A millon stars, a thousand candles.

Though the Solstice has passed the nights are long.

I walk through sleep-wrapped villages where turf smoke hangs low. 

Climbing the cold hills, all is silence.

Above a million stars.

Below a thousand candles burn in windows to welcome the weary.

***

Traditionally across Ireland a candle is left burning in the window on 24th December.
For many it symbolised a welcome to Mary and Joseph, to others the reborn sun after Solstice.

To all, the candle is a sign to wanderers that they will receive a warm welcome, food and a place to rest this night.

Thank you for taking time to visit The Ever-Living Ones.

As daylight lengthens may it bring you good health, good food & good company!

Tales from The Cailleach: INTO A HARE

A sharp sickle hangs above the Lough Field.

By the hearth I rest my bones, thoughts conjured by shifting shadows.

How much reaping have I seen since those first seeds were planted?

How many harvests by scythe, then horse now harvester?

In bygone days they thought my spirit in the corn.

Cutting the Cailleach, Co. Antrim.

Pic © www.duchas.ie

At times my hare-shape, spied amongst the stalks, caused old ones to make the sign and murmur against ill-wishing.  

They recognised my power.

Still now, at my great age, I go about at harvest to fulfil my duty. 

Barley, wheat, oats and grass, all are judged for fitness.

This year was no exception.

At the swollen moon I lay besides the hearth, shawl wrapped tightly, trusting my gnarled fingers 

to remember. 

Nine haws, nine knots, a hag stone bound in red. 

Eyes closed I breathed archaic words upon the charm.

Damp earth-scent replaced turf smoke. 

I diminished, 

I re-formed.

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

A twitch of whiskers then I was off across the silvered land.

Past Lone Thorn, 

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

Shining Mound

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

and Sacred Well.

Detail from "Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

Around the Hag’s Hill then spiralling far beyond. 

Fulfilling work began at EQUINOX 

"Into a Hare" by Jane Brideson.

The cycle ended I sensed the wholeness in the land.

***

Next morning, an old woman once again, I rose and placed the kettle on the range for tea.

The phone rang. 

I knew that smiling voice,  “All’s well?” 

“ Yes. The harvest’s saved, great goodness in the grain this year. 

 We’ll celebrate at Samhain so?” I asked.

“Ah, we will of course” came his reply. We laughed and I could see that twinkle in his eye. 

The Dagda’s parties were legendary.

Tales from the Cailleach: Tipping the Balance at Equinox.

A short walk today, just as far as the thorn. 

The Equinox sunrise gilded the stones within my mound this morning.

Photo: sunlight at Spring Equinox inside Cairn T  © Clare Tuffy http://www.newgrange.com 

Seed-sprouts rise from the earth, tiny leaves curl on branches.
Still, there is a breath of snow in the air and on these grey days I don’t stray far from the hearth.

The fire awakened, I sit staring into the flames, warmed by memories of SAMHAIN past. 

Since then I have a ready smile for neighbours and laughter in my eyes. 

They do not know the cause but I see them sniffing the air as they pass, sensing sea tang, their faces puzzled by the seaweed fond across my threshold. 

The phone rings, reflections shatter.

Two voices, so like my own, whisper down the line.

“ Tonight, is it?”

I nod my reply.

“Yes, we’ll tip the balance. ”

Later, fire banked, I listen to the house as it sighs and settles into the night.

Once the tale was told of we three Hags who push up new growth from the land at Equinox, it’s almost true that story.
My sister-selves and I labour when light and dark are equal but not beneath the earth.

As shadows deepen, eyes close, breathing slows and I gently slip away.

Needing neither broom nor steed I rise to travel rimed roads. 

Sleep blankets the villages I pass, a quiet night in this world.

Over frost bitten bog and pitch river I gather speed to soar above the rising hill.

Photo © Lynda McCormack 

A feathering of snow flakes as I settle upon Sliabh na Caillíghe, where once we leapt and hurled 

the stones that now bear legends.

Upon my chair I scour the sleeping island with keen eyes.

Photo: Courtesy of © Anthony Murphy http://www.mythicalireland.com 

Yes, the land is ready, ripe for growth. 

I release my howl of greeting high into the darkness.  

A chill blast bearing laughter replies, my sister-self on Gullion. 

A moment later the screech of Bheara answers and we three Hags are ready.

The tipping point approaches.

At the mound, breath hoar frost on stone, I enter black stillness.

In this womb, the air, already laden with the scent of meadowsweet yet to bloom, 

shifts as I trace shapes within the stones. 

Patterns once danced upon the land in rhythm with earth, sea and sky.

We three move as one. 

Goodness in seed, grass and grain.

Sunwise circling.

Goodness in flower, fruit and branch.

Weaving words.

Goodness in grain, nourish our people.

A sudden surge. 

