At the turn of the previous century a pilot brought a sailing ship from Dunmore East to Passage East. Once safely at anchor, the pilot was rowed ashore to the village. There he took the fateful decision to turn towards the Crooke Road and take a long walk back to the coast.

Now the pilot boat crew tried to deter him. Pointing out that a fog was rolling in and that he might be best to while the time at the pilot house till morning. New to the job and eager to please, he shrugged off their counsel. Pulling the collar up around his neck, he strode out and up the hill.

As he disappeared into the fog that winters night the pilot boat crew looked on with some trepidation. For they knew the stories of the roads and in particular the nights of fog and what it summoned forth. But such things were left unspoken, they had tried their best.

Our pilot was a new recruit to the post, having fished the harbour as a boy and sailed the oceans as a man. He’d faced down hunger, disease, fifty foot waves and crimps and whoremasters in some of the worst ports in the world. A fog bound road was no obstacle to such a man.

As he came to the top of the road at Crooke near St John The Baptist Church, he welcomed the levelling off of the ground and knew from here on the going was easier. Apart from the odd light in a window, nothing else had he seen on the road, not a dog, nor a cat and no human either. He had a full moon to light his way, although it was hidden by cloud much of the time. As he walked over towards Geneva Barracks he suddenly spotted a shadowy figure emerging towards him out of the fog.

“God bless you, my son”

The pilot was taken aback. Before him stood a curate. However the priest was dressed in a manner of dress more in keeping with older times. “Good night Father” he blurted out, somewhat confused.

“I’ve been walking the road in search of a fellow Christian. By any chance have you ever served mass?”

Thinking back to his boyhood in Dunmore East and serving mass on the altar at Killea, he replied “Not for many a year Father, but it’s not something forgotten”

“Then would you ever perform a Christian act for a priest in desperate need, for I require someone to serve for me this night and to hasten the journey of a soul to its redemption”

At this, the pilot grew even more confused; what could a priest want with him in the middle of the night? What Mass was to be served and where. The pilot shivered as the fog thickened around them and he felt the wet seep into his upturned collar.

Perhaps sensing his confusion the priest explained “I was delayed beyond my time and this mass must be said, and although the hour is late, if you follow me to Crooke church, a dreadful wrong will be righted this night”

Retracing his steps was the last thing the pilot wanted, but his conscience would not allow him refuse the request, however bizarre. So return he did, back along the darkened foggy roadway and at this stage not a light from any widow could be seen. The priest moved with quickened steps and soon they were approaching the church. But imagine the pilots surprise and confusion when rather than turn right towards the gates, they went left. At the crossroads above they again turned left and down towards the old church and graveyard. At the turn he noticed a man standing into the bushes, his peaked cap hiding his eyes. Closer to the gate another man stood. He realised they were look outs, as each in turn saluted the priest before returning their gaze towards the road.

As they turned into the graveyard, the tri-lancet windows of the tumbled down Templar church was covered with ivy and shrouded in fog and the pilot was thoroughly confused when they entered the ruins and the priest moved to the altar area. Here he beckoned the pilot to take his place to the side.

Moments later the priest began, his voice strong and powerful, filled with a conviction and depth as he launched into the mass for the dead in the Latin. The pilot quickly forgot the strange surroundings and fell to making the responses speaking clearly and faultlessly as he had learned as a boy.

Focused on the ceremony and concentrating on the responses, it was mid way through when he turned from the priest to notice that the walls were now solid, the ivy was cleared and where there was nothing when he had arrived, not the floor of the church was filled with kneeling figures, heads bowed and a mumbling sound could be heard from the congregation. When he turned back to the priest, his cassock now covered by a chasuble and stole of purple, a plain coffin surrounded by candle stands and a cross at its head.

Closing his eyes in disbelief and with a sense of growing anxiety and fear he told himself to concentrate on the service and perhaps he would survive this nightmare.

Eventually, the mass was concluded, the priest came to the coffin and the final prayers were offered. Six men stepped forward, and gathered the coffin on their shoulders, and the procession led its way out to the graveyard. As they went, the pilot prepared to leave, but the priest turned towards him, walked to where he knelt. Leaning benevolently towards the pilot, the priest said, “Thank you, my son, for releasing my spirit, a hundred year wrong has been righted and I can finally rest in peace”

As the priest faded away into the gloom, the church spun, a light enveloped the entire scene and the pilot felt the use leave him as he slipped to the ground and into unconsciousness.

There he was found the following morning, soaking wet, unconscious and barely alive. Brought home to Dunmore he lived a few weeks more, slipping in and out of consciousness and bit by bit he managed to relate what parts of the tale that is known. As to the reasons for the funeral it was an older woman in Knockroe who recalled an incident from penal times.

A priest was roused by the troops on his way to a funeral and beaten to a pulp. They had only wanted to rough him up, prior to incarceration and transportation, but on falling he struck his head and died. Meanwhile, a poor and aged woman of the locality was waking her husband and waiting on the priest, she had cursed the curate, thinking he was a coward and fearful of risking the troops. Alas, she too died that night unaware of the fate of the wronged priest.

The Pilot never recovered, nor was he expected to. Such encounters can never be survived, but he had done his duty, released a tormented soul and it was said that his funeral was attended by not just his family, friends and fellow pilots, but by the clergy of the city & county who recognised his sacrifice for one of their own.

At least it was one less tormented soul scouring the lanes and boreens of the area, seeking redemption. But there’s many more out there on those nights that you would be best staying indoors.

Check out our Halloween category for more strange tales from the harbour area. Its a tradition on the page going back to 2014.

Tides & Tales

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