The Legend of the Phantom Highwayman Read Free Page A

song:
    â€˜Gather up the pots and the oul’ tin can
The mash, the corn, the barley and the bran
Run like the divil from the Excise man
Keep the smoke from rising Barney …’
    â€˜That’s a funny song,’ said Tapser. ‘What’s it about?’
    Mr Stockman turned his head slightly and winked. ‘The quare stuff.’
    Tapser’s ears pricked up immediately. That’s what they had been talking about the night before – the quare stuff. But what was it?
    Seeing he was puzzled, Mr Stockman told him, ‘The quare stuff – poteen.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜Poteen,’ said Mr Stockman. ‘Well, I suppose you could say it’s home-made whiskey. It’s the drink of mountain folk – glensfolk too when they can smuggle down a bottle.’
    Slemish, which had seemed to keep pace with them for a while, was now beginning to slip away behind them. ‘But why do they have to smuggle it?’ asked Tapser.
    â€˜Because it’s against the law to make it. That’s why the song says, Run like the divil from the Excise man . The Excise men are the Customs officers and they control that sort of thing.’
    â€˜But why are people not allowed to make it?’
    â€˜Because you have to have a licence to make whiskey and then you have to pay so much money or taxes to the Government. The poteen makers do it on the quiet, and, apart from the fact that they don’t pay tax, there’s nobody to check how good or bad it is. And if you get bad stuff it could damage your insides. Maybe even drive you round the bend.’
    â€˜And why do you call it the quare stuff?’
    â€˜Well, I suppose because it’s made in queer circumstances and it can have a queer effect on you. They also call it mountain dew, because unlike whiskey it’s as clear as the dew on the grass. Or “wee still” because it’s made in small stills. In America they call it moonshine. But it’s the same thing. They say a drop of it can cure you; too much can kill you.’
    â€˜You mentioned barley in the song. What’s that got to do with poteen?’
    â€˜Man dear,’ said Mr Stockman, using one of his favourite phrases of affection, ‘isn’t that what they make it with.’
    â€˜Barley? I thought that was used for making flour.’
    â€˜Not at all,’ said Mr Stockman, at a loss to understand how Tapser could have spent so many summers on his farm and not know what barley was used for. ‘Flour is made from wheat. Barley is used for making feeding stuff for livestock or for making whiskey. And, as I say, they also use it to make a wee drop of poteen when the police aren’t looking.’
    Who ‘they’ were, Tapser couldn’t imagine, but he hoped it was something he might find out during his visit.
    They were now approaching the mountains that would lead them to the glen and at a remote crossroads they stopped at a small shop to deliver sweets. Before leaving, Mr Stockman struck up a conversation with a local man and was pleased to learn that a corncrake had been heard in the area in spite of the fact that they had almost been wiped out by the continual cutting of grass for silage. Larks, which were suffering the same fate, had also been seen further up the hill, he was told.
    The man was telling no lie, for when a short time later they stopped at the top of the glen and got out to admire the view, they could hear the unmistakeable song of a lark as it fluttered high in the sky. Here and there the sides of the glen were aglow with the red berries of the rowan tree or mountain ash. Lower down, fields of barley formed a patchwork quilt with various shades of green and gold. And beyond lay the blue expanse of the sea.
    Tapser shaded his eyes with his hand and asked, ‘Is that Rathlin Island?’
    Mr Stockman shaded his eyes too and told him, ‘No, that’s Scotland. Rathlin’s further up the