The Bellanaboy Gas refinery used to be part of this land, but was sold off to Shell at a massively slashed price without an consultation. Along with this there is a long stretch of land behind the terminal where the pipeline is supposed to be laid. A boardwalk has already been placed on the bogland in preperation, despite it being ruled illegal and asked by the courts to be removed.
(The start of our trip)
In my last mail, I told of how we had to halt drilling on S.A.C land, as to enforce Eu laws in the face of the police themselves, who were only concerned with the well being of a multi-national corporation. Well, on this sunny day it looked like we had to take it apon ourselves to make sure that work was stopped again.
The locals here are a motley crew. The young people of the area are estranged from society, those that can leave to greener pastures, University or Dublin where the winter months aren't as bleak, the rain isn't horizontal and the jobs aren't mainly fishing and farming generally do. There's no real place in the modern world for this lifestyle, most people would prefer to have plasma screen T.V's than beautiful unspoilt surroundings. I can't blame a lot of the kids, I'm a city boy and even though i grew up a stones throw from London in a town of city size with pubs and thousands of inhabitants, I still ran away to Leeds becuase I felt clasutrophobic. We're fed information constantly on the accessability of the world, all its wealth and wonders within a budget flight and a cheap hostels' grasp. I can fully sympathise why the youth of Mayo leave. 40 percent unemployment isn't the biggest incentive, nor the solitary nightclub, or the horrifically bleak amount of totty.
In my last mail, I told of how we had to halt drilling on S.A.C land, as to enforce Eu laws in the face of the police themselves, who were only concerned with the well being of a multi-national corporation. Well, on this sunny day it looked like we had to take it apon ourselves to make sure that work was stopped again.
The locals here are a motley crew. The young people of the area are estranged from society, those that can leave to greener pastures, University or Dublin where the winter months aren't as bleak, the rain isn't horizontal and the jobs aren't mainly fishing and farming generally do. There's no real place in the modern world for this lifestyle, most people would prefer to have plasma screen T.V's than beautiful unspoilt surroundings. I can't blame a lot of the kids, I'm a city boy and even though i grew up a stones throw from London in a town of city size with pubs and thousands of inhabitants, I still ran away to Leeds becuase I felt clasutrophobic. We're fed information constantly on the accessability of the world, all its wealth and wonders within a budget flight and a cheap hostels' grasp. I can fully sympathise why the youth of Mayo leave. 40 percent unemployment isn't the biggest incentive, nor the solitary nightclub, or the horrifically bleak amount of totty.
(With the sun in our eyes and smiles on our lips, it's a good day out for all)
So the we find ourselves standing side by side with men who wear the years on their face, leathery weather worn visages, like the craggy cliffs that border the bay. These are proper working men, with gruff thick Irish accents that blur words together and throw away troublesome consonants altogether. Flat caps litter the horizon of protests, oilskins are daily wear here, the local priests wrote a letter of condemnation towards the pipeline recently and it was put up everywhere, carrying the heavy weight of a parents words. It's a bit Father Ted at times but then again, it's a nice comfy chair of friendly faces that you can't help but smile at.
So when we set off through the bogland, my DC skater trainers dutifully absorb all the aailable moisture to them, with a content squlching sound, flooding my feet with foul smelling bogwater, making the lads laugh. Lawrence, a hulking silver haired, gambling, boozing, farmer, mutters something about me being a silly cunt, I tell him that he better watch his back and a lopsided grin of unmeaserable mischief crawls accross his face. It's like the A-team had come out of retirement to show the kids how its done.
So the we find ourselves standing side by side with men who wear the years on their face, leathery weather worn visages, like the craggy cliffs that border the bay. These are proper working men, with gruff thick Irish accents that blur words together and throw away troublesome consonants altogether. Flat caps litter the horizon of protests, oilskins are daily wear here, the local priests wrote a letter of condemnation towards the pipeline recently and it was put up everywhere, carrying the heavy weight of a parents words. It's a bit Father Ted at times but then again, it's a nice comfy chair of friendly faces that you can't help but smile at.
So when we set off through the bogland, my DC skater trainers dutifully absorb all the aailable moisture to them, with a content squlching sound, flooding my feet with foul smelling bogwater, making the lads laugh. Lawrence, a hulking silver haired, gambling, boozing, farmer, mutters something about me being a silly cunt, I tell him that he better watch his back and a lopsided grin of unmeaserable mischief crawls accross his face. It's like the A-team had come out of retirement to show the kids how its done.
(The boys are back in town)
There's only three members of the solidarity camp out in the thirteen strong party. We clamber through the thicket and emerge at the back of the boardwalk, catch our breath and continue along it, bordered by long red grass and shiny black peat. Silver dead wood litters the surroundings with weak pine trees beyond that listlessly leaning on each other in the damp oily soil. Up ahead stands a red drilling rig, encased in a flimsy fence guarded by four security guards. When we approach the work halts, a towering, English security guard from the previous day, tells us we're trespassing, amongst other things we tell him it's common land.
