First published 2020

The History Press

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Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

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© The Authors, 2020

The right of The Authors to be identified as the Authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9460 6

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed in Europe

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

This book is dedicated to the three storytellers who are sadly no longer with us, but whose stories live on: Brendan Nolan, Jack Sheehan, Anne Farrell

1 DERRY

The Legend of Abhartach, the Irish Vampire

Amelia Earhart’s First Solo Trans-Atlantic Flight

2 ANTRIM

The Changeling

Someone for Everyone

3 TYRONE

Half-Hung McNaughton

The Tailor and the Witch

4 ARMAGH

Sally Hill

The Green Lady’s

5 DOWN

The Haunted Bridge

Maggie’s Leap

6 FERMANAGH

Wee Meg Barnileg and the Fairies

Return to Tempo

7 DONEGAL

The Silkie Seal

Salty Butter

8 LEITRIM

An Dobharchú

The Eggshell Brew that Unhinged an Imposter

9 CAVAN

Finn MacCool’s Fingers

The Nine Yew Trees of Derrylane

10 MONAGHAN

The Tale of Cricket McKenna

St Davnet

11 MAYO

The Love Flower

Tír na nÓg: The Land of Eternal Youth

12 SLIGO

Cormac Mac Airt

The Enchanted Cave of Kesh Corann

13 ROSCOMMON

Two Rocks

One Christian Account

14 LONGFORD

The Wooing of Étaín

15 MEATH

Gates That Won’t Stay Closed

The Black Pig’s Dyke

16 LOUTH

King Brian Boru’s Talkative Toes

Moyry Castle’s Killer Cat

17 WESTMEATH

The Sluagh Sidhe

18 GALWAY

Giant Love

The City Beneath the Waves

19 OFFALY

Messin’ with the Wee Folk

20 KILDARE

The Wizard Earl of Kildare

The Gubbawn Seer

21 DUBLIN

Two Mammies and a Pope

Wakes and Headless Coachmen

22 CLARE

Biddy Early and her Blue Bottle

Mal and Cuchulainn

23 TIPPERARY

The First Ever Brogue Maker

The Battle of Widow McCormack’s Cabbage Patch

24 LAOIS

Fionn MacCumhaill and the House of Death

The Bacach Rua

25 WICKLOW

Not Gone and Not Forgotten

The Resurrection of Sean

26 CARLOW

Story of a Pony

Labhraidh Loingsigh

27 KILKENNY

The Legend of Grennan Castle

The Story of Dame Alice Kyteler

28 WEXFORD

Treasures of Wexford

Hurling Days at Lough Cullen

29 WATERFORD

Slabhra na Fírinne – The Chain of Truth

Aoife and Strongbow

30 LIMERICK

Gearóid Iarla

Love You Large, Love You Small

31 KERRY

The Wizard Prince of Ross Castle

The Origin of the Killarney Lakes

32 CORK

The Legend of the Lough

The Mermaid from Mizen Head

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

THE LEGEND OF ABHARTACH, THE IRISH VAMPIRE

Long, long ago, the chieftains in Ireland fought against each other their whole lives and there was much bad blood. They fought over what god was best, they fought over the best land, and they even had mighty wars over women. In fact, there were very few things that they didn’t have a skirmish or a war over. But when the following tale was told by the bards to the chieftains of Ulster they all came to the same conclusion when they heard it, that there are evil beings around and they have ‘the Bad Blood’.

Now if ‘bad blood’ is translated into Irish it becomes ‘droch fhola’ and it is pronounced drocula, which is but a hair’s breath away from Dracula. You can ask yourself if it’s possible that Bram Stoker, who studied in Ireland, might have heard the legend of Abhartach and that this inspired him to write his story of Dracula.

It was well known in the country around Glenuilin, the glen of the eagle, in an isolated and remote townland in County Derry called Slaghtaverty, that there was a monument described as Abhartach’s Sepulchre, although the people around call it the Giant’s Cave. A lone thorn tree would guide you to it, but when you’d arrive you would see that no grass or vegetation grew there and an enormous heavy stone lay over the grave. If you happened to pass by you would be wanting to know who or what was Abhartach, and here’s the story you would hear from the locals.

Legend says that in the fifth century there was a poet who had a son whom he called Abhartach. That was a nickname for a dwarf because that’s what the child was, and it comes from the Irish, Abhac. But wouldn’t you think that the son of a poet would be a kind and gentle creature? Well, you’d be wrong about this one for he was a brutal warlord who lived in a hill fort, and from there he went out to petrify his people. So evil was he that his terrified subjects got rid of him, but sure didn’t he come back to wreck havoc and vengeance among them?

Some say that he was a wizard, a magician and a villain, but he was more than that, for although he was dwarfish in stature it didn’t stop him being one of the most cruel beings ever encountered in this land. People were scared witless of meeting this strange, wee man on the road or in the fields, for, being a magician, he could turn himself into any sort of an animal and could even become invisible if he had a mind to. Many a one hearing a strange noise turned around and found he’d appeared out of nowhere, and he didn’t hesitate to beat the life out of anyone who got in his way. Even after death no corpse was safe, because it was rumoured that he sucked the blood out of his victims and flung their bodies over his shoulder and fed them to the wolves, his only friends.

People tried to give him a wide berth as he ran amuck around the countryside on his vengeful rampage, usually under the cover of darkness. But eventually everyone meets their match and that match was a neighbouring chieftain by the name of Cathán, who was persuaded to do the deed for them. They wanted him to kill and bury Abhartach to rid their countryside of his evil presence. Cathán considered himself strong enough and fit enough to slay Abhartach, and he was fed up with the stories of the blood-sucking dwarf and the tales of his acts of cruelty on the innocent people of Slaghtaverty and the district about there.

Cathán was smart as well as strong, and he found out the place where this monster had his den. One night, when the moon was hidden behind the clouds, Cathán made his way to the covered ditch where Abhartach lay asleep. The ground was peaty and covered with thick moss, so the approach of the big man was as silent as the grave. He drew his iron sword and when he saw the mound of earth move he lifted his weapon high, and struck the mound with the full force of his body behind the blow. A horrific scream echoed over the hillside, and at that moment the moon emerged from behind the clouds.

Blood was seeping through the moss, and when Cathán pulled it away the face of Abhartach was exposed. It was a grotesque sight, with a mouth twisted in the most evil grimace that Cathán had ever seen. So bad was it that Cathán covered the face with his own cloak so that he wouldn’t have to look at it. He wrapped his belt around the body and with a heave that was no more than a featherweight to a man of Cathán’s stature, he flung the body over his shoulder and carried it to a rocky place to bury it.

Cathán went back to his own place, content in the knowledge that Abhartach would never terrorise the countryside again, or so he thought. But sure, he’d forgotten the belief of the ancients that if a person is buried in the upright position, facing his enemies, then he will have even more power over them than he had when he was alive. Sure, those druids of ancient Ireland knew a thing or two for what do you think happened next?

I said that Abhartach was a magician as well, didn’t I? Well, didn’t the vanquished dwarf rise again the very next day and this time he brought a harp with him and lured the unwary with sweet music. As soon as he had them in his grasp he was back to his old carry-on of demanding a bowl of blood from the veins of his victims to feed his evil corpse. What could Cathán do but come back to hunt him down?

Now, Abhartach had learnt a few lessons from his first death. He was not going to be so easily found. He went across the hills and searched until he found a cave. The entrance was so small that only a man the size of himself could slide in. He gathered a few rocks and pulled them across the small opening and contentedly fell asleep.

By night he waited for any living creature that dared to be abroad. It made no difference to him if his victim was man or beast, although he declared to himself that there was nothing sweeter than a young maiden, and these he wooed with his music. His appetite for blood became insatiable as the nights wore on and he began to be a bit careless. This was what Cathán was hoping for. The people of the area no longer went out at night; they locked up their animals in their barns and their families in their houses, for they certainly weren’t going to take any chances.

Cathán needed to draw Abhartach out if he was to kill him, so he conversed with his trusty Irish wolfhound and asked him if he would be willing to act as bait. His dog trusted him implicitly and Cathán whispered the instructions to him. He still had the cloak that he had wrapped around the dwarf the first time, so the dog got the scent and set off at a rare pace. Cathán, for all his large size, was fleet of foot, and within a short time the wolfhound came panting back to his master.

One of the things you should know about Cathán is that he had a great understanding and empathy with animals. There was not an animal that he couldn’t converse with, so when his hound told him where Abhartach was, he wasted no time. Again he approached quietly, wanting to catch Abhartach unawares, but he saw that the entrance to the cave was too small. He determined that he would wait for the monster to come out. His eyelids began to droop and, although he valiantly tried to stay awake, he began to dream of the lovely woman whom he hoped to make his wife. He settled into a beautiful dream and contentedly snored, forgetting all about his mission. But where would a man be without his dog?

Just before the first rays of sun crept over the hill the wolfhound’s ears pricked up and he let out a low growl deep in his throat, loud enough to wake his master. Cathán realised then that Abhartach was not in the cave, but had been out on the hunt for more blood. He sent the hound into the cave and hid himself behind a gorse bush. Abhartach made terrible guttural noises as he approached, and it was clear that he had not had a successful night’s hunting. He hunkered into the cave and the last thing he expected was that he would be grabbed about the throat by sharper teeth than his own. The dwarf managed to slide out of the cave while still trying to hold back the hound intent on ripping his throat apart. As his hand reached to his knife sheath, Cathán cleaved him at the back of the neck and killed him. Like before, he wrapped him in his cloak and carried him to a windswept part of the mountain to bury him a second time. But this time he piled more rocks high on top of the grave.

Would you believe it, but the bold Abhartach rose again and escaped from the grave, throwing the rocks to one side? No one to this day knows how he managed it, but manage it he did. He set about a more bizarre reign of terror, changing from one form to another, and those he caught he used them more cruelly and viciously than before, for the killings and burials had inflated his temper and his appetite for blood was loathsome.

Cathán, tired of the whole thing, decided that he would take some advice as to how he could kill Abhartach and bury him in such a way that he wouldn’t rise again. He went to a druid and asked his advice on how to vanquish this tyrant. The druid took the cloak that Abhartach had been wrapped in and swung it around seven times before he spoke, ‘The one you seek to kill is not really alive, he is one of the neamh-mairbh, or walking dead, and the only way he can be safely restrained is this; leave aside your sword of iron and fashion one of yew wood. Drive it into the heart of this monster. Then you must bury him upside down. This will teach his followers a lesson, for I have read the signs and there are many walking dead waiting for him to rise. Let Abhartach be buried upside down, for this is the rite that will deprive him of a restful afterlife. Fill his grave with rocks and clay, place a boulder atop and encircle it with a ring of thorns. In this way he will be imprisoned by the fairy folk, for should the stone be lifted Abhartach will arise.’

Cathán thanked the druid and on the way home cut a thick branch from a yew tree. All the next day he whittled it into a sword and tested it on a rock. It was surprisingly strong. Cathán was ready, and decided to tackle the monster head-on, armed with the sword.

His wolfhound led him to the new abode, a rocky inlet on Lough Neagh where Abhartach had made his home. He swam through the waters and spoke to the eels there. They understood what they were asked to do. They slithered into the inlet and wound themselves tightly around Abhartach’s neck and tightened their living noose until he was nearly dead. Cathán raised the yew sword high, then plunged it with all his might into the heart of Abhartach. He carried his lifeless body to the place now known as Slaghtaverty and buried him upside down with his head closer to hell, as the druid had said. He searched and found a huge stone and placed it over the gravestones and encircled the grave with hawthorns.

That was the third time Abhartach was killed, and he rose no more, for hadn’t Cathán asked the fairies to watch over it? And it is said that the reason the ground is raw and clear of plant life is that the Giant’s Grave is cursed ground.

Never again did Abhartach terrorise the people of Slaghtaverty.

N.B. The land on which the Giant’s Grave lies has a reputation of being ‘bad ground’.

Some years ago, when workmen were clearing the site, they had several unexplained accidents involving a chainsaw. They were attempting to cut down the tree, but the saw stopped dead without explanation, but when it was removed from the site it started working again.

There were attempts made to lift the heavy boulder but again, a strong iron chain snapped, hurting one of the workers, and when his blood spilled on the ground the earth seemed to heave and give a sigh.

Were these just pure accidents or was Abhartach attempting to show that his magic powers had still survived into the twentieth century?

AMELIA EARHART’S FIRST SOLO TRANS-ATLANTIC FLIGHT

On 21 May 1936, a strange sound was heard over the city of Derry. The clouds were fairly thick but scattered and the sunshine managed to shine through in parts, but at first the cause of the drone wasn’t seen. People in the Pennyburn area of the city came out of their houses and watched, shading their eyes as they looked up.

It was no wonder they were shocked, for as they watched they saw a small plane descend beneath the cloud cover. Rarely did they ever see a plane in the sky, never mind over Derry. As they watched it sink ever lower in the sky some made the sign of the cross, others stood with their hands over their mouths in amazement that quickly turned to consternation as the plane dipped out of sight over Ballyarnett. When it vanished they waited to hear the boom of a crash but there was only silence. They looked at each other, and, not waiting to put on a coat or scarf, there was a mad rush up the Racecourse Road to see what had happened.

At the same time James McGeady and Dan McCallion were standing in McGeady’s field in Ballyarnett when they heard the drone, and they couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw the plane clip the top of the trees bordering the next field. They too waited for the sound of a crash landing but the only sound was the putt putting of an engine, then silence as the engine went dead.

They ran across the field. Neither gorse bushes nor fences deterred them. Only when they spied the plane did they stop and look at each other, not sure if their eyes were playing tricks. The two men had never set eyes on a plane so close up before. Wondering what on earth it was doing landing in Gallagher’s field, they began to run towards it, leaping over the last fence.

As they approached, the cockpit cover slid open and the pilot stepped out. It was only when she took off her helmet and brushed her fingers through her thick, short hair that they realised it was a woman. By the time she descended quite a breathless crowd had gathered to see this unusual sight. There was great excitement as people pushed closer to have a look.

James McGeady, trying to look nonchalant, lit up a cigarette and stood beside the cockpit, whereupon Amelia Earhart, for that’s who the pilot was, turned to him and asked him to extinguish it quickly because there was a leak in the petrol tank.

‘Where am I?’ she asked, looking around.

‘You’re in Gallagher’s field,’ was the answer.

For some reason there was a photographer from the Daily Sketch on hand, and he had the scoop of the season, catching the moment after Amelia landed the plane. A young boy, Patrick Lynch, and the lady pilot were photographed looking straight at the camera and sure, that boy fed on that story till he was man big, and why wouldn’t he?

As Amelia walked with the men to Hugh McLaughlin’s house nearby they plied her with questions which she answered with good humour. She must have been exhausted, considering that she had just completed a transatlantic flight, never mind it being the first solo flight by a woman across that wide ocean. She had set off the day before from Harbour Grace, Newfoundland and hadn’t had a wink of sleep since then.

After some food and answering questions for a few hours, Mr Gallagher invited her to stay in his house in Springtown. She was glad of the offer for, although people didn’t really know about jet-lag then, that’s not to say she didn’t suffer from it. Although the mayor offered her deluxe accommodation in the best hotel in Derry she refused, preferring to stay in the Gallagher’s home in Springtown for a few days. She was feted in the city wherever she made an appearance. Boys-o-Boys, never were there so many photographs taken, and the news spread all around the world and brought glory on Derry.

Hundreds of telegrams, tributes, and accolades poured in for this brave woman who had completed a journey that many men believed a woman could not do. After that 1932 solo flight, women in the United States and throughout the world claimed Amelia Earhart’s triumph as one for womanhood. At a White House ceremony honouring her flight, she said, ‘I shall be happy if my small exploit has drawn attention to the fact that women are flying too.’

Amelia was a Kansas girl, born in Atchinson in 1896. As a teenager she worked as a military nurse in Canada and became fascinated by the stories of the early aviators. While she was doing social work in Boston she heard of a Trimotor plane being prepared to fly from Newfoundland to Britain. She applied for and was accepted as a passenger in 1926 on the plane Friendship, and in so doing Amelia became the first woman ever to make a transatlantic flight.

She met and married George Putnam, and he was happy that she wanted to go on with her flying career, even accepting that she wanted to retain her maiden name. His support didn’t stop at that, for he financed many of her flights across the United States after her solo flight to Ireland. It was just as well that he was a man with money, because flying in those days was an expensive and dangerous occupation.

Derry people kept a close eye on her exploits through the newspapers and indeed, felt proprietorial about her. When she flew the first solo flight across the Pacific to Hawaii they were just as excited as the Hawaiian people she met on the islands in 1935. She was a great girl for setting the records for solo flights.

But her bravery and ambition was to be the death of her. In 1937 she set off with her navigator, Fred Noonan, to attempt the first around-the-world flight in a twin-engine Lockheed Electra. After completing two-thirds of their circumnavigation they set off for Howland Island in the Pacific, and that was the last anyone ever heard of them or the plane. Earhart’s sense of adventure knew no bounds and people hoped that the pair would reappear, having magically survived, but that was not to be.

Like all disappearances, myths have grown up around the vanished plane and its occupants, but no one knows for sure what happened. In that sense it fits in with the cult of Irish folklore, where we weave our own imaginings around the facts with the idea that a good story is worth embellishing with a few twists and turns.

Amelia Earhart’s emergency landing in Gallagher’s field has already earned its place in Derry folklore.

There is no way to adequately describe how staggeringly lovely the land and seascapes are around the glens and coast of Antrim. They are described in guidebooks and tourist information as being among Europe’s top sites of outstanding natural beauty, with some being of special scientific interest. The only thing to add is that this is the case in any season and that from any ten minutes to the next, shifts in the light will dramatically alter the view and nature of the landscape. Quite simply, it is a magical, must-see area, enriching for mind, heart, soul and spirit. Little wonder that it inspires artists, notables being ‘true glensman’ Charles McAuley (1910-2000), acclaimed for his figurative, landscape and traditional works, and the contemporary artist Greg Moore, who depicts rural scenes and locations in pastels, watercolour and acrylic. He provided the beautiful illustrations for the book North Antrim: Seven Towers to Nine Glens.

Some may also find inspiration and childlike awe in the stories that exist side by side with the historical, geographical and geological facts of the glens. These tales of smaller races assert themselves as obstinately and blatantly as the distinctive features of the volcanic causeway rock itself.

Once, around the fertile soil of Glenarm and Glencloy, flax grew in a beautiful pale blue profusion. All the work on the crop was done by hand and none of it was easy. The land had to be finely tilled for the seed to grow. Then, in mid-August, after reaching around a metre high, the back-breaking work of harvesting commenced, with all members of the family involved. The flax was pulled from the ground in sheaths, called beets. Two or three of these were bound around in rush bands and the bigger bundles were known as stooks. With a cart piled high, the stooks were taken to a field for women to spread them out to dry, at which time the seeds would be removed and either retained for the following year, or used in animal feed.

Once the flax was dried and deseeded, it was loaded back on the cart, taken to a shallow pond or dam (sometimes referred to as the ‘lint dam’) and put into the water, head down. This was men’s work as it could get wet and cold when they carried on into the evening, and the stooks had to be weighed down with rocks and stones, as heavy as could be carried. This part of the process was known as retting and was aimed at rotting the woody covering of the plant, to expose the fibrous core. The decomposition produced an intensely strong odour, which made the removal of the stooks from the water after ten days most unpleasant.

Traditional music provided motivation and social respite during harvest time. Lint dam dances went on and the strains that certain musicians in the area played, particularly the fiddlers, had additional potency, as the ‘gentle folk’ taught them all the best tunes. There is, in these regions, a familiarity with these little types, variously called little folk, gintry, grogans, wee folk, the quality and other terms, but hardly ever are they directly referred to as fairies. It does not afford them the correct level of gravitas. A famous Kerry storyteller, scholar, author and broadcaster, Eddie Lenihan, sometimes refers to the beings as ‘them uns’, or ‘the other crowd’. The lives of poor, hardworking tenant farmers were literally reliant on their crops and livestock. They were hardly likely to put their belief and trust in fanciful, sweet, diminutive creatures with rainbow gossamer wings. As Noel Williams puts it in his essay in the book The Good People: ‘The notion of fairy in its earliest uses is not primarily to denote creatures, but a quality of phenomena or events which may or may not be associated with creatures.’

Each glen is unique. Glenarm is synonymous with rugged bogland, forests of wild flowers, salmon fishing and Glenarm Castle, home to the Earls of Antrim for 400 years. Glencloy is small and wide, and characterised by stone ditches. Archaeological digs in Glencloy revealed Neolithic (4000 BC) and Bronze Age (2000-1500 BC) settlements. Doonan Fort, an earthen mound, is Norman. At the foot of Glencloy is the seventeenth-century fishing village of Carnlough. A coaching inn built in 1848 has connections with Winston Churchill. It now stands as the Londonderry Arms, but was built by Churchill’s great-grandmother, Frances Anne Tempest, the Marchioness of Londonderry. He inherited the building, which he sold to the Lyons family. It was used for the rest and recuperation of soldiers during the Second World War and sold to its present owners, the O’Neills, some sixty years ago.

Glenariff is the queen of the glens. Thackeray is sometimes misquoted as describing it as ‘Switzerland in miniature’, but that is a phrase he saw in a guidebook. His own comment was: ‘The writer’s enthusiasm regarding this tract of country is quite warranted, nor can any praise in admiration of it be too high.’

Between Glenariff and Glenballyeamon, the flat-topped Lurigethan (often simply called Lurig) mountain rises from the heart of the glens, standing some 1,100ft above sea level and providing the most amazing backdrop to the beautiful village and townland of Cushendall. Basalt rock is evident along the top of its range, as well as an Iron Age settlement. Inland, along the A42 road between Ballymena and Cushendall, is the Glenariff Forest Park, with its stunning waterfalls.

From this particular area, many powerful stories have arisen. Little folk in their legions were seen, according to the directly recorded accounts in the Fairy Annals of 1859. Whole armies engaged in battle by land and sea. A blacksmith from the glens who had shod a grey horse for one of the gentle folk (reluctantly) on a Sabbath day, was later charged with the task of finding more grey horses for the wee man’s army. As proof of their existence, the blacksmith was shown row upon row of sleeping warriors. But it seems the gentle folk more often took a hand in domestic or agricultural matters. Here is a compilation of some adapted versions from The Fairy Annals of Ulster, No. 2.

THE CHANGELING

Tam’s mother knew Rosie’s family. They were the closest neighbours. One long hard winter she went to Rosie’s mother to ask for a little flour to tide her over and put a bite in the mouths of her large, young family. The tailor’s wife took some sort of fit of fierce pride and gave neither welcome nor flour. And it was not that she was short.

That sort of thing would never be forgotten, and there was a lot more to a refusal like that than meets the eye in the glens. The wee folk could help people, but, as they took a hand in the fortunes of the crops and livestock, they were not best pleased when the resources were not shared in times of hardship. It is never advisable to be mean.

Rosie was the second oldest of the tailor’s children. Unlike her mother, she was as kind-hearted as she was pretty and never a complaint. She nursed all the younger children in the family and was most fond of baby John. She put light in his eyes from laughing and soothed him to sleep with just a bar of her sweet song while she was spinning yarn.

The baby was not the only person beguiled by Rosie and, in time, she and Tam were courting. Tam’s mother and father were not entirely happy, as they feared Rosie might turn proud, scowling and mean like her mother. So Rosie had a job keeping everyone happy.

Tam asked the girl to spin some yarn for him to sell at market, that they might be married all the sooner. Indeed there was no one better for spinning, but for some reason, whenever Rosie tried to spin the yarn for Tam, things went wrong and her wheel broke.

Her father thought to mend the wheel for her, and as he worked at it she took baby John on her hip and out into the yard, singing him a wee song. She was walking around the cottage, when the child gurgled and reached for an old clay pot sitting on a window sill. The pot fell and smashed, and where it had been was a pile of silver coins. Rosie stood, shocked at the find. She thought it might help her and Tam with the cost of the marriage, and she might even get a brand new spinning wheel too. She went in to tell her father about the silver. When he came to look, there was nothing but the smashed pot on the ground and some hawthorn leaves on the sill.

It is said that if ever the wee folk make a gift, it should be taken in the spirit it is given: anonymously. Rosie was mighty downhearted and tried to settle John in his crib, but he clung to her more than ever before and started to shriek and shriek in a high-pitched cry. When she got him into his cot, she hardly knew the child looking back at her. He was pale and cross and looked through her, as if she was a stranger, before starting up his piercing cries again. The noise brought Rosie’s mother. She had been working at the girl’s wedding gown and told her to go and look at it.

While Rosie was off admiring her beautiful dress, her mother could not settle baby John at all. When Tam came to try on the wedding suit that the tailor had made for him, he could not believe the noise when they left him alone in the room where the baby was. No sooner was the door closed, the ugly changeling, for that’s what the baby had become, leapt from the cot, asking Tam, ‘Where did that mean old hag go?’

The hair stood up on Tam’s head. He grabbed the suit and took to his heels.

When Rosie’s mother and father returned, Tam was gone, but the being had produced a set of pipes and was whirling around the room. The tailor and his wife were distraught. They captured the wee man in a sack, intending to drown him, but he was strong and struggled. They fell carrying him and he ran free, laughing.

Such sadness as fell on that house was never known. Rosie was heart-sore at the loss of baby John, but she had lost her true love Tam as well. He never wanted to set foot in such a house again and took himself off to Scotland.

So one evening, blinded by tears, Rosie sat sobbing by little John’s cot and saw something under the corner of the blanket. She pulled back the cover and there were the silver coins. She gathered them with a mind to use them to go to Scotland and marry Tam. She quickly pulled on her bonnet and shawl and left the house; no one knew of her going, and in the weeks following, no enquiries could reveal where she was.

It was some months after, at Hallows Eve, that Rosie’s eldest brother was returning home in the dark. He was coming along the road up from Cushendall on his horse. From behind him, a tumultuous noise arose and he was caught, as if in the midst of a stampede, as troops – thousands in number – rode for Tiveragh Hill. He was terrified. The din was deafening, and his eyes could not adjust to take in every figure rushing by. Yet in the midst of it, he thought he could hear a woman’s voice repeating, over and over, ‘Fetch me the wedding dress; fetch me the wedding dress.’

It was the boy’s wish to find his sister and bring her home safely to her parents, so he slipped into the house and got the gown without anyone knowing and brought it back, laying it under the skeogh (fairy thorn) up on the hill. He was careful not to touch or disturb the tree, as all in the area knew that wherever such a tree grows, no matter if it is in the middle of a field, or grazing ground, it must never be cut down or uprooted. Ploughing, seeding and harvesting may go on around it, but the stories of vengeance that the wee folk take if the skeogh is harmed was enough warning for most. The curse could be loss of speech, long bouts (sometimes years) of degenerative fever, paralysis, blindness, and there is even an account of someone’s head being turned the wrong way on his shoulders.

So Rosie’s brother walked cautiously away from the tree. When he turned back, his sister stood dazzling in her wedding clothes, with little John gurgling happily on her hip. She told him that without the dress he would not have seen her, but warned him to keep his distance, as the hillside opened on a huge party. Every kind of mouth-watering food and drink was there and the best music, dance, song and storytelling he had ever heard. Again, Rosie warned her brother to keep his distance and not to eat or drink with the company, and never to speak of their meeting, otherwise he would join them forever.

In the morning, he was listening to the sweet song Rosie sang to get baby John to sleep. He suddenly realised he was lying with his ear to the ground. When he sat up, there was nothing but Tiveragh Hill and its fairy thorn.

SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE

There was a time when a fella might meet and court a girl in all kinds of ways. Ballycarry was known as the original home of Presbyterianism in Ireland, and that would have helped and hindered love and romance in equal measure. Choirs, village services, guest teas, Church socials and soirées, as they are known, might all have thrown couples together.

The soirées were said to be an assembly of the finest talent that any could level an insult at. Willie Hume (Billy Teare’s grandfather) was a stalwart. They were actually great craic, with recitations, storytelling, singing and music, and all of it good-natured. Not staged events or anything like that.

Then there were markets and fairs and proper tradesmen selling their goods. The old villagers would remember the blacksmith shop, standing at the top of Fair Hill, and the two saddler’s shops in the village. There was a cooper’s shop at Hillhead, or Barronstown, to give it the original name. A draper’s shop, shoemakers, dressmakers, carpenters, spinning and weaving, tailoring, crochet, lacework, and a thing called ‘flowering’ (which was a type of local embroidery) all created industry for Ballycarry. You need hardly have gone outside the village for anything. So with the churches, the gatherings, and all the skilled men and women, there had to be someone for everyone.

Well there was one girl, Maggie, and she was short of admirers. All the usual avenues were exhausted, along with any man she had ever set her cap at. She had even tried the pin well in Redhall. She knew about it from childhood. At the point where a stream had cut its way through chalk to the foot of the old Mill Glen, that is where the pin well could be found. There is no written reference as to how the custom came about, but endless people have visited the little well, to drink the water and drop in a pin in order to make a wish. It must have been that the sprites, spirits or ‘kelpies’ – or whatever else has been said to grant people’s desires – were not at home when Maggie dropped her pin in.

You would have thought that might be an end to her listening to old superstitions and stories, but no. She lapped up the rites and rituals that were well known in the area. Right enough it is a bit of a puzzle that God-fearing folk would also harbour pagan beliefs, but country people, living cheek by jowl with nature, could often see nature behave in an altogether unnatural way, so some odd views persisted.

Seasons bring with them opportunities to foretell a person’s luck in life and love. None more so than Halloween. At that time, all kinds of things become a means for prediction. Fitting with the spooky activities, country girls might have used apple peels, or gazed in mirrors by candlelight, to find out who their future partner might be.

One thing that was supposed to guarantee a husband was to procure a shirt from your intended. (One would guess that if you were that familiar, you would already be in with a fair shot at marriage.) Then, at midnight on Halloween, his shirt was to be washed with her … unmentionables … and dried before an open fire.

Now, Alexander was one of the only bachelors left in the area and that had not escaped Maggie’s notice. But he was a boy completely impervious to her attempts to allure him. Every time he would pass by, she would try to have him catch her in the act of knitting, or quilting, or flowering, to show herself as a skilled lady and so worthy of marital selection. Then, she would occasionally slip him oatcake, or roozal fadge, skink-lerrie, or brose. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but who could fathom the way to the heart that lay in the lad of Maggie’s dreams?

So then, no one was more surprised than Maggie when it was coming to Halloween and she got a visit from Alexander’s mother. It seems that as much as Maggie wanted to take him as a husband, the mother was keener for him to take a wife. The hoping and wishing had not worked, so his mother had decided to give things a firm boot in the right direction and delivered one of his shirts to Maggie. Eyeing Maggie, she shuddered at what ‘unmentionables’ might be washed with the shirt, but it was clear to her that Maggie was a practical lady of many skills, and sometimes a pot to pee in is more use than a vase for roses.

Maggie thought her heart would never last out until Halloween, when she could get her washing done and drying. But eventually the day arrived and the task was complete, and there she sat, staring into the steam rising from the newly laundered items, dreaming of being Alexander’s wife. She thought of the bridal garb, bouquets, and wedding breakfasts, and she hardly noticed when, on the stroke of midnight, there came a dunnering on the cottage door. She roused herself, smoothing her dress and sweeping stray hairs behind her ears, preparing for the man of her dreams, Alexander. She was VERY shocked to open the door to … the itinerant worker, Cosh-a-Day!

Cosh-a-Day passed straight by her, heading to the heat of the fire. He sat, babbling about his work, hedging, ditching and farming with Alexander and his mother.

‘Huh, Maggie, all was weel with Sandy and the mither, until a shirt went missing and he said I stole it and threw me oot the …’

Cosh-a-Day trailed off. First there was the sight of an enormous pair of bloomers, stitched up and down with every kind of lace, trim and ribbon. That was bad enough. But when he caught sight of the stolen shirt, drying before the fire, he immediately knew he must be in the house of a hussie, or a thief, or both, and he tried to make his excuses and leave. Hearing all this and following his gaze, Maggie also understood what he was thinking and wanted to cover up her intentions; she thought that if she confessed what was really happening, the charm might not work. So quickly, she offered him a place to stay.

‘It’s ill on you. Never worry about that stuck-up lot. They came from Whitehead and aren’t they all pride, poverty and pianos? You’ll be wanting a stay in the barn tonight?’

As Cosh-a-Day hurried for the door, he said, ‘No thanks Maggie.’ And in his words she felt the weight of his disappointment in her. ‘I’ll tak mesel’ to the barn of daycent folk if you don’t mind.’

Maggie was mortified, until the hapless Cosh-a-Day remembered why he had called to see her and left her with a parting message. ‘Oh, by the way, before he threw me oot, that gulpin’ Sandy sayed to tell ye he’ll ca’ in for a bite to ate with ye the marra nicht.’ He cast his eye back to the steaming garments. ‘You’ll maybe hae the shirt on the claes prap dry be then.’

Well Cosh-a-Day held his tongue and never spoke about what he had seen, and Maggie and Alexander were married. Cosh-a-Day avoided Maggie and wondered how Alexander would get on with her.

When Maggie was married, her mother-in-law gave her the gift of a shawl. It was made from an exquisite yarn from Mossley Mill and trimmed with a rare lace, made by the Single Sisters Choir House, from the Moravian settlement in Gracehill. The flowering of this community was known to be worn by nobility, and Maggie succumbed to the sin of pride. She took herself further and further afield – anywhere that a woman could think to go – in order to brag of her new fine husband and show off her fine, expensive shawl.

This was all well and good, but in those days a working man did not expect to come home and start making his own dinner, and Maggie’s wandering and boasting was starting to get the better of Alexander.

So he came home to an empty house, no fire or food, for yet another evening and, after making himself a feed of bread, cold ham and cheese, he stomped his bad mood and mutterings to the oul’ wa’s, to give his head some peace – and there was Cosh-a-Day. It was no surprise to him to hear how things were working out with Maggie. He wanted to make things right with Alexander after the misunderstanding about the stolen shirt and said, ‘Dinna fash yersel’ Sandy, I’ll ca’ in to see her mesel’ the marra and see if I cannay get some reasoning aboot her.’

Well Alexander was not best confident in entrusting this task to Cosh-a-Day, but something had to be done.

The next day, Cosh-a-Day found Maggie in a state of dread. He could not get a word in about the purpose of his visit: her gadding around visiting this one and the next to brag about her hubby, and yet leaving him starving by the cold hearth. It seems Maggie was waiting on a visit from one of the in-laws, and a worse old scold, or better example of a dour Ulster Scot, there never was. Her mother-in-law’s sister, Mrs McKee, had made it clear how little she saw in Maggie on the day of the wedding. This being her first visit, Maggie wanted to make a good impression, but feared that no matter what she did, Mrs McKee would find fault. Maggie became so fraught that she beseeched Cosh-a-Day to say she had gone somewhere.

‘Right oh,’ said Cosh-a-Day cheerily. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve gone Maggie. Ye go hide yersel’ girl.’

Maggie had no sooner stepped into the next room, than Cosh-a-Day was helping Mrs McKee (but mostly himself) to the grand spread Maggie had left. Mrs McKee sat bolt upright, in a large fancy hat.

Cosh-a-Day started, ‘Aye, ’tis a brave lot of food was left after the funeral. Get stuck in Mrs McKee.’

‘Funeral?’ said the startled visitor.

‘Och now, Mrs McKee, ye are no’ goin’ tae sit wi’ that face on ye, unner such a hat and tell us ye never heard that poor Maggie, only newly married, wi’ a grand shawl and aa’, had left us?’

Well, the old woman was shocked to the very core as Cosh-a-Day went on, knowing full well that Maggie would be listening at the door.

‘Faith aye. She was a lovely woman Maggie, but I am sure a discerning lady like yoursel’ would a knowed she was lucky enough, no disrespect to her, to snare Sandy.’

‘Well, yes,’ agreed Mrs McKee. ‘At the ceremonies, I have to say I did notice she was a little … plain.’

‘Plain is it?’ said Cosh-a-Day. ‘I seed better looking cows when they was heading awa’ frae us. And I can tell ye, she didna wait for yon fella as that white dress mighta sayed. I was in her hoos yin nicht, BEFORE they were wed ye understan’, and she’d his shirt and a pair of … well, washing that a unmarried woman disnay wash wi’ a man’s things, drying awa’ for all to see.’

Maggie winced from biting her tongue in the next room.

‘What was that noise?’ the old lady asked.

‘Och, ye know I hae been wunnering that mesel’. ’Tis the room she ‘went’ in and I am no’ sure, but … no, no, it’s probably just the wyn.’

Mrs McKee was reassured and went on. ‘What you say about Maggie’s dubious nature is no surprise. I have been hearing all kinds since the wedding. Apparently she was bone idle and never home keeping house. Her poor husband never got a cooked meal, morning, noon, or night.’

Maggie was hopping with rage and all kinds of snorts and groans came from the next room.

‘That really is a FRIGHFUL draughty room,’ said Mrs McKee.

‘Aye, I will awa’ tae fix it up just noo,’ said Cosh-a-Day. ‘But before I go, I should tell ye, ye bein’ a lady that’s never had a doobroouss nature in her life. Just before passing, Maggie had a great change o’ heart. She stapped her rambling and boastin’ and do ye know Mrs McKee, she said ye brought aboot that change. Ye spoke so straight aboot her shortcomin’s, ye made her a better person and she left ye this …’

Maggie creaked open the door a little and saw Cosh-a-Day giving away her shawl. It was the last straw; she leapt from the cupboard and gave the old lady such a start, having seemingly risen from the dead, that Mrs McKee near passed out cold. Maggie snatched the shawl from her in-law and turned her out of the house, reddening her face with every insult of the day she could. When Mrs McKee was out of the way, she picked up the poker to hit Cosh-a-Day a crack, but he had long gone and he thought it had done Alexander a good turn and done Maggie not one bit of harm.

HALF-HUNG MCNAUGHTON

Thanks are due to Celia Ferguson (née Herdman) for telling me about how one of her ancestors was robbed by a highwayman and to Gabrielle Dooher for giving me information about Half-Hung McNaughton.

Half-Hung McNaughton belonged to a wealthy family. He had a good job working for the government as a tax collector but he also had an addiction to gambling. He lost all his own money and started gambling with the government’s money. He lost £800 of his employer’s cash (the equivalent of about £500,000 today) before disappearing from respectable society to become a highwayman and escape justice.

McNaughton had a very good friend, Andrew Knox, who owned Prehen House in Derry/Londonderry and had a beautiful, 15-year-old daughter called Mary Ann. She became besotted with McNaughton and wanted to marry him. Andrew Knox was very annoyed and forbade the match. He felt that there was too big an age gap between the couple (Mary Ann was only 15 while McNaughton was 39) and that McNaughton’s main motivation was to get his hands on her money so he could clear his debts and continue gambling. He decided the best thing he could do was take Mary Ann away and hope she’d forget about her lover. Unfortunately, the girl managed to contact McNaughton by leaving and receiving notes at a tree and he arranged to kidnap her.

McNaughton dressed in his highwayman gear and met the coach in which Mary Ann and her father were travelling. There was a fracas during which McNaughton accidentally shot and killed her. Both he and her father were wounded. He managed to escape but was eventually captured and incarcerated in Lifford jail before being tried. He was sentenced to death ‘by hanging on the great road between Strabane and Lifford’. He mounted the gallows and the hangman placed the rope around his neck and attempted to drop him to his death. The rope broke and McNaughton fell to the ground, unhurt. Anyone who survived hanging automatically received a pardon. He could have walked away a free man, but he did no such thing. He picked himself up, climbed back up onto the gallows and shouted, ‘I don’t want to be pardoned. I don’t want to be known as “Half-Hung McNaughton”. I don’t want to live without Mary Ann. I demand to be hung!’ He insisted the hangman’s rope be placed around his neck again and jumped off the gallows with such vigour that his neck was broken and he died instantly. His body was buried in St Patrick’s old graveyard in Strabane. His ghost is said to haunt the graveyard and the road between Strabane and Derry/Londonderry.

