John McCullagh September 10, 2004
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In the fort one time there was a lone bush so large and branchy, ye cud have stud under it all day in the rain without iver getting’ wet.  About a ton of stones lay aroun’ it near till the size of ducks’ eggs, but what they wur there for nobody knowed.  The tree itself wus blown down on the windy night an’ carried right across the fiel’s to the road.  But nivir a sowl laid han’s on it or touched it until it wasted away of itself.
 
Near the same fort too, just outside the ring, there wus at one time the finest pillar-stone in Ireland, but oul’ Mrs Rice had it destroyed.  An’ it wus she had the bad luck, all her cows dyin’ of disorders, an’ she claimin’ compensation off two townlan’s an’ blackguardin’ her dacent neighbours.
 
But the same Mrs Rice, she went too far when she cut down the oul’ thorns on the fort.  But God rest her, she cud nivir see the harm in it.  She nivir saw another winter!
 
The fort was always a gentle place.  I mind me father that’s dead this many a year – he’d be a hundred today if he wus alive – hearing the finest music there that iver wus heared.  Deed the finest music that iver wus heared wus nothin’ till the music he heared at the oul’ bush in the fort.  An’ the light wus beautiful an’ playin’ all aroun’ it.
 
An’ another fort here wus clane destroyed be John Brady.  He wus one of the wealthiest men of his day – with a dozen race-horses, an’ mebbe more, in England.  But he lost all his money an’ people said it was well he come till no worse.  An’ there wus another lone bush in Ballyheridan of great repute on George John Fleming’s land.
 
An’ tuk it down and’ burned it, he did.  An’ he wasted right away.
 
An’ he a man of thirty-four acres!

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