THE WATERFALL – SCOUTS IN ACTION 1963

'D'you reckon we could get up there?' Diarmuid asked his pal.

'That side isn't so bad,' Arthur replied, pointing to his left.

'I bet we could do it,' said Diarmuid.
'Have we got time?'

'It's only about half past three,' Diarmuid said confidently. Diarmuid, at 18, was just a year older than Arthur. Both were members of the 45th Dublin Troop, Catholic Boy Scouts of Ireland. With a few fellow Scouts they had cycled from their homes in Dublin during the morning of Sunday, 13th August, 1944, to a favourite spot among the shady trees in Powerscourt Demesne. After a picnic lunch these two young men had left their colleagues and scattered groups of people to enjoy the hot afternoon sun and made their way along the river bank to the cliff known as the Waterfall, which they now proposed to climb.

They were in County Wicklow, sometimes described as the 'Garden of Ireland', with its countryside of domed granite mountains curving gracefully down to wooded valleys, of purple glens probing softly into the mountain-sides and of little lakes hidden in the folds of the hills.

Dublin is ten miles to the north; Kildare, Carlow and Wexford touch its borders to the west and south; and eastwards the Irish Sea pounds its craggy shores and stony beaches.

Just inside its northern boundary, in a wooded hollow among the hills west of Bray, nestles one of the prettiest villages in Ireland: picturesque surroundings and pure, mild air have helped to establish Enniskerry as a holiday and health resort. At the week-ends, too, the residents of Dublin find in it a refuge from the hustle and bustle of the city. Powerscourt Demesne, of some 16,000 acres and near to Enniskerry, extends on either side of the upper course of the River Dargle. Powerscourt House, the residence of the late Right Honourable Viscount Powerscourt, KP, MVO, HML,l is a noble and imposing structure of hewn granite standing on high ground with sloping lawns and neatly laid out gardens that in season present a magnificent spectacle of rhododendron blooms. The six-mile drive to the Deer Park runs through plantations and rare shrubberies and for part of the way follows the course of the River Dargle, which, at one point, tumbles obliquely over a cliff some four hundred feet high. This is the Waterfall.

Diarmuid and Arthur got to the bottom. On previous visits to Powers court both had often reached the summit of Mount Maulin by climbing the rocky slopes on the right-hand side of the Waterfall or the twisting turning track of Earls Drive which rises four hundred feet in six hundred yards by some fifteen hairpin bends. But they had never I scaled the rock-face itself, so near to the Waterfall.

The long spell of fine weather had partially reduced the volume of water pouring over the ledge, and it was for this reason that Diarmuid had been prompted to suggest the direct ascent. The foaming torrents fell in a multitude of waterfalls over the top of the sheer black rock face as if from the sky. The bright sun caught the misty spray and here and there picked out the many shades of green of glistening moss and straggling strings of ivy clinging haphazardly across the schist wall.

The young men walked easily up the first one hundred feet, dropping to their hands and knees where the gradient became more severe.

'It's not so bad, is it?' Arthur called, enthusiastically climbing after Diarmuid, using the ivy branches to steady himself. His confidence was in full flood.

Ten minutes later they had passed over a gradual hump and stopped on a ledge to catch their breath.

'They do look small, don't they?' chuckled Diarmuid, looking down the glen between the trees to the clusters of picnickers, and their friends, on the grass.

'How far up are we?' asked Arthur.

"Bout a couple of hundred feet, I should say.' Diarmuid turned his eyes and gazed up the perpendicular wall behind them. 'Must be at least half-way. Let's get on.'

They were about to move off when Arthur pointed to an enormous boulder and said: 'I don't like the look of that.'

Diarmuid replied: 'We'll be on the top before you know where we are. Anyway, it'll give us a chance to see how we get on with an overhang.'

Although Arthur didn't fully share Diarmuid's optimism, he said, 'I suppose it'll be easier when we've passed it.' 'Sure it will,' called Diarmuid, scrambling upwards. They reached the overhanging rock and tried to find a way round. After three or four attempts, Arthur's expression became thoughtful, and his brow wrinkled with a frown.