Half-Hung McNaughton was an unusual highwayman because nobody appeared to have any respect for him. In the past, taxes and rents were high, much higher than in England. Farmers existed on a knife edge. If they couldn’t pay their rent, they were evicted. Most highwaymen robbed from the rich and gave to the poor in the tradition of Robin Hood. They were regarded as folk heroes, protected by the local population. But McNaughton did not share his ill-gotten gains; he kept them. After his death the population split into two camps: those who felt sorry for him and believed he really did love Mary Ann Knox and committed suicide because he couldn’t bear to live without her and those who felt he committed suicide to avoid ending up in a debtors’ prison, which could have been regarded as a fate worse than death.

Celia Ferguson (née Herdman) told me about how one of her ancestors, a doctor called John Herdman, was robbed by a highwayman. One night when he was coming home after visiting a patient, he was attacked and stripped of everything except his shirt! Poor John Herdman was very embarrassed by his state of undress and went to the home of a local parson for help. The parson thought he was a ‘rogue and a vagabond’ and refused to let him in. John managed to prove he was an educated gentleman man by speaking in Latin. When the highwayman was caught and sentenced to death several years later he confessed on the gallows and apologised for treating John Herdman so badly.

THE TAILOR AND THE WITCH

Folklore is full of tales about witches who could shapeshift into humans or animals at will. Cows and hares are commonly thought of as animals that may be witches in disguise. Linda Ballard, who was working at the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum at the time, shared this story about the witch and the tailor. I love telling it to children because they usually cannot resist looking for a patch of fur in their hair!

In the past, children who had difficulty walking often became tailors because they could earn a livelihood by sitting sewing. They travelled around the countryside with a list of clients they visited regularly, doing whatever task they were asked to do. If a coat, skirt, blouse or suit became shabby, the tailor could recycle it by carefully unpicking the seams, turning the garment inside out and sewing it up again, so it looked like new, or he would make new clothes out of cloth supplied to him by his client.

Once upon a time, there was a tailor who unknowingly went to work for a witch. She lived alone in a small, single-roomed cottage. Each night she slept in an offshoot bed beside the fire while he was given a straw-filled mattress in the half loft to sleep on. He had to sprockle up a ladder to get there. Once he was in position, he could peek over the edge of his sleeping quarters and see what was going on down in the room below.

One morning he woke up and sniffed the air. It felt strange, enchanted, somehow different from usual. There was no sign of any activity below. He guessed that the woman was still asleep so lay still and quiet, not wanting to disturb her. After a few minutes he heard the door being quietly opened. He peeped over the edge of the half loft and saw a huge hare come in, go over to a large barrel of water sitting in the centre of the floor and jump in. Within seconds the woman leapt out of it. The tailor couldn’t believe his eyes. He spent the whole day thinking about what he’d seen. Surely he must have been dreaming?

The next morning, he woke up very early, looked over the edge of the half loft and watched quietly. He didn’t have long to wait before the woman got out of bed, pulled the large barrel out into the middle of the room, filled it with water, walked three times round it, singing a strange eerie incantation, and jumped in. A large hare jumped out of the other side and disappeared through the door. The tailor thought it would be prudent to pretend to be asleep so he turned over onto his back and waited. Sure enough, the hare returned after about an hour, jumped into the water and out came the woman. The tailor could hardly sew that day because his mind was in such turmoil. Had he dreamt the same dream for two mornings in a row? Could the woman really turn into a hare? Was she a witch? There was something strange about her. Could she cast a spell on him? If she really did turn into a hare, where did she go in the mornings? Could he find out? What would happen if he jumped into the water? Would he turn into a hare? Could he follow her?

The tailor woke up very early next morning, determined to find out what was going on. He watched as the woman prepared the barrel of water, walked three times round it singing her strange, eerie incantation before jumping in and turning into a hare. He felt very excited as he stumbled down from the loft, jumped into the water, leapt out in the form of a hare and rushed out the door. He was just in time to see her disappear through a gap in the hedge. He followed her into a field and up a hill, at the top of which there was a flat piece of ground. When he reached the top, he saw that hundreds of hares were gathered there, so he joined them.

A large, white hare was standing in the middle of the assembly. The moment he arrived it stood upright on its back feet, sniffed the air and shouted, ‘There’s a stranger in our midst! Danger! We’d better scatter.’ The hares immediately turned tail and ran away in all directions. The tailor followed the one he guessed to be the woman. She ran into the cottage, jumped into the water, reappeared as the woman and he had just time to cover himself in water before she used her superhuman strength to empty the barrel. He returned to his normal self as the water flowed down the street outside her cottage.

The woman was raging. She howled fury at him. ‘What have you done?’ she shrieked. ‘Why can’t you mind your own business? I’ve a good mind to cast a spell on you.’

‘Oh, please don’t do that,’ pleaded the tailor. ‘I promise never to tell anyone what I saw. I’ll be as silent as the grave. Tell you what, I’ll gather my things and leave immediately. I’ve just about finished and you needn’t pay me for the work I’ve done.’

The woman glared at the tailor as he gathered his things together and headed out the door. He was terrified by the look she gave him and apologised as he staggered out the door. ‘Goodbye, m-m-ma’am. I’m very sorry to have offended you, m-m-ma’am. I promise I’ll never utter a word about what I’ve seen.’

‘One word of your experiences and you’ll DIE!’ screamed the woman.

The tailor was very relieved to reach the house of his next client. They were lovely people, who gave him a comfortable bed and fed him well. They had three delightful children who loved him and were always delighted to see him. Later that day, as he sat sewing, one of the children looked at him carefully. ‘What’s that you’ve got on the back of your neck?’ she asked.

The tailor put his hand up to the back of his neck and shuddered with horror because he felt a small patch of fur behind his ear. If you are descended from the tailor, you’ll have a small patch of fur somewhere in your hair, probably on the back of your neck. Do you?

SALLY HILL

Around AD 445 St Patrick sought permission from Dáire, a wealthy local chieftain, to site his church on Druim Saileach (Hill of the Sallies or Willows). Dáire, however, refused him. He did allow him, though, to site it far below, near the bottom of that hill in what today is Scotch Street. It was called Teampall Na Fearta (Church of the Holy Relics). It subsequently became a monastery and then a convent until the dissolution of religious houses in the sixteenth century. In the recent past it was the site of the Bank of Ireland and today it’s a home for the elderly called St Patrick’s Fold.

According to tradition, St Patrick’s sister, Lupita, was buried there. Indeed, in the early days the body of a female was exhumed. It had been buried in a vertical position with two crosses: one in front of and the other behind the body. The surmise was that it was Lupita but there was no evidence for that. In 1633, according to James Stuart’s History of Armagh, another body was exhumed. It was that of a woman and the body was still intact; however, when ‘profane hands’ touched the body, it disintegrated. Many believed that the miraculously preserved body proved that this had been Lupita.

Patrick was persistent in his crusade to obtain Sally Hill and he visited Dáire’s house often. There’s a story told about one of Dáire’s servants allowing his horse to graze on the ground Patrick had been given for his church. Patrick protested to him but he was ignored and the horse was left there overnight. When the servant came for his horse next morning it was lying dead, so he rushed off to report this offence to Dáire, who was furious and ordered Patrick to be killed.

No sooner had the man left to carry out his wishes, than Dáire himself was struck down and his wife said it was because of the power of Patrick. She cancelled Dáire’s order to kill him and instead made a plea for him to restore her husband. Patrick is supposed to have blessed some water and told the servant to sprinkle it on the horse, which revived on the spot. Then some was sprinkled on Dáire, where it had a similar effect.

Dáire was so impressed by his powers and no doubt grateful at having his life restored, that he sent Patrick a gift of an extremely large and beautiful bronze cauldron. Patrick’s response was, ‘Let me give thanks.’

Dáire, eager to know what impression his ostentatious gift had made, asked the messenger what the Christian had said when he received it. When he heard what the reply was he was disappointed and then plain angry. ‘If that’s all he has to say, go and take it back again,’ he instructed the same messenger. When the man explained to Patrick that he was taking away the cauldron, Patrick’s response was again, ‘Let me give thanks.’

On hearing this unexpected reaction, Dáire declared that Patrick was very consistent and therefore a steadfast man; so impressed was he that he decided to give him back the cauldron and he delivered it personally this time. In addition, he offered Patrick the land he had sought all along for his church: Sally Hill.

Patrick always made it clear that he received his special power from his God. In restoring people from the dead his reputation and that of his God grew and it’s suggested that Dáire was baptised a Christian in the end.

Although there may well have been a chieftain Dáire, Dáithí Ó hÓgáin in The Sacred Isle (p. 189) points out that ‘Dáire’ means ‘the fertile one’ and that it sounds more like a reference to the Daghdha – one of the Irish pre-Christian gods who did indeed possess a wonderful cauldron and was renowned for his generosity. Ó hÓgáin suggests that this fits very well with Dáire’s gifting of land.

The Book of Armagh, written around AD 807, tells us that when Patrick was formally marking out the site for the church with bell and book and accompanied by both companions and curious onlookers, he disturbed a doe with a fawn lying in the undergrowth of the willow trees.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the spot where the deer had lain, ‘shall God’s altar stand.’

The startled doe fled but when Patrick lifted the fawn gently and carried it down the hill, the doe returned and followed meekly behind him. He crossed the small valley and placed the fawn on the slope of the neighbouring hill Tealach na Licc (Sandy Hill). This is generally accepted as a prophetic reference by Patrick to the building in his honour of the present-day Catholic church: St Patrick’s Cathedral some 1,400 years later.

So Patrick built his church on Sally Hill and other buildings grew up around it like the Culdee monastery, the Abbey of St Peter and Paul in today’s Abbey Street and Teampail Bríd (Brigit’s Temple) in Chapel Lane until the city became a seat of learning with students coming from far and near. At one time there were 7,000 in attendance.

It’s believed that the remains of the High King Brian Boru are buried on the north side of the Old Cathedral because his last wish on the battlefield of Clontarf in 1014 was, ‘My soul to God and my body to Armagh.’ He is reputed to have previously rested in Armagh for a week and left a 20oz-collar of gold as a gift to the Church – but as you might expect the gold has disappeared. He also wrote in the Book of Armagh and of that there is evidence.

The Cathedral was burnt and plundered many times by the Danes and fabulous treasures were stolen from it. It was wrecked at the time of the Restoration but in spite of being destroyed and rebuilt many times through the centuries, what is now the Church of Ireland Cathedral, also known as the ‘Old Cathedral’, still stands at the heart of Armagh today. It faces the Catholic Cathedral and for many people these two, visible for miles, are what make the city distinctive.

The Catholic Cathedral was built on Sandy Hill at the foot of which Patrick had placed the little fawn, so in some ways the two are connected. The building started in 1840 but the Great Famine intervened, with all the death and destitution that that involved, and so the building work was halted for a while and it took nearly fifty years to complete. It was finished in the early 1900s. Considering the contentious past of the two religions, there seems to be more cooperation than competition between them nowadays.

Another treasure in Armagh was St Patrick’s Bell and the eleventh-century silver-gilt casing for it. It was commissioned by the King of Ireland in the twelfth century. The back is silver plated but the front is encrusted with rock crystals. The design is of elongated beasts intertwined with snakes. The bell and shrine were entrusted to the care of the Mulholland family until the last keeper died in the nineteenth century. The shrine eventually found sanctuary in the National Museum in Dublin.

THE GREEN LADY’S

Mary McVeigh from the Irish and Local Studies Library in Armagh was very helpful in furnishing me with the accounts of this story and transcripts of the court case in the Armagh Guardian (March and April 1888). Seán Barden, from the County Museum, supplied me with the doubly tragic ending.

As children, we often climbed the stone steps to Vicars’ Hill. It’s a secluded street of Georgian houses running alongside the Church of Ireland in Armagh. We went to look at ‘The Green Lady’s’: this was one of the Georgian houses which was reputed to be, or have been, haunted. The scary thing about it was that it had a brick wall inside the window – about a foot from the window pane. I distinctly remember my fingers gripping the edge of the window sill (it was quite high so someone must have pushed me up) and on the inside window ledge I saw broken, blackened glass.

One midsummer more recently I went back there with a relative. We were on our way back to Belfast from a picnic with my cousin David Conlon, who invites us to his farm every year around midsummer. His farm lies between where my father was born on one side and where my grandfather and great-grandfather lived on the other. Midsummer’s day falls around the feast of St John, which is celebrated in many countries. Like many of the Christian feast days, it was superimposed on one of the old Celtic festivals. Anyway, during the picnic by the river, I discovered that Feidhlm, who is interested in architecture, wasn’t familiar with the Georgian buildings in Armagh so I gave him a brief tour on the return journey.

‘And this,’ I said, ‘is Vicars’ Hill where we used to come to look at “The Green Lady’s”. It has a brick wall inside the window.’

Well try as I might, I couldn’t see any window with a brick wall visible thru’ the window and yet I could have sworn I had seen it as a child. I was a bit disconcerted then and could see no one around who might corroborate my story. At last a man came into view and although I felt rather foolish, I approached him on the principle that if you don’t ask you’ll never find out.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but could you tell me where “The Green Lady’s” is?’ I felt ever so slightly ridiculous.

‘I live in it,’ he said, which threw me completely. I was stuck for words – well it is a bit of a conversation stopper.

‘Have you ever … did you ever …?’ I muttered.

He very kindly took me out of my misery. ‘Have I ever seen anything? No. But of course it was completely refurbished before I moved in. The only thing I have noticed,’ he replied, ‘is that my neighbour’s dog will never come into the kitchen with him. The neighbour often calls round to the back of the house. He comes in to chat to me in the kitchen but the dog stands on the threshold and growls and the hair rises on the back of its neck. I’m a retired vet and I know that animals can sense things that humans can’t.’

I was very glad I’d stopped him.

This happened around the year 2000 and I decided to try and find out the true story behind the house’s fame. I already knew from a neighbour (Mrs O’Reilly who died at the age of 102) that the place should never have been called ‘The Green Lady’s’. It was a misnomer and that name actually belonged to the residence of another ghost in the town: to think that we’d wasted all those years speculating about whether she’d worn a green dress or if a priest had exorcised her and put her in a green bottle or just why was she green! But the name has stuck and to this day it’s known by everyone in Armagh as ‘The Green Lady’s’.

The tale behind the house turned out to be very dark indeed.

In 1888, a woman called Nina Prior lived in that house. She was the widow of Colonel Prior, who had been commander of the military district of Armagh. She lived there with her daughters Adele (21), Bellina (19), and her son Harvey (14) who attended the Royal School – a famous school in Armagh founded in 1608. The family were very well connected and, by all accounts, well liked by different classes of people in the town.

The story also involves a family by the name of Slavin, who lived below Vicars’ Hill in Callan Street. A little girl in that family, Kate, used to do messages for the Priors. She was nine years old and would knock on their door to see if they wanted her to get anything for them. When she returned with whatever they’d asked her for, she’d be given a few sweets.

On Tuesday 27 March, Nina Prior left the house between 1.30 and 2 p.m. and Kate Slavin called at the door around 3 p.m. She had with her her little sister, Ann, who was three years nine months old at the time. Bellina answered the door. It was said that Bellina was fond of the local children and would often spend her pocket money on sweets for them. She was described as a petite and very attractive girl. She was quite taken with Ann and told Kate that they didn’t need any messages that day but suggested she leave her little sister with them till 4 p.m.

Kate went off and Bellina carried the little girl upstairs to where Adele was playing the piano. They both made much of the little one and Adele gave her a barley sugar sweet and then Bellina took her downstairs to the kitchen. About a half an hour later Bellina came back upstairs to Adele ‘looking red eyed and with a mad look’ on her face.

‘Where’s the little girl?’ Adele asked.

‘I’ve killed her,’ Bellina replied.

Adele went downstairs with her and saw a truly horrific sight. A boiler was standing above a cooking range in the kitchen; it was used for boiling up water for the household and now, from the top of the boiler, two little feet protruded. Adele sent for her mother and she herself got the little girl out, hoping to save her, and she placed her on the inner ledge of the window which she fitted exactly – her body being 37 inches long – but the child was already dead.

Nina went to fetch Chancellor Benjamin Wade and sent her son Harvey for Dr Gray. Chancellor Wade asked Bellina if she knew what she had done. They say that she didn’t answer for a long time but just gave a maniacal smile before saying, ‘I’ve killed her. Everyone is unkind to me. Mother I have paid you off and I’m glad of it.’

He then asked her if she understood the consequences of what she had done and she replied, ‘I will be hanged, I suppose, and I will be glad of it.’ And she smiled again. Chancellor Wade sent for the constabulary and District Inspector Bailey arrived. Adele told them how Bellina’s behaviour had been strange during the last six weeks or so. She described how Bellina had raised a hatchet to them the previous Thursday. However, they took it as a joke since they were accustomed to Bellina’s fooling around. When she tapped Adele on the head with it the latter took it away from her.

It turned out that Kate Slavin had returned for her sister that afternoon and Bellina had rapped the window and told her to leave her with them until 6 p.m., saying that she was ‘a pretty little thing’. When word of what had happened spread that evening a crowd gathered in the street outside the house, discussing the terrible turn events had taken.

As soon as the police had finished questioning her, Bellina was taken off to prison. The child’s body was kept where it was overnight under police guard and the inquest took place next morning. Part of the inquest was held in the house, where they decided to take the evidence of the very distressed Adele.

The coroner and the jury then returned to the Tontine where Joseph Slavin, the child’s father, was questioned. Slavin was a whitewasher by trade and was described as a decent, hard-working man. Then Drs Gray and Palmer, having examined little Ann, reported that she was a healthy, well-developed, well-nourished child and that her death was by drowning. The verdict of the jury was death by manslaughter against Miss Bellina Prior.

The decision to hold the court case on Saturday morning was unusual. The matter was kept very quiet with the result that the crowds of interested Armagh residents were not in attendance. This would have been to accommodate this very well connected family at such a trying time for them. While the matter was tragic for the Slavins, they were a poor family of no account. Such is the way of the world.

Constable McGee ushered Bellina in. She was ‘closely veiled’. The matron of the gaol sat on her right and Sergeant Maxwell on her left. Nina Prior, when questioned, spoke of her daughter having fainting fits and a headache about a month before the event. She also mentioned that her daughter had had a severe fainting fit in London about a year before. Her mother admitted that she had wanted Bellina to go on the stage and that Bellina had been very anxious and worried about it. She also recounted how Bellina had gone down to the kitchen one night to fetch some water and had seen a man’s face at the window, making her quite paralysed with fear.

In the course of the various pieces of evidence that followed, it transpired that there was a chair and a partially covered can beside what was described as an open boiler. The police measurements put little Ann at 37 inches and one of the cans at 14 inches and the top of the boiler from the can at 22½ inches. It seems there had been 12 inches of cold water in the boiler. Dr Gray vouched that he and Dr Palmer had found no sign of violence on the child’s body, that they had found the barley sugar mixed with other food in her stomach, and had pronounced a case of death by drowning. He had made a number of calculations to ascertain if this drowning could have happened accidentally and he expressed the opinion that it was possible.

Dr Palmer also claimed that Bellina had very possibly been in a state of shock, unable to help the child because of this and liable to falsely accuse herself of having drowned the little one. Although the solicitor for the accused asked for her to be charged with manslaughter since there appeared to be no malice aforethought, the judge, Captain Preston, said he would have to ‘return the accused for trial on the capital charge’. There was a dead silence in the courtroom, which was finally broken by Bellina’s sobbing. The family were overcome with pity and were given permission to go to her, whereupon her mother threw her arms around the girl and showered her with affection. When she calmed down a little, Bellina, in a small voice, apologised to her mother for the trouble she had caused her. Afterwards Constable McGee and the matron accompanied her in a close carriage to the County Gaol. Those present in the court had great sympathy for the Prior family and indeed were appalled by the whole affair.

Apparently, during her brief stay in prison, Bellina had tried to cut her throat with glass, though she made little of it, saying it was nothing but a scratch. After five minutes the jury found her to be insane at the time of the murder and the judge ordered that she be kept in custody as a criminal lunatic. It is said that the family moved south after a time and Bellina was transferred to a mental institution there.

It was suggested that they may have moved to England after that but it seems proof has been found that Bellina was released from hospital and went back home to live with her mother. They had various addresses in Dublin, the last of which was in Rathmines, where the mother is said to have bought poison and given it first to her daughter and then taken it herself because their life was so intolerable. Whether it was to do with Bellina’s state of mind or very possibly because their history followed them everywhere they went, we don’t know.

Their deaths were reported in the Irish Times. Further information came to light in letters held in Armagh Museum. There it was indicated that Nina Prior was not regarded as being the best of mothers. And so ends the story of ‘The Green Lady’s’.

THE HAUNTED BRIDGE

This is a wee gem collected by the Revd J.B. Lusk of Glascar in 1924. The story itself takes place in the early 1800s and is a real spine-chiller with a dark-humour all of its own. So please settle in for the terrifying tale of Bonnety’s Bridge.

Bonnety’s Bridge is an ancient high-arched stone bridge on the old road from Rathfriland to Poyntzpass. It lies about seven and a half miles from Newry, four from Rathfriland and six from Banbridge, all of which are in County Down.

And where or from whom did this bridge get its unusual and innocuous name from? Some say that ‘Bonnety’ was derived from an old Irish word meaning ‘The Rushy Bottom’ or ‘The Feeding Place of the Pigs’. Another explanation was that it was connected with the ‘B Specials’, as it was a favourite meeting place of theirs, and its name derived from the peculiar shape of the caps they wore. However, I am about to tell you the true account of the origin of the name ‘Bonnety’s Bridge’, I hope you are sitting comfortably.

The bridge was always considered to be a place to be avoided after dark, and the local people, and anyone who knew about it, made long detours to avoid crossing it at night. You see, the bridge was believed to be haunted by a cruel-looking old woman all dressed in black mourning garb and sporting an immense black bonnet. It was due to this huge headdress that ‘Bonnety’ got her name. Apparently if a traveller or travellers approached the bridge the old woman would come from the other side to meet them, hissing like an angry swan and then, with lightning speed, vault over their heads, landing behind them, laughing hysterically and chattering incomprehensible incantations. The old woman would then jump from the bridge, shrieking and hissing, and run under one of the arches like a giant black water hen. As the travellers attempted to continue crossing the bridge to the old gate on the other side, they could hear the old woman counting out each of their steps with this hideous rhyme:

One, two I can hear and see you

Three, four I’m under the floor

Five, six I’ll snap your bones like sticks

Seven, eight will you make to the gate?

Nine, ten don’t ever come here again!

Of course, once these poor souls did make it to the gate, they ran for their lives and never did come back again.

So the question is, who was ‘Bonnety’? Some say she was a woman crazed with grief or crossed in love who drowned herself. Others say she was a cruel widowed mother who was eventually killed by a relative who threw her from the bridge in order to protect the children. Whatever the reasons for her death she was compelled to re-visit the bridge and no mortal would dare return to it once they had encountered ‘Bonnety’.

There are lots of stories that surround the bridge and its phantom sentinel. But there is one in particular that stands out. Not content with frightening belated travellers, the old woman proceeded to further atrocities. Glascar Mill at the time was a humble structure owned by a bachelor who lived in a two-roomed house beside the mill, about 200 yards from the bridge. Late one night, or early one morning, he happened to awake without any apparent cause and was wide awake at that. He later recalled, ‘I sat up in me bed fellin’ a bit quare’. He climbed out of bed, opened the door between the bedroom and kitchen and saw, by the dim light of the raked-up turf fire, an old woman in a huge bonnet hunkered down over the ashes. He slowly backed towards the bedroom, barred the door, jumped into his bed and covered his head with the sheets. But he soon discovered that a barred door was no obstacle for a disembodied spirit, for no sooner was he completely covered like a rabbit in his burrow, the bonneted beast landed without a sound on top of the bedclothes. The sheer terror of this so overcame the poor man that he lost consciousness.

When he came to, he felt himself being pinned down onto the bed as if a millstone had been laid on the bedclothes above him. He could hear the woman breathing and muttering words but they made no sense to him whatsoever. Her body was ice cold and made a cracking noise when it shifted disjointedly on top of him. With the discomfort, fear and sheer weirdness of the situation, the bachelor lay paralysed till the dawn compelled the woman to leave as noiselessly as she came.

At this point of the story there are various versions, according to Lusk, as to what happened next. Some have it that immediate steps were taken to destroy the phantom, but Lusk suggests that this is unlikely as the locals were never much given to raw haste. ‘Slow but sure’ was always their motto, explains Lusk, with the emphasis on the slow. They maintained that the less sure you are the slower you ought to go and this was definitely a situation riddled with uncertainty. Lusk states that his best source for the outcome of this paranormal performance was a local old man in his late nineties whom he had met during the 1890s. According to this old-timer the bachelor gradually came to terms with his traumatic experience.

Time passed and ‘Bonnety’ was not mentioned again; the people had evidently decided that the threat was gone and by not talking about her, her existence was dissipated. But still no one went near the bridge after dark; this was an unspoken rule, strictly adhered to. That is, until one night, when a couple of travellers, ignorant of the danger, crossed the bridge and were soon seen shouting and screaming about ‘Horrid shapes and shrieks and sights unholy!’ After this nobody could sleep at night and nobody would go out at night unless in company. ‘Bonnety’ was at large again and it was agreed that it was high time something was done.

To this end, a Presbyterian minister was consulted. He was appalled at these fanciful Godless superstitions and condemned the people as heathen blasphemers. So there was only one thing for it and, according to Lusk, ‘this shows the desperation of the people’, they were compelled to seek the aid of a Roman Catholic priest. He professed himself willing and able to deal with a whole legion of spirits but when he arrived at the Mill House he said that a grave moral dilemma presented itself to him. He could easily drive the old woman from their borders and make her impotent to trouble them, but there were other bridges and other lone bachelors in the world besides those in Glascar. In other townlands people sometimes walked late at night. Who knew where she might take herself when she was driven out, or what harm she might do. It would be an act of fiendish cruelty to let her loose on the world at large, enraged as she undoubtedly would be by her enforced departure from her rightful place. However, he also claimed that he had a solution. In order that she might be properly cabined, cribbed and confined, he proposed to cork her up in a bottle and bury her!

There might be some trouble inducing her to enter a bottle, but the old padre had thought of that too. It was a well-known fact to those who are accustomed to dealing with demons and ghosts that they will easily be enticed into any place where there had never been anything but pure spirits. He therefore demanded a full bottle of whiskey and a good cork, so there would be no danger of any contamination. When asked what size of bottle he required he replied he needed, ‘A good big wan, so there’d be plenty a room for her, a quart should do da trick!’ The bottle and cork were brought hastily; nobody suggested that the whiskey should be poured into the mill race to make room for the demon. The priest made sure to dispose of it in a very non-wasteful fashion and also guaranteed the new vessel was blessed. When the bottle was empty he told the crowd to stay in their homes and he would go out and deal with the ghost.

What spell or incantation he used nobody knows, but after a considerable interval they heard a terrible whooping, hollering and then low groaning, finally followed a loud ‘Whoop! Ya boy ya!’ The priest then came in and triumphantly announced that he had Bonnety corked in the bottle. Bonnety was safely bottled up and it would be dangerous for them to let her loose again. The priest said that the bottle must be buried at the bridge and then he would bless the bridge so that there would be no further disturbances at Bonnety’s final resting place. The priest seemed to be bearing an awful weight in the bottle as he went to the bridge, so much that he almost missed his footing at times, but he held onto the bottle for dear life. He made the people dig a hole about two feet deep below one of the bridge-arches and in it he placed the bottle. It was said that no water ever ran through that arch afterwards.

There the bottle stayed for a long time but there was a great flood in 1915 and the bottle was supposed to have been dredged up from its grave. Whether it was washed out to sea, lodged itself in another field or found its home on top of someone’s mantelpiece we will never know. But somewhere out there is a quart-sized bottle with a good strong cork and may the powers that be, help and protect the poor soul unfortunate enough to find it and to dare open it, for curiosity can often cost far more than one bargained for.

MAGGIE’S LEAP

The Mountains of Mourne, antique strange idylls

Of Maggie’s Great Leap and the dread Bloody Bridge

Where thousands were slain for reading their bibles

And thrown from the parapet over the ridge.

(From ‘A Poetical Description of Down’, by Joseph S. Adair, 1901)

I have always wondered what this ‘Bloody Bridge’ was and who this ‘Maggie’ character was and so, with a bit of detective work and with the help of a man who dedicated his life to protecting the ‘Last Leprechauns of Ireland’, I got some answers. I also discovered that there is a wonderful little story all about ‘Maggie’s Leap’. I was given this story by a very interesting man called Kevin Woods who is a ‘Leprechaun Whisperer’, from Carlingford in County Louth. He was told this story by his father and grandfather who were told by their father’s, grandfathers and great-grandfathers and that’s how it was passed down. Mr Woods was born in 1944, and is as alive now as he was then and he often wonders why he has been so blessed.

The Bloody Bridge massacre, which took place during the Irish Rebellion of 1641, is a dark and ill-famed incident. It happened when a group of Protestant prisoners were being taken by the Irish, under escort, from Newry to Newcastle (other accounts say Downpatrick Jail or Strangford) to be exchanged for Catholic prisoners. When they reached the old stone bridge a few miles from Newcastle, the Irish commander, Russell, received intelligence that he would be attacked at the town and that the Catholic prisoners held there had already been executed by hanging. In a fit of rage and retribution he killed some of his prisoners on the spot and drove the rest over the edge of the bridge, down to the rocks below. How many met their deaths here is unclear: Adair’s poem states that there were thousands of Protestant prisoners killed, some records maintain that it was a group of only ten to fifteen prisoners, while others suggest up to fifty were killed.

In Ulster, after hearing of the massacre, many of the Protestant settlers took their revenge by killing the native Catholic population when they got the chance, particularly in 1642-43, when a Scottish Covenanter army landed in Ulster. William Lecky, the nineteenth-century historian of the 1641 rebellion, concluded that, ‘It is far from clear on which side the balance of cruelty rests’.

It was during this time of great unrest and conflict that the story of ‘Maggie’s Leap’ took place.

Maggie was the only daughter of Deegan, a renowned and skilful poacher from Ballyvaston, Killough in County Down. His illustrious reputation and expertise was known and respected all over County Down. Salmon or pheasant, deer or hare – nothing was safe from the snares and traps laid by this crafty rustler. He was seen as a sort of Robin Hood-type character and he always shared his spoils, feeding hungry mouths all over Newcastle and the surrounding areas. When he came into some money he was happy to hand it out to those who had none, but he was also just as happy to take it from those who had too much whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Maggie was the measure of her father’s dreams and from the time she was a toddler, Deegan carried her with him on his back on his daily adventures. Before the age of ten she had mastered her father’s craft and was as dexterous and competent as any of the adults in the art of poaching and knowledge of the land and all in it.

Like Redmond O’Hanlon, Maggie and her father were considered adversaries of the landed gentry and affluent residents in the area. While they were never apprehended or their identities disclosed to the authorities by the loyal country folk, they were always under suspicion. They were blamed whenever deer vanished from estates or the salmon pools of the Shimna River were fished till there was nothing left but water. The big landowners began to employ extra grounds-keepers and in some cases armed sentries. But this was to no avail for the elusive father and daughter team was never caught.

By the time Maggie was seventeen she had matured into the most beautiful and free-spirited being that had ever roamed the County of Down. She had long golden flowing curls like sunlight, eyes as blue as the sea that rolled down to the Mournes, lips like cherries and a smile that would soften even the hardest heart. She was as swift as the wind and dexterous as a butterfly. No one could outrun her or outwit her. She was a wild and wonderful creature to behold and the apple of her father’s eye, who would have killed any man who dared harm a hair on her pretty head. But the destruction of wild game and fish farms in the estates forced the landlords to seek the assistance of the British Army to curtail this pillaging and plundering, particularly the poaching pair from Ballyvaston.

This new vigil carried out by the soldiers weakened Maggie and her father’s resources. After a while it became almost impossible to poach the lands. Deegan himself became very disheartened by the whole affair and drew back on his activities, before long Maggie became the sole provider. Her poaching was down to a minimum but her extraordinary beauty helped her receive many gifts of food from the bored and lonely soldiers in return for a smile and a kiss on the cheek but nothing more.

One of her tricks when the time was right was to climb down the cliff face of Dundrum Bay to gather the eggs of nesting seagulls. She would fill her basket to the brim and gracefully make her way back up to the top, like a seasoned rock-climber. It was on such an excursion that she was spotted on the headland by a group of drunken soldiers. Her golden hair was blowing in the wind, her skirt tucked up for climbing, revealing her long beautiful legs as she trod elegantly along the road home with her basket full of seagull eggs. The soldiers seized their opportunity to block her path and trap her with the cliff edge behind her, and its perilous drop to the ocean below. They charged down towards her, shouting obscenities and roaring with wild drunken laughter and madness in their minds.

Maggie ran as fast she could, but she was trapped. In front of her was a great gap that lay between the cliff edge and the rest of the existing headland; if she could make it to the other side she would be free of her pursuers. The soldiers laughed mockingly and one of them approached her menacingly stating that no human, no matter how pretty, could make it to the other side unless they sprouted wings. Maggie could not swim but death by drowning or crashing onto the rocks below seemed a better fate compared to what the brutal soldiers had in mind for her. Still holding on to the basket of eggs, she took a deep breath and called upon all the powers of the universe that had protected her up until this point, then turned and leaped to freedom. Amazingly she landed with grace and dexterity on the other side, leaving her tormentors standing with their eyes and mouths wide-open, looking completely astonished and bewildered. One of the soldiers went to fire his musket at her but the senior member of the group ordered him to put his gun down, stating that such a magnificent and fearless creature should never be harmed for fear of punishment from God himself. Legend has it that not a single egg was broken and they all lay unharmed in her basket.

Apparently Maggie continued on for many years, providing food for her father and those who were too weak to help themselves. Sadly for every red-blooded male of the time she never married or left behind any children to carry on her legacy. Nevertheless, she is still remembered in County Down by the chasm she cleared south of Newcastle still known to this day as Maggie’s Leap.

WEE MEG BARNILEG AND THE FAIRIES

I was amazed the first time I visited Rochester, New York, to hear Sharon Saluzzo tell this story, which she said came from County Fermanagh. I had never heard it and, at the time, neither had any other storyteller in Ireland, as far as I was aware. This is an example of a tale that crossed the Atlantic, disappeared in Ireland and finally returned home. Sharon told me that Ruth Sawyer, the author of The Way of the Storyteller, first published by Penguin Books in 1976, had a nursemaid, called Johanna, who had emigrated from Ireland and brought her stories with her.

A long time ago a rich farmer and his wife lived beside Lough Erne. They were a kindly, good-hearted pair who had one daughter, a wee terror called Meg. She was spoilt rotten. Whatever she wanted she got. Her parents doted on her. As far as they were concerned she could do no wrong. Wherever they went they took Meg. She accompanied them to fairs, weddings, wakes and festivals and she was guaranteed to behave badly everywhere. The neighbours hated to see them coming because she was a destructive child who would smash your best china and she had a tongue fit for clipping hedges. When she went visiting she’d stand in the middle of the floor and look around, then turn to her mother and make comments such as, ‘Do you see they’ve still got them old torn lace curtains at the window? Thon chair still has a broken leg and look at that! The dirt from the floor’s been brushed into the corner under yon brush. Thon’s a disgrace.’

She was even worse at a wake, passing remarks such as, ‘Listen til auld Aggie coughing her head off. Another clean shirt’ll do her. I’ll bet hers is the next wake we’ll be enjoying. She’s got consumption, so she has.’

And when she wasn’t encouraging people into the grave she’d say things like, ‘Didn’t Barney Gallagher say before he died that Barney Maguire was the meanest man in the whole of Ireland? I remember father telling mother he’d rather strike a bargain with the auld devil himself than with him. Do ye remember saying, yon Father?’

When Meg wasn’t pestering the neighbours she was pestering animals. She took delight in pulling the cat’s tail and whiskers, beating dogs with sticks, pulling feathers out of hens and chickens and the wings off flies. She was a terror and she had her poor mother worn to the bone.

Her mother was a fussy woman, who took pride in her tidy house and well-dressed family. She spent her days cleaning up after Meg, who trailed mud into the house and went through clothes like a dose of salts. She had a special talent for becoming covered in dirt and tearing dresses. Every night her poor mother sat mending and sewing by candlelight.

Meg often refused to eat what was set in front of her.

‘I can’t stomach that rubbish!’ she’d shout before throwing perfectly good food on the floor.

Her mother’s soft voice was often heard wheedling, ‘Meg, darling, tell me what you’d like to eat. You’ve got to keep your strength up. Please put that bowl down before you break it and stop annoying the dog. Now, come on, be a good girl and your da’ll take you to the shop and buy you some sweeties.’

In other words, Meg’s mother, without meaning to, encouraged her to behave badly.

The neighbours said, ‘It’s a disgrace what thon wean puts her mother through and her such a nice, gentle woman.’

One day Meg’s mother decided to take Meg next door to the neighbouring farm to borrow a bowl of sugar. When the farmer’s wife saw her coming she let out a cry that could be heard over the whole of Ireland.

‘Lorny bless us! Here comes Meg. Quick, hide the new butter crock in the loft, put the best platter under the bed. Tie the pig in the byre, hide the hens’ eggs in the churn and pray to the Holy Virgin we survive with nothing broken.’

Meg came into the house and looked around.

‘Mother,’ she said, ‘do you see auld granny sitting in the corner there? She looks greyer than ever. I’ll bet she’s not long for this world. She’ll soon be pushing up the daisies. Just look at thon boil she has on her eyelid! Have you ever seen anything so ugly? And do you see they’ve still got that old faded rug on her knee. They mustn’t be doing too well or they’d get her a nice new one.’

Meg ran round the kitchen like a wild thing. A hen walked in through the open door. She kicked it and followed as it squawked and rushed back outside.

Old Jack, the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh lay asleep in the street. Meg kicked him awake. Jack groaned, stood up and wagged his tail. Meg pulled his whiskers. Then she began to tease him by holding a bar of chocolate out and jerking it away as he went to eat it. Eventually Jack accidentally bit her and she went off like a siren before running back into the house screaming.

‘Old Jack bit me! Old Jack bit me! He should be shot, so he should. He’s a dangerous dog.’

She climbed on to her mother’s knee and sobbed.

‘There! There!’ comforted her mother. ‘Let me kiss you better. My poor wee darling! Did that nasty dog hurt you? You’re right. He should be shot for biting my wee sweetheart.’

The farmer was attracted by the commotion and came into the kitchen.

‘That child should be shot, not Jack,’ he said firmly. ‘Jack’s the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh, if not in the whole of Ireland. That child’s a cruel wee hussy. If Jack bit her she deserved it.’

Meg peeped through her fingers. The farmer looked angry. He scowled at her. Would he really shoot her, she wondered. She felt uneasy and sat quietly on her mother’s knee, then, when nobody was looking, she slithered down and sneaked out through the open door.

‘That nasty old farmer’ll never catch me!’ she chortled as she struggled through a hole in the hedge and into the field. She ran and ran, aiming to get as far away from the house as possible. Eventually, after running through several fields, she saw men making hay. She watched for a few minutes before going to hide behind a haystack. She found their food in a pail covered with a dish in the shade there. She felt hungry and devoured everything she fancied. She threw the rest of the food on the ground before stopping and thinking, ‘Maybe the men’ll be angry when they see I’ve eaten their lunch. Perhaps they’ll help the farmer catch and shoot me. Maybe I’d better hide.’

She went into another field, found another haystack and sat down behind it. The sun was very warm and Meg had had a lot of exercise. The drowsy sound of bees humming as they collected honey made her feel sleepy. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber.

