IRISH EXPLORERS
Patrick had been a pilgrim to Rome from the banks of the Clyde, where
he lived, and, having seen the Pope, he had returned to Ireland by
sea, landing on the Wicklow coast in the year 432. Hungry and tired
after the long voyage, he tried to get some fish from the fishermen,
but they replied by throwing stones at him, and he put out to sea again
and headed north. Past Bray Head, past the Bay of Malahide he sailed,
but he could get neither fish nor food till he reached a spot between
the Liffey and the Boyne, where he built his first Christian church.
Now in the fifth century, when light first breaks over Ireland, it
breaks over a land torn by perpetual tribal strife, a land in the chaos
of wild heathendom. It was reserved for St. Patrick to save her from
increasing gloom.
Patrick and his companions now sailed on past Louth, by the low-lying
shore with long stretches of sandy flats, on under the shadow of great
peaks frowning over the sea. He landed near Downpatrick, founded
another church, and spent the winter in these parts, for the autumn
was far advanced. Spring found him sailing back to the Boyne and
attacking the fierce heathen king at Tara, the capital of Ireland.
From Tara five great roads led to different parts of the island. St.
Patrick now made his way through Meath to the very heart of the country,
building churches as he went. Thence he crossed the Shannon, entered
the great plain of Roscommon, passed by Mayo, and at length reached
the western sea. He had now been eight years in Ireland, eight laborious
years, climbing hills, wading through waters, camping out by night,
building, organising, preaching. He loved the land on the western sea,
little known as yet.
"I would choose
To remain here on a little land,
After faring around churches and waters.
Since I am weary, I wish not to go further."
St. Patrick climbed the great peak, afterwards called Croaghpatrick,
and on the summit, exposed to wind and rain, he spent the forty days
of Lent. From here he could look down on to one of the most beautiful
bays in Ireland, down on to the hundred little islands in the glancing
waters below, while away to the north and south stretched the rugged
coast-line. And he tells us how the great white birds came and sang
to him there. It would take too long to tell how he returned to Tara
and started again with a train of thirteen chariots by the great
north-western road to the spot afterwards known as Downpatrick Head;
he passed along the broken coast to the extreme north where the great
ocean surf breaks on the rugged shore, returning again to the Irish
capital. He travelled over a great part of Ireland, founded three
hundred and fifty churches, converted heathen tribes to Christianity
and civilisation, and finally died at Armagh in 493. His work was
carried on by St. Columba, a native of Ireland, who, "deciding to go
abroad for Christ," sailed away with twelve disciples to a low rocky
island off the west coast of Scotland, where he founded the famous
monastery of Iona, about 563. Thence he journeyed away to the Highlands,
making his way through rugged and mountainous country that had stayed
the warlike Romans long years before. He even sailed across the stormy
northern sea to the Orkney Islands.
Let us picture the Scotland of the sixth century in order to realise
those long lonely tramps of St. Columba and his disciples across the
rough mountains, through the dense forests, across bleak moors and
wet bogs, till after dreary wanderings they reached the coast, and
in frail ships boldly faced the wild seas that raged round the northern
islands.
"We can see Columba and his disciples journeying on foot, as poor and
as barely provided as were Christ and His disciples, with neither
silver nor gold nor brass in their purses, and over a wilder country
and among a wilder people."
[Illustration: IRELAND AND ST. BRANDON'S ISLE. From the Catalan map,
1375.]
These pilgrims tramped to and fro clad in simple tunics over a monkish
dress of undyed wool, bound round the waist by a strong cord, all their
worldly goods on their backs and a staff in their hands. The hermit
instinct was growing, and men were sailing away to lonely islands where
God might be better served apart from the haunts of men. Perhaps it
was this instinct that inspired St. Brandon to sail away across the
trackless ocean in search of the Island of Saints reported in the
western seas. His voyage suggests the old expedition of Ulysses. A
good deal of it is mythical, some is added at a later date, but it
is interesting as being an attempt to cross the wide Atlantic Ocean
across which no man had yet sailed. For seven years St. Brandon sailed
on the unknown sea, discovering unknown islands, until he reached the
Island of Saints--the goal of his desires. And the fact remains that
for ten centuries after this an island, known as Brandon's Isle, was
marked on maps somewhere to the west of Ireland, though to the end
it remained as mysterious as the island of Thule.
Here is the old story. Brandon, abbot of a large Irish monastery
containing one thousand monks, sailed off in an "osier boat covered
with tanned hides and carefully greased," provisioned for seven years.
After forty days at sea they reached an island with steep sides, where
they took in fresh supplies. Thence the winds carried the ship to
another island, where they found sheep--"every sheep was as great as
an ox."
"This is the island of sheep, and here it is ever summer," they were
informed by an old islander.
This may have been Madeira. They found other islands in the
neighbourhood, one of which was full of singing-birds, and the passing
years found them still tossing to and fro on the unknown sea, until
at last the end came. "And St. Brandon sailed forty days south in full
great tempest," and another forty days brought the ship right into
a bank of fog. But when the fog lifted "they saw the fairest country
eastward that any man might see, it was so clear and bright that it
was a heavenly sight to behold; and all the trees were charged with
ripe fruit." And they walked about the island for forty days and could
not find the end. And there was no night there, and the climate was
neither hot nor cold.
"Be ye joyful now," said a voice, "for this is the land ye have sought,
and our Lord wills that you laden your ship with the fruit of this
land and hie you hence, for ye may no longer abide here, but thou shalt
sail again into thine own country."
[Illustration: THE MYSTERIOUS ISLE OF ST. BRANDON IN MARTIN BEHAIM'S
MAP, 1492. As geographical knowledge increased, map-makers were
compelled to put Brandon's Isle farther and farther away from Ireland,
until here we find it off the coast of Africa and near the Equator.]
So the monks took all the fruit they could carry, and, weeping that
they might stay no longer in this happy land, they sailed back to
Ireland. Hazy, indeed, was the geography of the Atlantic in the sixth
century. Nor can we leave St. Brandon's story without quoting a modern
poet, who believed that the voyage was to the Arctic regions and not
in the Atlantic.
"Saint Brandon sails the Northern Main,
The brotherhood of saints are glad.
He greets them once, he sails again:
So late! Such storms! The saint is mad.
He heard across the howling seas
Chime convent bells on wintry nights;
He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,
Twinkle the monastery lights:
But north, still north, Saint Brandon steered,
And now no bells, no convents more,
The hurtling Polar lights are reached,
The sea without a human shore."
Some three hundred years were to pass away before further discoveries
in these quarters revealed new lands, three hundred years before the
great energy of the Vikings brought to light Iceland, Greenland, and
even the coast of America.