'I hadn't bargained for this,' he panted, wiping the slippery green slime from one hand on the seat of his navy blue shorts, while holding on to a knob of stone with the other. Again he scanned the rock and once more searched for a niche in which to put his fingers. 'No good,' he sighed.

'Couldn't we go round the side?' Diarmuid suggested.
'Not without jumping on to that,' replied Arthur, nodding his head towards a narrow ledge on the far side of a ten-feet-wide gully. 'It's all shiny. I wouldn't risk it. I think we ought to go down.'

Diarmuid agreed and turned very carefully, so his back was against the cliff. To his left the cataract of water fell freely with a continuous roar into a deep pool and on to the jagged rocks protruding menacingly from the boiling lough. The fine wet spray buffeted his face, wetting his cheeks. He lowered one foot tentatively, but his shoe slipped on the treacherous moss. He just managed to
grab a hold with the tips of his fingers.

'Phew!' he grinned nervously. 'I'm not going down there.'

'Turn the other way,' suggested Arthur. 'We won't fall forward then.'

'We can slip backwards, though,' Diarmuid thought.

The second attempt was as unsuccessful as the first. Their feet skidded dangerously. They had not descended more than ten feet when Diarmuid stopped.

'All right, Arthur?' he asked.

'Just about,' Arthur replied, shifting one foot into a small cleft, no larger than the toe of his shoe.

'If we lose our foothold we'll shoot over,' said Diarmuid.
'I don't want to stay here. If I can just wedge my feet
against these rocks...' Diarmuid hesitated, and
moved cautiously to his left, '. . . and find somewhere to
put my hands, I think I'll be O.K.'

'I'm not going to stay here,' called Arthur. His foot was slowly slipping down the steep slope. 'I'm going to try to get to that ledge,' he added, looking at a narrow shelf no more than eighteen inches wide.

'For the Lord's sake be careful,' Diarmuid shouted.

He watched his friend's arm stretch out and catch an ivy branch. Arthur got ready to swing himself on to the ledge. Diarmuid closed his eyes. The ivy tendril was about as thick as his little finger and didn't look very strong. A full twenty seconds elapsed before he heard Arthur call: 'What'll we do now?'

Diarmuid opened his eyes to find Arthur squeezed into a crevice below the roof of the rock. There was just enough room for him. Now they were relatively safe, they had an opportunity to think about their predicament, and were both surprised and shaken that such a simple climb had got them into such a difficult position.

'We'd look silly if we started yelling,' Diarmuid said, with a fleeting smile, after about a quarter of an hour.
'We don't want to panic those picnickers.' He thought for a moment, then called, 'Have you got a whistle?'

'I think so,' said Arthur, fumbling in a pocket of his uniform.

'Blow SOS. Someone down there might hear.'
Arthur blew as hard as he could. The shrill notes echoed in his ears. After each series of long and short blasts, they peered hopefully into the valley for some sign of acknowledgement. But they looked in vain. The roar of cascading water drowned their distress signals.

After a little while Arthur put away his whistle. They leant back to wait. Though for whom or what they waited, they didn't know. Then the midges began to bite.

The sun began to sink below the horizon and dark shadows crept across the floor of the glen. Four o'clock.
Half past four. Arthur blew his whistle again. Diarmuid shouted. They shouted in unison. Still the people played and lazed. A quarter to five. Their shorts and light shirts offered little protection as the temperature dropped. Five o'clock. Diarmuid's hands were numb.
He wondered how much longer he'd be able to hang on.
Arthur felt dizzy. Halfpast five.

'Let's try once more,' Arthur called across the gap.
They shouted at the tops of their voices, to no avail. The clouds of midges still bit.

'There's a lot of people at the Waterfall today, to be sure,' commented Sergeant Scanlon to his friend Daniel Nolan, as they walked along the path by the river.

'It looks as though most of ' em are the Boy Scouts,' Mr.

Nolan remarked. 'It's a lovely day to be out, but they do make a lot of noise, don't they?'

'It seems to be coming from up there.' The policeman pointed towards the cliff. 'Rocks do funny things to voices. It's like those people yodelling on the mountains in Switzerland.'

Before they reached the glen the two men turned off the path and ambled towards the river.

'That's much better!' exclaimed the Sergeant, running his cool wet hands over his face. 'Those lads are noisy!' he added.