There's only three members of the solidarity camp out in the thirteen strong party. We clamber through the thicket and emerge at the back of the boardwalk, catch our breath and continue along it, bordered by long red grass and shiny black peat. Silver dead wood litters the surroundings with weak pine trees beyond that listlessly leaning on each other in the damp oily soil. Up ahead stands a red drilling rig, encased in a flimsy fence guarded by four security guards. When we approach the work halts, a towering, English security guard from the previous day, tells us we're trespassing, amongst other things we tell him it's common land.
(Vince consulting with Jimmy, a local Garda)
The stand off doesn't last long, we get bored and two of us try to slip under the fence to get to the machine, the guards pounce on them, grabbing legs, ramming them up against he fence. Well, that's when it goes a bit mad. The locals leap into action, pulling back the guards, in the insueing panic a camp member tries to jump the fence but is shocked to see it fall apart in his hands. Locals pour through the gap wrenching and bending the gate to the ground, curses bounce about, and guards are forced back as Martin, casually scales the drill making settling comfortably at the top. It's stalemate again, and time crawls by. Willy Corduff, one of the Rossport 5, rattles off to the Gardai who turn up moments later. They seem confused about the legality of the tresspass and dismayed at the turn of events, so after a while and after a lot of berating they give in, agreeing to remove the rig from the site.
The stand off doesn't last long, we get bored and two of us try to slip under the fence to get to the machine, the guards pounce on them, grabbing legs, ramming them up against he fence. Well, that's when it goes a bit mad. The locals leap into action, pulling back the guards, in the insueing panic a camp member tries to jump the fence but is shocked to see it fall apart in his hands. Locals pour through the gap wrenching and bending the gate to the ground, curses bounce about, and guards are forced back as Martin, casually scales the drill making settling comfortably at the top. It's stalemate again, and time crawls by. Willy Corduff, one of the Rossport 5, rattles off to the Gardai who turn up moments later. They seem confused about the legality of the tresspass and dismayed at the turn of events, so after a while and after a lot of berating they give in, agreeing to remove the rig from the site.
(Martin rests with style in the arms of a drilling rig)
Martin comes down, the rig packs up and we follow it to the gates where it stops. Willy isn't pleased with this, the agreement was to have the rig off the site, the commanding officer disagree's and once again we reach a stand off. The authorities know that they can't force us to leave. Unlike the refinery site, the Leanamor area is only vaguely enclosed with a poor fence, either side is a massive and thick wood, any threat and we could slip into there and return at our leisure, then there's the issue of if we are actually trespassing. The superintendent, removes his hat, rubs his thinning scalp and shakes his head.
Ten minutes later the sandwiches arrive. That's the most amusing thing about this protest movement, whatever happens, at the end of everything there's someone holding a tray of sandwiches and a cup of tea for you, or scones, or soda bread, or jaffa cakes. It's as if your nan came out with the anarchists picnic.
I don't knock it, it's remarkably civilised, bloody tasy and really irritates the garda. They can see that we're resigned to stay on site, and as they set up the lighting rig against a setting sun, our soup turns up. It's a cold night and we get bored, so we're entertained by locking ourselves in the security portacabin for a bit and running up and down. A massive crowd gathers at the fence, some locals wander in and out of the gate, the security huddle in the corner. The fencing left on the boardwalk out of sight, encounters a freak localised storm that somehow wrecks it and re-distributes a lot of left pipes, we can't figure it out. Finally at 10pm we dissapear into the night with sleeping bags and tents.
Martin comes down, the rig packs up and we follow it to the gates where it stops. Willy isn't pleased with this, the agreement was to have the rig off the site, the commanding officer disagree's and once again we reach a stand off. The authorities know that they can't force us to leave. Unlike the refinery site, the Leanamor area is only vaguely enclosed with a poor fence, either side is a massive and thick wood, any threat and we could slip into there and return at our leisure, then there's the issue of if we are actually trespassing. The superintendent, removes his hat, rubs his thinning scalp and shakes his head.
Ten minutes later the sandwiches arrive. That's the most amusing thing about this protest movement, whatever happens, at the end of everything there's someone holding a tray of sandwiches and a cup of tea for you, or scones, or soda bread, or jaffa cakes. It's as if your nan came out with the anarchists picnic.
I don't knock it, it's remarkably civilised, bloody tasy and really irritates the garda. They can see that we're resigned to stay on site, and as they set up the lighting rig against a setting sun, our soup turns up. It's a cold night and we get bored, so we're entertained by locking ourselves in the security portacabin for a bit and running up and down. A massive crowd gathers at the fence, some locals wander in and out of the gate, the security huddle in the corner. The fencing left on the boardwalk out of sight, encounters a freak localised storm that somehow wrecks it and re-distributes a lot of left pipes, we can't figure it out. Finally at 10pm we dissapear into the night with sleeping bags and tents.
Come 5am we turn up, the rising sun at our backs and a wry smile on our faces. The security look haggered, confused and underpaid. We give them a wave, hop the fence and walk to the trailer outside the refinary for tea and scones. They didn't drill that day either.
Just another days work.
Last friday there was a big protest.
That's another story
Just another days work.
Last friday there was a big protest.
That's another story
I might tell you it someday.
If you ask me nicely.
Tommy2shoes...
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