BRITISH sheep have achieved what British troops, even in the days of empire, never could: they have damped down Irish celebrations of St Patrick's day. With the republic on red alert for foot-and-mouth disease, the national mood is sombre and the national holiday, on March 17th, will seem more like a day of national mourning: the usual parades and marching bands have been cancelled, public parks locked, golf clubs closed, sports events called off. Field sports and fishing remain suspended, indefinitely. Travel across the Northern Irish border and to or from Britain is being discouraged as far as possible, and the gardai—police—are at the border to ensure that no farm animals cross it, and that vehicles or people who do are disinfected.
Ireland is taking stronger measures to keep the disease out than Britain is to stop its spread. British claims to have the outbreak “under control” are not believed, and Britain's less stringent restrictions have been sharply criticised. Calling for stronger measures there, Hugh Byrne, the Irish junior minister of natural resources, has described Britain as “the leper of Europe”.
In contrast, the Irish authorities have treated the British epidemic as a national emergency. As well they may: agriculture today matters far less to Ireland than it did only 30 or 40 years ago, but—counting in food processing—it still accounts for about 11% of employment and 10% or so of both output and exports. So, though foot-and-mouth by this week had not been detected south of the border, the government had stopped all movement of cloven-hoofed animals except for slaughter, and called on the public to avoid the countryside, especially farms. For fear that travelling fans could carry the disease, it secured a voluntary ban on virtually all sporting activity, even within the country, let alone the international rugby matches planned with British teams.
The restrictions have their costs. Farmers are being saved, they hope, from higher costs still. But Ireland's famed horseracing industry is suffering. And tourism, whose big attraction is the green Irish countryside, may be hard hit, as in Britain: the Irish tourist board fears a 12% drop in its $4.5 billion yearly revenues. However, the public strongly supports the government's advice: an opinion poll last weekend (taken only in urban areas, for fear the pollsters might themselves spread the disease) found only 9% of respondents who thought the restrictions “excessive”.
The big difficulty is the Irish republic's long northern border. The Irish Sea stopped foot-and-mouth reaching either part of the divided island during the big British outbreak of 1967. But this March 1st, for the first time in 60 years, this natural defence against the disease was breached when a case was found at Meigh, in South Armagh, just north of the border.
The risk is not just that of the airborne spread of the virus. For some time it has been profitable to smuggle animals south across the border and convert them miraculously into “Irish meat”. That was what happened recently to some sheep from Meigh. They had been brought in from Scotland, supposedly for slaughter in Northern Ireland. Instead, some were held briefly on a farm at Meigh, and later spirited to a meat plant south of the border, where they were processed for the French market. Others stayed in Meigh—and it was one of these that was found to have foot-and-mouth.
What about those that had gone south? So far, Ireland's fears have not been fulfilled. But they, and the restrictions and accompanying costs, will remain long after St Patrick's day is past.