'But Sean! Look at that! Someone's up there!' exclaimed Mr. Nolan. The policeman shielded his experienced eyes from the setting sun and searched the face of the cliff.

'Wait a second! There's two of them! One on the ledge. The other's just to the right,' he said.

'I'll go and tell them we're getting help,' said Mr. Nolan.

The two men raced along the river bank into the open space. A small crowd had gathered at the base of the Waterfall. While Sergeant Scanlon took charge of the group of people Mr. Nolan climbed the cliff.

'Who's got a bicycle?' the policeman asked.

Several Scouts and Scouters came forward. Two of the older ones were detailed to go to Powers court House to find Lord Powerscourt, who would know of the whereabouts of the only man in the area whom the Sergeant was sure could make a rescue attempt. When the pair had gone Sergeant Scanlon despatched George Doyle on his bicycle to the Mount Maulin Hotel, a mile or so away, to phone for the Gardai at Enniskerry.

The policeman glanced towards the cliff-face and saw that Daniel Nolan was almost level with the stranded boys, though several yards to one side of them.

A lot of people were milling around the bottom of the cliff, and when some started to climb up Sergeant Scanlon hurried over, calling: 'Come away! You can't do anything without ropes. You'll do more harm than good.'

He shepherded them back. The crowd retreated like a flock of sheep.

Then Daniel Nolan returned from his reconnaissance mission.

'They say they've been stuck since half past three . . . couldn't make themselves heard,' he reported breathlessly. 'They can't hang on much longer. .. They're scared stiff and cold. .. One of them's wedged in a crevice. The other's lying on the ledge. They're covered with bites. .. It's bad, Sean, very bad ... I'd give them half an hour - at the most.'

'Someone's gone for the Gardai. I've sent two Scouts to get Percy Scott,' said the Sergeant. 'We can't do  anything without a rope.'

'To think I was only five yards from them,' Mr. Nolan thought out loud. 'If Scott gets here quickly, they've a chance - otherwise . . .' His voice trailed off. He didn't finish the sentence. Both men knew what to expect if the rescue team couldn't be located or was delayed. So many people had fallen to their death on those rocks. The possibility of another two young lives being added to the formidable roll was unthinkable.

The lightweight delivery van sped down the picturesque road from Powers court towards the Waterfall. William Lee, an expert horticulturist, concentrated on driving while his passenger, Percy Scott, sat in silence.

The two messengers had found him at the Scout Headquarters in Powerscourt Demesne and had wasted no time in telling him about the stranded youths. There hadn't been time to think while he had collected the strong ropes and located Mr. Lee, but now he couldn't do anything but wait patiently and calmly. The van wouldn't go any faster along the rough road. He tried to occupy his mind by looking at the countryside flashing past, but that didn't overcome a gnawing feeling of apprehension.

I t wasn't a fear of the unknown, because he knew only too well what he had to do. He had risked his life on the Waterfall before ...

It was early evening on 3rd August, 1942 - almost two years ago to the day - that a tourist had tried to scale the perpendicular face of the Waterfall. He had climbed about half-way up the four-hundred-foot wall, and there he had stopped, unable to go up or down the sheer slippery waterworn rocks. Someone from the crowd in the glen had sent for Father J ames Leaky, the parish priest, to give Final Absolution: no one believed the young man's life could be saved. Then the news reached Percy Scott. He had found a rope and cycled as fast as he could from Powerscourt to the Waterfall, where he ran through the crowd and ascended the rock-face on one side of the frightened youth. The people stopped talking and the glen was filled with a hushed, expectant silence as the Scouter moved steadily to a position some way above the boy.

Where a tree grew out of a crag they watched him pause, and gasped with aweful amazement when they saw him apparently fall and hang in mid-air. Father Leaky sank to his knees and prayed.

By the time Scott had got to the young man others had reached the top of the cliff by a longer, safer route and had descended to the tree around which Scatt's rope was secured. Scott untied the rope from around his waist and put it round the semi-conscious youth. The people above raised the limp body to safety. While waiting on the ledge, with the thundering water only a few feet away, Scott wondered how anyone could have stayed there for almost two hours without falling off. When the rope dropped back to him he quickly tied a bowline, slipped the noose over his shoulders and was pulled up to the tree.

