The protesters who tried - and on Thursday failed - to stop M3 construction workers cutting through an esker near the Hill of Tara have been living for as long as two years in squalid, muddy conditions in tents and tree houses
RATH LUGH seems to be returning to the earth. The paths running through the few acres of Co Meath forest are so thoroughly churned by months of rain and foot traffic that it's impossible to get a decent toehold, and even veteran M3 protesters, some of whom have been living in tents and tree houses here for two years, spend their day slipping and sliding like novices on an ice-skating rink.
Newcomers haven't a chance, and anyone spending more than a few hours at the site is soon covered in muck. The residents throw down timber pallets, netting, wooden planks, even sticks, in the hope of creating some kind of traction, but it all eventually sinks into the mire, and if you stand still long enough, you start to feel as if you too are being sucked into the mud.
The claggy soil clings to pants and boots, and after a full day of walking around the site, when it's time to wriggle into a sleeping bag, your boots are so slippery that it takes several attempts for half-frozen fingers to get a grip and heave them off.
"It's not fun to be here," says Terry Canty, an intense Cork man who is one of the permanent fixtures at the camp of protesters opposed to the M3 motorway cutting through Co Meath's Gabhra Valley, which is littered with significant heritage sites and within sight and earshot of the Hill of Tara.
"We're all covered in mud," he says. "We're filthy. We're wet. We're sleeping in such crappy conditions. We're all so stressed and tired. It is not fun. We're here because we think it's important, because of this place . . . "
He looks wild, dressed head to foot in khaki, combat boots, with a close-cropped head beneath a military cap, but he's a passionate advocate of a place of beauty and great emotional power.
He's standing at a small creek at the foot of the hillside at Rath Lugh, watching another protester, Will Burke, gently pry into a bank beside the rivulet. Burke is scrabbling at the mud and roots to clear a very old, man-made grotto built into the riverbank. Carefully-laid stonework was hidden behind a thick layer of muck and grass. Now that Burke has cleared it out, water seeps up from the ground inside the grotto, forming a clear pool about the size and depth of a bucket of water at the bottom of an alcove, before it trickles over more stones and down into the creek.
About 50m away, the creek runs into a mountain of earth piled high by the builders of the M3 motorway, and is steered into a concrete pipe that will run under the road that's under construction. "They didn't know it was here," says Canty. "They could have run right over it and no one would have ever known it was here. What else are they bulldozing over?"
The 1:25,000 Ordnance Survey map that covers the Gabhra Valley, which runs beside the Hill of Tara, is covered with the red dots and circles that note prehistoric mounds, holy wells, barrows (earthen burial mounds) and burial chambers. The promontory fort at Rath Lugh isn't marked on the map - but the earthen and stone walls of the ancient site, which archaeologists say was once a fortified outpost built around AD 300 to watch over the approach to Tara, are apparent enough when you walk through the forest.
Now, the promontory fort is host to a different kind of garrison. Anti-M3 protesters have been camping here for two years, although the bulk of them moved in about six months ago when controversy erupted over the remains of a henge at Lismullin.
The wooden footings of an ancient ceremonial site were uncovered by construction workers, and, after a great deal of fuss, were "preserved by record" by the National Roads Authority (NRA), meaning that archaeologists excavated the site before it was bulldozed. They removed human remains found buried there, and Lismullin is now a muddy puddle about 200m from Rath Lugh.
protesters want to ensure that other historic sites in the valley, such as Rath Lugh, are spared the same kind of preservation.
The fort at Rath Lugh was built on a sand and gravel esker - a glacial ridge. The motorway won't touch the remains of the fort, but a retaining wall will have to be cut into about 50m of the esker, missing the remains of the fort by about 20m. The NRA says it is not damaging the fort, which is a declared national monument, and that it's not possible to avoid the esker as there is another significant site on the opposite side of the construction site. "If we move away from the esker we'll hit the other national monument," says an NRA spokesman.
Part of the slope has already been cleared of trees and shrubs by construction workers, and last Sunday night workers removed the remains of a small protest encampment built in their path. This was where Lisa "Squeak" Feeney buried herself in a tunnel for the best part of three days in an attempt to stop the motorway's progress.
Feeney came out last Saturday night, saying she had been promised a month-long moratorium on construction. The NRA abandoned that agreement on Thursday, a spokesman for the roads authority said, because protesters weren't allowing the erection of protective fencing and were causing health and safety problems in the area.
"We've moved our work schedule ahead because they've breached the agreement," said the NRA spokesman. "We're doing a box cut - cutting out the footprint of the road to show that we're not touching the monument."
The protesters had caused a great deal of agitation for the motorway builders, who have fenced off a great chunk of the motorway site, hired a permanent garrison of security guards, and introduced some unusual work practices.
AT 9PM ON the Sunday of St Patrick's weekend, when every other building site in Ireland is long shut down, Rath Lugh bustles into action.
About 60 workers and security guards move up and down the hill, which is illuminated by an array of spotlights. The sound of shovels on soil comes from a large tent erected on the site, and then, about two hours later, the tent is pulled down. Feeney's hole has been filled in. The security guards shuffle about, trying to stay warm.
