TALES FROM THE CAILLEACH - Enough Old Women around for the magic to survive.

Outside a predatory wind circles, indoors the fire is red and I have company to share the long hours with.

“ I’ve made the tea, you take in the brack and butter. We’ll sit by the hearth.”

Soon a comfortable silence blankets the room as we gaze into orange depths.

“Why are you smiling, Granny?"

“Ehh. Oh I was just thinking about my sister, mo chroí. 

She was a woeful show-off back in the day, still is. 

This one time I caught her out, good and proper. Took her centuries to live it down.”

“Go on, go on, tell me what happened.”

This tale will take a while so I add more turf and take a good sup of tea. 

“Well this was donkey’s years ago, when we roamed all over, wild we were, only settling now and then when the mood took us.

My sister, Garavogue, was full of mischief and wherever we lived she delighted in taking eggs from the neighbours’ hens and stealing milk from their cows.

Skilled in charms she was and I remember she only had to chant the words “All the butter to me” three times and butter would fly from the churns into a bucket she held.

She caused some trouble I can tell you.

Anyway, this one evening an old farmer comes to my door looking for help.

He sat on the hearth like you are now and explained that his cows were giving less milk each day, 

his wife could no longer make butter to sell and he worried for the children.

A couple of his neighbours reported seeing a hare scampering amongst the herd at dusk and as soon as he said that I knew who it was.

Garavogue.

Taking the shape of the hare comes easy to us and drinking milk straight from a cow was just her style, so I thought it was about time she had a taste of her own medicine. 

I told the farmer to go to the field with his friends that night and take their dogs with them. 

They were to hide and wait for the hare and when she came to the herd they were to let the dogs loose. 

I stood at my door at sunset.

I didn’t have to wait long either, as soon as the moon came up there was barking loud enough to be heard in the next parish.

The hare circled the field followed by the dogs, faster and faster they ran until one managed to sink his teeth in her leg. 

That spurred the hare on even more and soon she bolted from the field and ran up the boreen opposite.”

I poured a hot top on the tea and helped myself to brack.

“What happened then?”

“Well, the men called off their dogs and the farmer hurried along in the tracks of the hare, down the boreen to the old cottage. 

He burst through the door and what did he find?

Only my sister Garavogue, collapsed in her chair. 

She was nursing her leg, wrapping it in moss to stop the bleeding.

Not a word was spoken. 

She’d been found out and that was enough to put a stop to her shenanigans.

The next morning when I opened my door there was a basket of eggs and a bottle of poitín on the step, payment from the farmer.”

“What about your sister? Did she know it was you?”

“Ahh well, that evening Garavogue herself came over. 

Her limp was only slight, we Old Women heal fast. 

“Any news ?” she asked

“No, nothing strange or exciting” I told her as I put out plates.
“You’ll have your tea of course, there’s eggs on the boil and a drop of poitín while we wait.”

She spied the fresh bottle and she knew, I saw the twinkle in her eye.

She smiled at me and raised her glass ‘Sláinte!’

She got her own back of course, played many a trick on me and the others over the years.”

“Tell me more granny, please.”

“Not tonight, it’ll be time to sleep soon.”

“But just tell me … do all grannies do that? Turn into a hare and run about the fields?”

“ Not all of them, mo croi, but there’s enough Old Women around for the magic to survive.”

***

This tale of The Cailleach and her sister is based upon folklore from Co. Louth.

A wealth of collected Irish folklore is now available online at Dúchas.ie

Images & Words © Jane Brideson.

A Synchronicity of Ravens.

'The Fallen Castle' was inspired by a visit many years ago to Rattin Castle, Co. Westmeath. 

At the time I felt it would make an interesting painting, a symbol of a powerful elite that once held the land, now in decay. 

Rattin takes its’ name from Rath Aitinne meaning ‘Rath of the furze’. 

A rath or earthwork lies to the west of the castle. 

The area around the Rattin Castle is believed to have been inhabited possibly from as early as 

4000-2500 BCE and the building stands about 30 metres high, on raised ground like an island surrounded by marshland.

The castle itself dates to the 15th century and was constructed to defend part of the extensive 

Anglo-Norman territories of the midlands. Built on land owned by Hugh de Lacy, it later passed into the hands of Sir John D’Arcy and his family and was taken by Cromwell’s army in the 1640’s.

This was all I knew of Rattin but as I began to paint I was convinced that ravens and crows had to feature, though I had no idea why.

Finally the painting was finished, complete with corvids. 

It wasn’t until much later that I was alerted by a friend to the local folklore concerning Rattin Castle.

Reading this I felt that familiar ‘tingle’ of something awakening.

Over the years there have been many of these ‘meaningful coincidences’ which, when I paid attention, led me to make changes, deepen my knowledge or discover more connections which I could use in my artwork or my own spiritual practices.

This concept, termed Synchronicity by Carl Jung, is explained as: 

“ The experience of two or more events which occur in a meaningful manner, 

but which are causally unrelated. 