In the glen a buzz of conversation rippled through the crowd and with tears in his eyes Father Leaky exclaimed, 'May the Good Lord be praised! I never thought I'd live to witness such bravery!'

When Scott was back on the ground he looked for the rescued person, but he was nowhere to be seen ...

Scott knew that name now, for the young man's mother had sent him an appreciative 'thank you' letter. But there was no more time for reminiscing. The van rumbled into the glen and Scott brought himself back to reality. He jumped out and Sergeant Scanlon ran over. Conor Hogan, who had been in the Mount Maulin Hotel when George Doyle had phoned for the Gardai, arrived at the same time. Garda McGrath came shortly afterwards.

'They're up there,' the Sergeant told Scott, pointing to the boys' position with his index finger. 'What d'you want us to do?' Scott looked up. The two Scouts were separated by a crevice. Both were lying on steeply sloping shelves of rock about seven yards apart. He quickly formulated his plan of action. This time there was no suitable tree to which he could secure the ropes.

'We'll need half a dozen people to help,' he announced.

Tom and Daniel Nolan, Conor Hogan, Kevin Clarke," William Lee and a Scout volunteered.

Scott led the party about 250 feet up the cliff to a point on the left of the rock-face where the boys were stranded.

'Make the rope fast,' Scott panted. 'When I raise my hand, payout the rope. Tie this rope, too. I'll get the boy lower down first.'

'Take care, Percy,' said Mr. Lee.

Scott smiled seriously. He knotted the rope round his waist and moved diagonally across the cliff-face, pushing himself away from the sharp jagged rocks with his feet. At first his descent was jerky, as the team paid out the line erratically, but they soon became accustomed to Scott's signals and he was able to descend more smoothly. He had decided to rescue Arthur before Diarmuid, as he was in a more dangerous position. By the time he reached him the taut rope was at an angle of forty-five degrees and cut into his ribs. Scott found Arthur's ledge was too narrow to get alongside. He raised his hand and dropped a further couple of feet. Now he could almost touch the petrified boy.

'Don't move,' Scott warned in a quiet, reassuring voice. 'Take your time. Don't panic. Take this rope. Put it under your arms.'

Scott unslung the second rope from his shoulder and uncoiled a few feet from the running end, which he offered to Arthur. He held on to the other end, as he feared Arthur might slip. Arthur didn't move.

'Come on! Just one hand. Be careful and you'll be all right,' encouraged Scott. For a few long seconds Arthur remained still.

While Percy Scott was making his way from Powerscourt, Charlie Higgins (a 30-year-old Scouter) and the other Scouts had tried to reach Arthur with a branch, but it had been too short and he had been too scared to slide across the slippery rock. The midges had bitten Arthur's eyelids so many times that they were swollen and his vision was blurred. Now he could see the line he felt more confident. He tentatively lifted one hand and gripped the rope.

'Put it under your shoulder,' Scott instructed. 'But don't hurry!' he snapped, as Arthur almost overbalanced. Inch by inch Arthur threaded the line under his left armpit and over his back. Slowly he moved his left hand from the niche in the rock and caught the running-end.

'Can't tie a knot!' Arthur called despondently.

'I'll do it,' Scott said.

Scott leant over, caught the end and tied a running knot. He would have tied a bowline, but from his position he couldn't.

'There we are,' he told Arthur. 'Now we must tighten it. We'll doit together.'

The knot slipped down the rope until it was safely fixed round Arthur's chest. Scott raised an arm above his head, 'Haul away!'

The team pulled in the slack and the lines tightened. Arthur was weak from exposure, exhaustion and nervous strain and so Scott assisted him over the jagged schist.

'I'll be down again right away,' he called to Diarmuid.

Arthur reached the top. The rope was so tight round his chest that he could hardly breathe. Daniel Nolan undid the knot, and for a few minutes Arthur was in a state of collapse, but there were strong arms to hold him now.

Scott was lowered for a second time. His own rope dragged across the razor-edged rocks, but they were strong ropes, ones that he had used before.

He didn't take his eyes off Diarmuid. Within a few minutes he was on the rock under which the boy was lying, but it overhung the ledge so much that he couldn't see him. He considered swinging out and landing on the ledge, but, as he didn't know exactly where Diarmuid was, he thought he might knock him off.