The men finished their work and went home to milk their cows, the sun set, bats flitted against the moon. Meg woke up with a start. She heard tinkling voices and felt confused. Who was there? Where was she? What had happened to her? She peeped in the direction of the voices and saw a troop of fairies dressed in green jackets and red hats, dragging small rakes.

A small voice complained, ‘That terrible child’s a blithering nuisance, scattering hay like this. We’ll never get the place ready in time to have a decent dance before dawn.’

‘Somebody should teach her some manners,’ another said.

‘Yes, and to be more thoughtful. I hate the way she wastes food and have you seen how she destroys clothes? She has her poor mother worn to the bone, what with cleaning and washing and ironing and mending. It’s a crying shame.’

‘I hope we catch her some night and have a chance to knock some sense in til her. Ye’ll see! Tiochaidh ár lá! (Our time will come!) We’ll teach her a lesson!’

Any other child would have been frightened to hear such a conversation, but not Meg. She was confident and used to having her own way and getting into the middle of everything.

‘What can those silly wee fairy men do?’ she thought. ‘They’re old and feeble. I’m bigger and stronger than they are. I’ll teach them a lesson. I’ll knock them down like ninepins before I go home.’ With that she jumped out from behind the haystack.

‘Come on!’ she shouted. ‘Who’s going to teach me a lesson? You and what army?’

She ran around, knocking the melt out of the fairies and laughing her head off.

The night grew very silent. The wee men didn’t say a word. They just looked solemnly and quietly at Meg. Then one shouted, ‘Make the fairy ring! Make the fairy ring! Fairies dance and fairies sing!’

The wee men quickly formed a ring round Meg and began to dance. Their tiny feet wove complicated patterns on the green, green grass. Meg felt confused. The fairies moved so quickly they became a blur and she couldn’t see one to catch. They raised their small voices in song. It was a lovely tune but somehow threatening.

Ring, ring in a fairy ring,

Fairies dance and fairies sing.

Round, round on soft green ground –

Never a sound, never a sound.

Sway, sway as the grasses sway,

Down by the lough at the dawn of day.

Circle about as we leap and spring

Fairy men in a fairy ring.

Light on your toe, light on your heel,

One by one in a merry, merry reel.

Fingers touching, fingers so –

Round and round and round we go!

When the song was finished the wee men clapped their hands, kicked their heels and spun round like a hundred green spinning tops. Then they shouted, ‘Move hand or foot if ye can, wee Meg Barnileg.’

Meg found she couldn’t move a muscle.

‘Open your mouth and come out with some of those fine statements you’re famous for,’ jeered the fairies.

Meg opened her mouth to scream and found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t utter a squeak!

‘Now have a look at your substitute,’ the fairies laughed. ‘He’ll make a fine changeling.’

With that the fairies went and brought out the ugliest wee man you could imagine. They laid him on the ground and laughed.

Meg was horrified. She’d heard of changelings but hadn’t believed such things existed. She felt sick as she watched the fairies weave a spell. In the wink of an eye the ugly wee man grew and grew until he was the spitting image of Meg – face, hair, dress, boots, the lot. He stretched out in the hollow where Meg had been lying and was fast asleep before you could say, ‘Jack Robinson!’

‘Now,’ shouted the wee men, ‘it’s time for you, my beauty. We’ll take you below.’

A hundred pairs of fairy hands grabbed her, carried her over to a fairy thorn and threw her up in the air. Suddenly she was falling, falling, falling, down, down and down through a dark, black hole until she landed on a pile of soft leaves. She looked around and found she was at the heart of a fairy souterrain. A gentle light shone from what looked like thousands of glow-worms hanging around the walls and ceiling.

The place was beautiful but the floor was covered in scraps of food.

‘You dirty clarts,’ shouted Meg. ‘If you’d any sense you’d keep this place clean and tidy the way my mother does at home!’

The fairies laughed heartily.

‘Meg,’ said their leader, ‘that’s all the food you’ve wasted in your life. Here’s a rake. Brush it up. Eat it when you’re hungry.’

‘No! No! NO!’ yelled Meg, stamping her foot in rage. ‘I’ll never eat that rubbish. I’m hungry. I want a drink of milk and a piece of currant cake.’

‘Tough titty,’ said the fairy leader firmly. ‘You can’t have anything fresh while all that wasted food lies uneaten. The quicker you eat it the quicker you’ll have something fresh. It’s up to you. You may starve if you choose. Here’s the rake. Tidy the floor. Come on! Get moving! We can’t dance on it the way it is.’

So Meg found herself with a rake in her hands.

The floor was covered as far as the eye could see with cold spuds, bits of wheaten bread, lumps of stirabout, soda farls, potato bread, crumbs of cake, half-eaten apples and whatnot. She raked the largest pieces into a corner and swept the smallest into tidy piles. She worked and worked until she was exhausted. Every joint in her body ached and she grew hungrier and hungrier.

‘My belly thinks my throat’s cut,’ she yelled. ‘If you’re going to force me til work like a slave for ye, ye could at least have the manners til bring me something til eat.’

The fairies laughed, ‘You’ve wasted all that good food and we’ve told you that we’ll not give you a morsel until you use what you’ve wasted.’

In the end Meg’s hunger forced her to eat her own leftovers. At last, weeks later, she’d finished her task and was given a piece of fresh bread and a drink of milk. It tasted wonderful. She vowed she’d never waste food again.

‘Now, we’ve another wee job for you,’ said a fairy, as he led her into another cavernous underground space. It was cluttered with dirty, torn dresses, every stitch she’d ever worn since she could first creep around the floor.

Meg looked about her, kicked one of her dresses and snarled, ‘What do you want me to do with this lot?’

‘Wash, iron and mend your clothes. You had your poor mother worn to a frazzle running around after you.’

‘WON’T!’ yelled Meg. ‘WON’T! WON’T WON’T!’

She stamped her feet and stuck her tongue out as far as if would go.

‘Meg,’ said the wee man quietly, ‘it’s up to you. We can wait a thousand years for you to make amends.’ And with that he disappeared.

Meg walked around in a temper, kicking clothes, banging walls with her fists and saying bad words. She threw herself on the ground and had a temper tantrum. Nobody came near her and she began to feel foolish. She picked herself up and thought, ‘Maybe I should start washing, ironing and mending. At least it’d be something to do.’

The minute that thought crossed her mind an old fairy woman appeared, took her over to a washtub and showed her how to wash clothes. Meg began to scrub her dirty dresses. Her hands became red and sore as she washed and scrubbed. Then she had to starch and iron them. The iron was heavy and hot and she burnt herself several times. She hated mending. It was a boring job and the task seemed endless. The fairies were not sympathetic.

‘Think of the trouble you gave your poor mother,’ they said. ‘Now that you’re here she has peace and quiet to rest and the neighbours are enjoying life for the first time in years!’

At last Meg had finished and the fairies took her into a large space filled with the ugliest plants she’d ever seen. They looked like nettles with the thorns of thistles. Every here and there was a pretty flower.

‘What’s all that about?’ asked Meg.

‘Those weeds are all the nasty words you have ever spoken. You must pull them out and put them over there on the compost heap.’

‘WON’T! WON’T! WON’T!’ yelled Meg.

Immediately three large ugly plants appeared at her feet.

‘You were shouting,’ said the fairy. ‘You must learn to guard your tongue or you’ll never finish this task.’

Meg looked around her. Had she really been that nasty?

‘What are those pretty flowers?’ she asked

The fairy smiled, ‘Sometimes you made a mistake and said something pleasant like telling your mother you loved her. They’re all the nice words you have ever spoken.’

Meg felt ashamed for the first time in her life. Had she really said so few nice things and been so nasty? She got down on her knees and began weeding. It was a terrible job. The stings caused her hands to become swollen, her knees felt like two red lumps of burning turf, her back ached, her joints became sore and she learnt to control her tongue. Every time she said something nasty another ugly weed appeared. She began playing games with the space. When a fairy appeared she said something pleasant and watched as pretty flowers grew. At last she was finished. She looked around her and for the first time since she’d gone to live with the fairies she felt happy. The room looked very pretty with all those beautiful flowers. She lifted her skirts and began to dance with joy.

Fairies love dancing, so when they saw Meg bending and swaying like a flower and pointing her toes so nicely they clapped their hands and cheered.

‘Meg?’ they asked. ‘Would you like to come above ground tonight and dance with us by the light of the silver moon?’

‘I’d love to,’ said Meg.

That night Meg, for the first time in a year, smelt new-cut hay and the fragrant roses blooming round cottage doors. She felt a soft balmy breeze caressing her cheek and saw the green grass under her feet. It was wonderful. Then she remembered her mother had once said, ‘Anyone taken by the fairies can escape by finding a four-leaf clover and wishing to go home.’

Meg lifted her skirts and began to dance. She took every possible opportunity to bend down low and look for a four-leaf clover, but to no avail. She became homesick and her heart despaired as the moon sank behind the mountains, then she saw it outlined against her shiny, black patent shoe. A lucky four-leaf clover!

‘Look,’ she shouted in delight, as she held it up. ‘Look what I’ve found! I can have a wish! I wish I was at home!’

With that she woke up in her own wee bed. Her mother was sitting beside her.

‘Mother,’ said Meg. ‘I hope they didn’t shoot the dog. He’d never have bitten me if I hadn’t tortured the life out of him.’

Her mother looked at her in astonishment.

‘Meg,’ she said, ‘you don’t sound like yourself. What happened to you? We found you fast asleep behind a haystack in Nobel’s field. That was a year ago today.’

Meg explained how she had been captured by the fairies and how they had taught her to behave herself.

From that day until the day she died Meg was a changed person. She was thoughtful, kind and gentle. She helped her mother tidy up, kept a civil tongue in her head and ate everything put before her. When she grew up she got married and had seventeen children. Today, if you walk along the banks of Lough Erne and see a well-behaved child the neighbours will probably tell you, ‘That child is the great-great-great grandchild of wee Meg Barnileg.’

RETURN TO TEMPO

This is a story I got from my father, William Henry. During and after the Second World War, he spent a lot of time in Fermanagh. He worked in the insurance industry; his job was to travel around the countryside assessing Scutch Mills and giving quotations for insurance. He was always in good humour when he came back. He said the people were ‘no fools’; they knew how to make a shrewd bargain and he always had a tall tale to tell. Unfortunately this is the only one I can remember. I am grateful to Florence Creighton, who works in Lisnaskea Library and is a member of Lisnaskea Historical Society, for adding the last sentence. I had forgotten it!

There was a fella from Tempo who emigrated to America. He found the States to be everything he had hoped for. As far as he could see, the land was flowing with milk, honey and opportunity. He, being a Fermanagh man, had the gift of the gab and was a hard worker. He made the most of his opportunities, built up a good business and eventually became a millionaire. Naturally he wanted to go back home and show off.

The Yank thought long and hard about how he’d impress his friends. Eventually he decided the best thing to do would be to ship his large car to Ireland, drive it across the country and finish his journey by travelling slowly up the main street of Tempo. Nobody there had a car, never mind one as big as his. It would cause a sensation.

The car landed safely on Irish soil. The Yank breathed a sigh of relief, got into it, filled it with petrol and set off. In those days the roads were poor so it was a long, hazardous journey from the port to Fermanagh and on to the village of Tempo. He drove up hills and down dales, then near the top of Brougher Mountain the car gave a splutter, a cough and conked out. It was as dead as a dodo.

The Yank got out and, with a lot of futtering and stuttering, managed to open the bonnet. He knew nothing about the innards of cars. At home he paid a chauffeur to drive him about and the chauffeur knew all there is to know. The Yank was stuck. He felt helpless and gazed in horror at the engine. He looked around for help. It was a remote area and he couldn’t even see the friendly twinkling of light from a farmhouse. He was scratching his head in bewilderment, wondering what to do next, when a voice spoke to him.

‘Your sparking plugs are dirty. Unscrew them, clean them, put them back and start the engine.’

The Yank was puzzled and looked all round.

There was nobody there.

He felt frightened.

Was he hearing a ghost or a fairy? He, being a practical Yank, didn’t believe in such things. But maybe … maybe there were such things as ghosts and fairies? This was Ireland and strange things happen in Ireland. He’d heard that fairies sometimes steal humans. Perhaps he was going to be stolen? He was confused and terrified.

‘You gomeral, you,’ said the voice. ‘Why can’t you do what you’re told?’

The Yank felt more confused than ever. He looked around but couldn’t see anybody. The only living thing within view was a white horse standing near the fence beside his car.

‘Oh! You’re a right eejit,’ said the voice. ‘Why don’t you just do as you’re told? Look at your engine. Can’t you see there’re four sparking plugs sticking up and gazing you straight in the eye? You can easily unscrew them. Take them out one at a time, clean them on your handkerchief, Screw them back in, start up your engine and away you go. What have you got to lose?’

The Yank thought about the advice given. He had nothing to lose by following it, so he did as he was told, got into the car and drove off. He felt shaken by the experience. The more he thought about it, the more shaken he felt so he drove to the nearest village, stopped at Campbell’s Bar and staggered in through the door.

The bartender glanced at him.

‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he remarked.

The Yank explained what had happened.

‘Was it a white horse, or a brown one, in the field?’ the bartender asked.

‘It was a white one,’ said the Yank.

‘You were lucky the white horse was out,’ said the bartender. ‘Thon brown one hasn’t got an ounce of sense at all, at all, at all. It knows nothin’ about cars.’

THE SILKIE SEAL

On the small island of Inishfree a short distance offshore from Burtonport, a fisherman named Padraig, lived alone in a small cottage. Each day he would take his small boat out to sea, wait patiently and see what gifts the ocean would offer him. When he returned he would push his boat high onto the shore away from the tide, gather his catch, tidy his nets and head home to his small cottage.

In the evenings he would often head to one of the other cottages on the island where the neighbours gathered to share the news of the day; they might even have news from the mainland if someone had been over. On such gatherings someone would sing a few songs and tell stories and invariably someone would tell a story about the silkie seal, a seal that takes off its skin to reveal a beautiful woman beneath.

Fishermen had great respect for seals for fear of harming a silkie. Of course some of them also secretly coveted the silkie. Why? Well, one reason was the beautiful woman hiding beneath the skin, but the silkie also knew the secret language of the sea. Knowing when the waves were whispering ‘a storm is coming’. Knowing when the waves were whispering where to find the best fish. Precious information to any fisherman.

Now when anyone told the story of the silkie or sang a song to her mystery, Padraig would sit in the corner and grin.

‘You’re grinning Padraig,’ said one of the older men.

‘I can’t believe you still believe in that nonsense,’ said Padraig.

‘You’ll learn one of these days,’ the old men chorused, shaking their heads.

One night Padraig was out fishing with a beautiful full moon hanging in the sky and it was perfectly calm. He lay on his back enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat and the waves lapping the side of his boat. The tugging on his nets disturbed him from his reverie and he pulled in a big haul of fish. When he got back onto the shore he went through his usual routine, pushing his boat high onto the shore out of the reach of the tide, tidying away his catch and his nets. He headed towards his cottage, his load heavy but his heart light.

As he made his way towards his cottage he heard singing, or maybe it was music, he wasn’t quite sure what it was, drifting across the shore to him. There was no one on the island with such talent and he shook his head, putting it down to the late hour and his tiredness. But the sound tugged at him and soon he found his footsteps heading across the shore towards a small beach.

He crouched down behind an outcrop of rocks and glanced over to see three beautiful women dancing on the beach. He was enthralled by the graceful movements of the women and fell under the trance of the music. It seemed that the very motion of their bodies was making the music. How long he was there he didn’t know but suddenly his trance was broken when the music stopped and the three women came towards the outcrop.

Hiding himself, Padraig watched as one by one the three women came towards the rock, pulled on a seal skin and disappeared beneath the waves. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Not only had he seen one silkie seal but he had seen three. He made his way to his cottage in a daze, not sure whether to believe his own eyes. He couldn’t sleep that night as the three visions danced before him for the whole night. When the sun rose in the morning he went down to the shore where he had seen the silkies, hoping to see some evidence to confirm what he had seen but there was nothing.

That evening as usual he pushed his small boat out into the sea and made his way to his usual fishing ground. He threw out his nets and cast about his eyes hoping maybe to glimpse the movement of a seal. It was a quiet night for fishing and after several hours he pulled in his nets and made his way to the shore. Unknown to himself his ears were alert for the sound of that magical music that echoed within. When he came to the shore he jumped from his boat and pushed it high onto the beach, out of the reach of the tide. He stood listening to the wind but there was nothing on it but the sound of the waves. He gathered his nets and fish and made his way to his cottage. But his curiosity got the better of him. Leaving his nets and his small catch inside the door of his cottage he ran back to the shore in the hope of glimpsing the silkies again. He crept slowly towards the rocks and glanced over onto the beach.

‘Ach, I should have known better,’ he said. ‘It was only a dream and I’m a bigger fool to think anything of it.’

Disappointed he made his way home the long way, sure to avoid the other cottages and any gathering of his neighbours.

After that night Padraig carried on the daily routine of his fishing. After a few nights of absence he returned to visiting his neighbours but whether they realised it or not, Padraig didn’t laugh in jest when they told stories or sang songs of the silkie.

A month later Padraig was on the sea as usual with a beautiful full moon hanging in the sky; it was perfectly calm. He lay on his back enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat and the waves lapping at its side. The tugging on his nets disturbed him from his reverie and he pulled in a big haul of fish. When he got back onto the shore he went through his usual routine, pushing his boat high onto the beach out of the reach of the tide, gathering his catch and tidying away his nets. He headed towards his cottage, his load heavy but his heart light. But as he walked he heard the sound of music or singing drifting towards him from the sea. His heart skipped a beat but he quickly tried to dampen his own spirit.

‘I’m only imagining things now,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to make a fool of myself.’

But the music cast its spell on him and he found himself drifting across the shore. He crouched down behind the outcrop of rocks. He glanced over and there on the beach were the three beautiful women dancing under the full moon. The graceful movement of their bodies seemed to create the music.

Thinking quickly, Padraig reached an arm around the rock and stole one of the seal skins lying there. He ran to his cottage and hid the skin up in the thatch for safe keeping. He grabbed a blanket from the bed and ran back to watch the silkies dance. He didn’t know how long he was watching before the three stopped their dance and the music died. One by one the seals ran to the rocks and one by one pulled on their seal skins. That is until the last one came.

‘Wait,’ she shouted to her sisters but it was too late; they had disappeared beneath the waves.

She searched frantically for her skin. Without it she couldn’t return to her people beneath the waves. Suddenly Padraig stepped out from his hiding place.

‘Have you seen a seal skin?’ the woman said.

‘A seal skin?’ he said. ‘No I haven’t. Look where have you come from? Did you fall off a boat?’

The woman didn’t answer and just looked out to sea.

‘You’ll get cold,’ said Padraig. ‘Wrap this blanket around you and come to my cottage; it’s just a short distance away. It’s warm and you can have something to eat.’

She had little choice and knew that her skin wouldn’t be far from this man.

The silkie found a welcome at Padraig’s cottage and knew that Padraig meant her no harm. She hoped that she would get her skin back soon and she could return to the sea. But the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months and before long to years. In that time she thought less about her sisters beneath the waves and love grew between her and Padraig. In time they had two children.

Padraig continued his routine of fishing every day. Sometimes his wife would warn him of a storm while other times she suggested a good place to fish. Life was good for both of them and they loved their children dearly. But occasionally Padraig would see her sitting looking longingly at the sea. He knew that a part of her still yearned to be beneath the waves with her own kind but they never spoke of it.

Now one night a terrible storm roared in off the Atlantic. Padraig and his family gathered in close to the fire, hoping and praying that they would be safe. The wind crashed against the windows, threatening to shatter the very glass. It tore at the thatch and Padraig feared that the wind would tear the roof from over their heads.

When the morning came the storm had calmed and Padraig went to see what damage had been done to their little cottage. He could see that the wind had torn the thatch away so he climbed onto the roof to repair it. The children played inside the cottage while their mother was busy with her chores. Suddenly something fell from the roof and landed between the children. The little girl lifted it and smelled it. She ran to her mother.

‘Mammy, mammy, mammy, look what I found,’ she cried. ‘It’s so soft and it smells like the sea.’

The mother’s heart leaped in her breast. She took the skin from her daughter’s hands and lifted it to her nose. It did smell like the sea even after all these years. As she held it she could feel the waves wrapping themselves around her.

‘I lost this a long time ago,’ she said. ‘It’s very precious to me. Now I have to go. When your father comes in tell him – well tell him I had to go home.’

She ran from the cottage and down to the shore.

When Padraig came into house a short time later the little girl came running. ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, I found it,’ she cried. ‘It fell from the roof and it smelled like the sea and it was so soft and mammy said it was very precious and she said to tell you she had to go home.’

‘Oh no,’ he cried and ran from the cottage.

As he came over the crest of the small hill he saw her making her way into the waves, back in her seal form. He called to her but whether the wind whipped his words away or she didn’t want to look back she continued into the waves and disappeared.

Padraig sat on the shore staring at the spot where her head had sunk from sight. His heart was broken; a gulf as deep as the sea ran through its middle. He loved her dearly but he always knew that someday she would return to her own kind. But he did have the children to take care of and love. He lifted himself from the shore and made his way home, wondering how he was going to explain it all.

At night he would stand at his door listening intently for the hint of that magical music that the silkies made with the graceful movement of their bodies. Sometimes, especially when there was a full moon, he would make his way to the shore, hoping against hope.

Padraig continued his daily routine of pushing his boat out into the waves, pulling hard on the oars till he reached his fishing grounds, casting his nets and waiting for what gifts the sea had to offer. But now he often brought his children with him. And sometimes when they were on the sea a seal’s head would appear beside the boat. Sometimes she would come to warn them that the waves were whispering ‘a storm is coming’. Sometimes she would come to tell them where the best fish were to be found. And sometimes she came just to see her beautiful family. But they were never to see her in her human form again.

SALTY BUTTER

The town of Lifford in County Donegal and the town of Strabane look directly across at each other and had it not been for the river sure it would only be the one town. Indeed people moved freely between the two and businesses often operated in both. Now the imposition of the border further complicated things for the people of the two towns, as now there was an authority on both sides watching their toing and froing.

Of course it wasn’t long before people started to gain enterprise out of this situation and more so when the war came. With the war came rationing. However, it affected people on the opposite sides in different ways.

For the people of Strabane butter was the thing they missed most. On the Donegal side it was tea. Now the Irish are well known for their tea drinking and the people of Donegal were wedded to the practice just like any other. It was a torture to be without it and any number of substitutes just never came close to satisfying their desires. It was known for families to scrape together a small fortune to buy a pound of tea from those who managed to have a supply.

There was one poor cratur who crossed the bridge into Strabane who had come all the way across from Gweedore. Now she hadn’t made the journey to buy anything; her interest was in selling. She had with her a load of fresh seaweed: dulse to eat and keep people healthy and kelp to use in the garden to grow a few vegetables. She called to one house with her wares and they were glad to see her. They bought some dulse. As the woman stood at the door she spied through the door the man of the house drinking from a cup.

‘Ah musha there’s a sight I haven’t seen in many the long day,’ she said.

‘And what would that be?’ said the woman of the house.

‘A person supping on a cup of tea,’ she said.

The woman in the house could see the longing on her face.

‘Och sure, we have plenty of that here,’ and she went and brought a cup to the woman. She watched as the Gweedore woman savoured each hot drop and smacked her lips when she finished.

‘Ah God bless you daughter for your kindness.’

‘You’re most welcome but sure you know you could have more of that if you wanted it,’ said the woman of the house.

‘Och I can’t be spending me few pennies on the likes of that with mouths to feed at home,’ she said.

‘Ah but you might not have to spend your pennies,’ said the woman.

‘And how is that then?’ she asked, looking about with a furtive glance.

‘Have you a cow back in Gweedore?’

‘Aye, indeed I do.’

‘And do you churn a bit of butter then?’

‘Aye, I do.’

‘Well if you can spare a pound of your butter I can spare a pound of that tea.’ The woman and her husband had such a hankering for butter that couldn’t be satisfied for love nor money.

‘I’ll be coming back next week,’ she said, ‘and I’ll bring the butter.’

Well the week couldn’t go fast enough for either family. On the appointed day the woman in Strabane set about baking a scone bread to put the butter on. But as the day wore on she thought the woman wasn’t going to appear. Finally, as evening was closing in, there was a gentle knock on the door.

‘God, woman, I thought you had forgotten me,’ she said.

‘I wanted to wait till it got a bit dark,’ the Gweedore woman said, afraid she would be caught. She handed over the butter and took the tea in return.

‘God’s speed to you for you are a decent woman,’ the Strabane women said in thanks.

The woman from Gweedore headed off towards the bridge to cross into Donegal with the tea safely deposited among her skirts.

Inside the house the family sat down with great fanfare to warm scone bread, hot tea and for the first time in months, butter. There was great excitement and chatter and a row nearly broke out over who could dip their knife into the golden block first. The father decided that they should all wait to take the first bite together.

‘One, two, three,’ the father counted and all five around the table tucked into their feast with gusto.

But within seconds there was a volley of shots from each of their mouths as they spat out the bread.

‘Ach it tastes of seaweed,’ cried the husband.

‘The stupid woman must have hidden it in the seaweed,’ declared the woman.

They all sat looking at the golden block of butter.

‘Well we can’t let it go to waste,’ said the father as he picked up his bread and ate it regardless.

The others followed suit and despite one or two complaints they made the best of it.

When the woman got home to Gweedore the kettle was sitting on the fire waiting to brew up. They were soon sipping hot tea and not a hint of the taste of seaweed.

‘God bless that woman in Strabane,’ she declared. ‘And I hope they’re having as much pleasure from the bit of butter.’

Of course it wasn’t just during the war that such activities were carried on. Over the years as duty and taxes varied on either side people crossed from one side to the other to purchase goods or indeed to claim benefits on both sides.

At one stage spark plugs for the car engine were half the price in Strabane than in Donegal. There was one customs man on the Lifford side who could tell by looking under the bonnet, however he did it, that the plugs came from the North. There and then they came out and you’d have to walk to get new ones locally. It wasn’t long before he earned the nickname of ‘Plugs’.

There was a woman who went back and forth regularly with a big old-fashioned pram. One day a smart boy stopped her and lifted the wean to discover a false bottom full of goods. Sure he thought he was the greatest thing ever. The other lads of course were never done telling him how great he was for this. Then one day she was crossing again and the lads were urging him on again. He stopped the woman and plunged his hand into the pram. But this time the woman was ready for him and his hand found itself sunk into a pile of dirty nappies.

AN DOBHARCHÚ

There are probably as many stories in Ireland as in Scotland about otherworldly sightings, except that here they are hiding in archives and scant published material, as deep as the lakes themselves, and not so easy to call to the surface.

This tale is as mythical in proportion as it is in having considerable fact behind it, not least the now faint but still accessible carving on a gravestone in North Leitrim. The carving relates to an incident in September 1722, retold in incredible detail both in prose and poem form, the latter credited to an unidentified hedge school master. Sources suggest it may have been composed first in Irish and later translated. It was widely told and sung as a ballad at fairs in the area around Glenade Lake, the central scene of this strange event.

I am indebted to Sligo historian and writer Joe McGowan for his research on this story, and in giving me permission to reference his book, Echoes of a Savage Land, and his website, www.sligoheritage.com, from which I sourced the poem and the following supporting details.

The story tells of a fierce struggle to the death between the Mc Loughlin brothers of Glenade and ‘that fierce brute the whistling Dobharchú’. The legend of An Dobharchú stems from the bestial murder of Grainne Ni Conalai at Glenade Lake on 24 September 1722. Some folk say she went to the lake to wash clothes; the ballad tells she went to bathe. Either way, when she failed to return, her husband, Traolach Mac Lochlainn, went to look for her. He was aghast when he found her body lying by the lake with the ‘beast lying asleep on her mangled breast’.

This and the chase that ensued would have little credibility today were it not for the tombstone marking the grave of Grainne Ni Conalai that can still be seen at the old cemetery of Conwell, near Kinlough. Although worn smooth and less clear now, the carving is still visible and shows a strange beast being stabbed by a dagger. Local people claim a similar monument existed at one time not so far away in Kilroosk cemetery. Broken and lost around 1922, it may have been the inspiration for the Conwell memorial, or indeed evidence of yet another monster.

According to Patrick Doherty of Glenade, local lore records that the monster began to chase Traolach who galloped away on his steed, but the chase ended at Caiseal-bán (Cashelgarron) stone fort, when Mac Lochlainn was forced to stop at the blacksmith’s to replace a lost horseshoe. When the enraged monster reached the forge the horse was hurriedly drawn across the entrance to form a barrier. Giving the terrified man a sword, the blacksmith advised him: ‘When the creature charges the horse, he’ll put his head right out through him. As soon as he does this you be quick and cut his head off.’ Patrick insists the story’s credibility is proven by the carved image engraved on Grainne Ni Conalai’s tombstone in Conwell cemetery.

Cashelgarron stone fort still stands today, nestled under the sheltering prow of bare Benbulben’s head. Both monster and horse are said to lie buried nearby.

The words of the poem reinforce Patrick’s assertions. Joe notes that, even though the scribe’s name is lost to us as well as the circumstances of his existence, his voice speaks eloquently across the centuries as clearly as if the words were penned yesterday. They are an articulate and enduring tribute to the event and to the poet’s genius.

By Glenade Lake tradition tells, two hundred years ago

A thrilling scene enacted was, to which, as years unflow,

Old men and women still relate, and while relating dread

Some demon of its kind may yet be found within its bed.

It happened one McGloughlan lived close by the neighbouring shore,

A lovely spot, where fairies oft in rivalry wandered o’er,

A beauteous dell where prince and chief oft met in revelry

With Frenchmen bold and warriors old to hunt the wild boar, free.

He and his wife, Grace Connolly, lived there unknown to fame,

There [or ‘Their’]* years in peace, until one day from out the lakes there came

What brought a change in all [their bliss,] their home and prospects too

The water fiend, the enchanted being, the dreaded Dobharchú.

It was on a bright September morn, the sun scarce mountain-high,

No chill or damp was in the air, all nature seemed to vie

As if to render homage proud the cloudless sky above,

A day for mortals to discourse in luxury and love.

And whilst this gorgeous way of life in beauty did abound,

From out the vastness of this lake stole out the water hound,

And seized for victim her who shared McGloughlan’s bed and board;

His loving wife, his more than life, whom almost he adored.

She having gone to bathe, it seems, within the water clear,

And not returning when she might, her husband, fraught with fear,

Hasting to where he her might find, when oh, to his surprise,

Her mangled form, still bleeding warm, lay stretched before his eyes.

Upon her bosom, snow-white once, but now besmeared with gore,

The Dobharchú reposing was, his surfeiting [now] being o’er.

Her bowels and entrails all around tinged with a reddish hue:

‘Oh God,’ he cried, ‘’tis hard to bear but what am I to do?’

He prayed for strength; the fiend lay still, he tottered like a child,

The blood of life within his veins surged rapidly and wild.

One long-lost glance at her he loved, then fast his footsteps turned

To home, while all his pent-up rage and passion fiercely burned.

He reached his house, he grasped his gun, which, clenched with nerves of steel,

He backwards sped, upraised his arm and then one piercing squeal

Was heard upon the balmy air. But hark! What’s that which came

One moment next from out its depth as if revenge to claim!

The comrade of the dying fiend with whistles long and loud

Came nigh and nigher to the spot. McGloughlan, growing cowed

Rushed to his home, his neighbours called, their counsel asked, and flight

Was what they bade him do at once and not to wait ’til night.

He and his brother, sturdy pair, as brothers true when tried,

Their horses took, their home forsook and westward fast did ride.

One dagger sharp and long each man had for protection too

Fast pursued by that fierce brute, the whistling Dobharchú.

The rocks and dells rang with its yells, the eagles screamed in dread.

The ploughman left his horses lone, the fishes too, ’tis said,

‘way from the mountain streams, though far, swam rushing to the sea;

And nature’s laws did almost pause, for death or victory.

For twenty miles the gallant steeds the riders proudly bore

With mighty strain o’er hill and dale that ne’er was seen before.

The fiend, fast closing on their tracks, his dreaded cry more shrill;

’Twas ‘Brothers try, we’ll do or die, on Cashelgarron Hill.’

Dismounting from their panting steeds, they placed them one by one

Across the path in lengthways formed within the ancient dún,

And standing by the outmost horse, awaiting for their foe

Their daggers raised, their nerves they braced to strike that fatal blow.

Not long to wait for nose on trail the scenting hound arrived

And through the horses with a plunge to force himself he tried,

And just as through the outmost horse he plunged his head and foremost part,

McGloughlan’s dagger to the hilt lay buried in his heart.

‘Thank God, thank God,’ the brothers cried, in wildness and delight,

Our humble home by Glenade Lake shall shelter us tonight.

Be any doubt to what I write, go visit old Conwell,

And see the grave where sleeps the brave whose epitaph can tell.

*[ ] denotes minor edits from other versions

THE EGGSHELL BREW THAT UNHINGED AN IMPOSTER

I love this tale for the clear sound of the spoken voice coming through – it feels like the narrator is sitting in the same room, telling it now.

There wasn’t a better doing man in all Leitrim or the next county to it than Billy Brogan. He had a tidy farm, laid out in nice square little fields and the crops o’ spuds he used to have, it was before forty-six, used to be the wonder of the whole parish.

His wife was as thrifty as himself, a brave and smart wee woman that was always sure to have the hens layin’ in the right time an’ everything in its own place.

But for all that, things can’t run smooth the whole time and trouble came to the Brogans an’ I’ll just tell ye now.

There was a big family in it, all fine childer, but the youngest, a wee boy of about a year old, was the healthiest specimen of a babby every you beamed an eye on, blue eyed and flaxy haired, an’ him with skin like a lily an’ there wouldn’t be a whimper out of him from June to January an’ from January back to June.

Well, the whole family was pettin’ him an’ admirin’ him when what happened but didn’t he take sick one evenin’ at the dusk, an’ the howlin’ he made all thro’ the night was something terrific, and the next mornin’ nobody that ever saw him would believe it was the same child.

He was shrivelled up into half his size an’ him squallin’ an’ cryin’ an’ puttin’ faces on him that would make ye shiver in your shoes, an’ as day followed day ’twas worse he was gettin’ an’ his poor mother that miserable an’ put about that if your heart was made of marble you’d have a pity for her.

Now the fairies were very plentiful at this time an’ there was an ould fort not a stone’s throw from the Brogans’ house, an’ I used to hear my grandmother, God be good to her, saying that many a time she listened at night to laughin’ an’ the grandest music comin’ out of it an’ hundreds of wee lights runnin’ round it.

So it was no wonder that the ould people of the district would say that Brogan’s youngest child had been exchanged by the ‘wee folk’ an’ the dawny craythur left in its place.

What could poor Mrs Brogan do but believe what everyone was tellin’ her but, for all that, she didn’t care about hurtin’ the ‘thing’, whatever it was, for although its face was as withered as an old man’s of eighty, an’ its body a mere bag of bones, still it was very like her own child in its features, an’ she couldn’t somehow find it in her heart to roast it alive or burn off its nose with a red-hot poker, although these remedies were often suggested to her for the gettin’ back of her own child.

Now at this time there lived up at the back of Benbo Mountain, in a wee mud-wall cabin, a very wise woman known locally as Sorcha Ruadh.

She was a quare ould damsel an’ the people were afeard of her, though she had charms for curin’ warts an’ cancers an’ colics, an’ I couldn’t tell you what all, but it was supposed that Sorcha used to have dalins with a black gintleman that I hope none of us will ever meet, an’ it was said that she could turn herself into a hare quicker than you’d take off your hat.

Be that as it may, didn’t Moll Brogan walk the ten long miles across the mountain to get the advice of Sorcha about the changelin’ an’ as soon as she stepped in the wee cabin didn’t the ould hag, squattin’ in the chimney corner, say to her, ‘You’re in trouble this mornin’, Moll Brogan.’

‘’Tis well you may say that, Sorcha Ruadh,’ says Moll, ‘an’ good cause I have to be in trouble for there was my wee Mickeen, as fine a baby as ever was seen, taken out of his cradle without as much as a by your lave, an’ a miserable rawny of a shrivelled up leprechaun left in his stead. It’s no wonder the sarra would be on me, Sorcha Ruadh.’

‘Small blame to you, Moll,’ says the ould lassy, ‘but are ye dead certain about it bein’ a leprechaun?’

‘Could I be certainer, Sorcha,’ says Moll. ‘Haven’t I me own two eyes an’ didn’t Nancy Reilly know what it was at once, an’ isn’t she the ouldest an’ wisest woman in our county?’

Sorcha said nothing for a few minutes an’ she turned a look on poor Moll thant was like to freeze the heart in her, so wild an’ quare it was, an’ after a while says she, ‘Will you take an ould woman’s advice, Moll Brogan, though you’ll maybe be sayin’ to yourself ’tis foolish?’

‘Sorcha Ruadh,’ says Moll, pluckin’ up courage, ‘will ye say can ye get me my own child back?’

‘Do as I’m goin’ to tell ye,’ says the ould wan, ‘an’ you’ll soon know an’ here’s what you’ve got to do.

‘Take the big pot that ye boil the pigs’ feedin’ in an’ fill it full of water on top of the biggest fire that ever blazed on your hearth an’ lave it there till it’s frothin’ over like mad.

‘Then you’ll go an’ get nine new-laid blue duck eggs, an’ break them an’ be sure ye keep the shells but fling away the rest.

‘When that’s finished put the shells into the boilin’ pot an’ you’ll soon know wheather it’s your own gossoon or not.

‘If you find out that it’s not a right thing in the cradle, redden the poker in the fire an’ drive it down his throat, an’ I’ll go bail he won’t give you much bother.’

Moll started back for home an’ done what ould Sorcha tole her.

She put on a reekin’ fire of turf that would dry a crop of oats, an’ soon had the big pot boilin’ at a rate that never was seen afore.

The bucko in the cradle was lyin’ quiet without a chirp out of him but now an’ again he’d turn an eye after Moll an’ a cold stitther in it that would wean a foal, an’ he into watchin’ the big fire an’ the big pot an’ didn’t he sit up straight when he saw the egg shells goin’ in an’ says he, in a cracked voice like a very ould man’s, ‘What is that you’re doin’ Moll Brogan?’

Poor Moll nearly fell out of her stannin’ with fright when she heard the child of a year ould talkin’ but she contrived to keep her wits together until she got the poker rammed into the heart of the fire, sayin’ to the playboy, ‘It’s brewing I am avick.’

‘An’ what might ye be brewin’ Moll Brogan?’ says the quare thing, an’ Moll says to herself, ‘I wish the poker was red,’ but out aloud says she, ‘Is it what I’m brewin’ you want to know avick? Well it’s eggshells Awomy,’ says she.

With that, up jumps the playboy again an’ him gigglin’ fit to split his sides, an’ says he, ‘I’m above a thousand years in the world an’ I never seen eggshells brewed before.’

By this time the poker was mad red an’ without more ado Moll seized it an’ made for the cradle an’ crammed it into the open mouth of the thing that was grinnin’ at her.

It let one screech that the like of it never was heard an’ Moll fell down in a dead faint.

When she came to her senses again the first thing she saw was the poker stannin’ in a tyub of cold water at the other end of the kitchen an’ when she took courage to look into the cradle, what does she see lyin’ there sleepin’ as sound as a top? Only her own babby as fresh an’ fair as ever he was.

An’ to end my story, let me tell you, that child grew up to be one of the strongest men that ever was reared in Leitrim an’ only died a few years ago an’ him nearly a hundred years ould.

FINN MACCOOL’S FINGERS

Finn MacCool, also known as Fionn MacCumhaill (which is the version I personally prefer) was no ordinary giant. He was a man of epic proportions in every sense of the word.

Of all the men and beasts in the land, he was the biggest and strongest of them all. Said to stand at a whopping 52½ft tall, Finn could lift whole towns in his enormous hands and his voice could be heard from Antrim to Kerry, and as far away as the mighty kingdom of the Isle of Man.