In order to be synchronous, the events must be related to one another conceptually, 

and the chance that they would occur together by random chance must be very small. ”

Perhaps the raven of the painting and the folklore of Rattin was a small example of synchronicity?

***

Two weeks later whilst driving I decided to turn off the familiar main road to explore a new landscape. 

The small road ran up Spa Hill and parking at the top I sat watching 

crows wheeling high above the land. 

Back behind the wheel, driving down the twisty way into a valley, my mind wandered. 

I pondered the nature of synchronicity, where did it come from and why did it happen? 

Did other people pay attention to it too? 

I turned around a sharp bend in the road  

where I was confronted by another raven.

The Raven sculpture by Saturio Alonso with airborne crow.

I had come unknowingly to the small village of Lisdowney, Lios Dúin Fhiaich, The Fort of the Raven or 

of Fiach, a local chieftain. 

The monument celebrates the history of the village with information about neighbouring settlements, so I stopped to read the notice board.

At that moment I felt the sense of excitement that unexpected happenings bring and my attention was caught by a picture of the ruined Balleen Castle, nearby. 

Balleen Castle.

The tale of the castle, handed down through generations, is that the builders were nearing completion when a raven flew over their heads and told them that the Lord of Balleen had become a ruined man. Seeing they would not be paid, the men left immediately and the story goes that Balleen Castle was never finished. 

So another raven, another castle and on the map a place named Clontubrid, ‘meadow of Brigid’s well’.

The map showed a holy well close to the church so I felt this deserved a detour. 

On arrival of course I expected to find Brigid’s Well there.

I discovered that it was St. Fiachra’s Well.

St. Fiachra? The figure, wearing a long tunic, has a "smoothly rounded head 

with large almond-shaped eyes and a pointed chin."

Fiachra, a personal name which originated in pre-Christian Ireland, is thought to be derived from 

the word fiach meaning "raven". 

The small house over the well is very old and may have originally been part 

of the cell of St. Fiachra, a hermit, whose festival was celebrated there on 8th February, 

the old date for Imbolg.

It seemed that the ravens were sending a message which by now I was hearing loud and clear, so as the evening light was fading I turned towards home.

I am still reflecting on that day and view these events as a synchronicity of ravens telling me to pay attention,
bringing me a message.

But where do they come from? 

Are they messages from our unconscious mind or from the inter-connected universe? 

Are they chance encounters with another realm or merely inexplicable coincidences?

Blackthorn, dark sister of the May.

Blackthorn, Draighean, a prelude to the May, 

has recently started to blaze a trail, like pale spirits across the land.

Unlike the whitethorn, blackthorn blossom appears before the leaves unfurl, giving a contrast of white flowers against dark, thorny branches and although both trees in folklore are associated with fairy belief, tales told of the blackthorn are darker.

White blossoms are appearing to signal the ebbing of the winter weather.

Blackthorn is understood to be protected by the Good People and only the fool hardy would consider cutting or burning these thorns. 

In other places, whether a lone bush or a stand of trees, the thorn should not be cut on May 11th, 

the old date for Bealtaine, or on November 11th, the original Samhain. 

Those who ignore this advice do so at their peril as it is known They have their own ways of exacting the price to be paid.

Lone blackthorn.

Where blackthorn grows near whitethorn, the site is considered especially magical. 

This is Dempsey’s Ring. Co. Offaly, photo taken in summer 

showing some remaining whitethorn blossom.

Here both blackthorn & whitethorn trees protect the remains of a fairy fort.

Just as the devil is said to spit on blackberries at the start of winter, so the Good People blight the sloes of the blackthorn at Samhain.

In Galway it was customary to drink sloe wine on Hallow’een, whilst in Co. Roscommon the last sloe was baked into the Barn brac, the Hallow’een cake, and whoever received the fruit in their slice was the person who would live the longest.

Sloes, the fruit of the blackthorn, are still used to make sloe gin.

The tree itself is said to be protected by the ferocious Lunantishee, beings believed to live within 

the bush itself.

Some associate the blackthorn with the Leannán Sidhe, the Fairy Lover, who seeks the love of a mortal but whose love is both beautiful and terrible. 

Once captivated the human is blessed with poetic inspiration but will finally waste away of longing for her.

‘The Spirit of Blackthorn’ painted after many visits to a wild place where

 thorn trees grew unmolested.

The fierce nature of the thorn is also reflected in Irish mythology when it was used by warriors who fought with clubs of spiked blackthorn ringed with iron. 

The shillelagh or Irish fighting stick was also made from blackthorn because of its’ hardness and the wood was cured to further strengthen it by burying it in a dung heap or smearing it with butter then placing it up the chimney.

Antique shillelagh.

It is said that the first blackthorn fighting stick was made in the village of Shillelagh, Co. Wicklow and they were developed by the Siol Ealaigh people of the area over 1,200 years ago.

In many areas a thorn walking stick was understood to be a charm against danger and evil spirits 

and when carried at night, it protected against ill-wishers and the attentions of the Good People.

