The Maharees: how Kerry locals are working to secure a more nature-filled future

In the winter of 2015, the road connecting the Maharees to Kerry’s mainland became so clogged up with mounds of sand that kids who lived there couldn’t go to school, and their parents were unable to get to work. The local county council sent the machinery to clear the sand, but the intense storms kept coming. On 17 occasions, the road was cut off.

The Maharees couldn’t be more vulnerable to stormy weather. It’s a tombolo – the Italian word for “pillow” – which means that the rocky limestone islands are connected to the mainland by a narrow, 5km stretch of sand. The beaches on either side are in constant flux with the wind and sea, causing the sand to accumulate and disappear depending on the conditions.

For the residents of the Maharees, it makes for a uniquely precarious life. Coastal erosion has eaten away at their land for decades. In the 1960s, local politicians asked the government for financial support and said the Maharees might disappear without it. Locals expressed increasing alarm at the disappearance of land into the sea. In response, Kerry County Council planted 10 hectares of sea buckthorn to combat erosion.

By 1990, as stormy weather continued to chip away at the coasts, including Wexford, politicians in the Dáil called on the government to draw up a national plan to deal with the coastline. At that time, one TD, Roger Garland, mentioned the root cause: climate change.

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Because it’s essentially a bed of sand, the rapidly changing and chaotic weather patterns have caused more problems for the Maharees than elsewhere along the Kerry coast. And so, in February 2016 – urged on by dune scientist Eugene Farrell of the University of Galway – a group of 15 locals decided to get together to see what they could do.

They knew the central pressures: in the winter, storm surges and torrential waves; in the summer, tourism was causing unsustainable damage to the fragile dune system. Within 45 years, the dunes had retreated by 40 metres, and the rare wildflowers that lived within them were also at risk.

The Maharees Conservation Association was born, and the members quickly started to tackle their two goals: most immediately, to deal with erosion; fundamentally, they wanted to change the kind of tourism on the peninsula.

Access to the delicate dunes by car and foot was restricted, and volunteers planted marram grass on straw bales to stabilise the sand. Hundreds of metres of mobile chestnut fencing, which is robust in a salty environment, were used to keep the sand away from the road. Campfires, which put vegetation at risk, were no longer allowed.

The community then focused on reshaping the kind of tourism that would be on offer to visitors. Half of the 300 houses on the Maharees are holiday homes, and the place has become a magnet for surfers. The association wanted to establish a form of “regenerative tourism” that focuses on the area’s natural and cultural heritage and asks tourists to leave the place in a better condition than they found it. In the words of association chair Martha Farrell, the approach is “more wholesome, slower, more immersive” than what was previously in place.

For the past few years, they’ve hosted free talks about the remarkable uniqueness of the Maharees. It’s home to some rare species, such as the Bee Orchid, whose velvety flowers resemble the back of a furry bumblebee, and the slender Autumn Lady’s-tresses orchid, which has green and white flowers that spiral up the stem. One of Ireland’s rarest plants on the dunes is the pale green Petalwort, which looks like a miniature lettuce and was first recorded in Ireland in 1861 in Malahide. It’s long gone from there but is found along the sand dunes of the western coasts. The most iconic species is the gold-seamed Natterjack Toad, whose characteristic loud mating call is heard by the locals during the summer months.

In time, they might look at a neglected and rapidly disappearing aspect of cultural heritage: Maharees vegetables. Carrots, onions, parsnips and potatoes have long thrived in the light, sandy soils. In 1963, 200 farmers, with an acre each, produced 200 acres of onions, which were then processed in the local vegetable co-op before being sold across Ireland. The peninsula became renowned for this produce.

Today, under pressure from the major retailers and below-cost selling, just a handful of vegetable farmers remain, including an older farmer called Joe Fitzgerald, who continues to hand-harvest seaweed, which he uses to fertilise the soil. Those who have recently – but reluctantly – left the business, such as Aidan O’Connor, have decades of knowledge and skill. It’s possible to imagine – with sufficient financial support from the State, both as a farming and tourism initiative – that Maharees vegetables could give the million or so tourists who descend on this part of Kerry each year a unique and nutritious experience.

Facing a worrying future of rising sea levels, increasing storms and warming temperatures, the work of the Maharees Conservation Association shows how locals have successfully worked to secure a more hopeful, nature-filled and sustainable future for this beautiful pillow of sand.