There are two routes from Upper Lough Erne to its big brother and near namesake, Lower Lough Erne.  It mattered not which we took as the two meet a couple of miles outside Fermanagh’s largest town, Enniskillen: a place only known to any of us through media reports from ‘The Troubles’.  Mooring on the town jetty, we hoped that things had changed for the better and were uncertain if the CCTV cameras overlooking the boats were a good sign. A short walk into town soon settled any nerves as Enniskillen is clearly enjoying, and profiteering from, the peace. The town centre has managed to avoid the repetitive cloning so sad to see in English high streets: there are lots of small shops and a craft area in the Buttermarket the equal of any we had seen in Ireland. The North is dramatically cheaper than the Republic and, being so close to the border, the out of town supermarkets in Enniskillen heave with bargain seekers, to such a degree that the Asda store is the sixth busiest store in the global Walmart ‘family’.  With our stores full and new rain hats - it seemed to be constantly raining - we headed out into Lower Lough Erne.

Lower Lough Erne is twenty miles long and up to six miles wide. Entering from Enniskillen, the eastern end is shallow and full of islands. The scale and hazardous nature of the lough is such that it has its own lifeboat. Caution was going to be needed. We chose to stop on the first island, Devenish, to see the monastic ruins which include the best preserved round tower in Ireland. Sadly, health and safety regulations ( we were now in the UK!) means that the tower is no longer open to the public, so we contented ourselves with some exploring of our own and Eric was soon happily pacing out the ring fort remains that he had spotted on one of the island’s high spots. Strangely, this did not appear on the OS map but then the cave which according to the same map was in the woods above the next day’s mooring, could not be found. Not that we minded as the search for it gave us the best view yet, and it wasn’t raining!

We were quite content gently making our way down the lough’s southern shore as it was varied and sheltered. The shelter was appreciated as the weather was far from kind and we were all concerned about crossing the line printed in red across all the charts with, printed in red capitals: ‘ Lough becomes rough in strong winds northwest of this line’.  With boats of varying seaworthiness we were not going to cross it until we knew that the weather was set fine. With a good forecast we waited in a bay beneath another ruined plantation castle - once again sacked in 1641 with considerable loss of life - and, with the mist lifting and a flat calm surface,  set out early the following morning. Ted, who consistently takes the best photos, caught the moment rather well:

The picture below was taken from Hawthorn as we made our way down the southern shore




Arriving at the bottom of the lough we faced a choice: to go down the river to the navigation limit at Belleek; or to return up the north shore to a safe mooring. Sixteen rivers feed the Erne through Belleek and flows of over 8 knots are not unheard of and, with all the rain of recent days and more forecast, we chose the safer option and headed for Kesh, a mile or so off the lough and up its own small river.  This was soon revealed to be a mistake!

The approach to Kesh River is through a narrow marked channel outside of which were silted areas we assumed to be the rivers deposits. The foolishness of this misunderstanding was evident the moment we got into the river as we were suddenly faced with the full flow in a channel not wide enough to turn in. With no choice other than to keep going and naively hoping that it would get better we pushed on with Ted behind. Eric, warned over the VHF radio that his mast would not get under the trees, stopped on a tiny dilapidated jetty with the intention of dropping it and following us on up. We soon advised him that it would be wiser to go back out into the lough as the flow was now really making life hard. The Kesh is only a small river and, with ninety degree bends, our bow was constantly being swept into the outside bank. It took forty five minutes at full throttle to make the mile or so to the first possible mooring. Ted soon joined us.

Safely tied to a jetty that was floating so high that the walkway to it was underwater, we drank tea with shaking hands. The next problem was going to be getting out again as, with the river in the state that it was, we would have gone downstream at six knots without the engines running. To get back again we would have to wait until the river dropped. Much later and with the river higher still, we could hear a boat struggling upstream below the next bend. After five minutes a hire boat very slowly crept into site, its engine flat out and with crew (minus lifejackets) on the bow deck fending off the branches and trees that were shooting past on the flow. We quickly made room for them on the jetty and took their lines as they shot into the back eddy around the boats and rammed the stern of Hawthorn with such a jolt that I had to grab the jacket of one of the guys on the bow to stop him falling overboard. Such was the relief of the all male Spanish crew that they greeted us like long lost brothers and gave us a bottle of undrinkable Spanish liqueur! The following morning, to our surprise and delight, the river had fallen by nearly two feet and we were able to make our way downstream and out onto the lough without any more excitement. It had been a strange trip but, to our consolation, we heard soon after that the river in Belleek was also in full flood and would remain so for several days. Better one night of torture than a week but better still to learn to think twice about rivers in the wettest summer on record in Ireland.

We spent the next few days wandering around the islands on the lough’s northern shore and were joined by my brother, Austin, who promptly caught a large pike from the dinghy. A catch that brought Eric and myself great amusement as Austin was using the lightest rod and the dinghy was dragged all over the place by his ‘monster’. It was even larger than the  landing net and it took some trickery to get it onboard . There was little room in the dinghy with the three of us that, had the pike gotten free on the floor, pandemonium would have broken out. Quite possibly the outcome of which would have been a fish in the boat and three anglers in the water!  We were all much happier once the fish was back in its own environment.

Our last few days on the lough were spent at the Yatch Club. Barges are not normally welcome in such establishments but Eric’s sailing vessel had brought us to the attention of the sailors and we were more than welcome on the outside jetty. We shared this space with Jimmy, another barge owner who pretty much lived on site and looked after the place. Born locally, Jimmy knows the lough inside out and we were privileged to be invited for an evening tour of round the local bays and islands in the company of Davy, who helps run the lifeboat. After months of navigating and steering it was a fun to be motored about and regaled with stories and adventure. The best of which has to be the trips that Jimmy used to run for the American tourists. These were done in the evening and were promoted as ‘Leprechaun Tours’. Considerable planning was involved: at one spot close to the shore, Jimmy would cut the engine so the plaintive fiddling of the leprechaun could be heard ( a musical mate was ready and waiting in the half light) and on one of the islands a little hut had been constructed with a flat screen television visible through a window. Again another mate would have started the generator and run the video of a leprechaun dancing. Jimmy and Davy were laughing their heads off just remembering the shock of the more gullible party members some of whom wanted to take leprechauns back to America. “Impossible”, they were told as: “leprechauns turned into rabbits as they left Irish soil”! A great evening and a fun way to leave this glorious water. We had come as far north as possible and the only thing to do now was to enjoy the run back down south.

It so turns out that we have a lot more excitement to come: as mentioned in an earlier blog, Eric has a little black terrier that he rescued from stopping a bullet. Well, Oiche, (pronounced Eha - Irish for night) has been steadily gaining weight. Initially we put this down to good food and loving care but the truth is now undeniable: our little band of mishap mariners is about to be swelled by the presence of puppies. She is now quite a large little terrier and we are all waiting for the joy to begin.  Photographs guaranteed for future blogs.