He led an eventful life, full of mischief, bravery, and adventure, from the shaping of Ireland’s coastline to the fighting of spirits, from battling other giants to leading the High King’s private army as its commander-in-chief.

One day, whilst meeting with his beloved soldiers at their garrison fort, message reached Finn of High King Cairbre’s request for the marriage of his daughter to Maolsheachlainn, Prince of the Déisi. Now, Finn, fiercely knowing the difference from right and wrong, knew of Cairbre’s hand in the death of Maolsheachlainn’s father Oengus, and he was very unhappy with this arrangement.

Finn found himself in a predicament: stand up against the High King, and in the process cause much bloodshed, or allow the marriage go ahead as planned. He discussed the situation with his men and decided that the best compromise, although not ideal, was to seek a hefty payment in lieu of their support for the match. Finn thought that this would make their feelings known whilst at the same time keeping the peace. He was to be severely mistaken.

High King Cairbre was furious at Finn’s insolence and decided that such treachery should only be met by force of arms. Raising his army, he ordered them to track down Finn and his men and not to return unless they carried the Fianna’s severed heads with them as proof of their defeat.

They marched across the countryside and came to the plain at Gabhra, not far from royal seat of Tara, where they saw the Fianna on parade in strict military alignment.

They heard Finn roaring the Fianna’s mottoes:

‘Glaine ár gcroí. Neart ár ngéag. Beart de réir ár mbriathar.’

(‘Purity of our hearts. Strength of our limbs. Action to match our speech.’)

Following this, the Fianna sounded the war cry, the famous Dorn Fiann, by blowing their horn – the borabu – three times, and charged towards Cairbre’s men. When the two armies clashed, there was such ferocity that the ground trembled and sparks flew from their swords. The screams of the fallen could be heard for miles around.

It is said that on that day the plain of Gabhra ran red with blood and the mighty river that once drained the lands of water now drained it of the blood of the fallen warriors.

Finn sank to his knees in tears when he realised that the battle was all but lost. Not only had he lost many good comrades and friends, but he also lost both his son, Oisín, and grandson, Oscar, in the massacre.

When the fighting had subsided and Cairbre’s victorious men had left the battlefield, Finn placed a standing stone on the site of the battle and, picking up the horn, gathered his men and retreated in mournful silence some 35 miles over the border until he reached the entrance to the Otherworld in Breffni.

He entered the cave and, laying his fallen men down around him, vowed that when Ireland needs their help, the Dorn Fiann must be sounded three times and he would rise once again with his restored men to protect the land. He then pushed his hand through the ceiling of the cave and he fell into a deep slumber. Over time the sun had bleached his exposed fingers and turned them to stone. They can be seen to this day on Shantemon Mountain and they are known by all as ‘Finn MacCool’s Fingers’.

THE NINE YEW TREES OF DERRYLANE

Overlooking the very scenic loughs of Derrylane and Derrybrick is a beautiful and remote place, which houses a fine old abbey ruin and round tower. It is said that it was established by St Colmcille and run by St Mogue. Although this place is very ancient, it is still used as a burial place to this day for many of the families in the parish. At one time in the area surrounding the sacred ground grew nine yew trees, of which eight were said to have sprung up in one single night.

There was once a local lad who had a yearning to serve God and who knew that his calling was to be a priest. This lad also had a female friend, who also knew that she had a vocation to serve God, and to become a nun. This pair had a very soft spot for each other but knew that once they embarked on their individual religious journeys that they could no longer see each other as this would contravene the vows that they were about to take. This greatly saddened them, so much so that they questioned the decisions they were making. ‘Why can’t we marry and also serve God?’ they thought.

Alas, they could not do both, and so they took the bold and brave decision to elope. They packed up their meagre belongings and, telling nobody, agreed to meet at the grand big yew tree that grew near the old ruins.

He arrived first and waited at the yew, becoming impatient when she did not show. He saw a second yew in the distance that he had not noticed growing there before and thought that his beloved was probably waiting there, so he headed through the rushy field to it, but on arriving there saw that she was not there either. Again, he saw yet another yew tree in the distance and again, thinking she could be there, he went further on. At the end of it all, he visited nine yew trees – although he could only ever remember one growing there ever before. He came to the sad conclusion that he was being stood up and went off on his own to enrol in the monastery.

In a bizarre twist of fate, she was also going from yew to yew searching for her beloved, before she came to the conclusion that he was not coming, and she also left for the nunnery. The next day, the people could not believe that there were nine ancient yew trees growing where there was only one the previous night.

It is said that God placed the yew trees there in one night so as to ensure the couple continued on the path that he had set out for them.

THE TALE OF CRICKET MCKENNA

This is a great wee Monaghan story that was passed on to me by my friend and fellow storyteller, Francis McCarron.

Once there was a man called Patrick McKenna who lived in the parish of Errigal Truagh in north County Monaghan. But if you went to find him, you would have your work cut out for you because there are lots and lots of McKennas in north Monaghan. As a matter of fact, there are so many McKennas that they all have nicknames. There are the Barneys, the Big Frankies, the Deleavys, the Hughies, the Myleses, the Pat Arts, the Red Oineys, the Roes, the Rosses, the Toals, the Yellow Willies and many more.

But the man in our story was called Cricket McKenna. This might have been because he had spindly legs like a cricket or it may have been because he was light on his feet or it may even have been because his mind hopped about like a cricket’s. Whatever the reason, Cricket was the name he was given and it stuck.

He was the sort of a man that would chance his luck at anything, even things he knew nothing about. His mother often warned him that, ‘Long runs the fox, but he’s caught at last!’, but that never sank in with Cricket.

During the famine, things were very hard for the people in Cricket’s part of the country, so he decided to leave home in search of work to earn money to buy food or even to work for food as wages so he wouldn’t starve.

As he walked the road from Truagh, he passed through the village of Tydavnet on his way towards Monaghan town. All along the roadside, the crickets sang in the hedges. But if the crickets were plentiful, food was scarce and he was soon ready to drop with the hunger. He came to the townland of Cornacassa, where a local landlord, D’Acre Hamilton, had his estate. A sign at the entrance read, ‘Trespassers will be hanged’.

Oh well, thought Cricket, if I’m going to die, it might as well be while trying to live, and so he went up the avenue to Hamilton’s big house to see if he could get some food. He hadn’t got very far when the owner himself came roaring up towards him.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he bellowed. ‘Can you not read? I’ll have no trespassers on my land.’

‘I’m no trespasser,’ said Cricket, ‘just an honest man in search of work.’

‘What work can you do?’ enquired Hamilton.

‘I’m a spayman. I can see things, I can know things, I can find things out and say how they are.’

‘Indeed,’ said the landlord. ‘Well, an emerald ring has gone missing in this house. If you can say where it is, you will be given a bag of gold coins, but if you can’t, I’ll have you hanged for the trespasser you are!’

‘Finding a ring is a difficult piece of work,’ said Cricket. ‘It will take me three days and during those three days I must be given my food and lodgings and then I will be able to get the ring.’

‘See to it that you do,’ warned Hamilton. He bellowed for a servant to show Cricket to a room.

Now, there were three serving girls in the house and they had stolen the ring. When they heard of Cricket’s arrival, they discussed their situation. On the first morning of his stay, the eldest girl brought him breakfast. Cricket blessed himself and said out loud, ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ and then he was silent as he ate the food. At least I have two more breakfasts before I die, he thought, as he had no idea how he would find the ring.

The eldest girl returned to her two companions.

‘He is bluffing,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t got a clue.’

On the next day, the second girl brought him his breakfast. Cricket blessed himself and said out loud, ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ and then he was silent as he ate the food. A day left, he thought, and I’m no further forward.

The second girl returned to her two companions.

‘We are as safe as houses,’ she said. ‘He is no more a spayman than I am.’

On the third morning, the youngest girl brought him breakfast. She was much more nervous and afraid than the other two. Cricket blessed himself and said out loud, ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ and then he was silent as he ate the food. I know I am going to hang today, he thought, but at least I’ll not die of the hunger.

‘Do you know?’ asked the young girl.

‘Oh,’ said Cricket, thinking she meant the fate in store for him, ‘I know all indeed.’

At these words, the young girl began to cry.

‘Oh please don’t tell we took the ring,’ she wailed, ‘or we’ll all be hanged.’

‘Give me the ring and tell me what happened,’ said the quick-thinking Cricket, ‘and everything will be all right.’

The girls told all and gave Cricket the ring. He wrapped it in a potato skin and threw it out into the yard, where a flock of ducks were standing. It landed in front of a green drake that was waddling by. The drake gobbled the skin up and waddled on.

Cricket’s heart soared like a bird and he wandered out into the yard whistling a tune. Before long, D’Acre Hamilton came charging up.

‘Well,’ he roared, ‘you’ve had your three days. Where is my emerald ring and what happened to it?’

‘That’s easily told,’ said Cricket. ‘The ring got thrown out by accident with the potato skins.’ He pointed to the green drake in the middle of the flock of ducks. ‘Right now, it’s inside that large green drake.’

‘Not a word about it,’ roared Hamilton, with disbelief written all over his large face.

He ordered a farmhand to kill the drake. But when the farmhand did and they looked inside, there was the ring.

Well, D’Acre Hamilton could not get over it. He thought Cricket was the greatest man alive and did not want to let him leave his service. But Cricket was anxious to get away and requested his payment. Hamilton gave him his bag of gold, but begged him to stay until he could at least show him to the other landlords. He sent word for them to come at once and meet the great spayman and he told them of his powers.

Cricket shared some of his good fortune with the serving girls and was preparing to leave as the neighbouring landlords arrived. Rossmore, Lesley and Woodwright looked Cricket up and down and listened to D’Acre Hamilton’s tale with wonder and some incredulity. Now, as I said before, crickets were very plentiful that year and one was singing in the hedge beside Mr Woodwright. The landlord reached out and caught it in his fist and held his closed hand out towards Cricket McKenna. ‘If you are such a good man at your job,’ he said, ‘I will give you the same again in gold as Mr Hamilton if you can tell me what I am holding in my hand.’

Poor Cricket hadn’t a notion. He knew the game was up. He turned to Woodwright and said, ‘My mother was right in what she used to say, “Long runs poor cricket, but he is caught at last!”’

He was right again! And with Hamilton’s gold and Woodwright’s gold safely in his pocket, he lived as happy as any man with gold can live until the day he died.

ST DAVNET

It has become a tradition of mine to write about a saint for each of my collections of folklore. When I wrote Down Folk Tales, I had a great time writing about St Donard, who supposedly still resides on top of Slieve Donard in the Mourne Mountains, and for Kildare Folk Tales I had the wonderful experience of writing about St Bridgid and the fantastic tales that surround her.

It was explained to me that Tydavnet gets its name from Saint Davnet, ‘the patron saint of madness’. Well, as you can imagine, I was intrigued when I heard this and now I would like to tell you her story.

In St Joseph’s Church in Carrickmacross, there is a set of magnificent original stained-glass windows by the legendary artist Harry Clarke. One of the windows depicts a terrifying yet beautiful adaption of St Davnet’s story.

Davnet (Irish: Damhnait; also known as Damnat or Dympna) was a nun who is said to have lived and died on Slieve Beagh, Co. Monaghan, at Tydavnet (from ‘Tí nDamnat’ or ‘Tigh Damhnait’, meaning ‘house of Damnat’).

There are different stories of Saint Davnet. Some say she was a virgin nun and the founder of a church or monastery. Others say she was the daughter of a pagan chieftain who lived in Clogher, Co. Tyrone, but that she herself converted to Christianity.

She is also considered to be the same person as St Dympna, the patron saint of Geel in Flanders. This was stated by John Colgan in the mid-seventeenth century, who claimed that they were the same person. However, this was challenged by George Petrie and John O’Donovan of the antiquities division of the Ordnance Survey (c. 1830/40s) who stated that they were two very different people.

A tenth-century ornamental pilgrim’s staff, the bachall Damhnait, said to have belonged to her has been preserved. In the past, it was used to see if someone was telling the truth; it was, in other words, a lie detector. It can now be found on display in the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin.

The feast day of St Davnet is 14 June. Although the feast day of St Dympna is 15 May.

Well, that is what I like about Irish saints: they are claimed by so many people and there are always arguments about their origins and where they found their end, if at all. There is still an ongoing debate about whether St Bridgid hails from Co. Kildare or Co. Louth.

Well, this is the story that I heard about St Davnet and I feel that it is definitely worthy of inclusion in a collection of folk tales …

Davnet was the beautiful daughter of Damon, a petty King of Oriel (Airgíalla, which was a medieval Irish over-kingdom: Oriel was the collective name for the confederation of tribes that formed the over-kingdom). Damon’s kingdom was in Clogher in the county of Tyrone, but the burial ground for many of the royalty of the time was in Tydavnet and that is where the ‘Tydavnet Discs’ were found. They are two beautiful and ornate gold discs, which are now kept at the National Museum in Dublin and are considered to be amongst Ireland’s greatest treasures.

Davnet’s mother died when she was a young woman in the prime of her life. Davnet was heartbroken, as was her father Damon, who was an obsessive and uncompromising man. He would not accept his wife’s death at all and it did not take long for his grief to turn to anger and resentment. He commanded his Druids to bring her back to life and when they could not, he had some of them executed. There was a lot of fear in the kingdom for the people knew that their king would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

Davnet was appalled by her father’s behaviour for she had recently converted to Christianity and was greatly opposed to his pagan beliefs. As a last resort, the king ordered his men to travel the length and breadth of the country and find him a woman who looked exactly like the wife he had lost, for he wished to re-marry and would only do so with a virgin who resembled his deceased wife.

Well, as you can imagine, women from all over the country jumped at the opportunity to marry a rich and powerful king. It was like an ancient Irish version of Cinderella, with all these maidens flocking to the king, offering themselves up for marriage.

But none of them could fit the bill and the king was furious. He was determined to marry a woman who looked like his dead wife and that was that.

Now, his Druids were starting to panic and they were looking at each other as if to say, ‘Who will be the next one to lose his head over this?’

So they came up with a cunning plan to save their necks and take themselves out of the picture. They muttered and mumbled amongst themselves, as Druids always did, and then, eureka, they came up with a brilliant plan altogether. They decided that the king should marry his daughter Davnet, for she was the spitting image of her dear, departed mother.

So the head Druid, who was lucky to still have his head, went to see the king and passed on the fantastic solution that he and his fellow Druids had come up with. Well now, the king was delighted. He thought that this was a fantastic plan altogether and congratulated the Druid on his great thinking and sent him on his way to pass on the good news to his daughter.

Well, as you can imagine, Davnet was not impressed at all with this decision as she was both a Christian and a decent woman. She was annoyed, but she knew she had to tread carefully as her father was neither the most rational nor the most reasonable of men. She knew that to act hastily could be very dangerous, so she agreed to think about it for forty days, after which she would make her final decision. At least this would give her time to come up with some plan to get out of this compromising situation.

The initial plan was to get as far away from her insane father with her priest Bernard, or Gerebernus, and the pair of them would find safety far from the mad king.

She and Gerebernus went over the mountain of Slieve Beagh and stopped in the townland of Drumfurrer, in the parish of Truagh, Co. Monaghan. When they got there, they were weak with the thirst and Davnet asked some of the local people for a drink of water, but the people of Drumfurrer knew who she was. They were terrified of her father and refused to give her a drink for fear of the repercussions they might suffer.

Well, Davnet was furious and she put a curse on the townland of Drumfurrer, that it may never have water in it, and since then there never has never been a spring well in Drumfurrer.

So the princess and her priest headed away from the townland of Drumfurrer and on across the mountain of Slieve Beagh and came to the townland of Caldavnet, where she got a drink at a spring well there, which is now known as Saint Dympna’s Well.

After that, she went on to the village of Tydavnet. When herself and Gerebernus got there, she wanted to light a fire so that they could rest for the night. She approached the local blacksmith and asked him for some hot coals so that she could light a fire. The roguish blacksmith thought that this would be a great opportunity to play a trick on a woman, so he told her to hold out her apron like a wee hammock and he would put the hot coals into it, so that she could carry them away. This is what she did, but when he dropped the coals into her apron, he was surprised to see that they did not burn through.

He was very excited by what he saw and told everyone he met in the village of the miracle he had witnessed, and when he did word got around that she must have some great power or be one of the holy people that were going about the place, and of course it was well known that such people had the power to cure all sorts of illnesses.

So Davnet was called to a house where a sick woman was on her deathbed and she was asked to help her. Well, Davnet went to the house and laid her hands on the woman’s head and said some words. The woman was cured and Tydavnet was named after the house where Davnet performed her miracle (‘Tydavnet’ meaning ‘house of Davnet’).

Davnet then went on to Lavey in Co. Cavan, where there is a Saint Dympna’s church and at this church there is a stone, which bears the hoof prints of her horse, which were left behind when she had to jump over a river to escape her father, who was onto her by then and catching up with her.

She and Gerebernus continued on to the west, to Achill Island in Co. Mayo, to a place called Kildavnet (Cill Damhnait), which is located on the south-eastern shore of Achill Island and overlooks the waters of Achill Sound. The place name literally means ‘the small church of Davnet’ and refers to the church that Davnet built there. However, the place is better known as the home of its most famous inhabitant, the legendary pirate queen Granuaille (Grace O’Malley, 1530–1603), but that is another story.

The two were safe on Achill Island for a while until her father found out about their whereabouts. He and his group of choice warriors were on their scent again, so poor Davnet and Gerebernus had to take a boat from the island in order to evade their pursuers. From there, they went to Belgium. They went to Antwerp first and then fled to the Flemish countryside until they reached Geel.

In Geel, they lived beside a chapel of St Martin. They stayed until Damon discovered their whereabouts once again. Apparently, he had been told by an innkeeper in a nearby village that they had passed through his inn. He had recognised the coins used by Damon from seeing Davnet use them. When Damon asked which direction they went in, the innkeeper raised his hand and as soon as he did this his arm froze. This must have been some divine punishment for his betrayal of Davnet. It was not long before the king caught up with his daughter and her priest.

He claimed that he wanted to renew his offer, but seeing that all was in vain and seeing that Davnet could not be persuaded, he told his servants to kill the priest. When this did not convince her, he ordered his men to behead Davnet, but they refused, so in a fit of rage, Damon himself cut off the head of his own daughter.

The people of Geel who witnessed this atrocity decided that the king must be insane. After they buried both Davnet and Gerebernus, the people of Geel went to her grave to pray for the souls of the insane and to ask for cures for mental illnesses. It was because of this that St Davnet, or St Dympna, became the patron saint of insanity.

Over the years, a large number of pilgrims have travelled to the town of Geel to pay homage to St Davnet and ask for her cures.

As both Davnet and Gereburnus were canonised and declared saints, it was decided that their corpses should be exhumed from their graves and put in sarcophagi in a cave, where they were later found. Some say that their bodies were put in the sarcophagi by the angels themselves for they could not figure out where the stone for the tombs had come from.

Now, word had spread that the relics of the two saints were housed in Geel and there was a lot of money in holy relics, then as now, so a group of thieves and robbers from Xanten in Germany went to steal the bones of the two saints. The thieves managed to get away with the bones of Gerebernus, which are still housed in Xanten, Germany.

Luckily the bones of Saint Dympna were recovered and they are kept safely at St Dympna’s church in Geel, Belgium. Every five years, they are processed through the streets of Geel in a silver shrine and pilgrims come from all over the world to take part in the procession and the nine-day pilgrimage.

When people came for the pilgrimage, there was very little in the way of accommodation, so the local people offered to take care of many of them while they were there. This was the first example of community care for the mentally ill and it was happening centuries before it started to be practised elsewhere. A hospital for the mentally ill was built in Geel and today it contains a brilliant state-run sanatorium.

Most pilgrims to Geel are still able to board with neighbourhood farmers and families, who become like ‘foster families’ for them. They help with the household chores or whatever work needs to be done on the farm – or, at least, they do as much as they are capable of doing. This has been happening in Geel for centuries with great success.

Now, to finish off this story, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you a wee tale about St Davnet, which was told to me by Francis McCarron.

Francis once knew a man from Tydavnet in Co. Monaghan called Leo Lord, who emigrated to America and joined the American army. He went on to fight in the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium during the Second World War.

Leo was a great believer in St Davnet and when he was in Belgium during the war, he visited St Dympna’s church in Geel and paid his respects. In fact, he claimed that it was this very saint that saw him through the war.

Leo had told Francis that when he was a young boy growing up in Tydavnet, he had served as an altar boy and after one Sunday Mass, when he was changing out of his vestments, he heard something hit the ground with a thud outside the sacristy door. So he opened the door and, to his shock and bemusement, he saw the head of a beautiful young woman on the ground. As he gazed on, it melted away before his eyes. Leo believed that he had seen the head of St Davnet, or St Dympna, and since then he kept her as his spiritual companion and guide through life.

So that is the story of St Davnet. Whether it is true or not and whether Dympna and Davnet are the same person is up for speculation. But then, how else would you explain the links between Tydavnet and Geel?

Whatever the case may be, you must always remember never to let the truth get in the way of a good story …

THE LOVE FLOWER

In County Mayo in the west of Ireland, there is a flower called the love daffodil. Most daffodils bloom in spring, a beautiful yellow, and they lift their heads to the sun, which they follow until it sets in the west. The daffodil then slowly closes its petals and droops its head toward the ground until the sun rises the next morning.

The love daffodil pushes through the snow in January. It is rocked by cold winds and the sun that shines down on it is an icy sun. The love daffodil is red in colour and folklore will tell you that if you find it on a clear frosty night when the moon is full, you will see blood dripping from its petals onto the snow-covered ground. You may ask why there is such a sad flower growing alone in the middle of winter before even the crocus heralds the coming spring.

Well, it all happened long, long ago, when Ireland was a much simpler place than it is now. There was a rich farmer whose wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. They called her Caithleen. Caithleen inherited her good looks from her mother but she inherited her father’s brains, which was a good thing for her mother was extremely vain and shallow.

Everywhere her father went, Caithleen would follow, listening to every word that was spoken. The workers on the farm loved her because she never forgot their names. She treated everyone from the oldest to the youngest the same. The girls were jealous of her long black hair, her dark eyes and her skin, which was as smooth as velvet, and yet they still loved her. The boys all loved her too and would blush and stutter in front of her, not knowing how to act or how speak to one as beautiful as her.

Caithleen’s mother watched all of this and became more and more envious of her daughter. The more the mother’s beauty faded the more she made plans to be rid of Caithleen so that once again she would be called the most beautiful in all of Ireland. One day, as Caithleen was away on some errand, she spoke to her husband.

‘Husband,’ she said, ‘you are a rich man in many ways.’

He nodded, tapping his pipe on the heel of his boot. ‘I have been blessed many times over; I have a beautiful wife, a daughter I love and land that is fertile. Yes, I am a very lucky man.’

She watched him slyly as he gazed into the fire. ‘I hear there are thieves and murderers on the roads looking for beautiful young girls to take for ransom,’ she said.

Her husband jumped up. ‘Ransom?’ he said in horror.

‘Yes, husband, all the gold you can find and when they get it they still kill the poor young girls,’ she replied.

‘I won’t let that happen to our Caithleen,’ said the husband, ‘I’ll hire men to protect her.’

‘That won’t stop them; they are armed and they are killers,’ replied the mother.

‘What are we to do then?’ said the husband.

This was exactly what the evil wife wanted to hear. She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the look of glee on her face. In a sad voice she said, ‘For her own good she must be locked up in the cellar where no one will ever find her.’

‘Never,’ he cried, ‘Caithleen is like a flower; she needs the rain on her face and the warm summer sun to blossom. I’ll have to think about this.’

For the next month he thought long and hard. His wife was going mad wondering what he was going to do until one day he spoke, ‘I have made up my mind; I will build a room on top of the house. Caithleen will be able to see all the countryside but no one will be able to see her. In this way she will be safe.’

Caithleen wasn’t happy with this at all but as she loved her father and obeyed him in all things she settled into her room at the top of the house. As the seasons came and went, Caithleen saw the bluebells of spring, the roses blooming in the summer, the golden fields of wheat in the autumn and when the land went to sleep in the winter, she watched the snow fall.

The years passed and Caithleen grew even more beautiful while her mother, with her sly evil ways, turned into a cranky and bitter auld woman. Everywhere she went, people kept asking about her daughter and never once mentioned how beautiful the mother was.

One winter’s day her husband said that he was going to have the thatch on the roof repaired. Fear gripped his wife’s heart and she gripped his arm with bony little fingers.

‘If you get the roof repaired the thatcher will climb up onto the roof and if he sees Caithleen he will tell the whole country,’ she cried in alarm.

Her husband had grown older than his years for he missed having his daughter following him around the farm. He missed talking to her about the things that happened each day and watching her laugh with the workers and yet he still managed to smile.

‘Don’t be worrying wife; I’ve thought of everything,’ he said.

The next morning as the sun was climbing in a frosty sky, Caithleen was woken by the sound of singing. She looked out of her window and saw a young man about her own age working away, pulling out old thatch and replacing it with new. His hair was the colour of the straw. He sang of the flight of the swallow and the sound carried her to where the bird soared and, knowing the song, she joined in.

‘You have beautiful voice,’ he said when the song had finished.

Caithleen blushed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘so have you. I’ve not seen you around here before.’

With nimble feet he climbed the roof to where she stood at the window. ‘I’m from the next county,’ he said with a wide and happy smile, ‘my name is Seamus.’

Caithleen saw that his eyes were a misty grey. He was blind.

‘Be careful,’ she cried, worried, ‘you might slip.’

Seamus stood, as sure-footed as a mountain goat. His smile grew even wider. ‘I haven’t fallen off a roof yet and I’m the best thatcher in all of Ireland.’

Caithleen smiled. ‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ she said.

Seamus grinned. ‘I have to get back to work or I’ll have no job and you’ll get into trouble if they catch you talking to me.’

Caithleen blushed.

‘Yes, I’d better, but be careful,’ she said.

Over the next few days and weeks, Caithleen and Seamus would meet and talk and sing. The funny thing was no one in or around the house could hear them, yet people would stop work in the fields and listen to the sound of beautiful music and wonder what kind of new bird had come to Ireland.

One morning Seamus climbed up the roof. It was a grey day and the snow fell gently onto the thatch. Caithleen stood by her window waiting.

‘It’s my last day, Caithleen. I’ve come to say farewell.’

She wiped away the tears that ran down her face. Caithleen had fallen deeply in love with the handsome blind thatcher and tried to think of a way to stop him leaving.

‘I’ve brought you a present,’ he said. He held out his hand and in it was a flower. ‘It’s the first flower of spring.’

The yellow flower shone brightly against the white snowflakes that fell around him. Caithleen reached out and in that brief moment their hands touched.

‘Caithleen, you have the most beautiful voice and when I hear you sing I can feel how much you care. At night I dream of what you might look like. I wonder, before I go could I touch your face, just once?’

Wordlessly, Caithleen reached out and took his hand. She guided it to her cheek. His touch was as light as a feather; he traced her hair, the shape of her eyes, her nose. His fingers lingered on her lips and gently she kissed each one.

‘What’s going on?’

Caithleen’s mother strode into the room and seeing her daughter about to kiss the blind Thatcher she screamed, ‘Get away from her.’

She dragged Caithleen away from the window and with a great push she threw Seamus backwards. He tried to keep his balance but the snow, now thick upon the roof made it too slippery. Pushing her mother away, Caithleen leaned out the window and watched her beloved slip over the side. Beneath him was the last of the straw for the roof held together by stakes stuck in the ground.

His last word before his body was impaled was her name, ‘Caithleen’.

With a cry of utter despair, she leapt from the window, still clutching the daffodil. Down, down, she slipped, her eyes never leaving the body of Seamus. Her father found them, both impaled on the same stake, face-to-face, their lips touching. Between them lay the daffodil covered with their blood. With a broken heart, he buried them side by side on the hillside overlooking the farm. It was talked about throughout the county and everyone talked of the beautiful smiles they had on their faces.

If you are suffering from a broken heart or a lost love, come to the west of Ireland in wintertime. Search for the red daffodil and if you find it, hold it close to your breast and it will heal all unhappiness.

TÍR NA NÓG: THE LAND OF ETERNAL YOUTH

The direct translation of ‘Tír na nÓg’ is ‘land of eternal youth’. It refers to a mystical land in Irish mythology where the trees are always in bloom and there is always a bard to sing for you, where the food is always bountiful and the drink is always flowing, and, most importantly, a place where you’ll never grow a day older. You may live for blissful eternity in this enchanted land. The most well-known story of Tír na nÓg concerns two young lovers, Oisín, son of Finn and Niamh of the golden hair, who was the daughter of the king of Tír na nÓg. Their story is as follows.

Once upon a time, long, long ago in the west of Ireland, there lived a young man called Oisín. One autumn morning he was out exploring the wild hills with the Fianna, who were the ancient warrior-hunters of Ireland. It was a bright but cold and misty morning. Suddenly from out of the mists they saw a white horse appear and upon its back sat the most beautiful woman that Oisín had ever seen. The sun glistened off her hair and she seemed to be surrounded by a magical glow. The horse and rider came to a stop and the young woman spoke to Oisín and the Fianna. As soon as her eyes met Oisín’s, they fell in love. He stepped forward and introduced himself.

‘I am Niamh of the golden hair, daughter of the king of Tír na nÓg,’ she said in a voice that sounded like the most enchanting music that Oisín had ever heard.

‘Come with me to my father’s land and there you will never grow old nor feel sorrow. My father has heard wonderful things about the great warrior named Oisín and I have come to take you back with me to the Land of Eternal Youth.’

Oisín hesitated for a moment. He thought of his friends and family and how he would be sad to leave them but his hesitation lasted only a moment for he had fallen under a fairy spell and he cared no more for any earthly thing. He cared only for the love of Niamh of the golden hair. He quickly climbed up onto the white horse. Oisín promised to return shortly and they waved goodbye and rode off into the mist. Oisín was never to see his family or his friends ever again.

When they reached the sea, the white horse ran lightly over the waves and soon they left the green fields and woodlands of Ireland behind. The sun shone and the riders passed into a golden light that caused Oisín to lose all knowledge of where he was. He couldn’t tell whether they were still crossing water or whether they were on dry land. Strange sights appeared and disappeared. Oisín saw many strange creatures, some wondrous, some terrifying. He tried to ask Niamh what these visions meant and whether they were real or imagined but Niamh told him to say nothing until they arrived at Tír na nÓg.

Eventually they arrived at the Land of Eternal Youth and it was just as Niamh had promised. It was a land where nobody knew sadness, nobody ever aged and everyone lived forever. Together they spent many happy times together but there was always a piece of Oisín’s heart that felt empty. He began to feel lonely and missed his home in Ireland. He wanted to see his friends and family once again. He begged Niamh to let him return to Ireland but she seemed to be reluctant to let him go. She finally agreed and gave him the white horse that had brought him to Tír na nÓg but she warned him that when he reached the land of Erin he must not step down from the horse nor touch the soil of the earthly world for if he did then he could never return to the Land of Eternal Youth.

Oisín set off, crossing the mystic ocean once more. Although Oisín thought that only a few years had passed, it had in fact been three hundred years. You see, time slows down in Tír na nÓg and when he arrived back in his homeland he saw that things had changed. The Fianna no longer hunted the green hills and the grand castle where his family and friends had lived was no longer there. All that remained were crumbling ruins covered in ivy. With a feeling of horror, Oisín thought that he had fallen under some fairy spell that was mocking him with false visions. He threw his arms in the air and shouted the names of his family and friends but there was no reply. He tried once more but all he heard in reply was the sighing of the wind and the faint rustle of the leaves in the trees. With tears in his eyes he turned and rode away, hoping that he would find those he was looking for and that the fairy spell would be broken.

Oisín rode for days but found no sign of his people. He rode east and there he saw a group of men in a field. He rode towards them, hoping to find some answers. Maybe they could tell him where the Fianna had gone. As he approached he saw that the men were trying to move a large rock from the field. When he came nearer, they all stopped working and gazed at him because to them he looked like a messenger of the fairy folk or an angel from heaven. He was far taller than normal men, he carried a beautiful sword, wore bright and shining armour and the horse he rode seemed to float above the ground, casting a golden light around both itself and its rider. Oisín looked at the men and thought how puny they looked. The size of the rock would have meant nothing to the Fianna. He began to feel great pity for these men. He bent down from his horse, put one hand on the rock and, with a mighty heave, he lifted it from the ground and flung it away from the field. The men started shouting in wonder and applauded, but their shouting changed into cries of terror and dismay when they realised what they had witnessed. They began to run away, knocking each other over in the process.

Unfortunately for Oisín, the girth of his saddle had snapped as he heaved the stone away and he fell to the ground. In that second his horse vanished into a mist that came from nowhere. Oisín rose from the ground. Feeble and staggering, he was no longer the youthful warrior he had been but a man stricken with old age, white-bearded and withered, crippled with arthritis. He let out a cry of horror.

The men who had run away looked back across the field and, seeing what had befallen Oisín, they returned. They found him lying on the ground with his face hidden in his arms. They lifted him up and asked who he was and what had happened to him.

With tears in his eyes Oisín said, ‘I was Oisín, son of Finn. Can you tell me where he lives, for I cannot find him?’

The men looked at each other and then at Oisín. One of them said, ‘Of what Finn do you speak, for there are many of that name?’

‘Finn Mac Cool, captain of the Fianna of Erin,’ Oisín replied.

‘You’re a daft old man and you made us daft thinking you were a young man before,’ the man said, ‘but we have our wits about us now and we can tell you that Finn Mac Cool and all his generation have been dead for three hundred years. They live now only in songs and stories told. We follow another these days. His name is Patrick and he teaches a different way to live.’

Oisín was left to wander Ireland as a lonely old man. He met Patrick and told him of his family, the Fianna who had disappeared from Ireland hundreds of years ago, the magical land of Tír na nÓg and his love for Niamh. As he ended his story, a great weariness swept over him and he closed his eyes and went to his eternal rest.

Today we still tell the story of Oisín, Niamh and Tír na nÓg. If on a misty autumn morning you see a shimmering white horse dancing in the waves, maybe it’s Niamh you’re seeing, riding her steed as she searches for her long-lost love – or maybe it’s just the crest of a wave. I’ll let you decide.

CORMAC MAC AIRT

Cormac Mac Airt (son of Art) was the most celebrated of all the High Kings of Ireland. His reign, according to medieval historians, is said to have been from AD 204 to 244. He is said to have ruled from Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, for all those years, and under his rule, it flourished. He was famous for his wise, true, and generous judgments. In the Annals of Clonmacnoise, translated in 1627, he is described as: ‘absolutely the best king that ever reigned in Ireland … wise learned, valiant and mild, not given causelessly to be bloody as many of his ancestors were, he reigned majestically and magnificently’.

Although a famous High King, his beginnings were humble and troubled. Cormac’s father was the High King, Art Mac Cuinn. His mother was Achtan, daughter of Olc Acha, a smith (or druid) from Connacht. According to the saga The Battle of Mag Mucrama, Olc gave Art hospitality the night before the Battle of Maigh Mucruimhe. It had been prophesied that a great progeny would come from Olc’s line, so he offered the High King his daughter to sleep with. That night Cormac was conceived.

Achtan had a vision as she slept next to Art. She saw herself with her head cut off and a great tree growing out of her neck. Its branches spread all over Ireland, until the sea rose and overwhelmed it. Another tree grew from the roots of the first, but the wind blew it down. At that she woke up and told Art what she had seen. Art explained that the head of every woman is her husband, and that she would lose her husband in battle the next day. The first tree was their son, who would be king over all Ireland, and the sea that overwhelmed it was a fish bone that would cause him to choke to death. The second tree was his son, Cairbre Lifechair, who would be king after him, and the wind that blew him down was a battle against the Fianna, in which he would fall. The following day Art was indeed defeated and killed by his nephew Lughaidh Mac Con, who became the new High King.

Achtan fled towards Connacht along with her servant, hoping to gain the protection of Art’s brother-in-law, Lughna. Losing their way in the woods near the Caves of Keash, they stopped near a well still known as Cormac’s Well. Here Achtan went into labour and gave birth to the baby Cormac within the chariot in which she travelled. They made a bed of leaves and moss for the baby and in the morning, Achtan sent her servant away in search of Lughna. The day was warm and soon the mother nodded off and fell into a deep sleep. Awaking with a start, she turned to nurse the child – but it wasn’t there. It had disappeared while she slept.

Some hours later, the servant returned with Lughna and his men with the intention of bringing the mother and child to his residence. Shocked and distressed when they heard what had happened, they immediately scoured the countryside – but the boy could not be found anywhere. A reward was offered for any information that would lead to the recovery of the child, dead or alive. Weeks went by, and months, until eventually they gave up hope. The child surely must be dead or carried away to some remote corner of Ireland.

Seven years went by until one day swineherds minding pigs noticed wolves at play near the caves of Keash. There was nothing unusual about that as the caves were a known haunt for wolves. However, on close observation, the swineherds noticed an unusual animal among them. It looked different to the others, almost human they thought, as it went about on all fours like the wolves. Could it be the lost child? Was the reward still to be had for his recovery? They would find out and immediately set about making a plan to distract the wolves and grab the strange human-like figure.

Lighting a fire on the brow of the hill and to the west, they put a pig to roast on it. The wind was blowing towards the caves so they were hoping the wolf pack would be drawn to the scent. Withdrawing to nearby bushes, the swineherds soon observed the wolves with their heads in the air, sniffing and yelping and coming closer and closer to the pig roast. The strange creature was not with them. It had fallen behind and the swineherds, seizing the opportunity, grabbed the creature, and took it with them. It scratched and clawed and screeched at them but still they could see it was, to be sure, a human child.

Carrying it triumphantly to Lughna, they claimed their prize. Even though it crawled on all fours and could only growl, yelp and whine like a wolf, Lughna and Achtan were convinced that it was indeed Cormac, the lost child. From then on it was reared in the chief’s house in the hope that the child would grow up to succeed his father. With time and patience, the young boy talked and walked like a normal child and went on eventually to become one of the most illustrious High Kings of Ireland, reigning for forty years.

The prophecy was fulfilled – even to the manner of his death, immortalised in verse by Samuel Ferguson. ‘The Burial of King Cormac’ records the anger, and revenge, of the Pagan priesthood at Cormac’s conversion to Christianity and his rejection of the pagan god Crom Cruach.

‘Crom Cruach and his sub-gods twelve,’

said Cormac, ‘are but carven treene;

The axe that made them, haft or helve,

Had worthier of our worship been …’

… Anon to priests of Crom was brought –

Where, girded in their service dread,

They minister’d on red Moy Sleacht –

Word of the words King Cormac said.

They loosed their curse against the King;

They cursed him in his flesh and bones;

And daily in their mystic ring

They turn’d their maledictive stones,

Till, where at meat the monarch sate,

Amid the revel and the wine,

He choked upon the food he ate

At Sletty, southward of the Boyne …

Most of the stories of the Fenian Cycle are set during Cormac’s reign, during which time the hero Fionn Mac Cumhaill is said to have lived.

THE ENCHANTED CAVE OF KESH CORANN

The Hill of Kesh Corann in South County Sligo, with its associated caves, has long been connected with magic, mystery and myth. The caves are said to be connected to other caverns at Cruachan in the county of Roscommon, some 25 miles distant, known as ‘the Hellmouth of Ireland’. Gabriel Beranger in his diary, written in 1779, wrote:

… a woman in the county of Roscommon having an unruly calf could never get him home unless driving him by holding him by the tail; that one day he tried to escape and dragged the woman, against her will into the Hellmouth door; that unable to stop him, she ran after him without quitting her hold, and continued running until next morning. She came out at Kishcorren, to her own amazement and that of the neighbouring people.

