‘We couldn’t afford to wait – it was the sea or us’, say islanders
Community describes 10-day effort to save its shoreline after storms
Imagine a northeasterly swell reducing a stretch of Dún Laoghaire’s east pier to rubble, splitting James Joyce’s Martello tower off from Sandycove, and forcing the immediate community to round up dumpers and diggers to save waterfront homes.
“We just couldn’t afford to wait – we were on our own, and it was the sea or us,”says Inishbofin Development Company project co-ordinator Simon Murray of his island’s 10-day-long voluntary effort to rebuild part of its northern shoreline.
For even as the more recent storms focused their intensity on the south and southwest coasts, many of the islands extending from west Cork’s Cape Clear right up to Donegal’s Tory enjoyed little respite, with little access to emergency State assistance.
“It seemed to come at us from every direction – we were enveloped,” Murray says of Storm Brigid, which will be remembered for a long time to come.
While the first of the depressions in late December was strong enough to tear off the Gun Rock navigation light in the main harbour, it was the St Brigid’s Day system that took everyone by surprise.
“The strange thing was that there was very little wind,” Ronan Coyne recalls.
Coyne, an information technology specialist living with his wife Céline and four-year-old son Cormac on the island’s East End at Rusheen, remembers that he set his alarm for 6am high tide, woke to a flash of lightning and heard what he thought was a thunder roll.
“When I opened the front door, the sea was right up to it, waves crashing over the wall in front of us and running up between the houses, and stones striking the windowpanes,” he says.
“And as the day broke, and I looked out from the upstairs window, I could see the entire East End pier had collapsed. It was probably just two waves that did it. That was the rumble – it wasn’t thunder at all,” Coyne says.
Words cannot adequately describe the impact that the 19th-century pier’s destruction has had on the island’s psyche.
“Can you calculate the ferocity of the wave that can do something like this?” Murray says, as we pick our way over thousands of pieces of cut stone, once quarried and ferried in by donkey and cart, and hauled into place by a 100-strong construction team back in 1892.
Sections of the snapped sea wall jut incongruously from the rubble, while a gable has been ripped off the remains of the stone-built fish curing station, dating from 1897, where barrels of fish were once prepared and stacked to be transported out by French buyers.
Even as the pier was being demolished, mountainous waves over at North Beach were ripping open the shoreline there, gouging a deep trench into Lough Bofin behind and flooding the only road out – cutting off 13 houses, including Murray’s own.