Donal stared down at the boat moored below him, his practiced eye, seeing at once, just was needed to make it sea worthy. Each plank, was viewed with experience, assessing each joint, with an economy of eye that fitted his calm unruffled character; nothing could flap Donal, or escape his perception. “Get her beached, and we will get that rotten board out, won’t take long", he said as he pointed to the slipway. Jumping in to the shallow water, the sailors floated, and pulled the boat up the shore, dragging it easily over slippery chestnut seaweed, that swathed the slip, before turning it over on the soft spiky grass, that grew above the purple fringe of seaweed and mottled rocks. The day, so still and bright, transformed the lough into a giant mirror, reflecting each island, each tree, each bird that flew above, in a perfect parallel; golden lichens, clashing with the blue water of the lough, as its gently lapped upon the shore.
Donal who as chief shipwright oversaw the construction of the diverse vessels, that sailed the waters of the Lough Cuan and beyond; boats made of skin, with light slender ribs, swiftly, speeding across the lough in fine days, taking orders, news, silver fish, from one end of Lough Cuan, to the other; or the sea ships, carrying livestock, or grain, serious ships, made with the limbs of soaring Irish oaks, strong and hard, cold winters turning green sap into organic iron branches. Strong ships, sailing in ice haunted northern seas, stalked by monsters s of the deep, ships that ventured to the oil rich, wine rich south, brining home, spices and ores from the Middle sea.

They had brought back many wonderful things to eat, to drink; silks to caress; spices to savour, fruits to marvel at, or music that moved, but best of all was the miraculous tales.
Some stories where truly terrifying, of whirlpools, on the edge of the Earth, that could swallow whole ships, pulling them down, to the dry bottom of the sea, where all was still and quiet after the thunderous descent in the Maelstrom.
Or the sweet seductive lilting of sirens, luring sailors, to languish in the deep black velvet of a dark sea, or the glimpse of a mermaids shell clad breast a mirage of sea foam and light, out in starlight night, strange silver fire, that flickered far out on the sea.
Donal loved hearing the stories but was far too practical to believe a word of them. Wood and tools he knew, he was wasting no time on anything else. He was leaning over the boat, now upside down on the spongy grass, testing the wood with his chisel, and feeling for rot, but his mind was not on it, for he was worried, his young son Oran had not returned been out on the Lough fishing, and with all the alarms going off about strange long ships in the waters his mind was only half on the job in-hand. “These two who planks should come out but I think the spine is fine. You start getting them out and I will get the wood needed”, he stretched and stood up at the sound of his name being called from the hill above, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun he could just make out the figure of his son Oran racing down the hill towards him . “ Da Da, I’am back safe, we stayed the night at Dun Mor with Laogh and we seen the raiders boat come into the Lough, Da did you miss me” ,Oran called out as he through himself at his father. The dark haired boy threw himself at his da jumping into his arms and narrowly tipping them both into the Lough behind them." Now son, what have you been up to you will have to tell me all it all, but it will have to wait, till I get this boat out, and get them started on it" he said as he hugged him back and patting him on the head he went up the beach to where the boat was drawn out of the water.

A few minutes later he came and sat beside his son who sitting on a wooden stool, further up the shore, his hands full of oat cakes and honey. " Now you can tell me what happened to you, your Ma was up the walls, she did not sleep a wink at all last night,bet she was pleased to see you."Ruffling Oran’s hair as he walked up the slope with him.
A long open thatched barn stood some way up the slope; this was the hub of Donal's Empire. Here he had his tools, arranged where he needed them, his saws and hammers, hung in orders of preference or work. His bow lathe stood in the corner, in easy reach of his ever growing pile of cut planks. Out side against the stonewall of the south side, stood his kiln and steamer. Here heat softened wood, twisted and curved at his will, planks for a prow, or a hull, emerging in stages from the steam. This was his domain; he knew exactly what to do, and precisely how it was to achieve it, and better still, he knew how to delegate.
Hammering and sawing all around, as men worked steadily at the boats laid up on the grass. This was the heart of the boat yard; here the navy grew, as constant construction of ships and repairs of boats, labored.

A steady flow of boats came ashore, most carried four or five men, curragh's light enough to just haul out of the water, lug over the stones, and beach on the grass. A wooden jetty, ran a short distance out into the lough, two wide bottomed, deep-hulled boats, rode gently alongside the wooden quay. These sailed the North channel, between, their Dal Riada cousins, and those in Isle of Manaig.
Donal's skill as a shipwright was well known and the High King himself had commissioned him with the construction and fitting of ten ships. This was part of the Tuarastal, the contract of alliance, sealed in ships, that bound, together, a naval kinship, the Tuatha, who lived in scattered raths around the lough, this brought wealth security and enabled the trade to far-flung places.

Donal was a tall wiry man, his sinewy arms knotted with walnut muscles, from the ceaseless sawing and hammering; or the endless chiseling the mortise and tenon joints that knitted the wood frames together, before the layers of clinkers rose on top of each other. Each design, dictated the use of the boat, some were large bottomed, and trading cattle or or sheep, for the heavy copper ore from the mines in the east XCumbria X, these ships could solidly ride the waves. Others ships could speed across the open sea, bring men or goods swiftly, the sails filing with winds that blew warm and cold.

A short distance away from his workshop, stood the Monastery of the Irish, on the Hill of Keltair, the dull clang of their bell, echoed flatly across the stillness of the lough, calling time for their prayers. All around him, men laid their tools aside, as the workday ended and the hour of the evening meal arrived. “My stomach thinks my throats cut, I am so empty” Padrig said as he hung his hammer on the wall above his bench. “I could eat a horse and sleep for week “he said as he ran his stocky hands through his sandy hair, yawning all the time. Donal set his chisel down, “We certainly have our work cut out for us, Padrig but we are half way there, with the hulls of the bigger ships ready, so we can get stuck into that spar to morrow. You go on up I be along shortly”, he waved Padrig up the slope watching the men who worked on the shore climb the hill to the long hall and warm food. Oran was running down the hill carrying a large bag. He seemed to get faster and faster as the steep slope ran away with him. He stopped breathless as Donal caught him before he tripped over,” Easy son, you’ll end up in the lough if you don’t stop, give us them” he said as he took the leather bag from Oran, who now had his breath back. “ Lets get some food son, shall we see what your Mother has got or would you rather come to the long hall and eat with Báetáin, maybe hear Cruthain sing of Keltair and the Red Branch Knights who lived on this very hill”. Donal put his arm on Oran’s shoulder, knowing full well what the answer would be, that Oran liked nothing better than to hear the old Bard sing of ancient warriors and enchanted spears, once thrown never to return until it found its mark. Oran eyes gleamed as he dreamed the hero tales, seeing, himself throwing the Gae Bolga , or riding the horse monster that rose on the ninth wave, in the great bay, where the mountains floated like Atlantis; riding a white beside King Connor shook his shield, his small dark head overflowed with legends .