The Hellmouth door is also known as Oweynagat (Cave of the Cats) and may still be seen to this day near the village of Tulsk, County Roscommon. The name Oweynagat is thought to come from the magical wildcats featured in ‘Bricriu’s Feast’ that once emerged from the cave to attack three Ulster warriors before being tamed by Cúchulainn.

The caves were excavated 1929-30 and were found to contain the bones of the European brown bear, giant elk, ox, reindeer, red deer, Arctic lemming, horse, ass, sheep, dog, goat and pig, some from the Mesolithic, Neolithic and Bronze ages (8000 to 600 BC). Only scant human remains were found, but given its enchanted reputation, perhaps this is not surprising. It is possible that human and animal teeth may have been placed in the caves as part of ritual activities associated with the Festival of Lughnasa. One of the caves beside the one known as Cormac’s was used as a hedge school during Penal times, when learning and the Catholic religion were forbidden in Ireland. Given its vantage point, it was a good choice as soldiers, spies or other unwelcome visitors could be spotted a long way off.

According to Marion O’Dowd in an article in Dedicated to Sligo, the Lughnasa assembly at the base of the mountain was the largest in County Sligo, dating to the ninth century but with possible pre-Christian origins. Also known as Garland Sunday and celebrated on the last Sunday in July, people travelled from all parts of the county for a day of reunion, music, dancing and faction fighting: ‘Tradition stated that the assembly began when a fiddler led the people up the mountain to the caves.’

Garland Sunday is still celebrated in the area, with numerous games and competitions, including a ‘King of the Hill’ event, turf footing and hay rope making, concluding with a social and waltzing competition in the White Hall, Keash.

Three lakes in the area are named after three sisters: Cé, who lived in a magical lake under the Hill of Keash; Léib, who lived in Lough Labe (Loch na Léibe), and Carabhac, at Lough Arrow (Loch Arabhac). They were daughters of the sea deity Manannán Mac Lir of the Tuatha De Danaan.

The mountain is reputed to have come into being as a result of Deirdre, of the magical race of the Tuatha De Danaan, being transformed into a sow when she ate enchanted acorns. The sow, known as Cael Ceis, maddened by her fate, ran amok through the countryside, causing death and destruction. Many tried time and again to kill the pig without success until Corann, harper to the De Danaan God Dian Cécht, lulled the demonic pig to sleep with his skilful playing of the harp so that the hunters could kill it. The mountain itself is said to have been formed from the carcase of the sleeping sow. As a reward, Corann was given the large tract of land that encased the giant sow.

Another of the legends of the mountain tells us of a great hunt organised by Finn of the Fianna. While the hunt was in progress, Finn went to the top of Kesh Corann with his friend Conan and his dogs Bran and Sceolan. Standing on the Brú or ‘Hunting Mound’, they watched the Fianna hunt deer, wolf and fowl through the countryside underneath: Corann, Tirerril and Leyney.

A chief called Conoran Mac Imeadal, King of the Sidhe of Kesh Corann, was overlord of the area at that time. Conaran’s people were the descendants of the Tuatha De Danaan, who still carried resentment for their defeat at the hands of the Milesians, from whom Finn was descended. Conaran could see Finn, but Finn could not see him. The fairy race remains invisible to mortals unless they wish to reveal themselves to us. When he heard the shouting and baying of hounds, he was extremely annoyed that the Fianna were hunting there without extending the courtesy of asking his permission. Hatching a plan for revenge, he sent three of his daughters, Caevóg, Iaran and Cuillean Ceann Rua (Cuillean the Redhead), to the opening of one of the caves. Sitting down there, they put three enchanted hanks of yarn on crooked holly sticks and began to reel them off.

Finn and Conan spotted them and came closer to investigate. What they saw was three ugly old hags at their work. In Lady Gregory’s Gods and Fighting Men they are described as having ‘their coarse hair tossed, their eyes red and bleary, their teeth sharp and crooked, their arms very long, their nails like the tips of cow’s horns, and the three spindles in their hands.’ Additionally they had ‘long scraggy necks that could turn all the way around, similar to that of a chicken. Their bodies were covered with a bristle of hair and fur and fluff, they had moustaches poking under their noses, woolly wads grew out of their ears.’

Conan, suspicious of the three women who had so mysteriously appeared, urged Finn to ignore them and continue on their way. Finn, replying that the Fianna feared nothing, strode resolutely into the cave. Conan, having no choice but to follow his leader and unaware that it was enchantment they were spinning, passed through the hanks of yarn to get a better look at the women. Immediately the men became weak and their limbs began to tremble. This is the effect the hags desired and so they immediately took hold of the men and tied them up securely. Two other members of the Fianna went through the spindles to rescue their friends and they too became weak and were caught in the same way. Caoilte and several other members of the Fianna rushed to help and, passing the spindles, also fell victim. All were dragged into the cave. At the cave entrance the hounds, being too wise to follow, set up a great cry for their masters, who had left them. Heaps of game – deer, wild pigs hares and badgers that the hunters had caught – were stacked in heaps outside.

According to legend, the three women picked up swords to put an end to the men they had captured. Before commencing the slaughter, they looked outside to see if there were any more of the Fianna left to capture and they spotted a tall man striding towards them. It was Goll Mac Morna, known as the ‘Flame of Battle’. The women had taken the spindles in but as it was three against one, they felt confident in challenging Goll anyway. The four of them engaged in a fierce struggle until, with one fierce blow, Goll beheaded two of the witches. Overcoming the remaining woman, Caevóg, he tied her up with the straps of his shield. Raising the sword over his head to decapitate her as well, she cried out: ‘O champion that was never worsted, strong man that never was beaten, I put my life under your protection. Is it not better for you to get Finn and the Fianna safe and whole than to have my blood? I swear by the Gods my people swear by, I will give them back to you again.’

With that, Goll set her free and they went together into the cave, where Finn and the Fianna were lying in a heap on the floor. Goll demanded of her that she would release all of them, which she did forthwith: ‘Finn and Fergus, Oisin and the twenty nine sons of Morna and all the rest’.

Immediately Conaran’s fourth daughter, Iamach, springing out of nowhere and fierce at the killing of her sisters, launched an attack on the Fianna. She too, ferocious and powerful though she was, was slain after a fierce battle with Goll.

Of Conoran, who caused all the trouble in the first place, history or legend tells us nothing. The Fianna, amazed and delighted with the turn of events, made no delay but leaving the cave, went down the hillside to continue their hunting. Understandably there was great rejoicing at their escape and in the following days Oisin wrote a poem in praise of the great warrior, Goll, who saved their lives.

Replete with myths and legends of former times, Kesh Corann of the Bricklieves, with its extraordinary caves and outline, ranks among the great mountains of Sligo, vying for prominence with Benbulben and Knocknarea. Surrounded with an aura of romance and charm, it speaks to us of its former greatness and is still a popular place for visitors who wish to immerse themselves in the landscape and explore its mysteries.

TWO ROCKS

There was once a young king in Cruachan who had inherited his crown from his father and who expected, in due time, to hand it on to his eldest son. His name was Alli. He married Onna, a beautiful red-haired princess from Boyle, out near Lough Gara. They were blissfully happy for the first year of their marriage, a little bit concerned the second year and nearly alarmed the third year. There was also talk around the realm of bad luck, witches’ spells, old grudges, old curses, old killings and cruelty. What was causing all this trouble? The princess was not showing any signs of pregnancy; in fact, she was getting thinner. Witches, wise women, wonder workers and wandering bards were consulted but all to no avail. Those magic workers were afraid to offer help or advice because the same thing had happened several generations before, and those who tried to help were blamed when their efforts failed and some were severely punished by imprisonment, beatings, exile, and, in one case, death. Memories were long among the wise.

Some years before this, a funny little wandering bard with spiky red hair, a piercing eye and a magic harp appeared near Lough Cé. Nobody knew where he came from or remembered him growing up, and any who asked were silently stared down by his piercing eye and asked no more. His name was Sharp Eye. On his harp he played wonderful magical enchanting airs that nobody had heard before and most people believed that he got those airs and the magic harp from the fairy gods. Some said that he was a spoiled druid, as he knew a lot of magic. Over the years he drifted and played all across Maigh Luirg and Maigh Ai, finally arriving at the White Mountain. He said to his host family that he would like to live the rest of his life on the mountain. They said this was impossible as he had no house and no permanent water supply.

The next day he climbed the mountain until he came to a great oak tree, standing tall and stately but that was decaying on its north side. Sharp Eye sat on a rock high above the oak and played a strange eerie tune. With every note the wind got stronger and stronger, putting more and more pressure on the oak. Eventually the ground beside the tree began to shudder and then the great roots began to come up out the earth on one side as the oak fell slowly towards the ground. It came to rest a few feet from the earth, held up by a few tenacious roots that refused to budge. Water immediately gushed from a spring in the hole left by the roots and made a stream down the mountain. The tree had fallen in such a way that it was not too difficult to make a habitable and reasonably comfortable residence beneath its trunk. This the bard did.

Alli, the king, remembered what his father had told him: ‘No matter how expensive or beautiful a cravat you wear, none will ever equal the loving arms of your son around your neck.’ So, as a last resort, the royal couple approached Sharp Eye and asked for his help. He said he would help. If the royal couple would come to live near him for the life of one moon and drink daily from the well, while he played strange airs on his harp, it would solve their problem. They agreed because, although they were sceptical, desperation trumped doubt. The couple and their small entourage stayed with friends at the base of the mountain.

On the first six mornings they drank from the well while the bard strummed his harp. On the seventh morning, after they had drank from the well, they had to kill a drake, sprinkle his blood on the stream and then burn the drake in a prepared fire. The following six days they had only to drink from the well but on the fourteenth day, after their drink, they had to kill a cock, sprinkle his blood on the stream and burn him in the fire. The following six days they just had a drink but on day twenty-one they had to kill a gander, sprinkle his blood and burn him as before. At each burning, all those present were encouraged to whoop loudly while jumping over or through the fire. That is, all except the royal couple. When the gander was burning some jumpers got scorched as the goose grease sent the flames higher. The drinking continued until the twenty-eighth day and then a wild boar, that had previously been captured, was killed and roasted on a spit over the fire. He was not burned or buried, instead everyone had a great feast, Sharp Eye played lovely airs on his magic harp and all were happy.

Alli took Sharp-Eye aside and asked him how his magic worked.

‘Do you not trust me?’ asked Sharp Eye.

‘Of course I trust you,’ said the king, ‘and I have total faith in the magic of you, your magic harp and your magic well. I am confident it will work and I will be forever grateful to you.’ But, as he said it, there was a slight falter in his voice. Sharp Eye eyed him and said, ‘By the life of my life, my harp, my music and my well, you can be certain that the magic will work better than you expect and that its fruits will be remembered long after you and your kingdom are forgotten.’

‘How will I pay you?’ asked the king.

‘When I want payment I will ask for it,’ Sharp Eye replied.

‘Alright,’ said the king.

The magic worked. The queen fell pregnant and was delighted. Sharp Eye was delighted. The people were delighted. The king was delighted, but also thoughtful. The royal party returned triumphant to Cruachan. There was joy throughout the realm especially in the White Mountain area, because by royal decree taxes were reduced in that area for a year and a day. Sharp Eye was a hero there. But elsewhere, others were jealous and some suspicious.

Well, the pregnancy was not just successful, it was doubly successful, and they had twin boys. There was just one thing that bothered the new parents. The experienced and trusted old midwife who delivered the twins seemed to be struck dumb as she handed them to their mother who was only just recovering from the delirium of birth pains. When others entered the room moments later the queen was happily nursing her two babies but the old midwife was lying on the floor stone dead. Neither the queen, nor anybody else knew which twin arrived first, so nobody knew which should be heir to the throne. Was it Ferdi or was it Fionn?

Everybody was happy and the boys grew big, strong, fleet of foot and wise. Soon, they would be men. They both looked like their mother except that Fionn was flaxen haired while Ferdi had hair as black as ebony.

When the boys were eighteen years old the king decided to set them a task to see which should inherit the crown. At that time in Cruachan they used to have passage tombs for kings, but Alli thought that they were inadequate. He asked that they both go throughout the realm and find the biggest possible stone that could be used as a cap for his passage tomb, when his time came. When they found such a stone, they were to raise it on uprights so that a tomb could be dug out and built beneath.

Fionn headed south to Uí Maine country while Ferdi went north to Maigh Ai, his mother’s place. They both took ten comrades on horseback with them. They also had much to barter in tools, weapons, jewellery, knives and artefacts made from stone, timber, bone, tooth and bronze.

Fionn criss-crossed the county, searching Strokestown, Rooskey, Tarmonbarry, Ballagh, Four Mile House, Ballymoe, Oran, Fuerty, Roscommon, Knockcrockery, Ballyforan, Ballybay, Tachmaconnell, Creagh and Moore. Finally, he found just what he was looking for at a place called Mehanbee, in the parish of Drum. It was a great flat rock, ten feet wide, fifteen feet long and two feet thick. It probably weighed twenty-five tons. It would surely win him the prize, if he could raise it six feet and put uprights under it.

To this end, he employed 120 strong young men. As he was interviewing for the positions, a tiny man, barely two feet tall asked for a job.

‘How could one so small and weak be any use lifting such a big rock?’ asked Fionn.

‘My name is Weakness, and I am not big or strong,’ said the little man, ‘but I can be more lethal than any of those big fellows.’ Everybody laughed and Fionn dismissed the little man who shuffled away muttering to himself. The newly hired team cut and fashioned twenty nine-inch thick oak crowbars that were ten-feet long. Then they dug a nine-inch wide and nine-inch deep groove from under the rock. They put fulcrums of smaller flat stones along one side of the giant rock. Then, all crowbars, having been slid in over the fulcrums into the prepared groove, were used in unison, with four men handling each and five more pulling on ropes attached to the top of the poles. On their first effort, one side of the rock was raised nearly a foot. It was quickly propped up by the other twenty men who were standing by with timbers at the ready. Then all moved to the other side and repeated the operation. They kept repeating the process, moving from side to side and propping as they went. The higher they went the more difficult it became to get the necessary fulcrums and props. However, they eventually had the rock on timbers six feet above the ground. Now they had to find transport and erect six strong flat-stone uprights. They found them fairly close by and rolled them on the crowbars to the required location beside the rock. When this was done, the fulcrums were again utilised, the huge rock was raised slightly. The standing stones were heaved upright into slots in the clay, going down to the gravel base with their tops just beneath the rock. The tops of the standing stones were chipped until they were level. Stones were hammered in around the base of the standing stones to keep them firmly in place. Now the timber props were removed and the rock lowered onto the standing stones. This was done first on one side then on the other. When all the timbers were removed the twenty-five-ton rock was standing on the upright stones, six feet above ground. It was a wonderful sight to see and everybody was very impressed with Fionn’s engineering and management skills.

Now the moment of truth arrived. Who was going to go under the rock and start digging for the passage-tomb? Fionn went right in and started digging. The sky did not fall; neither did the rock nor any of the standing stones. Soon everybody was helping and the tomb was finished within a few days. They called the tomb, Giant Leaba (Giant Bed).

Fionn was confident that he had won as there was unlikely to be another rock like that anywhere. And even if there was, things might not have gone as well for his brother. As it was late in the day, they did not go far before setting up camp for the night.

Meanwhile, Ferdi had searched Castlerea, Ballinlough, Loughglinn, Fairymount, Frenchpark, Elphin, Kilmore, Croghan, Ballinameen, Castlerea, Ardcarn, Keadue, Ballinafad, Creevagh and Boyle. He had seen many rocks but none suitable for his purpose until he found just what he wanted in Drumanoghan, near Lough Gara, in the parish of Boyle. As he was a twin brother of Fionn and they had grown, learned, played, fought, raced, hunted, sang, drank and slept together all their lives, he had the same way of thinking and so he solved the problem of the rock in the same way. He got the same successful result. The only remarkable thing that happened was that one of those who turned up looking for a job from Ferdi was a fine-looking young girl.

‘How could you, a mere girl work hard all day with those strong men?’ Ferdi asked.

‘My name is Female and I will have more to do with this enterprise than anyone else,’ she replied. Here too, all the men laughed and the girl slunk away. No more was thought of it.

When the job was finished the local druid asked Ferdi if he could offer one pigeon as a good luck sacrifice on the top of the rock. Ferdi agreed and that is why the rock is called the Druid’s Altar. Then Ferdi thanked his host, the King of Maigh Ai, gave him presents and decided to stay by Lough Gara for the night before he returned to Cruachan.

After the twins, the royal couple had several more children and as each one arrived, Alli thought of the Sharp Eye, his music and his magic well and often wondered if he would ask for payment, and if so, what? About this time, Sharp Eye, who was now old and feeble, called to Cruachan to see the king and queen.

‘I have come for my payment,’ he said.

‘Certainly,’ said Alli, ‘and what is it?’

‘I want your first daughter, May the Fair, for now she is seventeen years old and I heard that the King of Meidh has asked for her hand in marriage, but I have first call,’ he said.

‘Never!’ screamed the queen, as Alli just went pale and was lost for words. Sharp Eye stared at Alli and said, ‘Are you going to dishonour your debt because of the hysterics of a woman?’ Alli said nothing at first but when he looked at his wife he said, ‘Ask for something reasonable.’

‘The deal or nothing,’ said Sharp Eye.

‘But I will give you anything you ask for within reason,’ said Alli.

‘The deal or nothing,’ shouted Sharp Eye again.

‘Then it is nothing,’ said Alli. Onna called the palace guards and ordered them to throw Sharp Eye out. As he was carried away, he continued to stare at Alli and said, ‘So you think our deal is off, soon enough you’ll see what it means to have no deal.’ When the guards had him outside, they put him on his pony but he refused to move. So the guards mounted two horses, one on each side of him and marched Sharp Eye and his pony all the way back to his mountain home. There they dismounted, lifted him from his pony, threw him into his hut, closed the door and left, taking the pony with them. They never looked back, knowing that old Sharp Eye would not be able to follow without his pony. That night there was a fire in Sharp Eye’s cabin. Nobody knew how it started, but some wondered, but he and his harp were consumed in the flames. The heat was so great that it cracked the rock beneath the spring and no water was ever seen there again. It was as if Sharp Eye, his stare, his harp, his music, his holy well and his house had never been!

When the royal couple heard this, Onna said, ‘Good riddance.’ Alli wondered.

Fionn and his men had slept in a clearing beside a stream in an oak wood. After breakfast they set off through the wood. The little two-foot-high man had climbed a tall tree and laid in wait. As Fionn was passing he jumped from above, came down fast, landed on Fionn’s head and both fell dead on the ground. There was nothing anyone could do. His companions carried Fionn back to the prepared burial chamber and laid him there, a man in his own grave.

The next morning, after Ferdi and his men had breakfast and as they looked upon beautiful Lough Gara, they decided to have a swim before the journey. They stripped off, dived in and started to swim around. That’s when they saw her – Female was swimming a little further out.

‘Is there any among you who will race me to the far shore?’ she asked. Three men, including Ferdi, shouted ‘We will!’ All four started swimming straight away. As Ferdi was the strongest swimmer he was able to go as fast as the girl but the space between them stayed the same. She was a very good swimmer. The other two men fell some way behind Ferdi. Suddenly a great whirlpool developed between the girl and Ferdi. Before he could react he was sucked down. The whirlpool abated after ten minutes, but, by then, Ferdi was floating face down on the surface. Female was nowhere to be seen. The others frantically pulled Ferdi ashore but he never breathed again. With his snow-white face and his jet-black hair he was like a sleeping god, but alas one that would never awaken. They interred him in the tomb beneath the Druid’s Altar.

Months later, a sad and sorry royal couple visited Drumanoghan and saw the Druid’s Altar above their beloved Ferdi. Their grief was almost unbearable but they both thought that the mighty stone was indeed a suitable monument for a king, even if he had not lived long enough to be king. It gave them some slight consolation.

Then they made the long journey all the way to Drum. They thought it strange that both gravestones were in places starting with Drum! Finally, they arrived at Mehanbee, Drum, and looked upon the grave of their other darling son, Fionn. Again the great stone was impressive and again they grieved that he did not live long enough to be king. Then it hit them, Sharp Eye had said that their firstborn would be remembered long after they and their kingdom would be forgotten. How right he was! The monuments are still there millennia later. Who won the competition? The tombs are still there. Come and judge if you dare!

ONE CHRISTIAN ACCOUNT

Christianity was brought to Ireland by a man named Patrick. He and a man named Colmkill converted the people in the north of Roscommon while a holy woman named Bridget converted the southern half. This religion had a profound effect on everything in society and in every part of Roscommon and the whole country. It changed the people of Roscommon and all of Ireland forever. There were other Christians in Ireland before Patrick, but they did not know or understand the language, customs, or the system of living or spirit of the Irish people. They had remote monasteries and only had occasional converts. However, they brought Egyptian symbols, Celtic Crosses, images and specialised writing forms that outlasted their memory and influenced the great sacred writing and books of Ireland.

Patrick arrived across the Shannon at Drumboylan, in the parish of Ardcarne, and immediately started preaching, teaching, baptising and converting. A druid named Amwe decided to put a stop to this.

Amwe said to Patrick, ‘I challenge any two of your new converts to a swimming duel in the River Shannon.’ Patrick refused point blank, but the druid was insistent so Patrick said he would compete with the druid himself instead. The druid accepted as that was what he wanted all along and he was confident of drowning Patrick and so ending Christianity in Roscommon. It was arranged that at dawn the next day, Amwe and Patrick would dive into the river and there wrestle until one was drowned. The druid was a fast and nimble swimmer but Patrick was bigger and stronger. As they feigned, ducked and dived about each other a crowd gathered on the bank to cheer them on. When Amwe began to tire, Patrick at last managed to grab his two wrists and with a clever flip he had the druid with his hands behind his back. He could easily have held him under the water until he was drowned, but Patrick could not kill, even an evil druid. So he pulled him ashore and forced him to agree before the entire crowd that Patrick had won and they both agreed that was the end of it. Patrick then released the druid who ran away in shame and anger.

Amwe spent a long time licking his wounds. He had no physical wound but his pride was in bits. It could not be repaired. He could never show his face again. To be beaten and humiliated by anyone was intolerable, but to be overcome and put down by a meddling Christian was beyond bearing, beyond endurance and he just would not put up with it. He would get back at Patrick. He devised a plan.

He would drug two converts with a magic potion. He would send the very best incantations to the clouds. He was well aware that this type of incantation was dangerous and unpredictable but he didn’t care. He did it anyway. It worked. The clouds came to a most unusual formation and Amwe incanted to the Gods of Clouds that this was to happen, in this place, every hundred years and that each time it happened, two Christians would be drowned. Immediately after, he met two new converts who foolishly agreed to a swimming duel, because they were drugged. All three dived into the Shannon. What the druid did not know was that neither of the converts could swim and when he approached them they grabbed him in total panic and hung on for dear life. Dear life it was, as all three soon sank and were drowned. At least two people have been drowned there every hundred years since, but had the movement of the clouds or the druid’s evil magic anything to do with it? Who knows?

After this, Patrick, who was now more careful, travelled through mid and north Roscommon. A druid named Ono Uí Briúin gave him a site at Imlock-Ónonn that soon became known as Ail-Finn, Elphin. A church he built there was called St Patrick’s. Asicus, his smith, was the greatest artisan of his time and he designed and made new altar-plate and metal book shrines that were widely copied and written about. His artisanship inspired many early Christian art, such as the Cross of Cong and the Ardagh Chalice. This religion became so important that a calendar dating from the birth of Jesus Christ was thereafter used to measure time in the entire world. Not only that, but the time before his birth is now referred as BC and the time after AD.

Soon after, there was a community of monks at Elphin where the Abbot Bishop also resided. Centres of religion were built by Patrick at Kilmore, Baslick, Strokestown, Fuerty, Oran, Tibohine, Cloonshanville, and Kilnamanagh. He converted the daughters of King Laoghaire, Eithne the Fair and Fidelma the Red, and baptised them in the well of Ogulla near Cruachán. This was then the royal ceremonial and mystical centre of the capital of Connaught.

Patrick appointed Comgallen as Bishop of Boyle and St Maccan followed him. It was then known as Áth Dá Larach. Ardcarn had its own Bishop for a time but it was never a diocese. Patrick also founded the first monasteries at Kilmore and Kilbarry. But is this true?

MYTH OR TRUTH?

One story says the monasteries were there already; that they had been established by Coptic Christians who had come from Egypt.

St Mark went to Egypt at an early stage to try to establish Christianity there. The Pharaoh power was waning but their religion was still strong. Their Sun God was round like the sun, and he and the Pharaohs were always protected by the Cobra Semi-God. St Mark could not get rid of those two symbols, so he adopted them to the Cross. He put the Sun God as a big circle in the centre of the cross, taking in the two arms and the upper and lower parts. He had cobras hanging from several parts of the cross for protection. St Mark hoped that he or later generations would get rid of the Sun God and the Cobras but instead, the Coptics lost contact with Palestine and Rome and the cross with the snakes became the Christian symbol of Alexandria and Egypt. About the year 200, some of the Coptic Christians were being at least annoyed if not persecuted in Egypt and as they were monastic congregations, all they wanted was to live in peace, in quiet, remote places.

Ptolemy, an Egyptian sailor and cartographer, had visited, explored and made a recognisable map of Ireland 100 years before Christ. There were very experienced sailors in Alexandria in the following centuries and, of course, the Copts were among them. Some decided to sail away to find new peaceful places to live. As the Roman Empire covered all Europe except Ireland at that time, they arrived in Kerry. Having established a base and monastery there they did two things. Firstly, they sent word back home of the new land that they had found and encouraged others to come. Secondly, they slowly moved along the coast and up through the rivers, establishing a few monasteries here and there.

When Patrick encountered them in Roscommon he was pleased and terribly disappointed; pleased to meet other Christians but flabbergasted to see what they had done with the Cross of Jesus Christ. How could they? They must be serious heretics. However, when he got talking to them, he found that they were just as devout as he or any of his party. When he asked about the strange cross they were well able to explain, as they were well educated and had wonderful scriptoria and great scribes in their monasteries. Not only that but they had a considerable number converted and it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Patrick to claim that there were two Christian religions and even if he did, the others were there first and were well established. Compromise was called for.

After much debate between the two, Patrick agreed to keep the Sun God in the middle of the cross but they would rechristen it the Celtic cross and the Sun God would never be mentioned again. The Irish were delighted to have a cross named after them. In return for this concession, all agreed to get rid of the snakes. This didn’t bother the Irish, as they never saw a snake anyway. However, it was agreed that Patrick would issue the decree and that all the Christians would help in its execution, to banish the snakes from Ireland. This was later interpreted as Patrick ushering the snakes into the sea with his croziers.

Patrick carried a crozier that depicted a shepherd’s crook but it was different from the Coptic crozier, in that it had a flat head like a mallet. The reason for this was that in eastern areas the sheep were pets that followed their master and the crozier carried by the shepherd was for defending the sheep from attack from wolves. Therefore, it had a head that could deliver a good wallop. On the other hand, the European, English and Irish sheep had plenty of grass and were independent, so the shepherd had to have a crooked crozier to catch them by the hind leg and pull them to him so that he could administer any needed attention. The mallet-head crozier is on the Cross of the Scriptures, that was erected in Clonmacnoise in the eighth century and is still there today.

Following the agreement about the Celtic cross and the snakes, both Christian evangelists worked together and they kept contact with Egypt for centuries using their skill, artistry, scholarship in the production of many wonderful books, ornaments and holy emblems. When the Copts were banished to the mountains in Egypt, the contact with Ireland ceased.

The new Christian religion declared that many of their leaders were saints soon enough after their death. This was a declaration that they had reached eternal life and salvation. They erected statues to many and named places after them. Some of those were St Colmcille, St Attracta of Killaraght, St Beoadh of Ardcarne, St Barry of Kilbarry and St Comán, who gave his name to the town of Roscommon. The main emblem of this religion was a cross with the dying Jesus Christ nailed to it. This cross was revered by all. It was taught that he died nailed to a cross after terrible scourging and torture at the hands of the Romans, encouraged by the Jews. But he rose again after three days and all who believe in him will live forever in eternal happiness.

In order to get general agreement from the druids, the Christians did not decry the cursing stones of the old religion, but etched crosses on them. This was done to nullify their magic properties and to brand them as Christian symbols. The druids did not realise the significance of this, but, in future years, it helped the Christians to diminish druidic practices and influences. They also persuaded the druids to accept the cross as a sacred symbol.

When St Patrick arrived in Oran and started baptising people at a well there, he was accosted by the local druid, Ami, who said that this was his holy well where he and his followers celebrated their Lughnasa at the beginning of August. Patrick said that he regarded that as a great idea and that he and his followers would come too and join in the festivities. He added that his people would be celebrating the first Oran Pattern Day of Patrick. The druid did not realise that Patrick confidently expected that his religion would eventually take over the festival. Nor did he suspect that the new Christians would declare Patrick a saint and erect a statue to St Patrick almost immediately after his death. Nor did they know that the statue would be revered and honoured and that it would always be replaced, no matter how many times powerful enemies demolished it. On the other hand, Patrick did not realise that some of the Druidic practices would be there for more than another fifteen hundred years.

One day, Ami thought of a plan. He and his people had a magic stone in Fuerty called the La Téne Stone. It had circular inscriptions on it that the druids interpreted, making them messengers of the gods. He took Patrick there and explained that this magic stone, with its message from the gods, would preserve the Druidic beliefs and eventually banish the Christians from the country. Patrick blessed the stone, sprinkled it with holy water, looked Ami in the eye and asked if they could share it. Amazed, Ami agreed.

From there, Patrick went to Castlerea where he ordained Coavin to the priesthood and appointed him parish priest of Kilkeevan and abbot of the monastery that they built there. Naturally, they later called the church St Patrick’s and the congregation were supposed to be subject to the Bishop in Elphin.

There was a druid there named Ona who burst out laughing when he saw St Patrick baptising people in Longford Spring Well.

‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Patrick.

The druid replied, ‘It was on the high ground yonder, that overlooks Castlerea, that our little people were once surrounded by a large force of Fir Bolgs. They were taken unawares and did not get a chance to produce their best magic and our Goddess Dana was busy in a far away part of the country. Our little folk ducked and dodged all around the high ground but the Fir Bolgs were many and apart from those chasing among us they had a ring of mighty men all around the edge of the high ground. After a long day ducking, diving and dodging our little people were worn out and in danger of being captured. Just then, on a fairy blast our mini druidess, Sparkle, arrived. “All follow me,” she said, and she led all the little people down a swallow hole and out of reach of the fierce Fir Bolgs.

‘Were they all drowned? Not at all. Led by Sparkle, they emerged in these bubbling sparkling waters of Longford springs, laughing, splashing and playing. They imbued all who saw them with laughter and merriment and all who drank from the spring with their spirit forever. Now you are doing the same.’

Ona thought that this story would stop Patrick in his tracks. It didn’t. Now he was very worried about Patrick’s progress on his patch, so one evening at dusk he said to Patrick, ‘Look west to our sacred mountain and see our great Lughnasa fire on its summit.’ Patrick looked and, sure enough, there was a great fire on a distant conical mountain.

‘Now,’ said Ona, ‘you may build a little wattle church here and imagine that you are making progress but our God will always oversee all Ireland from that, our wonderful holy mountain and neither you nor your weird religion will change that.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Patrick. Later, when it was coming to Samhain festival on 1 November, so Patrick declared that this festival would also be All Saints’ Day, when Christians would remember and pray for their dead.

After this, Patrick made a plan; by this time next year he would be there again and the story of the Sacred Mountain would be different. The following June he climbed the Sacred Mountain in the far west. He brought with him forty oatcakes, six tin cans, two waterproof blankets, a stout stick and a warm woollen outfit. When he reached the summit he set about building a beehive hut with the flat stones there. When he had it finished, he spread one of the waterproof blankets over it, with the corners of the blankets settled on the stones so that they drained into the four tin cans set at the corners. By then it was evening so he wrapped the second waterproof blanket round the warm woollen outfit, crept into the little hut, prayed and slept peacefully. Next morning he ate just one of the oatcakes, drank some of the water collected in the cans and started his forty-day pilgrimage of prayer and fasting. He did the same every day but he also built a large cairn in the shape of a cross, blessed some of the water, sprinkled it all over the summit and declared this to be Ireland’s Christian Holy Mountain. At the end of the forty days, Lughnasa and a great multitude bearing firewood, food, drink and sacrificial creatures arrived at the mountaintop.

‘How are ye lads?’ asked Patrick. ‘You’re welcome to the Patrick’s Pattern and the Lughnasa Festival. But for a little oatcake, I’ve fasted here for the last forty days and I’m starving. Would ye have anything to eat?’ As he was very thin and gaunt, like death warmed up, they gave him bread and butter and a leg of cold chicken. They were fascinated with him as they watched him eat like a man who had indeed fasted as he said. They were surprised to see Patrick there in the first place and were impressed with his beehive hut and amazed at his giant cross. Many of those who came were new Christians who still celebrated Lughnasa, and when Patrick told them that this was also Pattern Sunday they lit the fire, cooked the food, made their sacrifices, opened the alcohol and all celebrated together.

Later, when Ona heard what happened and that Patrick had fasted for forty days and forty nights and built the huge cross, he became a Christian.

It’s said that St Bridget evangelised South Roscommon, founding Christian sites at Drum, Clonown, Ballintubber, Kilbride, Dysart, Kilsellagh and Kilteevan. Her name is revered and remembered in many places, especially Brideswell. After the locals were converted to Christianity the well was called St Bridget’s and it was claimed that any woman who drank from its waters and prayed to St Bridget would be helped with conception where necessary. The Christians also arranged a Pattern Sunday there to correspond with the feast of Lughnasa. This Pattern is still going strong and there are many stories of happy memories and outcomes from attendees.

There is a story that when St Bridget was in Kilteevan it was the Druidic feast of Bealtaine on 1 May and there were celebrations. Bridget joined in and claimed that the month of May was called after Mary, the Mother of Jesus, and that the day should therefore be called Lady Day in her honour. Of course, the day could also be called Bealtaine as well so there was no disagreement. When she arrived in Drum on 1 February, the day the feast of Imblooc occurred, Bridget asked that as she had just arrived on this day, if her name might be mentioned in connection with it. The druids were delighted as they had their own Goddess Brigit and thought they had converted her. However, after her death, the new Christians called the day ‘Lá Fhéile Bríde’, St Bridget’s Day. Not only that, but the feast day occurs when winter is waning, buds are budding, lambs are leaping, songbirds are singing, and the world is awakening to new life, new hope and brighter days. This has inspired many bards, poets, writers, composers and musicians to ply their trade in praise of Bridget and ‘Her day’.

But Bridget is remembered especially for her St Bridget’s Cross that she fashioned from rushes. Because it is not made of wood it is a little off-centre, but it has hung in every home for her since her time. Indeed, this St Bridget’s cross now hangs in houses throughout the world.

Soon after her time there was a tradition for children to call to neighbours singing and collecting for charity on St Bridget’s day:

Oh help us Saint Bridget for you are our kin

And ask God to help us and keep us from sin.

For you are our patron and never you fail?

To make place in heaven for Éire and Gael.

Ag teacht linn ar an mbothar trí Gorta Mhór

Few people had oat cakes or bainne go leor.

So inniu Lá Na Bríde will you kindly give

A small morsel of food that others may live?

As we came the road through the famine

Few people had oat cakes or plenty of milk

So today Bridget’s Day will you kindly give

A morsel of food that others might live.

(Bilingual Famine Prayer and Begging Song)

There were also many monastic settlements on the islands in Lough Ree. Indeed, a descendant of the King of Tara, St Diarmaid, is said to have started monasteries on all the larger islands.

Those monastic people had to, or at least partly, obey the Brehon Laws that were there when they came. Those laws were based on an extended family or clan, with most things shared and everybody looked after. The monasteries, of course, brought writing, first in an eastern language, Latin, but later in the Irish language. This was another huge change for the people and gave them opportunities never before known.

By the time that St Patrick arrived in Ireland, the headquarters of Christianity was in Rome, from where it’s Supreme Head, the Pope, governed. The bishops were supposed to be directed by the Pope but the Irish Christians initially followed much of the Druidic religion. Halfway through the sixth century there was extremely cold weather, causing famine and hardship. The druids were blamed for not foretelling this and lost credibility. This was a great help to the Christians but it was many years later before all traces of the druids were removed from Roscommon. Even the teller of this story is intrigued, inspired, mesmerised and driven by the Tuatha Dé Danann and their spirit.

After Christianity was established in Roscommon and Ireland it declined in much of Europe. By this time, the Irish monasteries were producing magnificent books, art and stone crosses. In later times of trouble some of those books were buried in bogs, where some, like the Book of Kells, were recovered centuries later. Some such books and artefacts may also be hidden in Roscommon bogs but have not been found yet, although parts of bog bodies, from an earlier time, were found near Lough Gara.

Following the decline of Christianity in Europe, Irish monks restored it in many places and many continental young men went there for training in our monasteries.

When some monasteries became rich and powerful, obedience to the words of Jesus Christ diminished and decadence prevailed. Then war between monasteries occurred and many lives were lost. Some of those problems were caused by noble families insisting on having members of their clan installed as abbots or bishops in charge. In some cases, there was even a right of succession established and, as a result, laymen became abbots.

At this stage, the Pope sent powerful emissaries to reform the Church in Roscommon, Lough Ree, Lough Cé and all Ireland. Some of those emissaries were not at all pleased with what they found and dictated strict rules for the future. They had totally opposite views on sex to Queen Meabh. She regretted that women could not be as clearly sexual as men, while those emissaries wanted sex restricted even among married people. It was never quite clear how those directions could be implemented.

The Roscommon people, and monasteries in general, agreed wholeheartedly to obey their strict rules, but many lapsed when the emissaries left, not really having wholeheartedly agreed in the first place.

Indeed, many genuinely devout Roscommon and Irish missionaries went all over the world for millennia, preaching and teaching Christianity and converting whole nations. No doubt the magical Irish spirit of the Tuatha Dé Danann was most useful to them. It created their friendliness, good humour and daring, gift of the gab, music poetry and writing, while their holiness came from Jesus Christ.

St Patrick could never have foreseen that 1,500 years after his time, all over the world, rivers, cities, statues and mountains would be turned green in his honour and he would be one of the most widely remembered saints in the world.

‘There are more people in various parts of the world claiming to be Irish and wearing green, than there was in the whole world in your time. You can believe it Patrick.’

THE WOOING OF ÉTAÍN

The ‘Yellow Book of Lecan’ written at the end of the fourteenth century fully details the ‘Wooing of Étaín’ or ‘Tochmarc Étaíne’. The story of Étaín and Midhir comes from the early mythological cycle with stories of the first people to come to Ireland in a series of invasions and is County Longford’s greatest legend. This version was given to me by Sorcha Hegarty, who runs the annual Bard Summer School, and Annette Corkery of Ardagh.

Midhir was a king of the Tuatha de Dannan, proud, handsome and regal. His wife was called Fuamnach and was his equal in every way. She too was tall and proud, and she was the daughter of a king. She was a good wife to Midhir: she looked after him well and looked after their children and foster children well.

One of these foster children was Aengus Óg, the God of Love. He was a lovely child and their favourite. Through the years they fell ever more in love with him – as you would expect with a love god. When he grew up and moved away to his own home, they were bereft. Midhir especially missed him terribly.

One day, Midhir announced to Fuamnach that he was going to pay Aengus Óg a visit. On his way he met a very beautiful young lady. He stopped and asked her name. She told him it was Étaín and the moment she looked into his eyes, he fell in love with her and she with him. He asked her to come with him, and she readily agreed. The two of them then spent a year and a day at Aengus Óg’s house at Brúgh na Boinne, living as husband and wife. Then Midhir decided that it was time for him to go home, but he could not bear to be parted from Étaín and so he brought her with him.

