend in Dublin, some ninety miles away. Londergan, though well knowing the reason for this, dared not disobey, but registered a mental vow that he would fulfill his task, and yet return in time for the match. He set off one foot for the metropolis as hard as he could, delivered the letter, received an answer, and finally reached Loughmoe on Saturday afternoon, just as the match was about to commence.
The Baron saw him approaching, and angrily asked him why he had not obeyed his orders. In proof positive to the contrary, Londergan produced the letter from Dublin. It then dawned upon the Baron what had happened; and seeing the terrible state of fatigue he was in, he ordered two of his servants to strip the messenger, and put him standing in a keg of butter which happened to be in the house. This was done (the old man added by way of explanation) in order that his joints might not stiffen. Such an intense state of heat was he in, that he actually melted his way right down through the butter, until his feet touched the bottom of the tub. There tradition leaves us, but it is to be assumed that he eventually got out, and played that day in the hurley-match.
This is an article by the Rev. St. John D. Seymour, Journal of The Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 1908. “Loughmoe Castle and its Legends.”
