Back in my boyhood days, about sixty years ago; an old man named Paddy MacNamara lived with his wife Mollie in a thatched cottage, beside Jim Ryan (Bulleen’s) dairy in Greenhills Road, Garryowen. They had a half-acre plot of land beside their house, which Paddy cultivated very expertly and profitably until old age forced him to abandon it to nature and it was allowed to go its own wild way. Soon grass, weeds and nettles took over, but it was still known locally as Mac’s Garden; and it was there that the drama of my encounter with The Divil was enacted. Now this particular divil took the form of a big jackass; and of all the mean, savage brutes, that a young lad might encounter, he was by far the worst. Paddy Mac. Had got him as a foal and reared him; and he was the only human being who could handle him. Paddy, however had no work for him now, and he just left him idly there, to graze away on his lonesome. By degrees he grew lazier, sourer and meaner; until eventually, as a result of his viciousness, he earned himself the name of The Divil. To look at he was a strong black animal with a cream-coloured muzzle; long, pointed ears and a sort of stupidly vacant expression. To quote Shakespeare, one might say: “The devil damn thee black, thou creamy-faced loon! Where got’st thou that goose look?” But he certainly was no goose for that vacant look belied the deep cunning and villainy embedded in his mind. There really was a dark demon in possession of the heart of that jackass. One of his victims was Noel Hayes’ terrier Sporty, who chased after him barking away for a bit of fun; but he ventured too close – The Divil wanted to have his own brand of fun; so he landed him with a kick which broke the unfortunate Sporty’s back and then stomped on his helpless form with both front hooves. That closed the book on the hapless terrier’s life story. Several hardy youngsters had tried their skills at riding the beast, but in all cases, they came off second-best. He was real bad news; and he had dirty tricks in him that you would never dream of. My brother, Matt, had a try – he was a fair hand at bare-back pony riding – but all he got for his efforts was an attempt by The Divil to pin Matt’s left leg against the stone wall and leaning inward with all his weight tore along the wall. Had he succeeded in his efforts he would certainly have pulverized Matt’s knee and ankle and lacerated the rest of his left leg leaving Matt with a féirín he would carry with him for life. Luckily for Matt however, he was just in time to lift his leg off the jackass but immediately he was sent rolling over on his hands and face into a clump of nettles. Matt was still wearing short pants – long pants on young boys was unheard of in those days – so that his knees also suffered punishment from the nettles and he was indeed a sorry sight for the rest of that day. He had a reminder for about two weeks as the tip of his left ear was stinging for all that time. Matt lost all interest in conquering the brute at this stage. His sole reaction was that if only he could get hold of Dad’s shotgun and cartridges – which were always kept securely under lock and key – he would quickly despatch The Divil. Paddy Mac never minded the attempts made by young lads from anywhere at all to ride his jackass for he knew very well the inevitable outcome of such attempts and anyway they were trespassers on his ground and were there at their own risk. The brute was, in his disposition and carry-on, the nearest thing to the Giolla Deachar’s old horse that one could ever find. The Giolla Deachar was a giant who arrived in Ireland in the time of Finn Mac Cumhall. He was a Formorian (sea robber) who came from Northern Europe and travelled from country to country. One evening when Finn and the Fianna were resting on the Hill of Knockainey in Co. Limerick, having spent the day hunting thereabouts, the Giolla Deachar appeared mounted on this monstrous brute of a horse. The giant asked Finn if he would engage him in his service for one year and after some questioning and answering Finn agreed to take him on in “his horse service” for the specified period. The Giolla Deachar dismounted from his horse which was the largest, meanest and ugliest animal ever to have made its appearance in Ireland. Finn told him to take his horse to the field where most of the tired horses of the Fianna were quietly grazing, which he did. As soon as the horse was left there he started his “Andrew Martins”. He viciously lashed out in all directions with both hind legs, and butted and savagely bit them until he had incurably disabled many of the horses in the herd; and whilst doing all this his horrible countenance wore a devilish, fiendish grin and but for Conal Maol’s intervention … ah, but that’s part of another story! To return to the Divil in Mac’s garden; it was impossible to get a halter on him and if you tried to get a bit into his mouth you could very readily lose a few fingers in the effort. With his long yellow choppers of teeth he tore the shoulder padding clean off Bob Coll’s jacket and had he got those teeth into Bob’s shoulder, he would have maimed him for life. When he indulged in his tantrums, which was usually whenever anybody but Paddy Mac approached him, his fiery, rolling eyes, ears laid back and those yellow teeth showing with obvious ill-intent, in a vicious grimace, would scare anybody in close proximity to him. As for myself, whilst I shared the common fear of all other young lads who had come anywhere near him and I treated him with fearful respect, I yet felt that I could pull off a feat which nobody else had achieved. I often dreamed of breaking that devilish will and gaining control of the beast. I did not, however, delude myself into believing that it would be an easy task. In fact I was firmly convinced it would take supreme effort and would also need resorting to some clever stratagem. Now in those far-away days I was allowed to attend the film matinees every alternate Saturday in Mr. Cronin’s Atheneum Cinema in Upper Cecil Street. There, on the silent screen we watched the heroics of cowboy stars Tom Mix and Buck Jones and many others on their horses and sometimes we could with unbridled (no pun intended!) excitement enjoy the thrills and spills of the rides. To complete my ytheoretical education I devoured every cowboy magazine – there were many such on the market then – which mt older brother Batt would buy or swop in old Musty Conway’s newspaper and magazine shop in Upper William Street. This imbibing of cowboy culture – if such it might be called – taught me the theory and style of action of every bronco buster and mustang wrangler both real and fictitious from Calgary in Canada