Irish Times
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Life inside the protest camp
Adam Harvey in Rath Lugh, Co Meath
http://www.ireland.com/newspaper/newsfeatures/2008/0322/1206024739802.html

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.
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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."
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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.
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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?"
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"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."
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NOTE:

ROADWORKS RESUME: WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

On Thursday, gardaí moved onto the site at Rath Lugh to allow
construction workers to build a two-metre tall spiked steel fence to
separate the construction site from the protest encampment.

At the same time, gardaí searched protesters' tents for weapons. None
were found.

Lisa "Squeak" Feeney, a protester who had buried herself in a tunnel
last weekend in an attempt to stop the motorway's progress, and
consequently secured an agreement with the National Roads Authority,
said she could not see why the body had reneged on its commitment to a
moratorium on construction work "as I have kept my side of the bargain,
I came out of the tunnel".

A few protesters tried to run on to the construction site on Thursday
but were held back by workers and gardaí. Others stood in a circle as a
robed druid conducted a memorial service for the esker.

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