The Tale of Mac Dathó's Pig

In the ancient days of Ireland, when kings ruled from mighty fortresses and warriors competed for honor and glory, there lived a clever chieftain named Mac Dathó who possessed two of the most remarkable treasures in all the land. This is the tale of how his cunning and hospitality led to one of the most memorable feasts—and fights—in Irish history.

The King of Leinster

Mac Dathó ruled over a portion of Leinster from his great fortress, which was renowned throughout Ireland for two extraordinary creatures. The first was a massive pig, so large that seven years of feeding had made it the size of a small ox. Its meat was said to be the most delicious in all the world, tender and sweet beyond compare.

The second was a hound of supernatural size and ability. This great dog was as large as a horse, with eyes like burning coals and strength that could bring down the fiercest wolf or bear. Its loyalty to Mac Dathó was absolute, and its prowess in hunting was legendary throughout the land.

Mac Dathó himself was known for his wisdom and cunning, but above all for his generous hospitality. His hall was always open to travelers, and his table groaned under the weight of food and drink offered freely to all guests. This reputation for hospitality would soon lead to a most unusual situation.

The Double Request

One autumn morning, two messengers arrived at Mac Dathó’s fortress within hours of each other, each bearing an important request from their royal masters.

The first messenger wore the colors of Ulster and bore the seal of King Conchobar mac Nessa. “Great Mac Dathó,” he announced formally, “my lord King Conchobar sends greetings and makes this request: he desires to purchase your magnificent hound for his royal household. He offers one hundred cattle, a chariot drawn by the finest horses, and the friendship of Ulster in perpetual alliance.”

Before Mac Dathó could respond, the second messenger stepped forward, wearing the purple and gold of Connacht. “Noble king,” he declared, “Queen Medb of Connacht also sends greetings and makes her own offer for your remarkable hound. She offers one hundred and sixty cattle, two chariots with matched horses, and her own royal protection over your lands.”

Mac Dathó listened to both offers with a thoughtful expression, stroking his beard as he considered the implications. To refuse either Ulster or Connacht would mean making a powerful enemy, but he could hardly sell the same hound to both kingdoms.

“These are generous offers indeed,” he said at last. “But such an important decision requires careful consideration. Return to your lords and tell them that I will give my answer in seven days’ time. In the meantime, I invite both King Conchobar and Queen Medb to be my guests at a great feast, where we may discuss this matter properly.”

The Feast Preparation

As the messengers departed to deliver his invitations, Mac Dathó called together his advisors and servants. His wife, a woman of great wisdom, looked at him with a mixture of admiration and concern.

“Husband,” she said, “you have invited both Ulster and Connacht to feast at the same table. These kingdoms have been enemies for generations. Do you think they can share a meal in peace?”

Mac Dathó’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Peace is not what I have in mind, dear wife. I have a plan that will solve our problem quite cleverly. Prepare the great pig for roasting—we shall need a feast worthy of kings and queens.”

For seven days, Mac Dathó’s household labored to prepare the greatest feast in their history. The enormous pig was slaughtered and prepared with the finest herbs and spices. Countless barrels of mead and ale were brought up from the cellars, and the great hall was decorated with rich tapestries and gleaming treasures.

The Arrival of the Guests

On the appointed day, both royal parties arrived within hours of each other, as Mac Dathó had expected. King Conchobar came with his finest warriors: Cú Chulainn, Conall Cernach, Lóegaire the Triumphant, and a host of other champions from the Red Branch.

Queen Medb arrived with equal splendor, accompanied by her husband Ailill and her own mighty warriors: Fergus mac Róich (who had left Ulster’s service), Ferdiad the Shield-Bearer, and many other renowned fighters from Connacht.

When the two parties met in Mac Dathó’s courtyard, the tension was immediate and palpable. Old enemies found themselves face to face, hands instinctively moving toward sword hilts. But the laws of hospitality were sacred, and while they were guests under Mac Dathó’s roof, they could not draw blood.

“Welcome, noble guests!” Mac Dathó called out cheerfully, pretending not to notice the hostile glares being exchanged. “Come into my hall and let us feast as friends and allies!”

The Champion’s Portion

The great hall of Mac Dathó’s fortress had been arranged with careful thought. The high table stretched across the room, with places of honor for both King Conchobar and Queen Medb. The warriors of Ulster sat along one side of the hall, while those of Connacht occupied the other, creating a virtual battle line across the dinner table.

When the feast was served, the sight of the roasted pig drew gasps of amazement from all present. The creature was so large that it required eight strong men to carry it on its platter, and its savory aroma filled the entire hall.

“Behold!” Mac Dathó announced with theatrical pride. “The finest pig in all of Ireland, fed for seven years on the best grain and herbs. But as you know, tradition demands that the champion’s portion—the choicest cut—go to the greatest warrior present.”

This statement sent a ripple of competitive tension through both groups of warriors. In Irish tradition, claiming the champion’s portion was both an honor and a challenge, requiring the claimant to prove his superiority over all others present.

Lóegaire the Triumphant was the first to speak. “I claim the champion’s portion by right of my victories,” he declared, rising from his seat. “I have defeated armies and never known defeat in single combat.”

But Conall Cernach immediately challenged him. “Your boasts are empty wind, Lóegaire. I am the true champion here, with more victories than you can count.”

From the Connacht side, Cet mac Mágach stood up with a sneer. “Ulster champions!” he scoffed. “Children playing at war. I am Cet of Connacht, and I have slain more Ulster warriors than any man alive. The champion’s portion is mine by right.”