down through Montana and Wyoming, all over the Rocky Mountain country; Colorado, Arizona, the Panhandle, Texas and even across the Rio Grande and the Mexican Border into the State of Sonora. I was also well into the topography of this vast territory and knew all about gulches, canyons, arroyos and gullies. The place names too are still buried in my memory and all learned at the time when I was struggling at school with memorising the principal towns, rivers and mountains of the Four Provinces of Ireland. Those cowboys’ deeds as depicted on screen, in which right always triumphed over evil; fired my youthful imagination and that very fertile attribute primed my ambition to conquer The Divil. But as I pondered the situation I realised that these aficionados, who mostly bore monosyllabic first names such as Tex, Slim, Buck, Red and so on; had the benefit of reins, bridles and saddles with pommels on them for grip and stirrups for foothold whilst a young lad trying to subdue Paddy Mac’s jackass had no such equipment – nothing save a nimble wit, grit and a punch tired and severely overworked Guardian Angel. It just did not seem possible against such odds but to indulge in a modern cliché – in order to be able to live with myself – I knew I would have to take up the challenge. The Play I hit eventually on a fairly simple plan of action. At least in theory it was simple. I would get a fairly short length of rope and knot both ends together. This circle of rope I would throw over The Divil’s head as far down over his mane as possible. Then, when he had done with his bucking I would come at him quietly but swiftly from behind, keeping clear of his lethal, jabbing hind legs; dart in and throw one leg over his back, dig the fingers of one hand into his short mane whilst at the same time grabbing hold of the looped rope and pulling it tight. Successfully mounted, I would operate the second phase of the plan, which was quite simply not to get thrown off the beast. At the slightest sign of slipping or of being dumped I would swing my leg over and hop off. Then, when his bucking had ceased I would come at him from the opposite side and, like a rooster making for the top perch, suddenly take off and remount. Keep this up as long as I possibly could – give him absolutely no peace – and wear him down. That was the plan and I felt with a bit of luck, it would succeed. He was not in the best of condition due to his idleness whilst I was in first class condition, lightly built and with speed of foot aplenty. The Encounter Then one Saturday morning, I announced to a few companions that I was ready to take on The Divil. Of course they scoffed at the notion and so we set out for Mac’s Garden. I had my coil of rope with me and so, heart beating fast and swallowing hard, I slipped over the four-barred gate to confront the demon. It was a mighty battle! The satanic brute was grazing about fifteen yards away as I quietly approached from the rere, but his ears suddenly picked up and he swung about and faced me. He bared his teeth and rolled his eyes at me, ears flattened and the venom and hatred he felt for young boys and now for me in particular, was clearly shown. I approached and passed him, keeping well to one side; then suddenly I ran back and with the first throw I got the looped rope over his head and then skedaddled fast towards the gate. He bucked about and tossed his head a few times, but the loose coil only went further down over his mane until the lower part was almost resting on his knees. He could not now shake it off. Once the action had commenced I felt better. I quietly worked in close to the beast and, when he had calmed down a bit, I suddenly took off and scrambled aboard. It was very rough going! He threw his hind legs up in the air and I almost went over his head. I desperately clutched his short mane and grabbed the rope, then I grimly held on for about three more bucks, but my balance was getting rather precarious, so I decided to bale out. I skipped off lightly and then he gave a few more kicks of the hind legs; and thinking his ordeal was over, he meandered a few yards away. I don’t believe he even knew it was happening until I, coming at him from the opposite side, was back up on his back again. I kept this up for five or six turns with a few near escapes. Once I almost sprung my ankle coming off his back but after hopping about a few times it was alright. I gave that jackass no peace! I was sweating freely, my hair was getting in my eyes, I was panting a bit from the exertion and there was a ringing in my ears but the adrenaline was flowing like whiskey from a hogshead or bubbles on a mountain stream. I noticed the Divil was sweating about the neck and flanks and he seemed to be slowing down a bit too. A few times he quickly swung his neck and head about to bite my leg but I read his actions too quickly as I had been expecting that caper and slipped off – then back up again on the opposite side. He was beginning to tire and I knew I would be feeling the after-effects for about a week. Victory? The onlookers had trebled in numbers at this stage and were no longer shouting advice as they had been doing. This showed that they were now totally absorbed in the struggle which encouraged me further as it showed clearly that they felt my aim was not now impossible. Eventually at about the ninth or tenth set-to, the jackass seemed to go loco. Immediately, I slid off and such a cavorting and bucking exhibition as he gave! He then calmed down and before he knew it I had remounted and gave him a dart of the heels of my boots. Then I leaned forward gripping tightly. Suddenly, it was all over! No more bucking – he just simply took off up the garden, but not for long, as he slowed down to a short trot and eventually just ambled a few steps further along when he decided he had had enough and wearily came to a stop. He was in a lather of sweat and his rider was not feeling too healthy myself either! However, I was feeling very relieved, delighted and excited that my plan had worked and I felt quite elated that I was the only boy who could claim to have broken and ridden Paddy Mac’s black jackass. I felt as though I had just ridden the winner of the Grand National! My seemingly asinine, nay equine, theoretical studies at the Atheneum Cinema and the cowboy magazines had equipped me for the fray! The boys were shouting and saying “I’ll have a go!” but next thing the racket was overheard by Paddy Mac and he stormed out of the house, red in the face and quickly ordered the lot of us out of his ‘garden’ and put the Divil into an outhouse which had become the brute’s stable, and he shook his fist at us and said “don’t come back here again”!.