Family connections to the island
The island felt untouched and yet profoundly lived-in, a testament to the unspoken respect that those who came before us had for the island.
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My wonderful brother Malachy loved the lake. It didn't matter if he caught any fish or not. More often than anything what was caught would be released. We grew up in Oughterard on the shores of the Lough Corrib. Oughterard is well known for its angling and boasts (or at least used to) one of the largest populations of freshwater pearl mussel in Ireland.
Mal taught me about what lies above and beneath the water, everything from flies, eels, trout and salmon up to humongous invasive pike. Pike were definitely not released back. We have the glass cabinet of a 17lb 2oz pike caught off Baurisheen Bay to prove it! When we grew up we started an *almost* annual fishing day on the Corrib. We didn't get out as much as we should, but time spent was well spent. It was always the highlight of my year. I was honestly more about the lunch we would have on Inchagoill than anything! I loved being on the lake with Mal because we could be silent together or talk in that kind of way you tell everything to your mom in the car on the drive somewhere. Pulling into Inchagoill at one of the hidden inlets was always something else. From the water, you’d swear there was nothing there, but as we got closer, these little spots would open up. Malachy always seemed to know exactly where to go, like he was in on some ancient secret passed down through generations of fishermen. Lough Corrib fishermen. That's what's so lovely about the lake and how knowledge is shared. You didn’t need to be family to pick it up. Everything he knew was either self-taught or passed on from other fishermen who had the same love for the lake. He was known for many years as "Mallard" and some of his friends had similar lakey names like "Otter", "Giller", Báid (boat), "Bubbles" and "Mike the Island". Mal had the kind of knowledge that comes from experience, from spending hours on the water, learning the inlets and coves that don’t appear on any map. He could sketch out an underwater map of glacial boulders and had an understanding about the natural rise and fall of the water levels and how those tough westerly winds could make the lake an unforgiving place if you got caught out. Malachy knew all these things, it was second nature, and it wasn’t something you could just read in a book. It’s how the Lough Corrib culture has always worked—one generation of lake people teaching the next. Once ashore, it's clear that these inlets are places that had been used for decades by other fishermen, with well worn paths and little open spaces where tree stump benches and seats surrounded stone firepits. I would estimate there's a good 20 firepits on the island altogether, from people fishing and in recent years from campers. 
Mal with Róisín & MacDara
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Malachy "Mallard" Ruane
These inlet lunch spots were always kept exactly as you would find them. Inchagoill had its own set of rules that we all followed. The island felt untouched and yet profoundly lived-in, a testament to the unspoken respect that those who came before us had for the island. The only sounds were the lapping of the lake, the rustle of trees, and birds overhead. That popping sound of lunch boxes being opened, blackened teapot lids flapping, sticks broken and crackling in the firepit, the ruffling of tinfoil and biscuits and the high pitched pinging noise of those indestructible tin mugs. I remember the sound from the splatter of the last few drops of tea on the ground, the gritty crunching of disturbed gravel stone beneath rubber boots and the heavy dull squeak of overalls and waterproofs (No matter how I thought I was prepared, Malachy would throw some oversized spare waterproofs at me to put on over whatever I had). It was these small pauses during our fishing trips that made Inchagoill feel like more than just a stopover—it was part of the experience, woven into the memory of every outing. When we lost Malachy in March 2023, I wanted to do something that would connect me to my favourite memories of him, Mal in his element at peace doing what he loved outdoors in nature. In memory of Mal and to honor Inchagoill, I initiated this biodiversity project, supported by a Small Recorders Grant from the National Parks and Wildlife Service |
Kinneavy boats
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Our other connection with the lake came from my mother's partner Steve when growing up. Steve Kinneavy is of boat building heritage. He is a 4th generation boatbuilder, coming from the Kinneavy family that lived on Inchagoill until 1922 . Around this time, his great grandfather moved to Camp St. in Oughterard. The Kinneavys of Inchagoill were building boats since 1861 on the island; they built row boats, sail boats and pucáns. The boats were crafted from native timber, usually of oak and larch. Back in the day, rowing boats were powered by oars and not motorised and so the shape of the boats needed to be designed in such a way as to make them easy to row and yet be sturdy enough in the face of choppy waters. The Kinneavy 18 foot slimline boat design is unique to this day, with only a handful original boats remaining. Steve continued the tradition in being a master boatbuilder and made a traditional boat for Mal (the Niamh Rose). Malachy ended up with two boats in the end, a fiberglass one that has its use on the lake under certain conditions and the prized Niamh Rose. He didn't mind the fiberglass one getting a bit battered by the lake but was so careful about the Niamh Rose! Six families lived on the island at one point for around 100 years. There were even two Kinneavy families, one from Cong in Mayo and one from Oughterard in Galway. They even used to keep a few cattle and pigs on the island. The remaining homestead and remnants of the boatyard on Inchagoill island are still visible today, tucked in behind the islands oldest beech tree on Kinneavy's bay. Steve's mother was Marcella as seen in the link below: |
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Beautiful craftsmanship of the Niamh Rose by Steve Kinneavy