The moment Fuamnach saw Étaín, she realized what had happened and she was furious. In secret she performed a magic spell on Étaín, transforming her into a pool of water. Then she conjured up a magic wind that dried up the water. The steam from the water condensed into a butterfly and then Fuamnach was satisfied. However, the butterfly then flew to Midhir and wafted him with its wings. Beautiful music drifted on its wings and a beautiful scent filled the air. Midhir recognised it was his love, Étaín. From then on everywhere he went the butterfly Étaín perched on his shoulder and the two of them were never seen apart.

Fuamnach was furious that her trick had not worked. She turned to magic again and conjured a storm. The storm caught Étaín up and dragged her away from Midhir. She was blown and buffeted by the winds for many years, until at last the storm blew itself out and she found herself at Brúgh na Boínne near the house of Aengus Óg. Aengus was able to recognize her and built a room of glass especially for her where she would be safe from any ill winds. He filled it with flowers and made it the most comfortable home for a butterfly that he could. Étaín lived there for some time until one day she mistakenly fluttered outside. Fuamnach’s storm, which was always waiting, swept down and caught her up again.

The storm battered Étaín for seven long years and then it blew her in through the high window of a mortal king’s banqueting hall. She landed on a rafter high in the roof. The king and his wife were having a feast for all their subjects. Exhausted, Étaín the butterfly fell in a faint off the rafter and landed in the wine cup of the king’s wife. She drank back the butterfly, turned to her husband and said, ‘I am with child.’ Nine months later she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

The king and his wife named the girl Étaín, and she grew up to be the loveliest young woman that anyone had ever seen, with no memory of her immortal life before.

Eochaid Airem, the high local king of Ireland, was told by his advisors the time had come to find a wife. He heard rumours of the king’s beautiful daughter, Étaín, and decided that she should be the one for him. He called for Étaín to meet him, and she was well pleased with the match. They married and lived happily together.

After some time, King Eochaid Airem’s brother fell sick. On his sickbed, he called for Étaín, and when she came to him, he told her that he was lovesick because of the great love he had for her. He insisted that he would die if she would not agree to meet him in a love tryst the very next day. She agreed, and at once he felt better.

The next day, Étaín came to meet the king’s brother at the arranged place, but as soon as she saw him, he changed form. He grew taller and a glorious light shone out of him. She realised that this was not her husband’s brother. Indeed, it was Midhir, who told her the story of their love and how he had been searching for her for three hundred years. Now that he had found her, after all the obstacles that they had overcome, he was never going to let her go again.

But Étaín was not convinced. She told him she knew none of this and had no memory of the things he was telling her, and besides all that, she was a married woman. Midhir called after her and said, ‘If I get your husband’s permission, will you come away with me?’

Étaín said, ‘yes,’ thinking it unlikely.

The next day, Midhir turned up at the house of Eochaid Airem, and challenged him to a game of ‘fidchell’, a game not unlike chess. Eochaid Airem won the first game, and the second game. He was so confident in his skills that he agreed to wager that the winner of the next game could claim any gift he asked from the loser. Midhir won and demanded that he be allowed to embrace and kiss the king’s wife, Étaín.

Eochaid Airem was annoyed at this request. He certainly did not want another man to embrace and kiss his own wife. He therefore asked Midhir for a month’s grace, and Midhir left, promising to come back and claim his prize.

Eochaid Airem readied his army and spent the month training them and making sure they were fit, well equipped and battle ready. On the day Midhir was to return, he ordered his army to the banqueting hall and to surround Étaín, and prepared to repel any invader. But Midhir entered by magic and appeared inside the fort. He embraced Étaín and the moment he put his arms around her, she remembered everything. She remembered the storm. She remembered her immortal life. She remembered Midhir and their great love. She kissed him passionately, and as the king and all his men watched, Étaín began to shine with the light of the immortals. She and Midhir rose up from the ground and floated out of the window, never to be seen again. Eochaid Airem, broken-hearted, spent the rest of his life digging up every fairy fort he came across in search of his lost love.

GATES THAT WON’T STAY CLOSED

A neighbour of mine when I was living in Avoca, County Wicklow, the late Hughie McCusker, told me this story in the 1980s. Hughie was a fine natural storyteller from Rathfriland, County Down. I assume he heard the tale from a resident of Moynalty, possibly when he attended a Steam Threshing Festival.

It was well known that the gates of a Big House outside Moynalty were always closed in the evening but were always found open in the morning. Something opened them after midnight.

One night, a group of lads were returning from the pub in a car after midnight. As they passed the Big House one of the passengers, fortified with Guinness courage, said to the driver, ‘Stop the car. Them gates are open. Back the car and shine the headlights on the gates. I’m going to close them bloody gates so they stay shut.’

The driver manoeuvred the car so the lights illuminated the gates. Our hero got out, marched to the gates and closed them and fastened them with a heavy iron bar. He came back to the car, dusting his hands in triumph and said, ‘Now, I’d like to see anything open them bloody gates.’

The wide-eyed, pale-faced driver said, ‘Well, then, you’d better look now.’

He turned around and saw that the gates were already opened. Hughie said that the man nearly went through the side of the car trying to get into it.

Danny Cusack of Kells consulted a friend in Moynalty and said she confirmed the story and said that the house is Westland House, a couple of miles south of Moynalty on the road to Kells. Danny said, ‘The place was owned by the Barnes family for generations but is now vacant. My friend also mentioned that after Mrs Barnes died the locals were disappointed that the thing about the gates staying open did not hold true.’

The late Tommy Murray of Trim told a related tale in his 2006 book, Meath Voices. Local pranksters closed a gate one night that had never been closed, and in the morning the postman, expecting to find the gate open as usual, was killed when he drove into it. That was the story that was circulated, but it never happened. Someone was only playing a grisly trick on the lads who had closed the gate. Tommy said it was Niblock’s Gate on the Navan Road from Trim.

A similar story is found in Conor Brennan’s Yellow Furze Memories, where he mentions a gate in Yellow Furze that was closed at night but found open in the morning.

THE BLACK PIG’S DYKE

In Riverstown townland, 1.2km west of the Hill of Tara, are two double-banked earthworks. One is 700m long and the other is about half that length. There is another similar earthwork in western County Meath between Kinnegad and the Hill of Down.

Similar monuments are found all over Ireland, variously called the Worm’s Ditch, the Dane’s (or Danes’) Cast, the Duncladh, and most often the Black Pig’s Dyke. Archaeologists refer to them as ‘travelling earthworks’. Some appear to be defensive structures, as is the case with the 100 BC Dorsey Entrenchment in County Armagh, where burnt sharpened oak posts were found pointing south against an expected invasion. ‘The Cattle Raid of Cooley’, which tells about an invasion of Ulster by the rest of Ireland, is set about that time. Others seem to be holding pens, possibly for rustled cattle, or boundary markers, and some archaeologists suggest a ritual significance. One theory is that the discontinuous line of earthworks along the shifting Ulster border as it was 2,000 years ago, and all dated to about that time, combines ritual and defence. There used to be a pub in that border area, on the R189 south of Newbliss in County Monaghan, called The Black Kesh; céis is an Irish word for pig.

In a paper delivered to the Royal Irish Academy in 1909, W.F. de Vismes Kane described how he was working on the Ordnance Survey in Monaghan when his ‘attention was especially arrested by the vestiges of a great embankment and ditch’. He found several more segments in the vicinity. The ditches were generally about 20ft deep measured from the top of the embankments and situated so that they could defend against an attack from the south.

The names attached to the earthwork are strange. ‘The Black Pig’s Race’, or ‘Rut’, or ‘Valley’ (Gleann na Muice Duibhe), and the ‘Worm Ditch,’ or ‘Dyke’. The legends attached to the former name are very grotesque; and their main drift is that a magical pig, originally from Meath, raged westward through Ireland, and tore up this deep furrow with its snout.

The worm or peist was a dragon whose folds left the sinuous track over hill and dale … their value mainly consists in their almost universal reference to Meath as connected somehow with the origin of the ditch; as also the fact of supernatural agencies being introduced to explain its origin, which is a token of great antiquity.

Those ‘grotesque’ legends take many forms. This is the version I tell in schools, with the introduction: ‘Do you want to hear a story about a bad teacher?’ The answer is always a resounding ‘Yes’, with a mischievous-guilty glance at the teacher, who always – so far – takes it in good humour.

There was once a schoolmaster who had the magic power to change people into animals by tapping them on the head with his wand. One day at the break, he changed the boys into hounds and the girls into hares, and the hounds chased the hares around the schoolyard until the end of the break, and then he changed them back into boys and girls.

At least they got a lot of exercise, but the children didn’t like being changed into animals, and when they got home and their parents asked them why they were so tired, they told them what the schoolmaster had done. The parents didn’t like that, either, and they went to see a wise old woman to ask her advice. She told the parents what to do, and the parents told the children.

The following day, when the schoolmaster was about to change the boys and girls into hounds and hares, they asked him, ‘Master, can you change yourself into an animal?’

‘Of course I can. What kind of animal do you want me to change into?’

‘A pig.’

So he tapped himself on the head with his magic wand and turned into a pig. But when he went to change himself back into the schoolmaster, he couldn’t. He had forgotten that pigs don’t have fingers, and so he couldn’t pick up the wand to tap himself on the head.

He was so angry that the children had tricked him that he ran all over Ireland, digging trenches with his tusks. So now where you see two ditches side by side, that is when he was running in a straight line with both tusks in the ground, and where you see only one ditch, that is when he was turning and had only one tusk in the ground.

He ran through Athlone and, as he was crossing the bridge over the Shannon, a woman hit him on the head with a big wooden hammer and killed him.

In other versions of the story the schoolmaster turned the children into pigs, and it was they who made the Black Pig’s Dykes. In his paper, de Vismes Kane brought up two ancient legends that he felt might have been the origins of the Black Pig story.

In the first, three sisters married three men, but the women’s mother disapproved of the matches and changed all six into pigs. They stayed with Buchet the innkeeper in Wicklow, then with Aonghus in Brú na Bóinne, then with Drebrenn, the sister of Queen Maeve of Connacht. Eventually, they were incarcerated in the Cave of Cruachan, from which they escaped to ravage Ireland for seven years until they were killed. The other story is known as The Death of the Sons of Tuirenn, one of the Three Sorrowful Tales of Ireland. Cian, the father of Lugh of the Long Hand, transformed himself into a pig to escape an attack by the Sons of Tuirenn but was killed.

De Vismes Kane cites several other stories from various parts of Ireland. In many of them the schoolmaster or druid comes from somewhere along the Boyne near Drogheda, and the pig is killed while crossing the Shannon. De Vismes Kane cites this as evidence that the Black Pig’s Dyke, at least in the Meath-Monaghan-Cavan area, reflects the border between Leinster and Ulster as it was before Tuathal Techtmar appropriated what is now Louth, North County Dublin, and parts of other counties and added them to the present County Meath to form the royal province of Meath in the first century AD.

Folklore collector P.J. Gaynor heard a version from his father, James, who lived in Edengora and died in 1926 at the age of 81. It includes the frequent motif of a great battle associated with the Black Pig. This tale begins in Athlone. One of the pupils has paid close attention to the words of the schoolmaster’s spell, and he changes the master into a pig and the boys and girls into hounds, and the hounds chase the pig to the gates of Drogheda, where they kill him. The course of the chase is known as the Valley of the Black Pig, and it runs through Edengora, between Bailieborough and Kilmainhamwood. According to James:

There was an old prophecy that ‘when the war would come to Ireland it would be at its worst in the Valley of the Black Pig.’ The ‘greatest slaughter of all’ would take place there, and the old prophecy said ‘for those living in the Valley of the Black Pig, happy would the man be who burned his house and lay in the ashes.’ … When the war would come to Ireland ‘a horseman would come riding like the wind to give warning to the people. Old men would be turned three times in their beds, to see if they were fit to serve in the army.’

(National Folklore Collection 792:392-95)

KING BRIAN BORU’S TALKATIVE TOES

I got this story from one of the greatest storytellers Ireland has ever produced, John Campbell, who lived in Mullabawn. He said he got it off his mother who got it – when she was young – off her neighbour, the poet Patrick Kavanagh. I suspect John changed the story slightly as it is full of anachronisms, but as it’s so much fun, who cares? I once had the pleasure of hearing him telling this story to children. He used it to underline the fact that we tend to take the different parts of our bodies very much for granted until they stop working.

King Brian Boru was the grandson of St Lorcan, the patron saint of Omeath. He was born in the year AD 941 and died at the Battle of Clontarf on 23 April 1014. He was the High King of Ireland and that, as you can imagine, was a very stressful job. Early one morning he felt so tired that he turned to his wife, Queenie (he called her ‘Queenie’ because as his wife she was the High Queen of Ireland) and said, ‘Queenie, I’m sooooooooo tired, I can hardly get out of bed.’

‘God love ye, Brian,’ said Queenie, ‘sure haven’t ye been having a hard time lately. Being the High King of Ireland is no picnic for a job. Sure, you can have a wee bit of a lie in while I go downstairs and make you a big fry-up for yer breakfast.’

‘Queenie,’ said Brian, ‘It’s at moments like these I know why I had the sense to marry ye.’

Queenie climbed out of bed, put on her green wellington boots and clattered down the castle’s staircase into the kitchen. She took her frying pan off the shelf, put a good dollop of lard in it and fried six rashers of bacon, twelve pork sausages, three fresh eggs, four pancakes, five pieces of soda bread, five pieces of potato bread and a handful of mushrooms. He had a good appetite, had King Brian Boru.

King Brian Boru lay in bed, enjoying the smell of bacon drifting up the stairs. Sure, isn’t it a wonderful thing to be lying in bed, smelling bacon frying?

Queenie finished cooking and let a big gulder out of her. ‘BRIAN! COME DOWN FOR YER BREAKFAST!’

‘COMING, QUEENIE!’ shouted Brian, throwing back the bedclothes.

In those days the bedclothes were not like ours. Duvets had not been invented. King Brian Boru was wealthy so had fine linen sheets and furs made from wolf skins. Ireland was overrun with wolves in those days. They were a nuisance, gobbling up sheep and children, so it was a very good idea to make them into bed coverings. Their fur was lovely and soft.

As Brian threw back the bedclothes his right big toe spoke to him. ‘It’s a fine feisty morning, Brian,’ it said.

Brian couldn’t believe his ears, then his left big toe spoke. ‘It is that.’

Brian was terrified. He thought he was going crazy.

‘I knew I was stressed,’ he muttered, ‘but I didn’t realise I was going stark, staring bonkers. Toes can’t talk to you! Perhaps being High King of the whole of Ireland is too hard a job for me to hold down. Perhaps I should abdicate? Perish the thought.’

He lay and shivered under his wolf skins then he got to thinking. ‘I’m an excellent High King. People are happy under my rule. I must remember I am the High King of the whole of Ireland. A High King should be frightened of nothing, never mind his own two feet. I must be brave and act with dignity.’

He sat up in bed and pulled his golden crown with its gleaming jewels straight on his head. (He was very proud of his position and never went to bed without his crown. He was a little bit pompous, was King Brian Boru.) Throwing back the bedclothes, he glowered at his feet.

‘We were talking, Brian,’ said the left toe.

‘I heard you. Why were you talking?’

‘We’re fed up inside your smelly socks. We want to go home.’

‘My socks are NOT smelly.’

‘Oh, yes, they are. They’re stinking.’

‘They can’t be,’ replied Brian, ‘I’m a very clean king. I make a point of having a bath once a year.’

‘That’s beside the point,’ said the right toe, ‘bath or no bath, your socks are smelly and we want to go home.’

‘I don’t see how you can go home. You’re stuck on my feet and anyway, I need you.’

‘Look Brian, ye know nothin’,’ replied the right toe, ‘Ye’ve five toes on your right foot and five toes on your left foot. Five and five’s ten. That’s greedy. It’s too many toes. You wouldn’t even miss us if you let us go home. And don’t ye know, if you pull your toes really hard they come off like lego and ye can stick them back on again.’

‘Go on,’ said the left toe, ‘Give it a go. Try pulling us off and let us go home.’

King Brian Boru began to think and think and think. It was a slow process because he was better at fighting than thinking. He thought seriously about his two big toes. If he had to get up in the middle of the night to visit the bathroom what did he hit against the furniture? His big toe. When he danced a jig with Queenie and she leapt into the air in her green wellies, what did she land on? His big toe. Hitting his toe against the furniture hurt, and so did Queenie. She was a big, fat, heavy woman. It’s not pleasant thing to have a heavyweight land on your toe and Queenie lived in the days when fat was a status symbol. Ordinary people could not afford enough food, so were thin. Queenie was the High Queen of the whole of Ireland and the wife of a rich monarch. She could have as much food as she could eat. As a result, she was the fattest woman in the whole of Ireland. When she jumped on Brian’s big toe, it hurt like crazy so King Brian Boru began to think he would be better off without his big toes. They appeared to know what he was thinking because they yelled, ‘Come on, Brian. Be a sport. Do us a favour. Pull us off and let us go home. Come on, be a sport. Let’s go home.’

King Brian Boru bent down and absentmindedly pulled his toes off. They came away from his feet very easily. The minute they were free they each grew two little legs and a pair of arms and shouted, ‘Hi! Thanks a bucket, Brian. Ye’re dead on,’ as they dashed out the bedroom door.

Queenie let another big gulder out of her. ‘COME ON, BRIAN! YER EGGS ARE GETTING A SKIN ON THEM. YE KNOW YE DON’T LIKE THEM THAT WAY. COME DOWN FOR YER BREAKFAST!’

‘COMING, QUEENIE!’ guldered Brian as he stepped out of bed and attempted to rush out of the bedroom. He fell flat on his face. He’d lost his toes and toes are needed for balance.

Queenie heard the thump and immediately thought, ‘Brian’s dropped dead. He’s had a heart attack.’ She rushed up the stairs shouting, ‘Brian! Brian! Are you alright, Brian? Are you alright?’

She found him sitting on the floor sobbing, ‘I’ve lost my toes, Queenie. I’ve lost my toes. I can’t walk because I’ve lost my toes. I’ll never be able to fight again. I’ve lost my big toes.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Queenie, who was a very sensible woman. ‘You can’t have lost your toes. People don’t lose toes.’

‘Look,’ said Brain pointing at his feet.

‘That was very careless of you, Brian, imagine losing yer toes What happened to them? Where are they?’

‘I don’t rightly know. They ran out the door.’

‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and find them.’

Queenie rushed out of the bedroom door, down the stairs, through the kitchen, across the courtyard, over the drawbridge and down the road. She was a big fat woman, the biggest and fattest woman in the whole of Ireland, so she couldn’t run very fast. All her fat bounced up and down while she was trying to move forwards and it kept her back. It was as well buses hadn’t been invented at that time, because she’d never have been able to run and catch one. She’d be running still if the toes hadn’t stopped in the middle of the road to have a fight. They couldn’t remember which was the right toe and which was the left toe and were knocking the melt out of each other.

‘I’m the right toe,’ yelled the left toe, thumping the living daylights out of right toe.

‘No ye’re not, I’m the right toe. I’m the right toe!’ yelled the right toe as it thumped the left toe in return.

‘I’m the right toe!’

‘No! I am!’

The fight went on and on. Queenie stood in the middle of the road and wondered what she should do. If she went to pick the toes up, they would probably run away. They could run in two different directions and she’d never catch them. Worse still, they could run into a field of oats and it would be impossible to see, never mind catch them. ‘I’ll have to be crafty,’ thought Queenie, looking down at the toes.

‘What gives with you guys?’ she asked. ‘Why are you fighting in the middle of the road?’

‘We can’t remember who’s the right toe and who’s the left toe!’ the toes shouted together.

‘Well, fighting about it isn’t going to solve the problem. Why don’t you go and ask Brian? He’s sure to know who’s who. He’s a quare decent fella. I’m sure he’d tell you.’

‘Good thinking, woman,’ shouted the toes as they turned and ran back up the road, over the drawbridge, across the courtyard, through the kitchen, up the stairs and into Brian’s bedroom.

‘Brian! Brian! Brian!’ they shouted, ‘Which one’s the right toe? Which one’s the right toe?’

‘Come here till I have a good look at you toes. I can’t tell unless I can see you clearly. My eyesight isn’t as good as it once was.’

The toes went over to Brian. He bent down and picked them up. ‘There,’ he said, sticking the right toe back on his foot. ‘There. You’re the right toe. And you’re the left toe.’ With that, he stuck the left toe back in position.

‘Ta! Ta! Thanks,’ yelled the toes. ‘Now we know who’s who, pull us off again and let’s go home.’

‘I can’t do that, toes,’ said Brian, ‘I’m sorry, but I need you, toes. I can’t walk without you, toes. You’ll just have to live in my smelly socks, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have a bath twice a year.’

From that day until the day he was killed at the Battle of Clontarf, in the year 1014 along with his son and his grandson, King Brian Boru had to sleep with his socks on to stop his toes talking to each other and keeping him awake.

If you have to sleep with your socks on, it goes to show that you’re descended from King Brian Boru, the High King of the whole of Ireland and one of the greatest kings the world has ever known. It’s a crying shame that after the Battle of Clontarf, one of the fleeing Vikings stumbled across his tent, burst in and beheaded him. His body was put in a coffin and carried all the way to Armagh. The pallbearers, who took it across the ford at Oldbridge, could not have guessed that over 600 years later, this would be the site of a famous battle, the Battle of the Boyne.

Brian’s sad cortège travelled up Rath Hill and on into Ulster, where his body was buried in the grounds of what is now the Anglican cathedral in the city of Armagh.

MOYRY CASTLE’S KILLER CAT

I always loved telling this story because of the audience reaction to the play on words as the killer cat compiles a catalogue of cats prepared to send humans into a state of catalepsy and so on.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced the story contains a hidden meaning which is applicable today. The cat and his master, the wizard, were prepared to live off the environment in a sustainable fashion until a foolish human upset the balance. Thoughtlessly killing the wizard caused the cat to become filled with bloodlust with unexpected consequences. Today we are suffering from global warming with acid rain, diseased trees and so on because we are thoughtless and are not taking sufficient care of our environment.

Close your eyes in the valley leading through the Slieves of Armagh and the Mountains of Louth and you can almost hear the sound of war. The battle cry ‘croachan’, the clash of swords, the groans of the wounded, the stench of death. There is a strange haunting atmosphere. This is ‘The Gap of the North’, where birds never sing as a mark of respect to the dead and the air seems filled with ghosts. It was the scene of many fierce battles, a ‘real Bearna Baoghall’, a Gap of Danger.

It was here that Hugh O’Neill fought Queen Elizabeth I’s soldiers during the Nine Years’ War. Eventually, after much bloodletting, the Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland, Lord Mountjoy, managed to conquer the pass after the besieged O’Neill ran out of ammunition and retreated. Mountjoy kept control of the border zone by building Moyry Castle in 1601 in the Gap of the North. Moyry Castle is an Elizabethan tower house, the stark ruined skeleton of which dominates the pass and adds to the atmosphere of desolation.

Moyry Castle was originally a simple building with different levels connected by ladders, not stairs. It was surrounded by a stout, protective bawn wall and, because of its defensive position, it had an unusual number of gun emplacements. There was a drawbridge leading to the entrance and a hole above the door used to pour boiling oil and other deterrents on to unwanted visitors. Deputy Mountjoy stationed a warden and a garrison of men in the castle to control border movement.

One day, as the sentries walked the ramparts, they saw a strange, old man with a large tiger cat coming out of the woods and heading towards them. The old man was wearing native Gaelic costume but there was something strange and foreign-looking about his lean, tanned face and the way he moved. He looked somehow as if it had come from the East. He approached the drawbridge and asked permission to enter and entertain the troops.

When questioned, he said he was a wizard who had visited all the principal castles and families in the country. The guards invited him in and enjoyed his skill in juggling and his magic tricks. Most of all they appreciated the fantastic feats performed by his tiger cat, who could jump through rings of fire. They were intrigued and asked how he had come to own such a wonderful creature. The wizard said, ‘I rescued him when he was a tiny cub. He had been abandoned by his mother. I hand reared him, slept with him at night and gave him milk whenever he appeared hungry. You know something, I learnt to love that big cat as if he was my own child and it loves me. He’s very affectionate and follows me around like a dog, protecting me and keeping anyone from hurting me. He can be the wild fierce boy, so he can, but the funny thing is, he likes my friends.’

Every time the cat performed a trick, the wizard petted it and gave it a little catnip treat. It rolled over in delight and purred loudly.

When they finished their performance, the guards gave the wizard gifts. He bowed and said he would call again sometime.

The two strange friends went and lived in a cave in the mountains. Each day the wizard sent the beast out to forage for food and he gave a shrill whistle when he wanted the animal to return. He replied with a loud ‘murrow’ and came bounding back, carrying prey in his mouth.

The big cat was an expert hunter. He didn’t kill for pleasure; just sufficient to feed his master and himself. The wizard always rewarded it by stroking him, petting him and giving him little catnip treats. He cooked the prey over an open fire before dividing it into two portions and giving one to his friend. After dark the big cat and the wizard slept curled up together, covered by furs on a soft pile of leaves. They looked as snug as a pair of bugs in a rug.

Eventually the wizard decided they’d spent enough time in the one place and they should set out on their travels again. They were away for a long time and when they came back, the guards at Moyry Castle had changed. The new guards were suspicious of strangers and not nearly as friendly as the old ones. When the wizard went up to the drawbridge, the sentry lifted his bow, took aim and shot him through the heart. The cat stood still, shocked and furious at the death of his master. He took a deep breath and leapt soundlessly up on the ramparts. The sentry stiffened. He hadn’t seen the cat, just a shadow and wondered what was going on.

‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.

‘Murrow,’ mewed the cat.

The sentry laughed. ‘You Irish have very peculiar names. Well Murrow, where do you come from?’

‘Maaa-yo.’

All cats come from Mayo.

‘Give me the password,’ demanded the sentry.

‘Three blind mice,’ replied the cat.

‘Rats,’ shouted the sentry.

A red cloud of rage passed before the cat’s eyes at the sentry’s rudeness. He crouched down, his eyes closed to narrow slits of hate. He pounced and sank his teeth into the sentry’s skull, which shattered with a terrible crunching sound. The noise woke a second sentry who was dozing on the other side of the keep. He came round to see what was happening. The cat made a second spring, knocked him over and tore his throat out. His severed arteries spurted blood all over the cat’s immaculate fur, turning it bright red.

The sight of so much blood caused the tiger cat to be seized by a ferocious bloodlust. He went from room to room, silently slithering down ladders and finding the garrison’s soldiers sleeping in their beds. He killed them all, one by one, cracking their skulls open and shredding their flesh into mincemeat.

He then turned his rage on the countryside, killing all the animals he met, dragging their bodies back to the castle and devouring them. His shadow slid through the woods like a grim, silent ghost. He no longer killed to survive. He killed for pleasure. He became convinced all humans were evil, except his master, who he thought of as the exception that proves the rule. He watched for travellers and if they showed any sign of fear he was on them like a tornado, shattering their skulls and tearing their throats out. When he finished hunting, he sat upright on the castle ramparts and howled horribly.

Once he captured a toddler, who’d run some distance in front of its mother. The big cat picked it up in his jaws, carried it off to a clearing in the woods, set it on the ground and played cat and mouse by allowing it to crawl to the edge of the thicket before pouncing and carrying it back to the centre of the clearing in his ferocious jaws. Then he terrified the infant by hiding in a thicket, suddenly springing out and growling ferociously.

The poor child was very scared and screamed loudly. Luckily, a group of O’Hanlon’s men were out hunting. They heard the screams and went to investigate. When they saw what was happening, they rushed at the cat with their long spears. The cat fought bravely before, realising it was outnumbered, backing into a thicket and snarling fiercely before disappearing into the woods with its tail swooshing in uncontrollable rage.

The toddler wasn’t hurt, apart from a few minor scratches, and was taken back to his mother, who couldn’t believe her eyes. She had given her son up for dead and was weeping bitterly.

Never before had the countryside been plagued by such terror. People became petrified of venturing out alone. They even went in groups to draw water from the wells. Many attempts were made to capture the killer cat but it was as clever and cunning as it was cruel. Once, when surrounded by O’Hanlon’s retainers in a wood, it sprang up a tree and mocked the men by putting its nose round the trunk and laughing as arrows pinged into the bark. Eventually it sprang over their heads and vanished.

Traps and snares were set but the beast appeared to have a sixth sense warning of danger and avoided them all. The cat made its home in the castle and could be seen every night sitting proudly on the battlements. Gradually the pain caused by the loss of his master faded and he began to enjoy his solitary life. Being alone had advantages: he could come and go as he pleased. Hunting was easier because he had only one mouth to feed. The cat began to think of itself as King of the Castle. After all, he had captured and held his new home against all comers. As the cat grew more and more confident he became more and more ambitious.

He wanted to be recognised as King of the Cats, a Catamount. He came to realise he was free. No human could tell him what to do. Then he thought all cats should be free. Humans should not be allowed the keep cats as slaves; it was against their cat rights. He decided to start a cat-league for the emancipation of cats.

One night he felt the time was ripe for a revolution and stood erect on Moyry Castle’s battlements. He blew a cat-call, summoning all the cats in the neighbourhood to come and hear what he had to say. He stood proudly on his hind legs with his front paws supported on a battlement and addressed the crowd.

‘Friends,’ he mewed loudly, ‘Cats should not be held in captivity by humans. They should be free. I say by Bubastis, the wife of Pthah and the goddess of cats, at whose shrine we worship, slavery must cease. We cats must stop exterminating rats and mice because humans hate them. What harm has a rat or a mouse done to a cat? We have become nothing more than people pleasers. We must stop, unite and organise ourselves into a society with the sole aim of killing humans. Each cat must put its name in a catalogue as a Member of the League for the Extermination of the Human Race and the Emancipation of Cats. We shall no longer be catspaws. We shall become the cats’ pyjamas, cause a catastrophe and wipe the human race off the face of this earth. Nobody shall escape. All humans are in the same category. Now listen carefully, I want to catechise you on how to act. Catenate yourselves in a great chain, surround the houses and catacaluptify all the inhabitants. When they are seized with catalepsy lay them out on catafalques and bury them in catacombs. Tomorrow we will meet in secret, carrying catapults. Only those with cataracts may be excused. Your leading cat, your king, your Catamount, shall stand erect to receive you. Any cat that fails to come up to scratch shall be cursed and lose its nine lives. Beware of the cataclysm engineered by me, your Catamount.’

There was great yowling and clapping of paws as the cats swore they’d never lick fur again until they’d licked their enemies. The Catamount gave them the secret sign and they disappeared, with a flick of a cat’s tail, silent shadows melting into the night.

There was one kitten who did not agree with the Catamount’s plans. He loved his owners. They cuddled him, gave him cream and a warm comfortable bed. He did not want to kill them, so he told them about the plot.

When the people found they were about to be attacked, they held a council of war in Chief O’Hanlon’s dun. They decided that attack was the best means of defence and that a posse should be sent out to kill the Catamount.

Chief O’Hanlon disagreed. He said a posse would be too noisy. The cat would hear it coming.

‘That cat is cruel and crafty,’ he said. ‘Think of the way it has eluded us in the past. It would be better if one well-armed person sneaked up silently, caught it off guard and slaughtered it.’

There was an argument. Nobody wanted to face the cat alone so Chief O’Hanlon offered to go and do the job himself. If he didn’t come back in a reasonable time, then an armed posse should be sent out.

The mighty chief dressed in his strongest armour, fetched his longest, sharpest sword and his stoutest shield and set off. He was careful not to make a sound. When he reached the castle, he had a stroke of luck. The killer cat had eaten a feast of lamb. It felt contented and safe, so had curled up into a ball and fallen fast asleep. Chief O’Hanlon crept up and sliced its head off. As the cat’s bleeding head rolled over on the ground it made a last brave effort, opened its mouth and whispered, ‘My dying wish is that you tell your kitten what you have done.’

Chief O’Hanlon agreed.

When he got back to his dun and described how the dying head had told him to tell his kitten, it raised its head. It had been listening to every word while pretending to be asleep by the fire. It had signed the Catamount’s catalogue and was a fully paid-up member of ‘the League for the Extermination of the Human Race and the Emancipation of Cats’. Before anyone could stop it, the kitten leapt through the air and tore out Chief O’Hanlon’s throat out, causing him to bleed to death. It had avenged the Catamount but in so doing it paid with its own life because the horrified onlookers killed it immediately.

The little kitten who loved its owners thought it was a great pity Moyry Castle’s guard had killed the wizard. If he had been welcomed there would have been no catalogue of disasters.

THE SLUAGH SIDHE

This is a story we found in the Schools Collection in Duchas. Imelda Dunican collected it from Mrs Caffret in Kilbeggan, Co. Westmeath, the date is unknown but thought to be c.1938. Vol. 0732, pp.490–4. As this story was transcribed by a child it was sparse and a little hard to understand, so we adapted it to make it more accessible and comprehensible.

Long ago, old people had a positive belief in fairies, goblins, elves, leprechauns, banshees and Clurichauns (a mischievous fairy in Irish folklore known for his great love of drinking and a tendency to haunt wine cellars). But mothers above all guarded their babies (and still do in some cases) just in case they were taken away by the fairies. They put a pinch of salt under the pillow in the pram as a means of protection. When people praised babies they often forgot to add the little prayer ‘God bless it’, so mothers would offer up the little prayer themselves in silent thought – just in case!

Some years ago, a young mother who already had two little girls was made wonderfully happy by the gift of a beautiful baby boy. There was great rejoicing and the father thought this was the most wonderful baby in the parish. The father was a farmer and to his delight the baby thrived and he was the proudest father for miles. When the boy was almost a year old, it happened that the hay season was not such a fine one as usual, so every fine hour that came the farmer and his wife spent in trying to save it. The mother generally took the children with her to the fields, and while the parents worked the children tumbled in the hay and sure the children loved getting out in the fresh air, and would tumble down the hills and play hide-and-seek. As this family had a wee baby, they usually left it in its little cradle asleep in the shade under a tree.

It was August, a calm evening, and the parents were at work, trying to make use of the last of the sun for that day. The girls were sitting over by the tree beside the baby in his cradle and were beginning to feel a little tired. It was near six in the evening when suddenly a rustling, whistling sound passed by, causing the hay to rise in swirls all over the field. Both parents made the sign of the cross, for well they knew it was the Sluagh Sidhe. (In Irish and Scottish folklore the Sluagh were the spirits of the restless dead. Some believe they were some ill-begotten form of fairy folk. The Sluagh are known to steal the souls of the dying. They usually wait till the sun has gone down and then they strike. Dark shadows and sometimes a flock of ravens and a ferocious wind comes out of nowhere. The Sluagh Sidhe is also referred to as the Under Folk, the Wild Hunt, or the Host of Unforgiven Dead.)

The parents were scared because the mood took a darker turn and they feared for their choldre. Not to cause too much panic, they decided to work on when the wind died down. When they came over to where the two little girls were they found them fast asleep but the wee baby boy was crying in his cradle. The parents thought it unusual because the baby was usually nice and quiet. From that day onwards, the baby wasn’t the same. It didn’t seem to thrive one bit, night and day he cried. The years passed by and the little girls grew up strong and healthy but the wee boy never walked or talked – he just lay in his cradle whining.

There was an old man who lived nearby, and he was a genius on the bagpipes. When he visited the house he would play a tune for the family, which they loved. It was quickly noticed that the wee boy in the cradle would stay quiet whenever the old man played the tune. It seemed to be the only thing that would keep him happy. One evening the man came and as it turned out it lashed from the heavens and the old man couldn’t carry his bagpipes home so he decided to leave them behind. The next day the farmer and his wife went to a fair and left the two girls to housekeep and look after the boy. Something during the day attracted their attention outside and the girls left the house. The younger girl returned and, to her surprise, she saw that the wee boy was up on the rafters and playing the bagpipes. She ran out to tell her sister and when they both returned the wee boy was fast asleep in his cradle. When their parents came home the girls ran to the door and told them what had happened and they wouldn’t believe them. They said the girl must have been dreaming. Yet they kept a close eye on the boy after that.

The incident was soon forgotten and one day a travelling woman happened to call and was made very welcome indeed. During the conversation, the mother confided in the woman and told her the story about her son, how the wind came in the field that calm August evening. She felt so comfortable with the woman that she even told her about the day she and her husband where at the fair and her daughter saw her wee brother up on the rafters playing the bagpipes.

The woman was in shock, her mouth was open and her eyes wide listening to the story. The travelling woman advised her to get thirteen eggs and boil them.

‘What good would that do?’ the mother asked but the woman just said, ‘When they are boiled take them out of the pot one by one. Put a special mark on the last egg, but keep the shell of the marked egg. When it is empty fill it with water and put it on a live coal to boil. Have the wee lad on your knee and see how he reacts.’

When the travelling woman left the mother got to work boiling the eggs. When all was ready she took the wee boy on her knee. When he saw the water boiling in the eggshell he let out a roar of laughter and said, ‘Be Gad, I’m as old as the hills around but it’s the first time I ever saw water boiled in an eggshell!’

Up jumped the wee fella and ran out the door and when the mother turned around again there standing beside the fire was a beautiful looking youth the living image of his father. The mother often wondered if the changing wind on that August evening all those years ago had something to do with it? Was her baby taken and replaced with something else? She tried not to think too much about it and held her son in her arms and offered up a little prayer to herself in silent thought.

GIANT LOVE

It happened that one day another giant came calling on An Fear Mór. The historical record is a little hazy on who this other giant was, but the speculation is that the visitor was An Bhean Mhór – the Big Woman – and that the visit was of a romantic nature. Certainly, love or lust would explain what happened next.

Giants are by nature solitary creatures, rarely inclined towards friendship. Yet there comes a time when reproductive needs overcome any eremitic inclination. Deep in a giant’s head neurotransmitters suddenly flash like lightning in a summer storm, lust and love goes whistling through the great pipes and valves of its heart, the creature’s mouth dries up, and its oxters and groin sweat out the foulest of secretions. Many miles, mountains, valleys and lakes away, another of the creatures catches the scent and, regardless of what they are doing or thinking (if indeed giants can be said to think at all), they will immediately turn windward and begin the long, slow lumbering journey towards procreation.

Rocks play a large part in the mating ritual of giants: lifting them, biting them, crushing them and of course throwing them. So it was that An Fear Mór and his lady visitor played around in the local mountains, breaking bits off here, sticking a few extra bits on there. At the climax of all this horse play, they decided to have a throwing competition. As a display of prowess each would attempt to hurl an enormous boulder over the expanse of Galway Bay and land it on to Black Head at the very tip of County Clare.

So it was that each of the two giants gouged out a hill, raced down to the water’s edge and, with a roar, hurled their missiles upwards and outwards. Up and up the projectiles flew, defying gravity and smacking into the clouds. Birds screeched in terror, the very air boomed in protestation, and still the great boulders flew up. Once, twice and thrice the great stones circumnavigated the earth, skimming against the very edge of space, trailing flames and gassy tendrils.

Then, with a scream, down the great boulders came, landing in the Atlantic with such heat and force the waters opened like a monstrous flower with its white petals of roiling steam momentarily floating on the air. Next, with a boom that cracked mountains to the core, the scolding sea washed against the shores of Galway Bay, boiling the skin off all creatures feathered, finned or skin-covered.

The two giants, being constructed of much tougher material, were not in the slightest damaged by the boiling tsunami that crashed over them, and were no more put out than children who have been splashed a bit after hurling a couple of stones into a pond. Unlike children though, who always take delight in their mess and mayhem, the giants were not pleased by the havoc they had caused. Their intention had not been to split the seas, but to smack Black Head. When the floods subsided and the steaming clouds parted it was clear that neither boulder had made it over the bay. There were the tops of the boulders, peeking out of the waters looking for all the world like two lumpy pancakes on a plate.

