![]() V had little interest in joining the men for their nighttime oyster escapades, but he had other ideas for the developing black market. “We were getting more brazen every day,” he adds. Those trucks carry 7 or 8 tons! Thousands of oysters.” I imagined the trucks, filled to capacity, cruising along the winding roads of Connemara at the break of dawn, with the driver keeping one watchful eye on the rear view mirror. “We would fill the trucks to the top-as much as the lorry could take. “After the lads dredged the oysters, we’d do a pick up at 4 a.m.,” V says, remembering cold winter nights of backing up the trucks to the water’s edge. At the time the bed was discovered, oysters were plentiful, but buyers brave enough to enter the black market were scarce. Making as little noise as possible, they rowed back to the coastline. ![]() ![]() For two to three hours at a time, the men-fishermen, farmers, and laborers by day-collected oysters from the sandy sea floor, filling mesh bags to the brim. The product was oysters, dredged from a neglected bed about two miles offshore.Ī typical poaching expedition took place under the glow of moonlight with three men setting out in a currach, a wooden Irish rowboat. The men in the bar were waiting for a buyer who agreed to meet under the cover of darkness. This is the first oyster poaching memory V (as he wishes to be referred to in this article) can recall. When the headlights of a pick-up truck shone through the window, they scattered out into the night. Soon, the men had empty glasses, but made no moves towards leaving. The publican went about his business, wiping up the bar top and rearranging stools. ![]() It was after closing time one quiet night during the mid 1960s in Connemara, and in the corner of the pub, a group of lads talked in low voices while nursing their pints. Like many stories of Ireland, this one begins in a bar. ![]()
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