Meeting the Othercrowd in a Scented Land.

St. John’s Eve had not long passed, the air on the Slieve Aughty mountains was warm and along the way the foxgloves bloomed, a portent of what was to come.

Foxglove, Lus Mór, has long been associated with the Good People.

Also known as fairy thimbles, fairy gloves and witches’ bells they were considered 

unlucky to bring indoors.

A ritual involving foxglove was utilised by parents whose child had suffered a ‘fairy stroke’ 

and was thought to be a changeling. 

Three drops of foxglove were put in each ear and on the tongue of the infant before placing it on a shovel at the house door. 

The door was swung open three times whilst saying “ if you’re a fairy away with you.” 

If it was a changeling the child would die, if not the infant would recover.

St. John’s Eve was believed to be the best time to collect foxgloves but unless you were being paid 

to cut the flowers, great care had to be taken not to cross the Good People. 

One story tells that a woman was stopped from collecting them by a voice which called  

“ Don’t cut that if you’re not paid, or you’ll be sorry.”

Soon I was back on the Burren, truly a fertile rock at this time of year. 

The Land of the Fertile Rock - link to previous post HERE

I was greeted by mossy islands. 

 And miniature landscapes.

A green swathe around St. Fachtnan’s well.

Clear water pooled & a creature swam within, too fast to capture.

New offerings had been left, a tribute to Brigid.

From limestone crevices ferns unfurled.

 And orchids bloomed.

My destination lay hidden in peaceful hollow, a scented land.

Founded 40 years ago, The Burren Perfumery is a self-sufficient island 

where limestone walks lead to sensual delights. 

Over 700 species of flowering plants flourish on the Burren and the perfumes, soaps and creams created here are fragranced by indigenous plants. 

Leaving buildings and visitors behind I entered the herb garden, built on the site of the original 

old farmhouse garden of 1800’s.

A path, leading deeper into dappled green 

brought me to a secluded nook, a wilder place where foxgloves flourished.

Breathing deeply, eyes closed, I sat on old stone and cast my mind adrift.

It was in that silence I heard Them.

Quiet laughter at my side, a quiver in the leaves close by. 

I held my breath, all senses keen, 

but only the bowing foxgloves betrayed the passing of the Othercrowd.

***

To discover more about The Burren Perfumery please visit their website - HERE

Take a brief tour of the perfumery, the tea rooms and the grounds -

Otherworld Shenanigans - Stepping on the Stray Sod.

I’m convinced I was once led astray on the Bog of Allen.

The immense, flatness of the largest raised, peat bog in Ireland meant that all roads appeared the 

same and although the map showed me the way home, I just couldn’t find it. 

It was uncanny, my sense of direction deserted me and I began to lose my sense of reality. 

I found no road signs other than dead ends and as the hours passed 

I felt I’d been led on a merry dance. 

By and by I came to a humpbacked bridge and from that vantage point saw a main road, just visible in the distance. 

I was driving towards it when I spotted a Garda (police) car parked by the roadside. 

Here was something familiar at last, I was saved from being lost in some otherworld and eternally travelling the bog roads!

The Garda wound down her window and smiled as I explained my predicament.

She really wanted to help but as it happened she was also a bit disorientated and had only stopped to try and get her bearings. We wished each other good luck and on I went. 

As twilight descended I finally found the road home, grateful that I wasn’t 

fated to travel the boggy limbo between Kildare and Offaly forever.

Later I recounted my tale to a neighbour, he nodded in understanding then told me about the night 

he went out with a group of friends to do some fishing in a local lough. 

All was well until they decided they’d had enough and left the shore to walk back through the field 

to the road. 

The men could see their parked cars in the distance but they just couldn’t reach them. 

They grew increasingly afraid, unable to recollect where the entrance gate was.

Of course they got out after a few hours and agreed later that the gate was not at all where it had been when they entered.

It was my turn to nod, our experiences had been similar, we had drifted away from the familiar world into a wilderness where nothing made sense. 

But the tale of the night fishermen was different in one respect, the lads were sure they had stepped upon a Stray Sod.

The Stray Sod, Fód Seachrán.

The Stray Sod appears in Irish folk belief and is explained as a clump of grass, slightly greener than its’ neighbours, which has strayed from the Otherworld into this world.  

Stepping upon the Sod brings a sudden feeling of inexplicable disorientation. 

