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.

Knockfierna, where Donn of the Dead rides out ....

In these short, dark days of the dying year the figure of Donn Fírinne haunts my imagination.

Donn, Lord of the Dead and Fairy King, rides out from his Otherworld palace beneath Knockfierna 

on his white horse, roaming the landscape of Limerick and beyond.

Knockfierna, Cnoc Fírinne, ‘Truthful Hill’ served as a local weather guide with predictions 

based on the appearance of the summit in the morning. 

In the past the Hill was known as Knock Dhoinn Ferinne, ‘mountain of Donn of Truth’.
Also called ‘The Black Hill’, it only rises to 949 feet but is visible from almost all areas of Limerick and from parts of Kerry, Cork, Tipperary and Clare.

Donn, once known locally as Donn Ainech, ‘the dark face’, had his palace, Brugh na Bruidhne, beneath the hill, entered through a deep hole in the hillside, Poll na Bruinne. 

There were dire consequences for anyone looking to investigate this entrance to the Otherworld.

Local stories tell of the Surveyor, Ahern, who, attempting to measure the depth of the hole, 

was pulled into it by his own plumb-line, never to be seen again. 

And there was Carroll Ó Daly who tried to “knock at the spirits’ door” by throwing a stone into 

Poll na Bruinne and had his nose broken when the stone was returned.

Untimely deaths were often attributed to Donn and to see him could portend a death or a momentous happening. 

He was also responsible for stealing children, leaving a changeling in their place. 

To others who saw his benevolence, he was as "quick to reward as to punish". 

A farmer was allowed into the palace to meet his brother and sister who had died many years previously and

 “both were restored to the farmer as a reward for his good service to Donn in preventing the dirty water from his yard over-running Donn’s palace grounds.”

The summit and remains of a cairn are now dominated by a 36ft cross erected in 1950.

Locals believed they would enter his palace after death and there are reports of several people meeting with Donn on the evening before they died.

Folklore also explains that they would be taken to the hill as they approached the end of their lives to enter the palace of Donn. 

This journey was known as the path of truth - "tá sé tá sí imithear shlí na fírinne", ‘he / she has set out on the path of truth’.

Beneath the summit of the hill lies Glownanérha, ‘the glen of broth’, which was known to be plentiful as Donn ensured that his people never hungered in the Otherworld.

View the complete painting of Donn HERE

Traditionally Donn Fírinne appears to mortals seated on a white horse and when the weather turned stormy at night locals would say "Donn is galloping in the clouds tonight”.

However, his excursions were not confined to Knockfierna. 

In Co. Clare he resided on Cnoc an tSodair, ‘Hill of the Trotting’,

as well as on the west coast, where as Donn na Duimhche, ‘Donn of the Dune’, he was seen riding a white horse across 

the sands at Dunbeg.

Looking towards Dunbeg dunes, where Donn rides with his fairy host.

Here Donn was known for his generosity; giving a gift of pipes, tobacco and matches to seaweed gatherers and a fistful of silver coins to a starving widow and her family.

The punishment for refusing his gifts was death.

As Fairy King, he was described as beautiful “like the blossom of flowers”, 

as “Lord of the grey and mossy rock, smooth hill and pleasant bower” and in the area surrounding Knockfierna it was customary to visit the hill at least once a year and place a stone upon the cairn at the summit, known as the Stricín, in honour of Donn.

At Bealtaine and Samhain offerings included eggs buried in hay and corn and parts of dead animals.

In particular a cock, ritually slaughtered, was bestowed upon Donn.

At Lughnasadh flowers and FRAOCHANS were offered.

My own pilgrimage to honour Donn took place at Bealtaine this year when Knockfierna 

was clad in gold and green. 

Unable to climb the hill my offerings were left in a field below the Stricín.

Sunset at Knockfierna - photo courtesy of Derek Ryan Bawn at The Tipperary Antiquarian

Now that winter is here I imagine the hill, silhouetted by the sinking sun,
resounding with hoofbeats as Donn Fírinne rides out.