A torrent, the yellow of ripening sun, is birthed across the land. 

The point of balance tipped.

The land awash with vigour once again.

Cailleach at Sliabh na Caillíghe © Jane Brideson.

***

Next morning, I stir the embers back to flame and place the kettle on the stove, my work complete 

till harvest.

Stepping out the sky is washed pale blue and Seán stops the post van by the gate. 

“ Not a bad morning,” he says, “ there’s a feel of spring to the air. ”

Handing over the bills he stays to chat until the kettle sings. 

“ No tea for me today. ” 

Leaving he sniffs and mutters, “ is that the sea ? ”

I look to the sky. 

From the west a cloud formed like a wave rolls across the hills.

Inside two cups sit ready.

Manannán comes.

My first story of The Cailleach at Samhain is here: The Lament of the Old Woman

Searching for Brigid’s Well.

My older post on making Brigid's crosses HERE

Brigid’s Eve draws nearer and with thoughts of making crosses, I wandered down to the Lough Field to look at the reeds. 

Standing alone in this quiet place a phrase, spoken by a Donegal Seanchaí, came to mind:

“ There were two St Brigids.

There was St Brigid up in Kildare, but this is the Brigid from this place.”

This set me wondering about the Brigid who walks the land locally and who is remembered here in stories of stones, wells and small offerings. 

Stone by the roadside in Killeigh.

A local story relates that Brigid rested and left the imprint of her leg upon the stone.

St. Brigid’s Well, Rosenallis.

The saint is believed to have founded a church here and blessed the spring well.

Coins and white quartz at the well.

Brigid’s Cross made from reeds.

The old custom here was to make the cross from oak twigs, 

bind it with reeds and place it in the thatch for protection. 

St. Brigid was believed to have been born in Doire Aircean, Derryarkin, on the bog north of 

Croghan Hill, Co. Offaly and Brigid Begoibne, Brigid the Smith, had her workshop beneath the Hill. 

Another Brigid, not of fire but of healing waters, had a sacred well which flowed from Croghan.

In the distant past Croghan Hill emerged as an island from the surrounding lakes, a sacred place where water, earth and sky met. 

Map showing the Hill and bogland today.

A place where legends of the pagan goddess and saint intertwined. 

The Hill, reminiscent of a breast, appears to have long been a place of the sacred feminine.

The old name for the Hill is Cruachán Bri Éile, the prominent hill of Éile, an elusive mythological woman or goddess who was sister to Queen Maeve.

One source tells that the River Shannon erupted from a well, known as Linn Mna Feile, 

'the Pool of the Modest Woman’, sacred to Éile, found beneath Croghan. 

Several sacred wells were associated with the hill, some visible on old maps, though all but one are now lost. 

Only two old names were recorded Fuarán Well and Finneenashark Well, which cured headaches 

and was accompanied by an ancient Ash tree. 

With Lá Fhéile Bríde approaching I decided visit Croghan to search for clues to the whereabouts of
Brigid’s sacred well.

The Bronze Age mound upon the summit has never been excavated but is thought to contain 

the remains of Éile and her chariot. 

In local folklore it opens at Samhain, leading into the hollow hill and the Otherworld. 

Could this be the site of the elusive Well?

Croghan village.

I found the small village of Croghan and drove up the hill to view the site of St. Maccaille’s church, founded around 465 AD, and the remains of the cemetery.

In Christian lore it was here, at the hands of Maccaille, Bishop of Croghan, that St. Brigid received the veil.

Perched high on the hillside it is easy to imagine that the church was built here to claim the site 

from its’ pagan predecessors and proclaim the new religion.

A sacred well with a tree, seen in the illustration below, stood in the graveyard. 

This well was named for St. Maccaille, it’s older name unrecorded. 

Illustration via:  http://omniumsanctorumhiberniae.blogspot.ie/2013/04/saint-maccaille-of-croghan-april-25.html

 Did this well once belong Brigid ?

As the sky darkened I drove to the other side of the hill, to Glenmore, considered to be the place where earlier pagan veneration took place.  

Once a forested glen, three springs formerly emerged here from the rock of Croghan Hill, two of which rose beneath an ancient Ash tree.

My plan was to walk the land hereabouts looking for evidence of wells or bullaun stones, although 

I knew that two of the wells had long become dry. 

Driving uphill was fine until I approached the glen itself when the track became impassable by small car or even booted feet.

On a previous visit I had found the well, now dedicated to St. Patrick, 

although Brigid is still remembered here with fiery tinsel and a Brigid's Eye.

The older name for Patrick’s well is not recorded but like many other legendary Holy Wells, 

the water here will never boil and any stone taken from the site will return of its’ own accord. 

Disappointed I descended the Hill and stopped to look around the modern church of St. Brigid.
There was no sign nor information about her well but I did find a small stained glass panel of her.