Others have described it as a fog coming down over the eyes, 

feeling an inability to move or being certain that home is near but after walking 

for hours never reaching it.

In the past people avoided taking short cuts for fear of stepping on an enchanted sod, 

especially if the way led them near a fairy fort or thorn. 

It was believed that a Stray Sod would be chanced upon when walking at night near a cillín, 

a pagan burial place or the grave of an unbaptised child.

Read more about these graveyards HERE

Protection against this supernatural confusion was to turn your coat inside out but this was by 

no means certain to work. 

***

It was Bealtaine when I went looking for the sacred well near to the ruins of St. Manman’s church, 

in the foothills of the Slieve Bloom.

I parked outside the church walls, climbed into the graveyard and immediately spotted the tree nearby which had stood over the well.

As can be seen from these recent photographs, the well and tree are located at the centre of 

a small field, near to several houses.

Returning to the road I entered the field by a gate next to the wall and walked across to the site of the well.  After standing for a while I sensed it was fine to take my photographs.

The well has long been dry but the stones which once surrounded it remain.

In hindsight I probably lingered too long. 

It was Bealtaine after all and I was intoxicated by the scent and delicacy of the blossoms.

When I turned to leave the field had grown in size, it seemed unfamiliar and I felt too weary to move.

I knew I had to get out and find the road as soon as I could. 

It took a long time to reach the corner of the field and when I arrived the gate was no longer there. 

Confused, I started walking again in a new direction but arriving at a different corner there was no gate to be seen there either.

Somehow on a sunny May evening, in a small field with houses near by, I had become lost. 

Alarmed I set out in yet another direction, only to be met again with impenetrable hedge.

I felt my only chance of escape was to walk back to the whitethorn at the centre and start again. 

I circled the tree, stood beneath the branches, closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath. 

When I opened them the field had returned to its’ usual size and I immediately knew where to find the gate. Whatever entrancement had been upon me had gone.

Looking back it is hard to understand how I became so confused. 

Leaving the thorn I must have walked downhill towards the mountains rather than uphill with my back to them, then circled the field bewildered for quite some time. 

How could this have happened? Surely I must have stepped upon the Stray Sod.

The Cailleach - Hag of the Mill & Mother of the Herd.

Cailleach an Mhuilinn, The Hag of the Mill.

For much of last winter and earlier this year I have kept company with the Cailleach, the Old Woman, the Hag, who appears in many guises in folklore, landscape and myth. 

Her great age, her ability to fly, to shape shift into animal form, her role as a Sovereignty goddess and her links to wild animals marks the Cailleach as a supernatural being, an ancient goddess. 

As Hag of the Mill she is associated with grinding corn and the harvest.

In many places the last uncut stalks of corn were plaited, cut and hung above the door at home as protection. 

This action was known as ‘cutting the cailleach’. 

In others areas it was believed she took the form of a hare who sheltered in an uncut corner of a field to avoid the scythe.

I painted her in her guise of The Hag of the Mill as she appears in Buile Suibne,

‘The Frenzy of Sweeney’, a tale recorded in the 1670’s. 

Rather than illustrate her part in the tale literally, I wanted to portray her energy and wildness. 

You can read the text of Buile Suibhne, translated by JG. O’Keefe HERE

Briefly Suibhne is described as the king of Dal Araidhe in the north east of Ireland. 

When news reached him that St. Ronan Finn was building a Christian church on his land and chanting psalms the pagan Suibhne, having no time to dress, left his home naked and expelled the cleric.

After throwing the psalter into a nearby lake Suibhne is cursed by Ronan to constantly wander Ireland, flying naked throughout the land until killed by a spear.

So he spends seven years leaping from hill to hill, living amongst trees and existing only on watercress. Suibhne appears to lose his sanity but he is eventually caught and left in the care of his kinsman, the miller Loingseachan.  

Suibhne is locked in a bedroom at the miller’s hostel until one day, during the busy harvest when all hands are needed, he is entrusted to the care of Lonnog, The Hag of the Mill. 

She is ordered not to speak to the captive but Lonnog has her own plans. 

She teases the king about his madness and he responds with tales of his freedom and the great leaps he once took across the hill tops of Ireland. 

Finally the Cailleach challenges him to make one more leap, this time through the skylight of the room. Suibhne does so and pursued by the Hag, is free once more. 

