AS THE DUST settles on the Herbert Park Heron Horror, we can today report happier news from the world of nature. Readers may recall the story of Richard and Wendy Ward (Diary August 27th, 2010), in whose attic a female pine marten took up residence last summer, emerging some months later with a family. Well, not even a year on, Queen Maeve (as she’s known) has been at it again and last week re-emerged from the same attic – which is located in Maam, Co Galway – with two new kits.
To urbanites, especially those people who were so appalled by the sight of a heron doing what herons do, "pine marten kits" may sound like flat-pack furniture of the kind you buy in Ikea. But au contraire. In fact, these kits come fully-assembled; although, as the picture shows, the species is not at its best at this time of year, when the fur is a bit dowdy compared with the luxurious coats that, for centuries, made the marten one of Ireland's most sought-after exports.
In other developments, Richard informs me that “Peggy Sue”, the female from last year’s pair that did not follow its male sibling by quickly disappearing into the wild, has since turned out – on closer inspection – to be a boy. He still hangs around the garden, “being very bold . . . delving into potted plants and generally making a nuisance of himself”. The Wards are clearly smitten by his many charms, however, and the Peggy Sue moniker has stuck.
As I noted before, Queen Maeve (named after the semi-mythical Connacht woman who is said to have kept a pet pine marten until Cuchulainn killed it) chose her landlords well. Richard is a wild-life artist whose past commissions included designing a stamp for An Post featuring – yes – a pine marten. But he stresses that, much as he and his wife indulge their tenants, they also respect their wildness.
When the Wards aren’t around, the Martens have to fend for themselves. And not being too particular about what they eat, while also having superb hunting skills, Maeve Co survive very well on their own resources.
That said, sensitive Herbert Park strollers can relax. You’re unlikely to see any pine martens there. In general, the animals are secretive and nocturnal and would rarely have the bad taste to kill their lunch in front of you, especially while you’re trying to have yours. In any case, after a long decline caused by over-hunting, poisoning, and deforestation, the Irish marten revival – in which Queen Maeve is playing an heroic role – appears to be confined mainly to the midlands and west.
EIGHT HUNDREDyears ago, things were different. In his book Merchants and Mariners in Medieval Ireland,Timothy O'Neill notes that "sheep, lambs, and the wild animals of the woods and mountains" were all the basis of a very profitable trade, but that the "most highly prized were the marten skins . . . used in decorating and lining the robes of the wealthy".
In the heavily wooded Ireland of the time, martens were so plentiful that, writing a charter for Rouen in 1207, King Philip Augustus of France demanded of every boat arriving from here a “tymbre” of marten skins (40, apparently). Only if the traders swore there were no skins available at their Irish ports of call could they pay a cash tax of £10 instead.
Marten skins also featured in the clothing accounts of English kings, with Richard II, for example, sending a man to Ireland in 1396 to buy as many skins and furs – "wildeware" was the collective term – as the royal wardrobe required. The species merits mention too in a famous poem from circa 1436: The Libelle of Englyshe Policye. It's not a very good poem, even by medieval standards. But emphasising as it does the centrality of trade in England's affairs (the word "libelle" had none of its modern connotations then: it just meant "little book"), it is a literary landmark.
Interestingly, the special importance of Ireland as a source of imports, marten skins included, led the same poet to express his fears about the possibility of political developments hostile to England, viz: "God forbede that a wylde Yrishe wyrling/Shulde be chosene for to been there kynge." According to the OED, a "wyrling" was "a puny or stunted person or creature; a despicable or contemptible person, a wretch".
In light of such history, and our current hard times, Richard Ward wonders if he has in his attic the basis of an export business. He calculates that, at current rates, it would take him about 15 years to assemble a “tymbre” of skins. But he also suggests that ideally, instead of exporting the cheap raw materials, he would
need to develop his own clothing label.
Yes, that seems like good thinking. Maybe the label could be called “Wildeware”, although then again, that might confuse customers. They might mistake it for a tribute to the Irish writer, who was known for his flamboyant dress sense (and for his associations with the latter-day meaning of the word “libelle”).
Besides, I very much doubt that the Wards could bring themselves to part their beautiful guests from their fur. Maybe, after all, Richard should just stick to painting them – and other wild creatures – and to displaying the spectacular results at richardward.ie