Image from pinterest.com
'Paddy the sticks', who made and sold blackthorn walking sticks 

was once a well known figure in Killarney.

.

The abiding belief in the Good People here has meant that in many places fear of retribution has guarded the blackthorn and hidden many sacred sites from destruction.

In untamed places, where the blossom grows thickest, 

beware the paths which wind through her spiny tunnels, for eventually

they will lead you to the waiting Lunantishee and on into the Otherworld.

The Homeplace

 ‘The Homeplace’.

When returning home through night dark lanes there is no greater pleasure than seeing a welcoming light in the window and turf smoke drifting like mist across the fields.

In rural Ireland it is said that “there was once a house to every field”, now many lie cold and empty.

Empty cottage in Glenbarrow.

Famine, eviction and enforced migration meant that homes were left to fall and today this continues as young people and families emigrate seeking employment. 

Home to a local dowser and once a well known ‘rambling’ house where neighbours would gather 

of an evening to chat and exchange news.

Another empty family home which never knew electricity, 

lit only by oil lamps & candles.

Few live now in the musical or rambling houses, where you were once welcomed to the hearth, especially if you could share a tune or tell a tale.

An abandoned cart and tractor speak of lives lived close to the land. 

In places, where walls stood, all that remains are stones.

Many are green ghosts of their former selves.

The remains of  Biddy Early's house. 

Others are marked annually by flowering bulbs, once planted by the Woman of the House, or by a rambling rose which still guards a gateway.

Reminders of old beliefs also remain.

Small pieces of iron, horseshoes, tobacco, whiskey and Christian medals have been discovered in the foundations of old homes, thought to be offerings to the spirit of the place.

A donkey or horse shoe placed above the door was common and understood to bring good luck 

and deflect the attentions of the Good People. 

The house itself could not be built where it would disrupt Otherworld inhabitants or hinder the movement of 

the Good People on their fairy paths.

Whilst folk traditions ensured that the homeplace and family remained safe.

House leek grown in a thatched roof to guard against fire in Co. Limerick. 

Growing house leeks was probably a form of sympathetic magic as the plant resembles small flames. 

Photo © Barry O’Reilly.

Traditionally the use of white quartz, materials from sacred sites and ruins were taboo when building, as was red oak. 

To ensure protection, a Brigid’s cross was made annually and hung above the door, the hearth or placed in the thatch. 

Even in town houses and pubs the Brigid’s cross gave protection.

Of the many folk practices one of the most extensive seems to be the prohibition against extending

the home westwards.

Donn, the god of the dead, had his house off the west coast. 

It was thought that ‘only a man stronger than God would extend his house to the west’.

This tradition appears to stem from the belief that the place of the setting sun was the place where the dead went and in some areas the west room was used for laying out the deceased. By building on westwards it was understood that a death would occur in the family soon after the new room was completed.

***

The Homeplace in my painting once stood across from my own home. 

Only stones remain to tell the tale.

Although the people have long gone, I sometimes imagine that I catch voices and a drifting tune on the air and I’m not alone in having glimpsed a glow of light where the old homeplace once stood.

Despite the changes in the country neighbours do still gather over a cup of tea to exchange news and there are modern day kitchen sessions.

This one in Lisdoonvara shows Sean Nós dancing on the flags by the fire with Brigid’s Crosses hanging in the background. 

Sean Nós Dancer Stephanie Kane, session hosted by Joe Kelleher with the accordion player Bobby Gardiner.

‘Raths and Fairies’ - tales of what can happen when you cross the Good People by Michael Fortune, from his Co. Wexford folklore collection.

A Samhain remembrance.

We descend into winter's darkness.
Around us leaves fall, animals begin to hibernate and nature appears to sleep yet we hold fast in
the knowledge that spring will return and new life will emerge.

Candles lit for the departed.

It is fitting that the month of Samhain, November, is the time when we remember those who have gone before us,
our ancestors, our loved ones.

In Irish mythology and folklore Donn was considered to be the god to whom people went after their death.
In one text Donn tells his people:

"To me, to my house you shall come after your deaths." 

DONN by Jane Brideson showing the House of Donn at sunset.
Read about this painting HERE

He was known across the island but is remembered particularly in the West where his most famous dwelling is
Teach Duinn, the House of Donn.

Also called Bull Rock, it lies off the coast of Dursey Island, Co. Cork and is now home to a lighthouse.

Bull Rock
The rock, with its natural archway, was described as 'Donn's house behind Ireland'. 

In the folklore of Kerry and Cork the belief persisted that the spirits of the dead travelled across the sea, along a path illuminated by the setting sun, to Donn's House.

The House of Donn at sunset.

Local fishermen understood that spirits travelled west to the Land of the Dead or to mythical islands such as
Tír na hÓige, the Land of Youth, where they enjoyed the afterlife.

And so it is still, when we light a candle in the west to honour those who have left this life,

or open a west facing window to allow a spirit to depart at death
 or look to the sunset to remember...