Scott cleared his throat deliberately to warn Diarmuid of his presence.

'How much room is there?' he called.

Above the continuous rush of water Diarmuid answered, 'Not enough for two.'

'Can you tie a bowline?' enquired Scott.

'I think so,' Diarmuid replied.

'I'll drop the rope. Take as much time as you like,'

Scott instructed. 'Don't make any sudden movements.

Understand?'

Diarmuid said he did. Scott paid out the rope. After five or six feet had passed through his hands he felt a tug like a fish at the end of an angler's line.

He waited.

'Done it,' came Diarmuid's voice. 'I'm ready.'

'Is it tied properly?' asked Scott.

There was a brief pause before Diarmuid confirmed,

'Yes.'

Scott signalled to WiIIiam Lee to pull up the ropes.

Diarmuid's body appeared to one side of the overhanging rock. Scott took hold of the rope and helped Diarmuid over the ledges.

Both the lads were not only very shocked but also had been in agonies from midge bites: the insects had raised lumps as big as hazel nuts on their faces, arms and legs. Conor Hogan said he had never seen anyone suffer so.

By 7.50 p.m. it was all over, and the party slowly descended the slope to the glen.

'Anyone got a first aid kit?' Scott asked the Scouts.

Members of the 1st Dublin Troop B.P. Scouts dressed Arthur's gashed right forearm- and Diarmuid's grazes and bites, and Percy Scott made his way to the van. He coiled the stout ropes and put them in the back. He felt rather tired himself and wanted to get home.

WiIIiam Lee took the wheel, and, as they drove back along the road towards Powerscourt, he turned to Percy Scott and said, 'I don't know how you did it, Percy. I don't think I could have. They say that when a climber reaches the summit of a very difficult mountain, he gets a tremendous feeling of satisfaction.'

'I suppose it's the same with any dangerous sport,' commented Scott thoughtfully.

'I wouldn't call what you did "sport",' smiled Mr. Lee.

'But I wondered whether you got the same sensation.'

'I hadn't thought of it like that. I suppose you could say so. There's a satisfaction in knowing that one's helped to save someone. But there's something else which means quite a lot to me. Since that incident two years ago I've often wondered whether I'd have the nerve to rescue anyone else from the Waterfall. Now I know.'

APPENDIX

Over the years, many people have been stranded on the Waterfall, some of whom have lost their lives. Just one of these other incidents took place on 26th July, 1946, when David Campbell and Maurice Bryan, both 17 and members of the 11th S. Dublin (Zion) Troop, rescued a university student from three-quarters of the way' up the cliff. Each was awarded a Bronze Cross by the Chief Scout. Percy Scott was awarded the Bronze Cross for the 1942 rescue and a Bar to the Bronze Cross in 1944. At the date of writing he is the only member of the Scout Movements of the United Kingdom and

Eire to have been awarded a Bar to the Bronze Cross.

Looking back on the incidents, Mr. Scott states, 'To have helped to save life is very satisfying. To have a reputation for saving life can be a heavy burden. It must be very pleasant to be able to help and then to disappear and be an "unknown rescuer" .'

By profession Mr. Scott is a barrister-at-law and is Secretary of the Incorporated Association for the-Relief of Distressed Protestants. At the time of the rescues he was Honorary General Secretary to the Eire Scout Council and Camp Warden at Powerscourt, positions he still holds today.

And what of the rescued 'youths' - Arthur Edmonds and Diarmuid O'Broin? The former is a technical assistant with Arthur Guinness & Co. Ltd., in Dublin, the same firm by which he was employed in 1944. He left the Scouts a year or two after the incident, but maintained his love of the open air by joining the Irish Youth Hostels Association. He is married and has two sons and two daughters. Diarmuid O'Broin didn't leave the Scout Movement until 1957 and is currently the Manager/Secretary of the National Agricultural and Industrial Development Association in Dublin. In retrospect, Mr. O'Broin recalls, 'Arthur and I almost haunted the Waterfall for months afterwards, fully equipped, hoping that somebody else would get stuck and we might effect a rescue. This was sheer vanity, of course, but then we were young and therefore to be excused, I hope!'