One of the rocks had almost made it to County Clare, but the giants could not agree as to who had thrown it. An argument ensued, which escalated into a fight. ‘Swim out,’ An Fear Mór cried, ‘and you’ll see the furthest rock is mine.’ At which he threw his erstwhile lover into the sea. With great paddling strokes the lady giant made her way out to the furthest rock. ‘You blind fool,’ she cried. ‘This rock is mine, without a doubt.’

But An Fear Mór was not to be out done. ‘Look closer, my love,’ he called in his most beseeching bellow. As An Bhean Mhór bent to take a closer look, An Fear Mór grabbed a hill smaller but deadlier than any of the rocks in the water, and threw it with incredible accuracy at the bowed head of his former lady friend. So ended the romance of An Fear Mhór. The rock cracked against the female giant’s skull, sending her flying out into the Atlantic. Curiously, that third rock almost reached Black Head, but not quite.

As to what happened to An Bhean Mhór, there is much speculation. Some say she was killed, stone dead, as it were. Others say that she was merely concussed and eventually came to, only to discover that she drifted all the way to America. As for the three great rocks, they still exist and are known to the world as Inis Mór, Inis Meáin and Inis Oirr – the Aran Islands.

THE CITY BENEATH THE WAVES

There are two weeks of the year when Galway Bay fills with mackerel, swimming in their millions upon millions, chasing the quick silver galaxies of tiny darting sprats. And just as they eat the sprats, there are fellows who eat the mackerel. Seals can be seen at that time of the year, out in the bay, swallowing fish after fish until their bellies are near bursting. Then, of course, there are the fishermen of the Claddagh, to whom the mackerel are a blessing, some say, from McDara the saint who watches over fisherfolk.

Well, one July morning, a hundred years ago or so the cry went out: ‘The mackerel are running.’ There was great excitement amongst all the fishing crews, but none was as excited as the three young O’Hara brothers. Every trip out they had sailed with their father, but on this day the old fellow was ill in the stomach and the head. Confined to bed, he told his sons he was sure they had the skills and the brains now to take out his boat themselves.

This filled the lads with pride, and they were all eager to go out and make their first catch without their father. They stowed the nets in the boat and checked its sails, made sure there was food for the journey and fresh water to drink. All along the bay, men and boys were doing the same and the air was filled with the sounds of their shouts, whistles and laughter. But then, just as the boats were about to sail, a curious thing happened.

The O’Hara boys were busy at their tasks when they heard a commotion from further up the Claddagh. The lads looked up and saw an old woman astride a white horse coming along the shore, waving one arm in consternation and calling for all the men of the Claddagh to listen to her.

The lads watched as the woman trotted her horse down to the shore, got off the creature and approached the first of the boats. She put a hand on the arm of one fellow and said, ‘Do not go out fishing this day’. But the fellow shook her off with a laugh, and told her to be on her way and take her nonsense with her. Along she went to the next boat, and the next. And at each of them she made her plea, and at each the men chided her and chased her off. The men told each other the woman was cracked, maybe from age or hunger, or just plain disposition. But the woman was neither a fool nor an innocent. She was as clever as any woman ever born, and every bit as determined that her opinion should be heeded.

Along all the boats, all four score and more, she went, demanding the fishermen listen to her. But the sun had broken free of the horizon and the mackerel were jumping with even greater fervour, and as she went each and every crew would push her away, leap into their boats, set a fine red sail around a passing breeze and sail off into the bay. Eventually there was only one boat left, and that was the one being fitted out by the three young O’Hara boys.

By now the woman’s voice was thin and sore from pleading, but she tried, nonetheless, to catch the attention of the boys. ‘Men of the Claddagh,’ she started, her voice not much above a whisper. Now, it so happened that no one had ever called the lads ‘men’ before. Their chests puffed out to be addressed as such, and so it was that they took a moment to ask the old woman what it was that was bothering her. The old woman pointed out to Galway Bay and this is what she said: ‘There’s a storm being born out in the Atlantic. It will come ashore at the Cliffs of Moher and then climb over the Burren, getting angrier and angrier from the effort of its climbing. When it drops down on Galway Bay the temper on it will be blacker and fiercer than the Devil himself.’

There was never a more perfect day for casting a net, the lads told the old woman, ‘Look at the sun boiling away there like a big egg when yir hungry,’ said the youngest brother.

‘And the sky so blue and blinking at us,’ said the middle one.

‘And the breeze just perfect for fishing but without a hint of malice in it,’ the older of the O’Hara lads added.

The old woman shook her head at the folly of men and said, ‘If you must go fishing, would you do one thing for me?’ The lads were impatient now to get the sails up and the boat out, so they agreed to do the woman one favour. ‘My soul will rest easier tonight,’ the old woman said, ‘if you take on your voyage an axe, a hook, and a long sharp knife.’ The lads agreed to this and sent the youngest brother back to the house to fetch the three implements. When all three O’Hara lads were aboard, with the axe, the hook and the long sharp knife for company, they set their boat out into the bay.

Well, the fishing was good, with the mackerel playing their part in the affair like good and honourable fish should, each creature leaping into whatever net was passing through their locality. By early afternoon there was not a boat that was not heavy with its load of mackerel packed tight and twitching, and glittering in the summer sunlight. And all the men and boys of the Claddagh were content and ready for home, and if any of them recalled the warning of the old woman, doubtless they made a joke of it, or perhaps, being in good fettle, wished her innocent self well.

But just as the boats turned for home the heat left the day and a shiver touched every soul and sail upon the water. A black line appeared in the sky just above the Burren, as if the air was frowning. Then the breeze stopped, the sails sagged, and the men and boys looked fearfully as that dark frown spread like ink or black blood. Before any man could shout out a warning, the storm was on them, roaring like an army, throwing men and boats every which way and the other. Lightning stabbed at the boats like the silver fork of a god hungry for his victuals. And the winds were there from every corner of the world – North, South, East and the West – tumbling and fighting each other in their eagerness to wreck the most boats. The air was so thick with the spray of the waves and the battering of the rain that there were men who drowned even as they stood firm on deck, grasping fast on to the masts of their boats.

The O’Hara brothers struggled to steer for home, but one black-bellied wave rose up above the rest. Twice the size of a house it was, and roaring and spitting like a creature alive as it threw itself at the O’Hara lads. Well, without even thinking, the oldest boy grabbed the axe, shouted out ‘God keep us from harm!’, and threw it at the giant wave. The very second the blade of the axe touched the wave it parted in two like the Red Sea before Moses, and passed harmlessly by on either side of the boat.

But the deeps sent up an even greater swell of water, the size of a hill. Its belly was scarlet with anger and its brow was pricked with broken masts and limbs. Spiting and roaring, it reared up above the little boat. Without a moment’s thought, the second boy grabbed the hook and shouted, ‘God keep us from harm!’ and threw it at the giant wave. The moment the hook touched the wave, it parted in two like the Red Sea before Moses, and the lads were once more saved.

The third wave though was as high as Mweelrea Mountain up there in Killary and its belly was filled with silver lightening. Yet, except for a low rumbling, the monster was almost silent. On it came, determined to carry out its hellish duty, when up stood the youngest boy, all thirteen years of age, and did he not grasp the long sharp knife, cry out ‘God keep us from harm!’ and throw the knife at the terrible beast of a wave. Sure enough, the moment the knife touched the wave it parted in two like the Red Sea. As one half of it passed meekly by the portside, and the other just as meek by the starboard, it left behind a gentle swell that pushed the O’Hara boat all the way home.

As they sailed into the Claddagh, the wind died down and the rain turned softer. Yet even now, their adventure was only half done. For standing on the shore was the old woman and her horse, with not a drop of dampness on them. ‘You cannot step ashore,’ spoke the old woman as the lads tied their boat fast, ‘unless you sit on my horse and follow me.’ Up the three of them mounted, none of them daring to ask questions of the woman, even when she started walking into the waves with the horse at the side of her.

Under the water they went, following the stones and sand and rocks, down and down below Galway Bay, until they came to a handsome city set with buildings made from the finest Connemara marble. As the horse trotted through the underwater city, the lads could hear distant singing and laughter, and fiddles and pipes playing merry jigs. The gay sound grew clearer and louder, and then the woman led the lads into a great park filled with dancing merrymakers. But the boys had no time to take a proper look at the people dancing there, for the old woman was now hurrying the horse along to a great mansion in the middle of the park.

When they reached the front of the house, the old woman bade the lads jump down from the horse and said, ‘Now you must go in here. And when you are inside you must do exactly as I tell you, and you must not utter even a single word! Inside the house there is a flight of stairs which lead up to a landing that has three doors on it. Each of you must go into one of those rooms, and take from it what is yours. But, only what is yours.’

The three lads stepped into the house. The oldest of the boys went up the stairs and opened the first room. Inside was a bed and lying on the bed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, with hair as black as the belly of the first wave. The lad gasped in horror as he saw embedded in her forehead the axe he had thrown. The lad forced himself to stand over the woman, grasped the axe’s wooden handle and tugged. With a terrible wet sound the axe came free and the lad staggered back clutching it, all the while staring in wonder as the wound on the woman’s head healed over until there was not a mark on her.

The woman opened her eyes and sat up. ‘Thank you,’ she said. But the boy did not utter a word in reply. ‘Thank you for healing my terrible wound,’ she said, holding out her hand. Lying on her palm was a necklace made from large white pearls. ‘For you,’ she said, smiling. The pearls seemed to grow ever larger as the boy stared at them, thinking that if he ever took them to Galway city he would be sure to find a girl to marry him. The boy closed his eyes, gripped ever tighter onto the axe-handle and stepped backwards towards the door. Then he reached one hand behind him, opened the door, stepped through it and slammed it shut. With that, the spell was broken and he ran down the stairs to his brothers.

Up then went the second boy, and into the next room. Inside was a bed with a beautiful woman laying on it, with hair as scarlet as the belly of the second wave, and sticking out from her head the gleaming curve of the hook. The boy gulped back his horror, reached down and pulled the hook out. With that the wound on the woman’s forehead healed, her eyes opened and she sat up. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You must be hungry after your terrible day’. She clicked her fingers and a table appeared covered in platters of meat, bowls of fruit, and goblets of champagne. Well, the boy had never felt so hungry in his life and his mouth filled with saliva, but though his stomach grumbled he gripped the hook’s handle all the harder, stepped backwards, opened the door and left. The second the door slammed shut, the spell was broken and he too ran down the stairs.

The final lad, the youngest, not more than thirteen years of age, now stepped into the last room. There was a bed and on it a beautiful woman, with hair as silver as the belly of the third wave, and embedded deep in her forehead was the long sharp knife. The boy grabbed the knife’s handle and tugged. So deep was it in her head that he had to tug harder and harder, until, with a terrible noise of metal scraping against bone, it came out from her skull. As the wound healed up, the woman’s eyes opened, and as she sat up she looked at him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and patted the bed.

The boy held the handle of the knife as tight as he could, but felt his will soften at the woman’s gentle whispers, urging him to sit beside her. Whilst he managed to stop any words spilling out from him, he had no power to stop himself walking over to the bed and sitting down on it. The woman bent closer to him and whispered in his ear, ‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’ She put her hand on his chin and turned him to face her. Now the boy’s heart was pounding, blood roared around his body, and his belly filled with fires of passion as he bent into the embrace of the woman.

Just then the room of the door burst opened with a mighty crash. In ran the two older lads, who grabbed their youngest brother just as his lips were about to touch those of the temptress and dragged him across the room, threw him out on to the landing and slammed the door shut behind them. And with that the spell was broken.

All three came down the stairs bringing with them the axe, the hook and the long sharp knife. When they were outside the house, the old woman nodded at them and said, ‘now you can go home’. The three lads sat back on the horse and the old woman led them away from the house. As they crossed the park the music was louder and they could see clearly the dancers around them. Everywhere they looked they saw smiling women, each as enchanting as the three they had escaped from. And dancing with the women were the fishermen of the Claddagh.

It was night when they arrived home, the storm long gone, and the sky was filled with twinkling stars. The three lads got off the horse and stood silently beside the old woman, looking at the bits of wood floating on the quiet waves, listening to the sounds of weeping coming from the Claddagh’s darkened homes. ‘Is it only us three who survived?’ asked the eldest brother. The old woman nodded.

‘But surely’ pleaded the youngest, ‘the dancing must finish sometime, and then the others can also come home.’

‘The seas will have long dried up before that music stops,’ replied the old woman.

‘But why us,’ asked the middle boy, ‘why have we survived?’

The old woman just shrugged her shoulders. All three boys, their voices cracking with emotion, tears spilling from their eyes, insisted that there had to be a reason why they survived. Any reason at all.

The old woman looked at each of them and then said, ‘If you need a reason for why you survived, perhaps it is this: you three, and you three only, took the time to listen to an old woman from the Claddagh.’

And with that she got up on her horse and rode back into the sea, never to be seen again.

MESSIN’ WITH THE WEE FOLK

This story involves a family consisting of an old woman and her three sons living in the Slieve Bloom Mountains. One day when the mother was wandering about the mountains looking for nuts and berries, she came across a magnificent group of hazel trees growing on a fairy fort or rath. Now there are fairy raths all over the Slieve Bloom Mountains and it was and still is a well-known fact that one should never interfere with them or the system of fairy paths that link them together. But this woman paid no heed to such piseogs (superstitions). She was delighted, for she was in great need of a big strong basket to put the spuds into and the hazel rods and saplings would provide the perfect materials to create such a basket.

She rushed back to the homestead and told her eldest son where the fort was and to go and cut as many rods and saplings as he could and bring them back to her at once. The poor fellow knew better than to question his mother and off he went with his sharp knife and axe to find the fairy fort. It was not long before he found the mystical fort and lo and behold there certainly was a wonderful collection of hazel trees growing upon it. He climbed up onto the fort and began to cut and chop his way through the trees. As he did, he got an awful strange feeling, like he was being watched. He then felt something brush past him and it was at this point that he decided to call it a night; it was starting to get dark anyway.

When he got home he handed over the rods to his mother, who told him to get a bite to eat and then go to bed. She began weaving the rods into a basket with great eagerness. Her son went to bed complaining of a sore back, which he put down to the work with the rods. The next morning when the poor fellow woke up he could hardly move at all. He managed to pull himself out of the bed and when he did, he could not stand up straight at all. His mother shouted over at him, ‘Would ye stand up straight, you’re like a fellow looking for money he dropped!’ The old woman never had much sympathy for her sons, especially after her living through the Great Hunger. This dark time in Ireland’s history left many people hard and even cruel in their ways and dealings with other folk. ‘Well I need more rods to finish this basket!’ she cried out and she called for her second son to go to the fort and cut her a good lump of rods and bring them back to her straight away.

The poor lad headed off and he was not too happy about it at all. He had heard what his brother had said the night before about being watched and something brushing past him. But he reasoned with himself that his brother was merely spooked as it was getting dark, but it was early in the day now and he had plenty of light. When he got to the fort, he climbed up and began to cut and chop with the axe and knife he had taken with him. But he too got a funny feeling that he was being watched, and as he worked away he was sure that something had hit against him. He worked on, trying to convince himself that it was all in his imagination, until he felt like something had bitten his leg. He let out a shout of both fear and pain. Well that was it, there was no way he was going to spend any more time in this terrible place. He gathered up what he had cut and made his way swiftly back home. When he got back his mother took the rods from him excitedly and began to weave her basket. As she worked she told the son to get something to eat and finish off his chores about the house, for that useless older brother of his could do nothing as he was bent over like a horseshoe. It was not long though before he too felt a terrible pain in his back and took to his bed.

The old woman ran out of rods and was not too pleased about this as two of her sons were now bent over like auld fellas. She called in her youngest son who was outside (and let the truth be known was avoiding his mother for he was afraid of being sent to the fort). But nevertheless he was called in and his tough auld mother instructed him to go to the fort and get enough rods for her to finish her basket. Only this time she told him to take it easy and look after his back so that he would not end up like his two older brothers. Reluctantly he went to the fort and just like his brothers before him he climbed up and began working away at the rods. Now whatever it was in the fort that had scared away his two older siblings was starting to get very agitated with these strangers coming and stealing their rods. As the young lad worked away he too felt like he was being watched and he even heard voices whispering all around him. They sounded angry and although he could not understand what they were saying, he knew that it was not friendly or well-meaning.

The voices got louder and the lad felt little hands grabbing at his legs and then he felt something sink its teeth into him. He screamed in terror and agony as he ran back to the house, grasping the bundle of precious hazel rods. When he got back he threw the rods down at his mother’s feet and swore he would never go back to the fort again. The poor boy was beside himself with fear and he showed his mother where he had been bitten on his leg. ‘Tis only a scratch, you probably caught your leg on some thorns,’ she scoffed, with no sign of compassion for her child. She told the boy to get something to eat and go to his bed.

The old woman worked away at the basket and it was not long before she had it all finished. She was very proud of her handiwork and was keen to try it out and see how strong it was. Now there was a big pile of spuds in the corner of the room and it was for this reason that she wanted a basket, for it was unseemly and no good to have the lovely spuds piled up on the floor. Oh what a lovely sight it was to see the spuds neatly gathered in the fine big basket. She decided that in the morning she would treat herself and her sons to a fine breakfast of boxty (potato bread) and butter, she even felt a wee bit bad for not being nice to her sons and showing them more attention.

She went to bed herself and the next morning she was up bright and early to make the lovely breakfast. But when she got to the basket she let out a terrible scream, for all the spuds were rotten with blight and the smell would have knocked you over. She called her sons but none of them came as they were all stooped and twisted.

This was a terrible situation altogether. There was only one thing for it and that was to go to see the wise woman, or fairy doctor, who lived up on the Slieve Bloom Mountains and find out what was going on. As she made her way up the mountain she could see a wee curl of smoke on the horizon that was coming from the wise woman’s hovel.

When she got to the wee shack she heard the old woman calling her inside by her name, as if she could see her through the walls. She opened the door and went inside, and there was the wise woman sitting by the fire, as if she was waiting for her. She told the fairy doctor all about her three sons and how they were all made cripples after cutting the hazel rods and how when the basket was finished it had rotted all the spuds. The mother was beside herself as she proclaimed that they would all starve with her sons unable to work and not a bite to eat in the house. The fairy doctor remained calm and composed and asked the old woman where they got the rods from. She explained that she had seen them on one of the forts up the mountain. The wise woman laughed when she heard this.

‘’Tis no laughin’ matter!’ said the old woman angrily.

‘Ye got them from a fairy fort, sure ’tis no wonder at all that ye are havin’ bad luck!’ replied the fairy doctor. She explained to the old woman that these rods belonged to the good folk, who did not take kindly at all to folk stealing their property.

‘What am I to do?’ asked the old woman and the fairy doctor explained that she was to take all her three sons back to the fairy fort and return the basket. If they were to do this then they would make their peace with the fairy folk and all should be well. The old woman thanked the fairy doctor and promised she would pray for her in return for her services.

As soon as she got back she told her sons to come with her to the fort and for one of them to take the basket with him.

Oh! ’Twas a sorrowful sight indeed to see the old woman and her three sons stooped over as they made their weary way shuffling up the mountain to the fort. They looked like ancient beasts of burden that had been broken down by years of hard, thankless labour. After a long and arduous journey they finally reached the fort and as soon as they did the three sons threw the basket into the fort, where it landed with a soft crunching of grass.

As soon as this was done the three sons all stood up straight and the auld mother cried with joy and relief. When they got home all the spuds were piled nicely in the corner and they were as fresh as the day they were picked. After that the old woman never asked her sons to interfere with the good folk, nor were they ever in any rush to do so either.

Another story that Frank told us about the Slieve Bloom Mountains also involved the hazel tree, although this time it was concerning its fruit, the hazelnut.

According to the old people, a long time ago the hazelnut was a lot bigger than it is today and it had no hard shell but was made of a soft flesh like a tomato and was simply delicious. Now a group of young lads were going about the Slieve Bloom Mountains looking for their favourite nuts and berries. Their favourite beyond any shadow of a doubt was the hazelnut with its beautiful soft flesh that was so sweet and juicy. They thought that they had struck gold when they found a whole heap of them growing on a fairy fort up the mountain. The boys gathered as many as they could and ate a right amount too. Then they brought the rest of them back to their homes. But that night, to their great dismay, all their teeth started to fall out. Their parents were very concerned and decided the best thing to do was to take them all up to see the fairy doctor and find out what was going on. They all arrived at the wise woman’s hovel and when they did, there she was waiting for them. They explained to her what had happened and she asked them where they found the nuts. The children told her that they had picked them off a fort on the mountain. Well, as you can imagine she found this awful amusing indeed and enlightened them by telling them all that they had stolen from the fairy folk and this was their punishment. But she went on to explain that if they were to return whatever nuts they had left then it should all be resolved. They then left the old woman a few bob and they headed home.

When everyone got back to their homes they made sure to collect all the hazelnuts and bring them back to the fairy fort. When they did, they threw them all back and as if by magic all their teeth grew back and they were very happy indeed. Now, although some of the nuts were returned, the fairy folk were still very annoyed with random strangers coming along and helping themselves to their precious fruit. So they decided to teach them all a lesson by making the nuts much smaller and giving them a hard shell, so that you could never take a bite out of one unless you wanted to lose a few teeth.

The final story that Frank told us was based around the fairy paths of the Slieve Bloom Mountains. As we now know, there are many fairy forts in this mountain range and they are all interlinked with a system of hidden pathways known as fairy paths. It is considered to be both foolish and dangerous to build any structure or create any form of obstruction on these paths. It is also strongly advised that if you are going to build something where there are fairy forts or trees in the area, you need to put four ash rods or pegs from an ash tree in the four corners of the foundations. Some folk leave them overnight, others leave them for a couple of days and then they come back to check them. If the pegs or rods are damaged or missing, then it is considered to be solid proof that the foundations are obstructing a fairy path. The builder is then strongly advised to build elsewhere.

This particular story deals with a certain character who had more money than sense and wanted to build a house for himself on the Slieve Bloom Mountains. He was advised that where he was building was right upon a fairy path, but he paid no heed to such ‘auld nonsense’, as he called it. So off he went and from the very get-go he was having trouble. The scaffolding kept falling down, the mortar would not mix properly for him, when he hit a stone with a hammer it would turn to dust and the whitewash would not dry. This fellow was losing a power of money over all this. He spent enough money on materials and hired help that would have easily paid for another five or six houses. But he was determined that he would not let piseogery (superstitions) get the better of him so he persevered and eventually his house was built and he moved in. Well now that was not the end of it at all for at night he would hear knocking at the front and back doors and the sound of running and voices outside. He never caught anyone or anything but he had no peace. Then he decided to light a fire, that’s when it all got a lot worse, for every time he did so the whole house would fill with thick black smoke. He would have to run outside to avoid suffocation. The poor man tried everything in his power to fix it – he had chimneysweeps galore and he even had the chimney itself widened, but it was no good. No matter what he did the smoke just kept billowing out of the fireplace and destroying the house and all its contents. In the end this man had no choice but to give up. He finally moved out of the house and built a new one far away from anything remotely attached to the good folk.

That old house on the fairy path was never lived in again and has over the years turned to a ruin, but the ruins are still there, somewhere up on the Slieve Bloom Mountains in Co. Offaly.

To finish up Frank Bergin, who gave us this story, told us that although we can’t see these fairy paths, there is a road in Co. Offaly between Rosbeg and Kinnity called Bothar an Phúca, which means the ‘The Pooka’s Road’. I wonder if anyone has dared build their house on this road and, if so, what sort of stories would they have to tell.

THE WIZARD EARL OF KILDARE

When I was a young lad growing up in Kildare, I was always in and around Maynooth, a small village that is now a booming satellite town to Dublin city. Standing proudly and forlorn like a great ruined memory of a majestic past is Maynooth Castle. I was always fascinated by its grand and spectral structure. I remember one evening a long time ago now, when I and an old friend from Maynooth – who has passed away since then – were staring up at its mighty doorway and over the arch was a stone carved coat of arms, worn down by centuries of harsh Irish elements. We could not figure out what the two strange figures were holding up the coat of arms on either side. They were not human, but they were not the usual lions or unicorns one would expect. They resembled almost alien-like creatures. Their features were so worn away it was almost impossible to decipher them. Many years later I was to find out that those figures were a pair of monkeys. I enquired further and was to find out, much to my amazement and delight, that the castle once belonged to a mighty wizard. This is his story.

Gerald Fitzgerald (1525–1585), was the Eleventh Earl of Kildare. His family had owned Maynooth Castle for over 700 years. He was educated in Italy and when he returned to Kildare in 1552 he had developed an interest in medicine, astronomy and metallurgy, much to the curiosity of his community. They spied him conjuring and making spells and so they referred to him as the ‘Wizard Earl’.

One Midsummer’s Eve, Earl Gerald got ready to gather fern seed. It is said that fern seeds can make you invisible but only if they are gathered on Midsummer’s Eve, just as the sun is going down, neither a minute before nor a minute after. And you must be very watchful when you are about to gather the seeds, for there are always bodies who will try to do you harm, and they surely will do it, if all your wits and mind are not on your purpose. For this reason you must be completely alone when you are gathering the fern seed.

The ferns grew at the top of the Hill of Allen and the earl made sure that he arrived there at the right minute on Midsummer’s Eve. He had all his wits and all his mind in harness and he was ready to say his spell:

Oh! fern seed

I hold on high

Let me go unseen

To mortal eyes.

Well now! It was then he saw heads popping up behind every stone and rock on the hillside. The country people had expected his arrival and were there to watch all he did.

The earl was furious and if he had had a sword with him he would have sliced off many heads. But you may not carry iron or steel with you on Midsummer’s Eve amongst the enchantments, for it is sure to break any spell. So the wizard carried no sword, but he changed into a mighty stag with high and wide antlers and stood menacing the people, sending them running and screaming in all directions.

But it was now too late for the earl to gather the fern seed. He changed back into himself again and went down the hillside, mounted his horse and made the long journey home to his castle.

When he got there he went into a secret chamber, where he sat and read by the light of a magic lamp. He was reading a book of deep magic that was propped up before his eyes, when there was a knock on his chamber door. He opened the door and there stood his young countess.

‘I wanted to see what your secret chamber is like, Gerald,’ said the countess.

The earl was reluctant to let her in as there were jars filled with things in the chamber that he did not want her to see – terrible things!

‘Yes my sweet love,’ replied the earl, ‘but I was just on my way out onto the tower to look at the night sky.’

‘Will you please take me up with you Gerald and tell me the names of all the stars,’ asked the countess.

‘Of course my sweet love,’ replied the earl.

They walked up the winding stairs and out onto the top of the tower. Behind them followed Colgan, the castle’s monkey. It was thought by the villagers that Colgan was there to assist the earl with his wizardries but this was not so. A monkey was kept at Maynooth Castle for the reason that a monkey had saved the life of an infant heir. The place had caught fire and the child was trapped in a burning room. The monkey grabbed the infant and jumped onto a tree outside, rescuing the child from the flaming room.

Ever since then there was always a monkey living at the castle – and there are two monkeys on the Fitzgerald coat of arms to this very day.

When the earl and his lady reached the top of the tower, they looked down and saw bonfires blazing on every side. There was shouting and clamouring coming from the country people who were driving their cattle through the fires to free themselves from the evil spirits that they felt sure were upon them after they had witnessed the earl change into a stag.

The earl laughed at their foolish, ignorant ways and he and his lady looked up from the fires and gazed at the sky that was dotted with beautiful, bright stars. The earl pointed out the constellations, the North Star, the planets and told his countess wondrous stories about the heavens.

As he spoke to her he remembered that he hadn’t given her much of his company since they were wedded, because his wizardries had taken up his days and nights. But now he would forget them for a while and devote his time to his beautiful wife.

His lover looked at him and told him that she would never really know him.

‘Why do you say such a thing?’ asked the earl.

‘Because you can change into so many shapes, as soon as I know you in one, you change into another!’

‘How do you know this my sweet love?’ asked the earl.

‘The country folk have seen you do it and I have heard it from the servants. You frighten the people terribly, you wicked-shape-shifter!’ she said playfully.

‘I should frighten them more. I wish I could leave them all speechless!’ roared the earl.

‘But how will I ever get to know you in all your shapes Gerald?’

‘You need know me only in one my love.’

She begged and pleaded with him to change shape. Then the earl spoke softly: ‘My love the people say that I can change into a thousand different shapes, but the truth is I can only change into three.’

‘Oh! Let me see them,’ she pleaded, and she swore she would never ask him again.

With a heavy heart the earl agreed. He looked at her in a way that he had never done before, which made her shiver. He told her that if anyone who loved him was ever made afraid by the change, he would disappear and no mortal soul would ever see him again.

‘Where would you disappear to?’ asked the countess.

‘I would have to go to the fairy mounds, where I would live for hundreds of years. Mortals would never see me again, except on Midsummer’s Eve. I am very much afraid that you will be afraid of the changes,’ he said to his wife.

‘You could never make me afraid. I would know it was you no matter what you changed into,’ replied the countess. She held his face in her hands and kissed him ever so gently. ‘Show me,’ she whispered.

The earl made her promise not to be frightened and he stood back from her.

She watched in awe as he muttered a spell that made his body twist, turn and shift in all directions as he changed into a great stag with lowered antlers.

‘I am not afraid,’ she said.

The stag moved away and then changed into the form of a fierce mountain cat with wild staring eyes. She said she was not afraid, but she was, just a little bit. Other accounts state that he turned into a giant serpent that coiled itself around the castle, but this would surely have scared the poor woman half to death.

Then the cat drew back very slowly and, as before, the earl changed back into his own true self.

‘And now for the final change! I know you will not be scared of this one,’ announced the earl.

He changed before her eyes into a tiny toddler just up to her knee. She was so enchanted by this shape that she cried out to him not to change back for a while. She thought to herself that she loved her husband even more now that he was so small and innocent, especially as she had not been blessed with any children of her own.

But then she screamed out, as the monkey Colgan, who had been hiding in the shadows, suddenly bound forward and lifted the child up into his arms. Hearing her scream he sprang up onto the parapet with the child.

She was terrified and her heart pounded in her breast as she watched the monkey leaping from the tower with the child in its grasp.

There was a terrible moaning sigh as if the night wind had passed over her, carrying with it the earl’s spirit.

When Colgan returned there was nothing in his arms. He jumped down from the parapet and crouched in a corner of the room.

The earl had disappeared! She ran to the stairway calling to the servants who came with torches and searched outside with her to see if the earl had fallen from the tower, but there was no trace of him. He had gone to the fairy mounds.

The young countess grew old and died, and to this day her ghost roams the plains of Kildare searching and calling out for her lost earl. What a cruel trick was played on this poor creature, whose ghost only rests on Midsummer’s Eve.

Other earls and other countesses lived, grew old and died at Maynooth Castle. But still Earl Gerald lived on in the fairy mounds with the heroes who were to help in the deliverance of the land and he continues to be their leader.

On Midsummer’s Eve he rides abroad with a train of horsemen whose steeds wear no shoes. Earl Gerald’s horse wears shoes, but they are not of iron, being made of solid silver. And when those shoes are worn thin he will know that the people are ready to take help from him and his army and that it is time for him to come.

One Midsummer’s Eve, a man was crossing the Curragh of Kildare and he saw a single rider going towards where a company of riders awaited him. ‘Has the time come yet?’ they cried and the rider replied, ‘Not yet! Not yet!’ That was just before the earl’s descendant, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, was planning an uprising with his comrade Archibald Hamilton Rowan at Rathcoffey Castle.

The descendents of the same perfidious people who had disturbed the earl’s gathering of fern seed knew of the legend of the earl and warned the invaders not to strike against Lord Edward on Midsummer’s Eve. And it was these same descendants who warned cruel King Henry not to execute the earl’s half-brother, Silken Thomas, on Midsummer’s Eve for he might be saved by the Wizard Earl and his troop of riders.

One evening a tinker man and a blacksmith were walking through the Bog of Allen. They had been squabbling over who had the heavier pack and who should carry the lighter one, when all of a sudden they were startled by the sound of galloping hooves thundering towards them. They could see a huge team of horses being led by a magnificent-looking man on a great white charger with glittering hooves.

The majestic looking man raised an arm, causing the rest of his company to stand still. He dismounted his steed and asked the blacksmith to look at the shoes to see if they were worn thin. Sure enough, the shoes were made of pure solid silver and none of them were worn thin and the blacksmith confirmed this and he added he had never seen such a magnificent set of shoes in all his life as a blacksmith. The stranger replied: ‘Magnificent to you, but to me they are a terrible curse!’ He then asked the tinker man the same question and he could only confirm what his colleague had said.

The rider solemnly thanked the two men and mounted his horse. Then he and his troop of riders disappeared into the night mist.

The two men stood speechless in the bog as the moon’s light shone mockingly through the swirling mist on their faces, but their minds were full of rich and magnificent thoughts. For they knew only too well that it was the mighty Wizard Earl of Kildare they had met in the barren plains of the bog on that lonely Midsummer’s Eve night.

THE LEGEND OF KILKEA CASTLE

The following poem is a poetical rendering of the story of the Wizard Earl and the pleading of his wife to show her his magic powers, having first asked her not to move or speak. But when he changed himself into a bird and a black cat sprang at it, she could not resist trying to stop it, and so broke the spell.

It takes place at Kilkea Castle, which is located just three miles north-west of Castledermot, County Kildare, near the village of Kilkea. It was another medieval stronghold of the Fitzgeralds, Earls of Kildare.

It is seven years since they last awoke

From their death-like sleep in Mullaghmast,

And the ghostly troop, with its snow-white horse,

On the Curragh plain in Kilkea rode past.

For the lord of Kildare goes forth tonight,

And has left his rest in the lonely rath.

Oh, roughen the road for the silver shoes,

That they wear full soon on his homeward path.

So then to his own he may come again,

With a trumpet blast and his warriors bold,

And the spell that was by his lady cast,

Will pass away as a tale once told.

For dearly she loved her noble lord,

And she wished that no secret from her he kept,

So she begged to know why in chamber small

He watched and toiled while the household slept.

But the Wizard Earl would not tell to her

The secret dark of his vaulted cell,

‘For fear,’ he said, ‘in the human frame

Lets loose the power of farthest Hell.’

But she feared for naught save his waning love,

And at length to hear her wish he bent an ear,

So flood, and serpent, and ghost gave place,

For the lady’s heart had shown no fear.

Then her lord to a bird was soon transformed,

That rested its wing on her shoulder fair;

But the lady screamed and swooned away,

When a cat sprang forth from the empty air.

For a woman must fear for the one she loves,

And a woman’s heart will break in twain,

When she knows that her hand had struck the blow,

To the man she had died to save from pain.

And thus the Earl must sleep as dead,

’Till the silver shoes of his steed are worn,

By which, every seven years, they say,

To Kilkea and back to the rath he’s borne.

And swiftly they pass, that phantom band,

With the Earl on his charger gleaming white,

So we think ’tis the shade of a ghost goes by,

With a shifting beam of the moon’s pale light.

THE GUBBAWN SEER

There are many stories collected about this character and his adventures. Some were collected by Patrick Kennedy in 1866 and by Ella Young in 1927. They span the length and breadth of Ireland. I came across this one by Ms Greene of Milbrook, which is specifically based in Kildare. The Gubbawn Seer was a highly skilled smith, architect and carpenter who lived during the seventh century. But he was most famous for his wit and sharp senses and how that rubbed off on others, depending on if their hearts were in the right place. Gubbawn Seer means Gubbawn the Builder. He was also known as the Wondersmith.

The Gubbawn Seer was a carpenter. He was a first rate tradesman at all things. One day, he gave his son a sheepskin, and told him he wouldn’t let him get married until he brought back the skin and the price of it. So the son used to carry the sheepskin under his arm to Athy every Tuesday; but he could never get anyone to give him the skin and the price of it. There was a girl who lived at Barker’s Ford, Inch River, and he used to see her when he was passing by. One day she said to him, ‘Musha, what do you be carryin’ that sheepskin every Tuesday to Athy for?’ So he told her the reason. She took the skin off him, went in and plucked the wool off it; then she brought it out and the money for the wool in her hand: ‘Here now,’ says she, ‘here’s the skin and the price of it.’ The Gubbawn was so impressed he told his son to marry that girl.

After the marriage the Gubbawn and his son were going somewhere to work, quite far away, and the Gubbawn said to his son; ‘Come, shorten the road.’ The son said he couldn’t, so the Gubbawn said the two of them should return home.

So the two started back again. When the son’s wife saw them back again, she said, ‘Why, I thought you were at your journey’s end by now,’ and the son said, ‘My father bid me to shorten the road, and I couldn’t, so then he made us return.’ The wife told him, when they started again tomorrow morning, and when they got to the same place, that the Gubbawn ask him to shorten the road again. When this happened the son was to start a jig or a verse of a song. And so he did; and the Gubbawn Seer said, ‘That’s right now, come on, I see you know how to do it.’ That’s how the son shortened the road.

There was another story in which a king sent for the Gubbawn and his son to create a magnificent building in England – one the likes never seen before. The king had planned when it was built to put the two to death, so they could not build anything more beautiful elsewhere.

The Gubbawn heard of this plot somehow. When the king asked him was the building finished, the Gubbawn replied that it was not. He told him he needed a special tool that he had left at home and that he would have to get it himself.

Instead, the king sent the Gubbawn’s son and his own son, the prince, to get it. The tool was supposed to be in a great big old chest and the son’s wife asked the prince to find it. The minute the prince put his arm in, she took him by the heels and heaved him down into it. She sent back a message to the king, saying she would cut his head off if he did not send back her father-in-law. So the king had to send back the Gubbawn Seer.

Another story about the Gubbawn Seer tells of how he heard that the King of Lies, who lived in Dublin, was looking for someone to tell a better lie than he ever could. The king loved tall tales and was such a good liar he was sure no one would be able to beat him. Anyone who managed would be given great wealth. Many people took up the king’s challenge and all failed. As punishment for their failure, the king cut off their heads. The Gubbawn, however, was confident that he would triumph so he left Kildare and headed off to Dublin to see the king. When he arrived at the castle he saw all the heads of those who had failed the test on spikes outside the palace.

The king was there to meet him with all his servants and soldiers watching with great enthusiasm. Two of the soldiers grabbed the Gubbawn so that he might not flee and the king began boasting about the chickens he had, how they were as big as horses and how he ate three cows and two sheep a day, washed down by seven kegs of whiskey. The Gubbawn Seer replied with all sorts of tall tales and fanciful stories, but the king was not impressed and he was about to lift his axe and cut off the Gubbawn’s head.

Then the Gubbawn calmly began telling the king about his journey to Dublin from Kildare and how he had met an ass along the way that was looking very sad. He asked the ass why he was so full of sorrow and the ass replied that he was once a king and the fairies had put a spell on him. The Gubbawn Seer asked him why and he replied that he was too proud and full of himself so they turned him into an ass and turned an ass into a king. ‘What king would that be now?’ asked the Gubbawn and the ass replied, ‘The one that you are on your way to see in Dublin, for he truly is an ass’.

The king was furious when he heard this and shouted at the top of his voice at the Gubbawn Seer ‘You’re a liar!’ With that the king had no choice but to tell the soldiers to release him. He put down his axe and handed over a bag of gold and jewels to the Gubbawn, who thanked the king politely and made his way home to Kildare.

TWO MAMMIES AND A POPE

It’s a traumatic time for anyone when a mother is lost. Tom lost his mother among a million people in Phoenix Park, and his mother-in-law somewhere on a Dublin beach in high summer.

Tom’s mother-in-law had invited all her adult children and their lovers and spouses to go to Portmarnock Beach on a sunny Sunday afternoon. However, she caught a bus to Dollymount Strand instead, because she had been to Portmarnock too many times before. Her family spent the day walking the sands looking for her. They tramped in and out of the dunes, had rows, said they were sorry, had a quick hug in this time of need, and walked on again. They stared out to sea with their hands to their eyes in case she had been kidnapped by pirates or had swum out to a shipwreck and found a new life there with survivors on Ireland’s Eye beside Dublin Bay.

