By John Kelly
In extremely beautiful little corner of northwest Donegal called Downings, we sat, relaxing over a few pints on a blustery spring day. The subjects of conversation were the demise of Manchester United against Bayern Munich in the European championships and, of course, that terrible disease that has decimated the animal population of the neighboring island.
Americans call it the hoof-and-mouth disease. We call it foot and mouth. Not for the first time, the American nomenclature, buried in older English, is probably more correct.
Two of the assembled company, myself included, were Irish southerners, members of what can be broadly described as the nationalist persuasion. The third was a loyalist by the name was of Johnston, who was from the Waterside in Derry.
There were lots of things he just could not understand about the South, he said, ignoring the fact that the other member of the assembly was from northwest Donegal, a location farther north than Derry.
One thing he couldn’t understand about southerners, especially Dubliners, who are, by definition, dyed-in-the-green nationalists, was that so many of them supported Manchester United. He seemed unaware that one of the world’s greatest footballers, the pivot of the present Manchester United team, is Roy Keane, a Corkman whose fighting spirit has made him a legend in his own time.
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The Watersider was a forthright, unabashed loyalist. But he greatly enjoyed his Easter break deep in nationalist northwest Donegal. He was not a dyed-in-the-wool loyalist any more than we were Provo armchair supporters. He would not be seen marching down Garvaghy Roadt. A liberal man, he adopted the live and let live policy toward life in general.
However, after the United game had finished, it became clear that therewas one matter that bugged him seriously. This was the unparalleled security that now surrounds the Irish border in a steel, blue ring.
Everywhere you travel around the border, there are heavily manned roadblocks. Police ask at least one in every 10 drivers to open their car trunks. Cars are sprayed with high-powered jets of disinfectant. Travelers are asked where they have been and where they have come from. Nobody is spared.
Like most townies on the island of Ireland, our loyalist companion was acutely aware of the importance of farming to the Irish economy and the place it occupies in Irish life. He knew that nobody could afford to take risks. But he could not resist a telling barb.
Wasn’t it amazing, he murmured, that security in the Republic was now so intense because of the obvious danger of foot and mouth but had never been as tight when the IRA campaign was at its height?
If the Irish police could do it now, why could they not have done it then?
It was a rhetorical question, skipped over in the midst of a general conversation. However, it is a question that is indeed difficult to answer.
Whatever about the sensitivities of our loyalist friend, the great thing is that it seems to be working. It has been more than 30 days since the only case of foot and mouth has been confirmed in the Republic. It seems that the worst is over.
The news from the UK is equally good. The British government’s chief scientist has stated that the number of confirmed cases per day had reduced from an average of 43 to 27. Up to now, there have been 1,395 cases. All farms within a tight radius of confirmed cases have been slaughtered and burned.
The culling was so intense that the UK government estimates that the fires have doubled the normal dioxin output into the atmosphere. That’s just how serious it is and how serious it still could be if it inflicts Ireland.
Had it not been tightly controlled, it could have entailed virtually the destruction of almost every farm animal on the entire island.
The results would have been disastrous. This is not to argue that they are not already very damaging, to put it mildly.
While President Mary McAleese continues to plug Irish tourism during her visit to Texas, emphasizing that foot and mouth poses no threat to public health or to the purity of Irish foodstuffs, Irish tourism chiefs acknowledge that the industry has already been badly hurt.
If restrictions continue until August, as they might, the potential loss of overseas tourism revenue could be as high as £500 million. Job losses could top 30,000.
Other job losses as the result of the epidemic include about 1,000 workers laid off from cattle marts. A ban on pork imports from Ireland in Japan and the U.S. will hit the Irish economy for an estimated £15 million.
All of these predictions are based on the supposition that the disease will not spread throughout Ireland. The government maintains it cannot be sure that it is all over until at least 30 days after the last British case is confirmed.
In the meantime, Irish tourism chiefs have established an action group to organize a special marketing campaign in overseas markets. It will also try to encourage residents to spend their holidays at home. Despite all of the late last-minute attempts to rescue the industry, tourism interests admit that it is has proved to be a difficult year and that the effects will run on into the future.
They hope the postponed St. Patrick’s Day parade, rescheduled to May 18, will give the industry a late whiff of oxygen. Just how the Irish public will react to the notion of celebrating the national day in May instead of on March 17 remains to be seen. Still, everybody loves a parade.
The foot-and-mouth outbreak has also thrown a spanner in the works so far as the loyalists are concerned. While the strongest nationalist objections have failed to halt Orange parades in sensitive areas, the epidemic has given the organizers pause for thought.
It is a great irony that only the prospect of a national disaster can generate some degree of national sanity. In the face of the foot-and-mouth threat, the island of Ireland remains more united than ever before. Nobody seriously complains about the tight cooperation between politicians from both parts of the island.
The peril is mutual. The response has proved to be just as mutual.