Detail - Teach Duinn, Donn’s House of the Dead, identified as Bull Rock, off the coast of  Co. Cork.

They visit Teach Duinn in the west, then travel across the landscape, with the Mill Hag driving him on, revealing to him his past life as a ‘madman’.

Detail - The Cailleach as bringer of winter, mother of the herd.

During their time together Suibhne recounts his meetings with the famous stags of Ireland, remembering his great adventures in the wild and although the king despises the Hag for bringing him back to his old ‘madness’, he recognises Lonnog as an ancient one, the progenitor, Mother of the great herds of deer.

“ O mother of this herd

thy coat has become grey,

there is no stag after thee

without two score antler-points.”

Finally, to be rid of the Hag, Suibhne leaps to Dunseverick on the Antrim coast where he jumps again, followed by the Hag of the Mill.

Detail - cliffs at Dunseverick, Co. Antrim.

The king survives by falling into the sea but the Cailleach lands on a cliff, her body broken, 

she falls into the water. 

After many more adventures St. Ronan’s curse descends upon Suibhne, he is killed by a spear wound and at death the pagan king is given the Christian sacraments.

But what of the ancient Cailleach ?

Later her body washes up on a beach and at that liminal place, between sea and land, 

she is carried away by her Otherworld kin, “the devil’s crew”. 

To this day the Hag, The Old Woman, is remembered and honoured at wild, lonely places across Ireland and at this time, when the harvest is over and winter is almost upon us, perhaps she haunts those places still.

Harvest offerings to the stone Cailleach, The Old Woman of Beara, who looks out to sea from the Beara Peninsula.

Otherworld Shenanigans: The Silence.

Living in a cottage in the countryside means that over the years there have been many strange, unexplained events. Recently one curious incident occurred along the old road where I often walk.

My roaming takes me past farms, fields and long abandoned homes, I occasionally share the road with cars, farm machinery and the post van.

Now and then I have the company of a local cat who waits on the corner.

Although the area is peaceful it is never silent.

There is always the call of crows overhead, the lowing of cattle close by or the distant rumble of a tractor. 

There are sheep, summer swallows and occasionally the cry of a hunting hawk.

Even at night there are sounds in the darkness; owls call, foxes shriek and hedgerows rustle.

This particular morning was clear, bright and breezy. It was early summer, I had spent time by the river and was walking home.

As always I entered a short tunnel of trees and was a few yards in beneath the branches when it happened.

At first I noticed how quiet it had become.

No buzz of bee nor call from crow, wood pigeon or blackbird. No rustle from the leaves. 

The wind had died away, the clouds unmoving, a strange stillness descended.

The grass in a nearby field seemed frozen, the cattle motionless, not a twitch of ear or tail. 

I stood and strained to hear but there was only an unnatural silence.

Stepping off the road I entered the trees and immediately the light around me seemed to change,

shadows deepened and colours seemed to subtly alter.

Do you see her?

I felt observed but who was watching?

I spoke aloud then, asked who was there and called ‘hello’, I waited but no answer came.

Just silence and stillness all around.

Although I have a vivid imagination I always look for logical, practical explanations but this was beyond me. 

Nothing moved at all, not even a leaf and there was utter silence.

It was then that I began to feel alarmed. Was I the only living thing here ?

If I continued walking to my home what would I find ?  

Taking deep breaths, I calmed myself and concluded I had wandered into somewhere inexplicable.

What else could this be?

Still sensing I was watched, I spoke aloud again.

“Alright, I’m here and I don’t know why. Who are you and what do you want ? ”

I waited and waited but again there was no reply.

Finally there was no option but to move on. 

So I walked from the overhanging trees, along the road and out into the daylight.

Colours brightened. Sound suddenly returned, insects, cattle and a tractor, wind rustled the leaves and birds flew above.

The change was tangible and so was my relief.

I had never felt so happy to be scrutinised by a bull before.

To this day I have no idea what really happened.

Although I felt that hours had passed, when I finally returned home my outing had taken just ninety minutes, about the usual time I spend walking and sitting by the river.

I have searched in vain for reports of similar incidents and researched local folklore without success. 

Amongst the tales of FAIRY PATHS and FAIRY WIVES, BANSHEES and BURIED TREASURE there is no mention of the Otherworldly Silence.