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 -

Knockainey, Midsummer and the scent of Meadowsweet.

Midsummer is almost upon us, our senses filled with colour, the heady scents of woodbine 

and wild sweet pea, the sound of bees and birds. 

Almost overnight, clouds of meadowsweet appear along the boreen. 

In folk medicine meadowsweet, Airgead Luachra, ‘silver rushes’

was used to cure fevers and colds as well as easing pain. 

In Co. Galway meadowsweet was placed under the bed of a person afflicted by wasting sickness brought on by contact with the Good People. The use of the flower was fraught with danger however, as patients risked falling into a deep and deadly sleep.

Also known as Cúchulainn’s Belt, meadowsweet was said to have reduced 

the heroes’ fever and calmed his fits of rage. 

It was Àine however, the ‘bright’ goddess often associated with the sun, who gave meadowsweet its’ perfume. 

In the old tales she is described as “the best-natured of women”.

Àine is found in several places in the Irish landscape, including Lough Gur 

where she is remembered as Bean Fhionn, White Lady. 

Link to previous post about Àine & Lough Gur ~
LOUGH GUR - “a personality loved, but also feared.”

Her main residence however is her hill, Cnoc Áine, Knockainey, which is steeped in myth.

Knockainey from Bóher Na Sceach, ‘road of the thorns’. 

Ritual once took place here on Oiche Fhéile Eóin, St. John’s Eve, June 23rd.

The celebration falls close to the Summer Solstice and many believe it has its’ roots in pagan ritual. 

In legend Áine, using her magic, helped to take the hill from the Firbolg so that her people, the Tuatha Dé Danann, could settle there. 

Her price for preventing bloodshed was that “the hill were given to her till the end of the world.”  

At 528 feet high, the summit provides views across the landscape to the hills around Lough Gur, 

to Knockfierna and to the sacred fires which would once have been lit on hill tops to celebrate the changing seasons. 

Knockfierna to the west of Knockainey. 

Folklore tells that the local fairies, led by Áine, used to play a hurling match against the god, 

Donn Firinne who lived beneath Knockfierna. 

Whoever was victorious would ensure a successful potato crop.

The top of Áine’s Hill, difficult to reach in the summer months due to grazing cattle, has the remains of three mounds. These were believed to be the dwelling places of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Eogabal (said by some to be Aine's father), 

Fer Fi and Áine.

Diagram of Knockainey mounds from Thomas J. Westropp, 

 “The Ancient Sanctuaries of Knockainey and Clogher, Co. Limerick and Their Goddesses”

Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 1917 - 1919 

After visiting Knockainey Westropp describes’s Áine’s cairn as

 “a defaced, insignificant heap of earth and stones wrecked by treasure-seekers.” 

As late as the 19th century celebrations were held at Midsummer and at harvest when burning brands of hay and straw were carried to the summit.

Evans-Wentz, W. Y. - 'The Fairy-faith in Celtic Countries', London: H. Frowde, 1911.

The goddess herself was believed to lead a similar rite. 

Several wells are marked on the old maps suggesting that there may have been rituals involving water. 

One ‘curious’ well which flowed down the slope beneath her mound was recorded as 

Áine’s Well and she was said to haunt the local river as a banshee, combing her hair beside the waters of the Camòg.

All that can be found today is Mary's Well in the village.  

A series of exposed rocks, the remains of an old quarry, hide the elusive Áine Clíar's Cave.

The Hill and land around Knockainey is filled with ancient monuments, mounds and standing stones once part of Bronze and Iron Age burial traditions and ceremonies. 

The landscape holds its’ secrets but still whispers, in the summer months, of forgotten rituals, celebrations to the sun and to Áine, the “ beautiful spirit crowned with meadowsweet”.

Offerings to Áine at the river.

Click link below to read more about Knockainey & view the surrounding landscape from the summit ~ 

VOICES FROM THE DAWN