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Updated: July 5, 2025
"It shall be granted thee," said the angel; "and depart from Cruachan." "I will not depart," said Patrick, "since I have been tormented, until I am gratified. Is there anything more granted to me?" asked Patrick. "There is," said the angel; "every one who repeats thy hymn from one day to the other shall not suffer pains." "The hymn is long and difficult," said Patrick.
In the story of Connal, told by Kenneth MacLennan of Pool Ewe, there is a giant who was beaten by the hero of the tale. Connal was the son of King Cruachan, of Eirinn, and he set out on his adventures.
Here, prepared as he was for what was to take place, it was difficult to prevent a temporary panic when the yell which, to this day, invariably precedes the assault of the mountaineer, burst from the rugged bosom of Ben Cruachan; and the woods which, the moment before, had waved in silence and solitude, gave forth their birth of steel-clad warriors, and, in an instant, became instinct with the dreadful vitality of war.
"Yes," said the angel; "you shall have seven every Thursday, and twelve every Saturday, from pains; and depart from Cruachan." "I will not depart," answered Patrick, "because I have been tormented, until I am recompensed. Is there anything else granted to me?" asked Patrick.
"My son," said Elspat, keeping fast hold of his hand, "what is done cannot be recalled. Could you borrow the wings of yonder eagle, you would arrive at the Dun too late for what you purpose too soon for what awaits you there. You believe you see the sun rising for the first time since you have seen him set; but yesterday beheld him climb Ben Cruachan, though your eyes were closed to his light."
The angel went to converse with him, and said to him: "God will not give thee what thou demandest; for He thinks the demands weighty and immense and great." "Is that His decision?" said Patrick. "It is," answered the angel. "This is my decision, then," said Patrick: "I shall not leave this Cruachan until I die or all the demands shall be given."
While we were thus stealing along, we gradually turned round the shoulder of Ben Cruachan, and descending the course of the foaming and rapid Awe, left behind us the expanse of the majestic lake which gives birth to that impetuous river.
But Loch Awe of to-day and of the future is as modern and practical as the sea-lochs that open upon the Clyde. On my first visit in 1852 there was neither steamer nor sailing-boat; now there are fourteen steamers on the lake, four of them public, and the railway trains pass round the skirts of Cruachan and rush through the Brandir Pass.
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