Irish Eccentrics: A motley crew

Everyone loves a crackpot, especially an Irish crackpot. And our history is full of them writes Damian Corless

A prototype Howard Hughes, Benjamin O'Neill Stratford of Baltinglass devoted his entire life to building the world's biggest balloon. In the 1830s he constructed a giant hangar on his estate, spending the next 20 years working there in total secrecy. He was so fearful of rivals that he kept only one servant. The paranoid Stafford wouldn't even employ a cook, having meals-on-wheels delivered daily by Royal Mail coach.

By 1856 the giant balloon was ready to go. Stratford had even bought a landing strip by the Seine for his maiden flight. Then disaster struck.

Stratford Lodge went up in flames. The locals arrived to fight the blaze, but he ordered them to just save the balloon. Their rescue efforts failed. A broken man, Stratford left for Spain where he lived reclusively in hotel rooms. He'd have his meals sent up by room-service, but he'd never allow the dirty dishes and cutlery be collected. When his suite was full of soiled crockery he'd simply move to another.

Another toff with a cutlery fixation was Mary Monckton, wife of the 7th Earl of Cork. A wonderful host, Lady Cork's rampant kleptomania meant she wasn't quite so popular as a guest. Her 'tendency' became common knowledge in polite society and hosts would hide the good silver and set the table with pewter. It made no difference – she stole it anyway. On one occasion she whisked away a live hedgehog in her handbag.

Another dodgy dinner guest was Richard Whately, Church of Ireland Archbishop of Dublin from 1831 to 1863. Spectacularly hyperactive, he had a habit of smashing chairs wherever he visited by rocking violently back and forth and kicking whatever other furniture was in reach. Large crowds would attend his sermons, but not to hear him preach. One witness wrote that he "worked his leg about to such an extent that it glided over the edge of the pulpit and hung there till he had finished".

Dubliners had mixed feelings about their Archbishop whose hobbies included boomerang-throwing and climbing trees. His cure for a headache was to go out, work up a sweat chopping down a tree, and retire to bed. He objected to wasting money, but his congregation didn't approve of seeing him doing the gardening in his holy robes. He was supposed to wear a ceremonial chain, the Order of Saint Patrick, but he couldn't stand pomp so he was always trying to lose it. Once he appeared at the royal court in London without his chain and was ejected. He had to hang around for two weeks waiting for his bling-bling to arrive from Dublin.

Matthew Robinson inherited the title of Lord Rokeby from his uncle Richard, Archbishop of Armagh. One summer he took a break at the seaside. As the days passed, Rokeby spent more and more time in the water. He also stopped shaving. In time, his beard grew so long and thick that it formed an apron down to his knees. For years he walked three miles each day to the beach, staying in the water for so long that he regularly fainted and had to be rescued by his servants. Eventually, he built an indoor pool and stayed submerged all day most days. He became a recluse, living mostly on water and beef tea and the occasional leg of roast lamb which he'd eat in the pool. He died in 1800 at the age of 88.

Robert Cook was a 17th Century farmer from Cappaquin, Co. Waterford. He wore white linen from head to toe and operated a colour bar against black cattle and horses on his land. An early vegan, he refused to eat or wear animal produce. When a fox was caught attacking his poultry, Cook rescued it from his servants, gave it a stern lecture on the Fifth Commandment (Thou Shalt Not Kill) and sent it on its way.

Perhaps the most colourful of all was the Third Marquis of Waterford.

Popularly known as The Mad Marquis, Waterford squandered a huge fortune playing elaborate pranks. Once, in London, he mischievously decided to dispense charity to the city's poor. He bought up several casks of gin and stood on the street giving half-pint measures to everyone who looked deserving enough. By the time his charity work was done there was drunken rioting all over, leading to his arrest.

On another occasion The Mad Marquis was charged with exceeding the speed limit in a built up area on his horse. At the trial he rode his mount up the courthouse steps insisting that he'd be calling the horse as his chief witness, since only it knew how fast it was really going. He was acquitted. The Mad Marquis died of a broken neck – falling off a horse, appropriately enough – in 1859.