Mission control is in an enormous round tent in a natural hollow, which serves as a storehouse, kitchen, dining room and recreation area.
On Sunday night, after the late-night digging is over, the camp residents shuffle back down the hill to a giant canvas tent, where an Englishwoman called Jo serves up a big pot of noodles and vegetables to anyone who can find a clean plate. There's no running water to rinse the plates between users, but nobody seems to mind. Dinner is enlivened by the phlegmatic singing of an older guy, who takes a break from swigging out of a plastic bottle of cider to give his name: "Eco Roger, baby!" Three drunk local lads, who look about 18 and are clearly up for a party, burst in through the tent flap. "We're here to save the bridge," says one. "Is there any hash?" They stay for an hour, still talking about the mysterious bridge, before trudging back to their car.
A Spanish cyclist asks everyone to be quiet so she can make some helpful observations, but misjudges her audience by telling them there are some rules, such as "no interruptions, please". "Rules for anarchists?" someone yells. After 15 minutes of mostly polite listening, hecklers drown her out.
The protesters sleep in tents and tree houses pitched across several acres of hilly, dense forest - it can be a couple of days before you run into the same person twice.
About half of the 30 or so permanent residents are Irish, with a core of students and former students in their early 20s, and there's a strong international brigade: people from France, Germany, Spain, and about a dozen from the UK.
The inn is full - or so they say - on Sunday night, so I slosh back through the mire to my car, fold down the rear seats and unfurl the sleeping bag. It's pushing five degrees, and it's like sleeping in a fridge.
The next morning, Terry Canty and two friends are coming up the path near the main tent. "Who are you?" a redhead with a big stick asks me. "Terry knows who I am," I reply. "Well I don't," she says. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Where is your ID?" She's shaking her stick now. I tell her. She's not satisfied. "You're not getting in here. Why not? Because I say so, that's why not. Who are you? These are my woods. These are my people. We don't need you. You come in here and I'll open you up," she says, waving her stick at me. She stands there, legs apart, cape trailing in the mud, and I believe her. After an uncomfortable stand-off, she wanders towards the camp with a parting shot: "Don't come in - I'm warning you."
'That's the problem with all the publicity," says Derek Berill, one of the protesters, later. "Before last week we had a core of responsible people. Now we're getting people none of us have met before."
Many of the newcomers are wary of the press. Some of the British protesters explain why, as they toast their sliced white bread on a fire made of sticks and small branches.
"If your name gets in the paper too much they'll make a dossier," says 22-year-old Henry, from Devon. You go to a few protests and your photograph gets in the paper, and that's it, they won't let you back in the country."
Another Englishman, Scott, will only allow his photograph to be taken if he's wearing his hood. He's about 40 years old, and says he was called about a week ago and asked to come to Rath Lugh. Like most of the English protesters, he's a veteran of environmental and nuclear protests.
We get talking about a protest in Tasmania against the logging of some of the oldest and tallest trees in Australia's Styx Valley. "I wanted to come to that," he says. "But I couldn't travel, with a criminal record and that."
"Some of them are a bit different," admits Darren Mac Gearailt, from Crumlin, who is here for the day. "But I have the greatest respect in the world for them. I'm an Irish person, but I can't be here every day - I have to work. These are the people putting the time in."
Mac Gearailt and two friends have been here about 30 times, which is often enough for some of the security guards to recognise them.
"Where have you been the last few months - are you a weekend eco-warrior?" asks one of the guards.
Mac Gearailt's friend, Simon, takes him on over a tricolour the security guards have erected. "You're a disgrace to the flag. Is that what Ireland's about, building roads through historic areas?"
"What is Ireland about?" replies the guard. "Go home you clown . . . Remember, youse are from Dublin, so are we. Remember. You remember that. I hope your car doesn't break down on the way out."
The banter is interrupted by Des, a protester who has been sitting quietly on the sunny slope. "'Scuse me, fellas," he says. "What date is it?" "It's the 16th." "What month?" asks Des.
Terri Murray, a librarian from Bettystown, Co Meath, is one of many local people who come to the camp over the St Patrick's weekend. "Since I was a small child I've been very interested in the history and mythology of the area, and I associate Tara with being at the heart of ancient history and heritage."
MOST LOCALS, HOWEVER, tacitly voted in favour of the road at the last election, when the M3 was the major issue for the Meath East and Meath West constituencies. Even the local children are well versed in the issues - two local boys who visit the camp, Christopher Farrelly (13) and Mark O'Meara (12), explain why the motorway is important.
Christopher says, "My Dad works on the other side of Dublin, and he gets up at 5am to go to work. He's always saying it was murder on the M50. A puncture on a truck that takes half an hour to fix causes mad tailbacks."
"It'll be handy," says Mark.
The road has already had an impact on them, though. "We used to jump in the river - they cut down all the trees, and now it's all muddy, with loads of foam. Still, we're getting too old to swim in the river anyway."
Christopher says he doesn't mind the protesters. "They have their own dreams to follow," he says, a remarkable phrase for a 13-year-old.
"Look, nobody's saying a road isn't needed," says Terry Canty. "It is needed. The local people want it. But what we say is just not here. We don't need it here."