The Pooka: An Irish legend

PRIME — March 2012 By Jane D. O'Donoghue PRIME Guest Columnist I was beginning to doze off on the long coach ride from Dublin to Ennistymon, County Clare in Ireland. As we entered the grounds of the Falls Hotel, I noticed an odd pair looking over the rail fence. A beautiful pure white horse and a donkey were gazing in our direction. It seemed strange for them to be side by side. When the driver stepped out to open the gate, I grabbed my camera and slipped out behind him. Quickly I snapped the pair and jumped back into the bus. Glancing back, and I saw the white horse raise his head, glare at me and race away. When we checked into our rooms, I mentioned the unusual scene to the clerk and she seemed flustered. She muttered something in Gaelic that I didn't understand, and continued with our registrations. In our room, we unpacked and freshened up for cocktails and dinner. A genial white-haired Irish gentleman joined our group and delighted us with some local tales. When I inquired about the splendid horse I saw, he changed the subject. I took several pictures of our fellow travelers, but the storyteller declined to be photographed. Maybe I read too many legends and tales before we left home and yet there was an unusual air about our new acquaintance. I was unnerved. Thankfully, the next day, riding sessions were scheduled along the lovely tree-lined stream on the hotel property. As I waited my turn, that same white horse from the day before came from behind, snatched me up with his teeth, threw me up on his back and raced headlong into the nearby forest. The camera that was slung over my shoulder fell to the ground and flew open. The film rolled out. At that moment, my ride stopped abruptly and I flew into the air, landing in some bushes. The elegant steed galloped away, leaving me aching, lame and bewildered. Painfully, I walked back, collected my camera and pocketed the useless film. Later, when my friends questioned my abrupt departure from the area, they gave me dubious looks as I told of my frightening experience. My husband, Tom suggested that maybe it was time to head back to the hotel for lunch and a nap. After eating, I was too agitated to rest and went for a quiet stroll through a peaceful boreen (a little road) into town. As I went along, I noticed flashes of white streaming through the bordering trees. I wondered if I was starting to hallucinate and fearing a repeat of the morning's episode, I quickly returned to the main road. I passed a small shop that displayed film, books and other small items for sale. They also featured a quick film developing process. I entered the store and showed the clerk my ruined film and questioned the possibility that the unexposed part in the canister might be saved. He agreed to give it a try. His name was Tadhg like our oldest son. Just as he was placing the film in the machine, the door flew open and my white-haired friend from the evening before stomped into the shop. He rudely tried to distract the clerk by demanding immediate attention. But, Tadhg politely told the man to wait his turn. He then started the developer and the man trotted out of the shop in a rage. I was told it would take about an hour, and was invited to browse through his shop while I waited. As always, I was drawn to the book section, especially those on Irish legends and folklore. Just as Tadhg announced the film was ready, I was reading a fascinating account on Pookas. The account of a white horse appearing suddenly and playing tricks on unsuspecting people sounded strangely familiar. The clerk walked over to me with a pleased look on his face as he had salvaged the photos for me. He asked why I was so interested in them and what had I expected to see. When he displayed the snaps, I saw my white-haired gentleman friend leaning over a rail. There was no horse. Tadhg and I sat down and exchanged stories of Pookas in the Irish legends. He listened as I told of my trials since arriving, such as the wild horseback ride, the man in the cocktail lounge, and the same one who trotted into the store an hour ago. We concurred that I had unexpectedly photographed a Pooka, which had never been done before. What to do with this phenomenon was another question. The fear of being pursued across Ireland by wild horses and white-haired gentlemen caused me to put a match to both photo and negative. Tadhg was my accepting witness. Some things are better left unproven and legendary. (Oh, my secret and yours will be that I ordered two sets of photos and kept one.) Jane D. O'Donoghue is a Hungry Hill native and retired school librarian. Her writing has appeared in local and regional publications.
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