The Battle of Words

What followed was a battle not of swords but of words, as each warrior recounted his greatest victories and most famous deeds. The boasting grew more elaborate and competitive as each champion tried to outdo the others.

Cet mac Mágach proved particularly effective at this verbal warfare. For each Ulster hero who spoke, he had a story of how he had killed that man’s father, brother, or closest friend in battle. One by one, the Ulster champions fell silent, unable to respond to his taunts.

“Where is your mighty Cú Chulainn?” Cet mocked. “Does the great Hound of Ulster fear to face me in a contest of words?”

“I am here,” came a quiet voice from the back of the hall. All heads turned as Cú Chulainn rose to his feet, his presence immediately commanding the attention of every person present.

“You speak of killing fathers and brothers,” the young hero said calmly. “But tell me, Cet, where is your own brother Anlúan? Oh yes, I remember—his head decorates the walls of Emain Macha, where I placed it after our last meeting.”

For the first time, Cet found himself without a ready response. The hall fell silent as the two greatest champions faced each other across the room.

“The champion’s portion is mine,” Cú Chulainn declared simply, and none present dared dispute his claim.

The Clever Resolution

As Cú Chulainn moved toward the high table to claim his portion of the pig, Mac Dathó stood up with a broad smile. “Wait, noble heroes!” he called out. “Before we award the champion’s portion, I must make an announcement regarding the purpose of this gathering.”

All eyes turned to their host as he continued. “Both Ulster and Connacht have made generous offers for my hound. After much consideration, I have decided…” He paused dramatically. “To give the hound to whoever can take him!”

With those words, Mac Dathó opened a side door of the hall, and his enormous hound bounded into the room. The great dog was indeed magnificent—as large as a horse, with a coat that gleamed like burnished bronze and eyes that blazed with intelligence and power.

But instead of going to either king or queen, the hound ran straight to the table where the great pig lay roasted. With a mighty leap, it seized the entire pig in its jaws and bounded toward the door.

“After him!” shouted both sides simultaneously, and the careful peace of the feast exploded into chaos.

The Great Chase

Warriors from both Ulster and Connacht leaped from their seats and gave chase, all thoughts of hospitality forgotten in the excitement of the hunt. The great hound, burdened by its massive prize, ran swiftly but not swiftly enough to outdistance the pursuing heroes.

The chase led out of the hall, across the courtyard, and into the surrounding countryside. Warriors whooped and shouted as they ran, the competitive spirit overcoming all other considerations.

But as the pursuit continued, old rivalries began to surface. Ulster warriors found themselves running alongside their Connacht enemies, and the temptation to settle old scores proved irresistible.

“While we’re running,” panted Conall Cernach to his nearest Connacht rival, “perhaps we could settle that matter of your insulting my father last spring?”

“Gladly!” came the breathless reply, and swords began to sing from their sheaths.

Soon the entire chase had devolved into a running battle, with warriors fighting each other as much as pursuing the hound. The great dog, meanwhile, had reached a river and plunged in, pig and all, disappearing into the swift current.

The Aftermath

By the time the various combatants returned to Mac Dathó’s fortress—tired, muddy, and somewhat sheepish—the clever king was waiting for them with fresh food and drink, as if nothing unusual had happened.

“A magnificent chase!” he declared cheerfully. “Though I’m afraid my poor hound has been drowned in the river, along with our feast. What a pity that neither Ulster nor Connacht could catch him!”

King Conchobar and Queen Medb looked at each other and then at their host, both beginning to realize how cleverly they had been manipulated.

“You planned this from the beginning,” Medb accused, though her tone held more admiration than anger.

Mac Dathó spread his hands innocently. “I merely offered hospitality to my honored guests. If my hound chose to abscond with the feast, how could I control such a thing?”

Despite having lost both their hoped-for prize and their dignity, neither royal party could help but appreciate the elegance of Mac Dathó’s solution. He had avoided making enemies of either kingdom while providing them with a memorable adventure.

The Wisdom of Hospitality

As the various warriors nursed their bruises and their pride, Cathbad the druid of Ulster spoke what many were thinking: “Mac Dathó has shown us that sometimes the wisest course is to let problems solve themselves.”

“Indeed,” agreed Fergus mac Róich. “He offered us a choice, and we chose to make fools of ourselves chasing a dog through a river. The fault is ours, not his.”

Before departing, both King Conchobar and Queen Medb made Mac Dathó generous gifts, acknowledging his clever hospitality. The tale of his feast became famous throughout Ireland, told whenever people gathered to hear stories of wit triumphing over strength.

The Lasting Legend

The story of Mac Dathó’s pig and hound became a favorite among the bards of Ireland, celebrated as an example of how cleverness and humor could defuse even the most serious conflicts. It reminded listeners that sometimes the best way to handle competing claims is to let the claimants sort things out for themselves.

Mac Dathó himself became known as one of the wisest kings in Ireland, not for his military prowess but for his ability to turn potential disasters into sources of entertainment and profit. His feast hall remained famous for generations as a place where even enemies could gather in peace—at least until they left to chase dogs through rivers.

And though both the great pig and the great hound were lost that day, the memory of Mac Dathó’s clever hospitality lived on, inspiring other kings to solve their problems with wit rather than warfare. In the end, everyone agreed that a feast ending in a muddy chase was far preferable to one ending in bloodshed, and Mac Dathó’s reputation for wisdom was secured forever.

The tale reminds us that sometimes the most serious conflicts can be resolved with a touch of humor and the understanding that pride often makes fools of us all—but that a good laugh shared among former enemies can be worth more than any victory won by the sword.