Brigid holds her woven cross aloft in St. Brigid’s Church, Croghan.

My final glance at Croghan Hill was through dark, bare branches. 

I felt my way to Brigid’s Well was barred by too many changes or perhaps it had never existed at all.

Back home, by the fire, I dug deeper into an old book to discover that Brigid’s Well could once be found on the summit of Croghan, the exact location long forgotten. Her spring may even have been part of the mound's sacred space as it was in the passage tomb at Newgrange.

The story warned that if her well was ever discovered again the water would rise up violently to drown the cattle which graze upon its’ slopes, so it seemed fortunate that my search was fruitless.

***

When I closed my eyes that night images of the womanly hill appeared. 

Drifting towards sleep her well formed from the darkness, surrounded by ancient stones, shaded
by twisted branches, offering healing, reflection and respite from the modern world.

At the Sacred Well.

Brigid’s Well still flows within the Otherworld. 

Brighid returns from the Otherworld.

Tomorrow is Lá Fhéile Bríde, Brighid’s Day and tonight after sunset she will emerge to walk the land.

There are many folk traditions associated with Brighid’s Eve in Ireland which welcome her return, one such is the Brát Bhrid, a piece of cloth, put outside the home on 31st January, at sunset. 

The Brát Bhrid was placed on a nearby bush, often a whitethorn, 

on a window sill or tied to the handle of the front door.

It was believed that Brighid would touch the brát and bestow it with healing which remained in the cloth, becoming more potent over time. 

Hands on the door of Saint Brigid's Parish Church, Kildare.

The brát is left over night and at sunrise the dew damp cloth was brought indoors and kept. 

It was laid on people to heal various ailments, to cure infertility in women and ease childbirth. Wearing the Brát Bhrid also saved young children from abduction by the Good People. 

The cloth was often of a specific colour; on the islands off Donegal, 

in Mayo and on Inishmurray, Sligo it was red, in Tipperary, black & in other areas white. 

The Brát usually consisted of a ribbon, a piece of linen or a garment.

According to author Fr Seán Ó Duinn Brighid is the only saint to return annually and her appearance on the eve of the fire festival, Imbolc, is one indication that her roots go back to the ancient goddess who is associated with healing, poetry and smith craft.

It is not only Brighid who returns tonight. 

The Good People will also emerge from the hills as the gates to the Otherworld open. 

A remnant of this belief was recorded in Donegal when a sheaf of corn and an oat cake were left outside on Brighid’s Eve to thank them for the harvest and to ensure good luck. 

On the old date for Imbolc, 4th February this year, sunlight enters several Neolithic mounds 

including the Mound of the Hostages at Tara above.

Celebrations at Imbolc, the first day of Spring and Lá Fhéile Bríde, traditionally take place around the home and unlike the other annual fire festivals there are no references to bonfires being lit on hill tops. 

Perhaps it was too cold to venture forth? 

Or perhaps the sacred fire was the goddess Brighid herself who dwelt in the Otherworld and would return annually to walk the land bestowing protection, fertility and health on people and animals.

In Christian iconography Brigid is often depicted with fire.

 Here she stands with her soulmate, the young woman St. Darlughdacha.

Not too far from my home is Cruachán Bríg Eile, Croghan Hill in Co. Offaly.

Known as the most isolated hill in Ireland, Croghan stands like an island in the surrounding bog and according to John Feehan it can be seen from 12 counties. 

The breast like Croghan Hill with its’ Neolithic passage grave on the summit 

provides a panoramic view.

Excavations in the area have revealed the presence of iron ore, stone hearths, 

ritual lake deposits & the bog body of  Old Croghan Man.

The Hill itself is an extinct volcano and folklore explains that its’ fire can be reached by entering the burial mound.

Locally it is believed that St. Brighid was born near Croghan and that Brigit Begoibne, Brigid the Smith, has her workshop beneath the hill. It is here, using skill, strength and fire that she works metal to create her beautiful cauldrons.

The Holy Well on Croghan is now dedicated to St. Patrick but the fiery goddess Brighid 

is still remembered with offerings of a Brigid’s Eye, red tinsel and yellow flowers.

As the sun sets this evening Brighid will emerge, flame bright, from the mound on Croghan Hill 

to travel the dark landscape blessing her people.

This is the traditional Manx 'Invocation to Bridget' by Emma Christian.

Translation:

"Bridget, Bridget, come to my house, 

come to my house tonight.

Open the door to Bridget, 

and let Bridget come in.

Bridget, Bridget, come to my house, 

come to my house tonight."

To read more about Brighid I thoroughly recommend 

‘Brigid - Meeting the Celtic Goddess of Poetry, Forge and Healing Well’ by Morgan Daimler 

which can be found HERE.