When they returned home, she was sitting in her favourite armchair eating toast and drinking sweet tea with her feet in a basin of cold water, as if there hadn’t been enough water in the sea at Dollymount to satisfy her needs. It was the first intimation her family had that she was abandoning them and her howling grandchildren for a quieter life of her own. She said Dollymount was grand if you managed not to be run over by learner drivers practising their driving, while you were having a doze in the sun. When Tom asked her why she sitting in a basin of water, she said she thought her feet were a little sunburnt from the beach, so the water was an after-sun measure that cost nothing to prepare.

Tom’s own mother had abandoned her children in a different way. She went off to see a man in Phoenix Park one fine Saturday in September. At least her children and grandchildren knew she was somewhere among a million other people on the Fifteen Acres gathered to see Pope John Paul II appear on top of a grassy mound. Tom’s family home was beside the park and he and his siblings and pals all flocked to their home on the night before the Pope’s appearance in Phoenix Park. They slept all over the place. There were bodies everywhere in the house that night, and their mother lied and said that she was delighted to see them all back home once more. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said as she went off early to bed.

Excitable small children will wake early in the morning, especially if they are in a strange house. Well, the assembled clan’s youngest kids did so, with much recrimination from their sleep-deprived parents. When they woke they found their granny had run away from home. She had made secret arrangements with old neighbours that they would all go to see the Pope together and off she went before the house was astir. Not a chick nor a child saw her go. She was like a thief in the night. Only she stole away her offsprings’ certainties.

Everyone was worried about her and went to the park to look for her. The Pope started to tell everyone how happy he was to be there and everyone cheered and clapped and said, ‘Isn’t it a grand day,’ and ‘Not a drop of rain to be seen anywhere.’ No sight of the errant woman could be found. They all headed home, worn out, but feeling pious, hoping that that extra prayer they said would make the missing woman show up, safe and sound.

On their return, they found a queue of people sneaking into their home from the footpath outside. Their mother, now home safe and well and full of sisterly love, was providing restroom facilities, in the name of God, to anyone taken short and willing to queue. It was a work of mercy she said, God’s work, providing a warm toilet seat and a flushable cistern as divine intervention on a day when a million people were on the move around the park. There was no use arguing. Her children and her children’s children soon found themselves pressed into service as loo-queue administrators while the mammy graciously accepted the plaudits of a relieved populace. Some say to this day that it was her finest hour.

Tom’s mother-in-law, the beach lover, in departing for the park from a different parish, managed to do so without encumbrance of any kind either. Though she had a large family, she behaved as a single woman on the way to see a holy man from Poland on his first visit to her town of Dublin. She went, she saw, she heard, she returned and had toast and tea and a dip in a basin of cold water in her house while she watched highlights of the visit on television, in colour.

While in the park, she even waved at the handsome man on the back of the converted lorry as he was driven around the park to wave hello to the faithful collected who had not been able to get close enough to see him on his raised altar. More than a million people had brought folding picnic chairs with them into the park and were corralled into temporary enclosures of 1,000 souls each. The enclosures were surrounded by sturdy blue nylon rope. The Popemobile, built on the back of a Ford D model truck, travelled up and down wide aisles between the corrals while everyone fell into ecstasy at the good of it all. Everyone was taken up in the euphoria of that September Saturday in Phoenix Park, when the Polish Pope blessed all and sundry whether they wanted a blessing or not.

In time, when the afterglow of that momentous occasion had faded away, a strange thing happened. Both women, Tom’s mother and Tom’s mother-in-law went on a package holiday to see how they might get on. They enjoyed themselves so much they went together once a year for years afterwards, and rigorously ignored one another for the rest of the year. Their modus operandi was to meet on a given date once a year, in Bewley’s Oriental Café on Westmoreland Street, and to read the brochures and advertisements together, before going along to a travel agent to pay a deposit on the holiday. For both women, this was a sacred day to be approached with due reverence. They cleared their diaries well in advance, went early to bed the night before, rose early the next morning, went to mass, and then caught a free bus into town from their respective addresses.

So this year they found themselves in Italy, near Castel Gondolfo where the Pope goes on his holidays. The two Dublin mammies decided this was a sign from heaven. It would only be polite to call in and say hello and to bring the decent man up to speed on what had happened in Dublin since his visit there. However, when they tried to have a reunion with him, they were run off by the guards at the gate, who said they were fed up with Dubliners turning up looking to share their picnic sandwiches with his Holiness.

So, Tom’s mother-in-law borrowed a bottle of holy water from Tom’s mother and emptied it discreetly in a corner of the Pope’s palace grounds. They wrote a message for the Pope and put it in the holy water bottle and threw it over the wall. They waited a while to see if anyone would throw the bottle back over, and when no one did, they went home. When Tom went to pick up the two mammies at the airport he could only wonder and what they had got up to while they were away from their native island.

There was one thing certain, until the days they both left this world, neither of them ever asked any of their family to go on holiday with them. They did, however, leave word that the Pope might be writing to them soon, when he had a minute to spare. But whatever way the bottle landed it must have become lost in the weeds in the garden, for their families are still waiting for a postcard from the Pope to say how he got on on his holidays. Though it is unlikely to come since he has since passed away. Some say he will be made a saint before very much longer and there is a man that lives near Phoenix Park who says prayers every night and morning that it might be so.

Do you remember the miles and miles of blue nylon rope that was used to make corrals in the park on the big day? Well, the local handyman who goes by the name of Jack Ladd gathered up enough of it to lay out a full marathon course if he was ever contracted to do so. This rope he coiled around and around itself until it resembled a great sea monster come to rest in the valley of the Liffey. When asked if he was being dishonest in doing this or, indeed, if it was outright theft of the Pope’s property, he replied that he was simply minding it for him lest it be stolen. The Holy Father only needed to call to Jack’s house and he could have as much of the rope, or all of it, back on demand. Until then, he would mind it for him with due reverence.

But since that Pope was now on the assembly line to sainthood, Jack made no secret of the fact that he was planning on selling the rope, a mounted inch at a time, to those seeking a religious relic of the new saint. In the meantime, he uses bits of it to tie up anything that needs tying up on a job around the town. Boats of local fishermen belonging to the anglers’ club are all tied up now with bits of the Pope’s rope. Whether people believe in the power of a Pope’s blessing or not, it is an undisputable fact that not one single boat has foundered on the river since the Pope came to town. It’s the sort of thing that the two mammies knew all the time. It was what they were trying to tell him when they threw the bottle over the wall. ‘All is well in Dublin,’ said the note in fair handwriting. But a soon to be canonised Pope knew that all along.

WAKES AND HEADLESS COACHMEN

In the olden times, people in Dublin told stories at wakes, to while away the hours before dawn and internment of the deceased. Poor people were generally buried without much fuss, while richer people were wont to show off their affluence in big funerals, lots of carriages, respectful newspaper coverage and ostentatious memorials. But they were still as dead as the poor people.

Normally, when someone died, it was arranged to have a grave dug and a church service was organised to see off the dead person on their way to the next world. Nowadays, the corpse is generally brought to a funeral home where viewing of the remains is facilitated. In older times, people could not afford such luxury and the person was laid out in their own home with the assistance of neighbours who were versed in the niceties of respect for the dead. Stories were shared of other wakes where strange occurrences were seen in the night.

It was said that in parts of Dublin a phantom coach drawn by black horses would come galloping along the street. It would stop outside the wake house and take away any living soul unfortunate enough to be standing there, or foolish enough to wait about for such a thing to happen. Few people could attest to seeing the coach in reality, for if you had, you would be dead yourself. This story was circulated especially by the sack-’em-ups, as it had the great benefit of keeping people inside the house, where the curtains were already closed out of respect for the recently deceased, and where mirrors were turned to the wall. Closed curtains and empty streets helped the grave robbers to pass along with fresh bodies stolen from any cemetery that had seen a recent interment. This story carried on even when the grave robbers had gone to their own judgement, for a good story will outlast its first telling.

Such considerations matter very little to a man in love with a recently bereaved widow woman. In fact, the ceremonials and sombreness of death can heighten desire, as Andrew was to observe in his amorous pursuit of a dead man’s wife.

Andrew was in love with the recently-bereaved Belinda, who was not paying him an awful lot of attention, on account of the death of her husband Tom. She had been married to Tom for more years than she had thought possible on her wedding day. Tom was a great deal older then she, but, as Tom would joke when demanding she join him on their knees in prayer every night, there was never any prospect of her catching up with him. Belinda did not believe in any religion but she dutifully followed her husband in his nightly devotions because she worked out that if she lived for another five years, and her husband did the same, then she would be rich, for he would surely expire on or before then.

There was neither chick nor child to be considered in disbursement of his fortune. The fortune, which he kept in a box of money beneath their bed, would be Belinda’s and she would be young enough to enjoy it still. In fact, the fortune was the only reason that Belinda had married the man who was as old as her own father. He had come calling to her house when he was growing unsteady on his peasant legs, and needed someone to keep his house neat and tidy, and to prepare his food when he needed it. Belinda, who was not blessed with conventional beauty, agreed to marry him. So excited was Tom at the prospect, that he ordered a very large candle from the candlemaker with their names embossed in gold, deep into the wax. He lit this candle every night of their married life, when they knelt down in prayer. In turn, the candle was the recipient of all her disappointment as she watched it flicker before her eyes every evening before the dreary hours of wheezing bed.

There are people living in Ireland who say that when the evil eye is put upon you, you will die no matter what way you twist and turn to avoid it. If so, the evil eye that Belinda placed on her husband Tom came to term when the five years was up. Tom knew his race was run, for he called Belinda in one evening when the prayers were said. He doused the candle by squeezing the burning wick to extinction with his thick fingers.

He said, ‘I am going to have to leave you alone here, soon enough. You have been a faithful companion to me since we wed. For that reason I want you to take the money that I have kept beneath the bed and I want you to enjoy yourself while you live. Buy what you want with it, go wherever you like, but you must promise me one thing.’

She said, ‘Of course, whatever you wish, for you have been a good husband to me in our time together and you have taught me many things.’ But, what he said next shook her deeply, ‘I will wait for you on the far side, no matter how long your time on earth should be. Since we married I have not been with another woman and I know that you have been faithful to me. So as a reward, we will be re-united forevermore in the next life.’

Belinda was a little nonplussed, as one might be at such a proposal, but she agreed for the moment, just in case he had any treasure stored away that she knew nothing about, as he had a great interest in the garden and was forever digging around at the back of the house. Then he said something else that unsettled her further, ‘Take our candle and swear to me that so long as that candle shall burn, you will not allow your resolve to be swayed by any man.’ This she did, for promising this was worth nothing, and Tom expired more or less the next day.

Neighbours came in and washed the dead man, shaved his stubble and placed his good wedding suit on him. His coffin was placed on their marital bed and a little table was placed at the end of the bed. Candlesticks were loaned by the priest and a saucer of holy water was left on the table near the open coffin where Tom lay sleeping his final sleep. Neighbours came in and commiserated with Belinda, then sprinkled holy water at the dead man while they said a silent prayer. Other neighbours made up sandwiches and they were placed on a large table in the back kitchen for visitors to help themselves. Tea was brewing all the time and there were bottles of drink for those that had a thirst on them.

It was at this point that Andrew wandered in to try his luck with the widow. He was a fine-looking chap that could have had his pick of the female population, but when he settled on nobody in particular, local interest waned in attracting him more permanently. This lack of interest on his part was a direct result of Andrew’s fascination with the married Belinda. Standing beside her, he took her hand, in such a way that she was startled at his touch. ‘I’m very sorry for your troubles’, he whispered in a low voice. ‘But I am touched by your quiet beauty and strength. And I wonder if I might call upon you in the days to come when the house is a bit quieter?’ Belinda pulled her hand away from his, ‘How dare you; can’t you see I am in mourning for my late husband?’

‘I can see that,’ he replied. ‘But your beauty of soul is such that I am touched by the thought of calling in and seeing you again. Alone.’ He then stepped away from her. He threw a few drops of holy water in on the mortal remains of Tom in the coffin. They landed on his face and eyes. Tom wandered into the kitchen for some words with the local lads and a drop of whatever was going. Belinda moved from her place. She opened the high dark-wooded chest of drawers and took out the wedding candle. Other women watched with some interest as she placed the candle firmly on the table beside the coffin. ‘It was Tom’s favourite candle’, she explained as she lit it with a taper from the lesser candles.

As the night drew on, men came from the kitchen and took up their places around the coffin. They were to stand watch through the long hours of night. It was what was done; no corpse lay alone in a Dublin household through the hours of darkness on the night before the funeral. Outside in the kitchen low songs were sung for the consolation and diversion of the living. Memories of the dead man were exchanged and stories were told to celebrate his time among them. A perfect balance between death and life was sought.

There was talk of the headless coachman and the black horses and the phantom coach coming along the road, and drinking continued. Andrew drank his share of a white liquid distilled locally in an informal way by an old neighbour of Tom’s who was skilled in such matters. By the time he rose to leave, he had begun to sway gently. He would walk home, he announced, as he needed to sleep now to fortify himself against what was to come in the future. Nobody paid him much attention for people often speak nonsense in the early hours of the morning at a wake. He saluted all there and he saluted Belinda from the door of the coffin room and turned away.

What happened next became the stuff of legend and was re-told at other funerals. While Andrew left the house, intact and alive, he was found the following day lying face down on the road two parishes away. He had been hit by a passing truck with only one decent headlight working. He was carried along unbeknownst to the driver who did not know that he had hit Andrew in the dark. Neither was he aware that a body fell out from underneath the lorry as he crossed a hump-backed bridge some distance away. Ever afterwards, people at the wake swore they had heard horses hooves galloping past after Andrew left the house. They said he must have been taken into the coach, fought for his liberty and fallen out at the bridge.

In the bedroom, Belinda, who knew nothing of this, made sure Tom’s candle burned down as swiftly as she could will it to. By dawn, it was guttering away and finally it sputtered out. As it went, she fancied she heard a noise from the bier. She looked at Tom’s face. His face remained as it had been all night, but who knew what the dying candle light had shown as it finally expired.

BIDDY EARLY AND HER BLUE BOTTLE

Biddy Early lived in East Clare and died at a good age around 1874. She was a healer: a wise woman who knew about herbs. They said she had a blue bottle through which she could tell the future. Biddy was an independent woman who had at least four husbands, the last of these being a man of thirty years when she herself was in her seventies. With her cottage door always open to them, Biddy was loved by the common people for her cures, and yet feared and resented by others, including certain priests, as a witch.

As well as knowing the uses of herbs, Biddy also had a magic blue bottle that she would look into to see if a person would respond to her cure or not. People say that the manner in which Biddy acquired this bottle was somewhat unusual.

Biddy Early had a grown-up son called Paddy. He was a great dancer and he loved hurling. He was coming home late from a dance one night when a party of small men (fairies or ‘good people’) called to him to come and make up their numbers for a hurling match. Paddy went with them and joined their side. The game was played fast and fierce all through the night, and at last, with Paddy’s help, his team won. The players were grateful and showed this by giving Paddy a blue bottle. They said he should give the bottle to his mother, that she would know what to do with it and that it would provide her with a good livelihood. Paddy stuffed the bottle inside his shirt and thanked the men, who vanished suddenly as the cock crowed with the first rays of the sun. When he reached home, Paddy told his story and gave the bottle to Biddy, who went on to do great work with that famous blue bottle!

Once a poor man tried to steal Biddy Early’s blue bottle, thinking he could make his fortune with it. He got into Biddy’s house when she was not at home, because her door was always open to whoever needed her, but he did not see the bottle anywhere. He was just about to start rifling through Biddy’s meagre possessions when his feet suddenly became stuck to the ground. He was very scared then, sure that Biddy knew exactly what he was about. He wished he’d never gone into her house, and he wanted nothing more than to run away before she could catch him there, but he could not lift either foot. He was still fastened there when Biddy came home. She laughed at the sight of him stuck to her floor, then she spoke a few words and his feet came unstuck again. That man never did a day’s good after that.

There was a Mrs Murphy who lived around Maghera, near Tulla. One day her daughter began to complain of a pain in her right leg. When this pain had lasted for several days, the doctor came to see the girl, and gave her a bottle of lotion to rub into the sore part of her leg. The lotion made no difference. The girl was still in pain, and she hobbled about with a pronounced limp.

Some of the neighbours suggested that Mrs Murphy should go to see Biddy Early and ask her for a bottle that would cure the girl’s condition. They told her stories of how Biddy had helped one man when his cattle were sick, and another when his son was unable to rise from his bed in the morning. Others spoke badly of Biddy Early, saying that she was a witch, and advised Mrs Murphy to have nothing to do with her. Amongst those who spoke against Biddy was one Mr O’Keefe, a close neighbour.

The girl’s pain and discomfort worsened and Mrs Murphy finally decided she would go and ask Biddy for help. She rose early in the morning and left the house before anyone could see her, for she wanted no one to know her business. She walked to Feakle and made her way to Biddy Early’s cottage.

Biddy was waiting for her at the door and greeted her warmly. There was no need to tell her who she was, nor what she was there for, for Biddy greeted her with, ‘So Mrs Murphy, you have come looking for a cure for your daughter’s sore leg, have ye?’

Biddy told her where she had come from, described what she had passed on the road there, and mentioned the conversation in Mrs Murphy’s kitchen when Mr O’Keefe had tried to scare her off from going to Biddy.

‘Ah now,’ said Biddy, ‘it will not be long before he will need my help himself, but will he dare to ask for it?’ As it turned out, a short while afterwards Mr O’Keefe was driving a horse and cart towards Tulla, when the horse shied at Maghera Cross. A terrific wind arose and Mr O’Keefe was blown off his cart into the road and lay there quite senseless until he was found by a passer-by. Mr O’Keefe’s own son had to plead with Biddy for her help. With some reluctance she gave him a bottle that cured Mr O’Keefe. As you can imagine, he did not speak ill of Biddy and her cures again.

Anyway, Biddy prepared a bottle for Mrs Murphy’s daughter. She took a look through her own blue bottle and saw that the girl would do well if she took the remedy. Mrs Murphy thanked Biddy, and set off on the road home. The road home would take her through the village of Tulla, where there happened to be a fair that day. Despite the busyness of the fair, Mrs Murphy saw no one she recognised as she passed through the streets, which was odd, as she was quite familiar with most of the Tulla people. Nobody spoke to her as she walked through the village, and she saw no cattle there, despite the fair.

Mrs Murphy believed this strange happening was down to Biddy’s magic. After all, she had told Biddy that her visit was secret and that she wished it to remain so.

As she drew near to her home, a strange dog viciously attacked Mrs Murphy. It was all she could do to keep hold of the bottle and prevent it from smashing. She chased off the ferocious dog, reached the house with the bottle intact, and gave her daughter the contents. Within a day or two the girl recovered and her leg was good as new.

It was not just the local people around Feakle and East Clare who visited Biddy. Her name was known throughout the county, and people travelled from the furthest corners of West Clare to ask for a cure.

There was a woman who lived in Lissycasy who became ill. Her husband was sceptical about Biddy and her bottle, and told his wife, ‘It is all nonsense, I don’t believe in Biddy Early or her cures, but to please you, I will go and ask her help. What harm can it do?’

It was a long way to travel, and he was tired when he reached Biddy’s cottage. Biddy met him at the door and said, ‘So, why did you come all the way from Lissycasey to me looking for a cure, when I know you told your wife you have no faith in it at all?’

The man was amazed and a little shamefaced. Biddy gave him a bottle for his wife anyway and warned him to be careful not to drop it when he would reach a certain spot on his road home. When he reached that place, he was mysteriously pulled from his horse and the bottle broke when it fell to the ground. He returned to Biddy’s cottage.

Once again, before he could tell her what had happened, she told him what she had seen. Then she gave him another bottle and warned him again. He was pulled from his horse a second time at that same spot, but this time he managed to keep the bottle intact. He gave the bottle to his wife, and she was cured in a few days.

Biddy could tell when a neighbour was not a good neighbour or when one man wished ill luck upon another. There was a fairly well-off farmer living near Lissycasey. He had a fine, big herd of cows that gave plenty of milk, so he used to make lots of butter every week.

When May Eve arrived a change came over the butter-making. It started that night when he was churning. No matter how long the man worked at it he could make no butter at all. It continued that way every week from that May Eve until July. The butter just would not come. As time went by, he began to suspect that someone was putting the evil eye on him, so he decided to go and see what Biddy had to say about the matter.

As he reached her house, Biddy met him at the door. Before he could say a single word, Biddy said, ‘I know why you have come, and you are right, there is someone taking the butter from you. The worst of it is, that person is someone you think of as a friend, but behind your back he means you no good at all.’

Biddy told him that this ‘friend’ had a sick calf that would die in two days’ time. She told him to watch out between midnight and one o’clock in the morning for where his neighbour would bury the calf.

The man went back home and waited the two days, then stayed up out in the dark night watching his neighbour as Biddy had told him. He saw the neighbour carry the dead calf through into his land, and bury it there.

He said nothing to anyone, but hurried back to Biddy next morning, to see what she would suggest he do next.

‘I am afraid that is not the first creature he has buried on your land,’ said Biddy.

She told him that his neighbour had been burying animals on his land for some time, and that if he were to look he would find a good number of them there. ‘Go home now and tell your neighbour to dig up all the creatures he has buried on your land.’

Biddy went away a moment and returned with a bottle for him. ‘Take this bottle and empty it over the place where the animals were buried.’

The man went home and confronted his neighbour. Well, the air was thick with curses and argument, and sticks were shaken and violence threatened, but at last his neighbour did as Biddy had said.

When all the dead animals were removed, and the contents of Biddy’s bottle was sprinkled over the soil, it seemed the farmer’s luck returned. There was no more trouble with the churning. And the neighbour? He never had much luck afterwards.

If a house or shed was accidentally built over a path that the ‘good people’ (the fairies) travel, it was understood that bad luck would befall those who live there. This could come as sickness in man or beast living there, loss of wealth or crops.

Biddy told a man whose cattle had stopped giving milk to move a goose cabin that he had put up at the bottom of his field. As soon as he had moved the cabin, the cow’s milk flowed freely again.

A poor woman slipped one morning as she as going out the back door of her house and broke her leg. When her husband went to Biddy, she told him they should close that door and use another way in and out, because that was the route the fairies used to go in and out.

There was a man in the west of Clare who built a house on the top of a hill. There was a great view from there; he could see all over the fields, and out to the sea. It was a grand house, but after a very short time living in the new house all his children fell ill, the man’s cattle died and he became very poor. He went to see Biddy and asked if she knew why he was beset by such misfortune. Biddy asked the man, ‘How could you expect anything else to happen to you when you and your family live on top of another family?’

He asked Biddy, ‘What do you mean?’

‘You built your house on a path the fairies use, but if you close up one of the rooms in the house, all should go well for you.’

The man did as Biddy said and all his family recovered. They never used that room again, and had no more trouble from the fairies.

I lived in a house like that myself at one time in East Clare, and I was never well there, though it seemed not to affect the men in the family. On my very first night in that house I saw several small men in tall red hats who seemed to be carrying a large human figure wrapped in a sheet upon their shoulders. I watched them pass through the closed front door, cross the kitchen and pass out through the back wall. I later learned there was known to be a fairy path in that area. Ah now, if only Biddy had still been around in the 1980s, I could have called to her for help. I’m sure she would have known just what to do about it!

Despite her knowledge and her gifts, Biddy could not always save the sick. There was a man called James McInerney who lived in Kilmaley. Around harvest time, he was returning home one evening, after seeing to his stock in the field, when he met an old woman with a shawl pulled up over her head and with no shoes on her feet. He greeted her, thinking she was some poor old wandering woman, but she gave no answer.

When he went home he realised that he had forgotten to close up a certain gap in the field wall through which his stock might be able to escape. So he went back out to close the gap and on his way he met the same woman again. He carried on and when he reached the gap, he found that it had been closed already, but it looked odd to him. The gap appeared to be filled with stones instead of the usual planks of wood lying straight across.

As he was coming back home he once again saw the strange woman. This time she came straight towards him and she reached out to grasp at him. Suddenly he felt very faint. He staggered on and eventually reached his home, but his family were shocked to see his grey face and the life gone out of him. They asked him what had happened and he told them he was afraid for his life because he had met an old fairy woman, and that when he went to the gap it was already blocked.

He took to his bed that night and was there for seven years. His family did not know how to help him, but at last they made up their minds to go to Biddy in Feakle.

It was a long journey, but when they arrived at Biddy’s house she greeted them at the door and she told them their names and the place they lived, and who they had met on the way. Biddy listened carefully as they told her their story. Then she looked through her old bottle and thought for a while, and then told them to bring her their hen that slept next to the cock each night. She said that they would probably never be able to bring the hen into her house but they should try it anyhow.

When they got home again James McInerney was still in his bed with no change in him at all. They told him what Biddy had said, and he was pleased to hear that there might yet be a cure for his condition.

The family watched for a few nights to see which hen slept next to the cock each night. Then they caught her and tied her legs with a cord and put her into a basket.

Next day they brought the hen to Biddy’s, but just as they reached the door the hen jumped out of the basket and flew away like the wind! They had brought her all that way, so why did she have to run off now? When they went in to Biddy’s house she was not at all surprised that the hen was gone. ‘Did I not say you would not be able to bring in the hen?’ she asked, and told them that the man could not be cured. When she looked into her bottle, she saw the man still in bed as sick as ever. She told them that he would now grow weaker day by day and would die soon after.

When the family got home, the hen was there before them. The man lay tossing and turning feverishly in his bed and he died soon after.

There was a man near Kildysart who had a racehorse that he named ‘Biddy Early’. He must have thought calling the horse after Biddy would bring him luck, but the horse had raced often, yet never won a single race. One day, as he was on his way to the races, he met the real Biddy Early herself and asked her why his horse had never won a race. Biddy said that his horse would never win so long as it bore her name. The man changed the horse’s name right then and there to ‘Jack’s Only Daughter’ and it won the race that day and the next.

Although her cures and insights were valued by the people, Biddy was not so popular with the priests, who believed she had gained her power from the Devil. A priest in Feakle spoke out against her at one time. He happened to be riding past her house not long after and Biddy spoke out a few words. His horse bolted into the river and stopped there in the middle, as if its feet were fastened there. The horse would neither go back nor forward, until Biddy spoke again to release it. The priest made his apology, and never spoke another bad word against her.

Despite the misgivings of some of the priests, when Biddy died there was a priest present at her deathbed. To this same priest she gave her blue bottle. They say that he flung it out into the lake below her cottage. There was never a healer like Biddy before or since.

MAL AND CUCHULAINN

Way back in the mists of time, the bold young Cuchulainn, son of the sun god Lugh, champion and protector of Ulster, was on his travels around the country, doing brave deeds. Amongst his many notable attributes, Cuchulainn was known for his ability to leap like a salmon. He would twist and turn and still manage to land safely on rocky precipices and narrow bridges. His name was given to crags and rocks from the Cuillin Mountains on the Isle of Skye, where he trained with the warrior-woman Scatach, to Loop Head in the south-western edge of County Clare.

Wherever the champion went, there was always the danger that women would fall in love with him. They could hardly help themselves, given that he was such a fine figure of a lad. He may have been short of stature, but he was fit, young and handsome, his brown hair streaked with red and golden highlights.

There was a woman named Mal who knew the arts of magic, and she had set her sights on the young Cuchulainn. She followed him wherever he went, pursuing him with her charm and her arts. She dressed herself in her finest silks, draped herself with jewels, made herself beautiful and interesting, but despite all her beguiling looks and her willingness, and despite her magic spells, Cuchulainn was simply just not interested. How could he get this message through to Mal?

Though he snubbed her when she tried to speak to him; though he turned away, Mal refused to give up her pursuit of the young warrior. She followed him wherever he went. Wherever he set his foot, she would walk behind him, so close she was like his shadow.

Cuchulainn took to getting up early and running as fast as he could, and he was fleet of foot. Mal, being no athlete herself, used her magic to keep up with him.

Mal followed him the length of County Clare, all the way down to the Loop Head Peninsula. Cuchulainn was still running until he reached the point where there was no place left to run. The long finger of land had come to its end. Looking over his shoulder, Cuchilainn saw sea birds wheel and turn in the sky above, and behind him saw Mal still in pursuit. He threw himself into the air and leapt from the land’s end to a tall pillar of rock that stood alone in the wild foaming waves. ‘Do not follow me, witch! The distance is too great for you to leap,’ Cuchulainn warned her.

Summoning her magic arts, Mal followed him onto the small craggy island, crying, ‘Now I have you, my darling boy. Surrender, Cuchulainn, and let me be your love!’

‘Never!’ yelled Cuchulainn, as he turned on his heel, and leapt again, back to the finger of rock that was the mainland.

Mal followed him but, in the heat of the moment, she took no time to prepare herself for this more difficult jump. Her leap fell short of the mainland, and Mal fell screaming in disbelief, as her unrequited love turned to rage and to despair. Her body was dashed against the cliffs as it fell and landed crumpled and broken on the rocks below. When the waves carried her body out to sea, her blood turned the blue-green waters red all the way from Loop Head to Hag’s Head, which was her home.

Mal’s story may be largely forgotten, but her name lives on in Milltown Malbay, where her broken body was washed ashore. At Hag’s Head, further up the coast, you can see in the rocks the face of an old hag facing out to sea.

Cuchullain was not forgotten, for Loop Head, as we know it now, was once named Leap Head after his famous jump.

THE FIRST EVER BROGUE MAKER

Did you ever wonder who first had the idea to make brogues (shoes)? Or when the first shoes were made? And did you know that the first shoemaker was from Carrick-on-Suir?

There was a time when people had no shoes. Now this was long ago: long before Cromwell came, taking the roof from the old abbey to mend the bridge into Carrick; long before the Danes came plundering and robbing. It was a normal thing then to have no shoes; sure no one had shoes so no one knew any better. People got on with what they had to do but maybe they avoided the rocky roads and pebble shores a little.

There was a young man living near Carrick at that time of the name of Sean O’Dwyer. He was at a house dance one night when he saw Eileen Phelan, and she captured his heart. He asked Eileen out to dance and the two of them were dancing away mightily.

Now there was another fella at that dance. Capeen Derg he was known by – red cap, he was one of the fairy people and he had had an eye on Eileen himself. He was mad with jealousy watching Sean and Eileen fly around the room, but he could do nothing about it. He had been planning to tell Eileen that night that he loved her, but up to that time he had never spoken to her and there was no promise between the two of them. Sean had done nothing wrong in dancing with her and Capeen Derg had no right of complaint. Out of sheer spite, Capeen Derg got a thorn and, unseen by the room, placed it on the floor where Eileen was dancing on a spot where she would step on it.

Down came Eileen’s little white bare foot on the thorn, there was a cry of pain and down went Eileen on the floor. Sean helped her over to sit down and others came to remove the thorn. Where could such a thorn have come from? The woman of the house had swept and scrubbed before the dance began. It was clear, though, that Eileen would do no more dancing that night. Sean helped the poor girl home, as she limped along trying to keep her sore little foot off the ground. Sean left her at her father’s door and continued his way.

As he walked, he mused over the question of where the thorn came from and how it got on the floor. Eventually he concluded that there had to have been some devilment in the whole event. Just about that time he heard voices. He stopped walking and listened carefully. He followed the sound and there in the ditch he saw three little people – leprechauns, chatting and working away. Sean wasn’t too sure what they were working on. They had little pouches of skin pulled over a wooden implement and they were stitching and sewing and chatting way.

One of the little fellows pulled the pouch off of the wooden tool and put it on his foot.

‘Now,’ he said to his companions,’ There’s a brogue for you, and if the girl had been wearing one of these tonight, that thorn of the Capeen Derg’s could never have pierced her foot.’

Sean burst in among the three and chased them until he caught one. The other two had disappeared.

‘Let me go! let me go!’ shouted the leprechaun, ‘I’ll give you a bag of gold if you just let me go.’

‘I don’t want your gold,’ said Sean, ‘Show me how you make one of those things so my Eileen won’t hurt her feet again.

‘A brogue?’ asked the leprechaun, relaxing and flattered that a man like Sean would want to learn his craft. ‘No problem.’

The rest of that night Sean watched and listened as the leprechaun took him through all the stages of making a shoe. He was a good learner and the leprechaun enjoyed teaching him. Come the morning he had learned the basics and was set to make his first pair of shoes. Sean was delighted and thanked the leprechaun for teaching him, the leprechaun left him with the tools and implements saying, ‘Not a bother, and if ever you need help in the craft just give me a call,’ and away he disappeared.

Sean headed back to Eileen’s house with the pair of shoes. She was surprised and a little confused until he showed her what to do with them. With the shoes on her feet she would walk about almost anywhere and not have to worry about her hurting her little feet. She was delighted and wore them every day and everywhere, including the following Saturday when she walked down the aisle to marry Sean.

All who saw Eileen’s shoes admired them. The priest asked Sean if he would make a pair for his niece and other neighbours followed suit. Soon the entire neighbourhood were walking around in shoes and Sean was kept busy as the only shoemaker around.

No long after this Sean was sent for by the king.

‘Sean,’ said the king, ‘I hear you can make shoes.’

‘I can,’ said Sean.

‘I have a group of neighbouring kings visiting tomorrow,’ said the king, ‘And I want to impress them. Could you make shoes for me and the queen and all our children?’

‘I could,’ said Sean, ‘But that’s a lot of shoes. I’d need help.’ With that the little Leprechaun appeared beside him.

‘I was up on Sleivenamon and I heard you saying you needed help,’ said the little man.

‘That’s great hearing you have,’ said Sean and the two set down to work away together making the shoes. By the morning there were shoes for the king, his queen all the children and the lords and ladies. The king was very pleased. He paid Sean well and kept him close at hand to look after his shoe needs. Sean and Eileen looking back on things later, were quite happy that the Capeen Derg had put that thorn on the floor or things might have had a very different ending.

Source: Will Handerhan the Irish Fairyman and Legends of Carrick by John O’Neil (1854)

THE BATTLE OF WIDOW MCCORMACK’S CABBAGE PATCH

The year 1848 was known as the year of the barricades. All over Europe ideas were changing; new ideals like liberty, equality and brotherhood were spoken about. The mood was caught in some of the literature of the time, like Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. Ireland too was caught in the wave of change. Fifty years after 1798, the United Irishmen might have gone but they were replaced by the Young Irelanders with names like Smyth O’Brien, Dillon and Davis to the fore.

The Young Irelanders were strongest in Tipperary, and Tipperary is where the only real battle of the movement took place. Tipperary lies in the Golden Vale, an area of rich agricultural land. The landowners here had amalgamated some of the farms and cleared the land of some of the tenants; whole villages had been swept away. The peasants had been retaliating since the 1700s, forming bands, ‘whiteboys’, groups of young men sworn to secrecy whose deeds could be just as bad as the landlords they stood against in the violence and vandalism they caused. From time to time there were rebellions and standoffs.

Of all the rebellions I learnt of in school, 1848 best caught my imagination, specifically ‘The Battle of Widow McCormack’s Cabbage Patch’.

Mr McCormack had the resources to build a stone, slate-roofed house. Jo O’Brien was the contractor who built the fine house in 1844, the only one of its like in the neighbourhood. Mr McCormack had married a Houlihan from Callan, but died just a year after the house was built, leaving Mrs McCormack a widow with five children. They continued to live in the house. On the day in question Mrs McCormack had left the children at home and gone into Ballingarry to hear William Smyth O’Brien speak about the Young Irelanders and their ideas.

Smyth O’Brien, Thomas Francis Meagher and John Blake Dillon were moving through south Leinster and Munster, gathering support to their cause. The RIC constables knew this and were not going to sit back and wait for the revolt to begin.

There had already been trouble in 1841 when a group of tenants had barricaded the roads to prevent a group from reaching Clonmel to cast their vote in the local election. This group of about forty-one men had left Cashel early in the morning, and stopped in Kilcoaly Abbey, the home of one of the candidates – Mr Baker – before continuing their journey. However, when they went to continue the journey they found the way barricaded at New Birmingham. A number of the local people had brought several cars full of coal and put them across the road, the people were armed with stones. When the men had emerged from their carriages to move the barricades the people attacked with stones, the police fired and general fighting broke out. There were a couple of people injured, including one man who lost an eye. The carriages were overturned, smashed and burned. The incident left the tenants and farmers having more faith in their own power and the landlords terrified.

The RIC could see that the Young Irelanders were attempting to amass a force together and so the RIC decided to move quickly on the leaders before they got too powerful.

On 29 July 1848 police from Killenaule, Callan, Thurles, Cashel and Kilkenny were under orders to converge on Ballingarry in the afternoon. Inspector Trent, with his white charger and sixty men, arrived around 10 a.m., much earlier than ordered. Smyth O’Brien and the Young Irelanders had been meeting on the roadside and when they heard that the soldiers were approaching they barricaded the road. Seeing the barricade, Trent turned his men in another direction. The Young Irelanders tried to head him off and Trent headed for the safest place he could find, somewhere that wouldn’t catch fire too easily, that was solidly built and might withstand an attack and offer support and shelter to his men. Where else could he go but the best built house in the area – the house of Widow McCormack.

Some say that Trent was in such a hurry to reach the safety of the house that he left his pistol in the saddle bag of his horse. Trent and his soldiers rushed into the house and, locking the five children under the stairs, barricaded the house and settled themselves in for whatever was to come.

Mrs McCormack was at the Young Irelander’s rally listening to Smyth O’Brien addressing the people. When word was brought to her that the RIC had taken over her home with her children inside, she rushed home calling out that Smyth O’Brien had put her children in danger.

With Smyth O’Brien following close behind, eager to find a peaceful solution to releasing the children, Mrs McCormack approached the kitchen window of the house to speak with Trent. A crowd gathered around the house and its garden, many of them Young Irelander supporters. This was the first time the new flag that Smyth O’Brien and Meagher had brought back from France, a tricolour, was unfurled; one stripe was orange – representing the Protestants of Ireland of which Smyth O’Brien was one, one stripe was green – representing the Catholics of Ireland, and the stripe in the middle was white – representing a hope of peace between all. The flag is familiar now as our national flag, but its first unfurling was by Widow McCormack’s cabbage patch in 1848.

Some of the unarmed crowd threw stones at the RIC constables in the house. The stones broke the window and the already nervous officers opened fire. Those of the rebels who had guns returned fire. Terence McManus pulled Smyth O’Brien out of the line of the fire, away through the wicket gate into the cabbage patch, John Walsh who had a gun was shot and the son of a local widow who was only spectating was killed. Some people tried to set fire to the house or smoke the police out, by putting damp straw by the door to burn.

The local priest, Fr Philip Fitzgerald, arrived to minister to the sick and dying. The head constable from Kilkenny, Constable O’Carroll, arrived in plain clothes with a white flag and he and Fr Fitzgerald approached the Young Irelander leaders and got them to disperse the crowd. At the same time reinforcements were arriving from Cashel, led by Inspector Cox. The rebel leaders, knowing what might be in store if they were caught, fled.

McManus and Meagher were captured by 12 August; Smyth O’Brien managed to stay at large until 9 October. Terence McManus had borrowed a horse from a friend. He later sent the horse back again and the friend was brought to give evidence at the trial. One story tells how the friend was asked to point out the person who had taken his horse. The friend looked around the court and then pointed at the judge and said, ‘There’s the man who took my horse.’ McManus himself is quoted as saying at the trial ‘it’s not that I loved England less, just that I loved Ireland more’. McManus was sent to Van Diemen’s Land from which he escaped in 1852.

William Smyth O’Brien went on the run; he got to Thurles where he spent a night in a friend’s house. The next day, seeing the English soldiers were nearby, he left his gun with his friend and continued on. Passing through Thurles he saw a notice offering a £500 reward for information which would lead to his arrest. He saw an old woman nearby, whose struggle to make ends meet could be seen and approached her, ‘I’m William Smyth O’Brien,’ he said to her, ‘If you turn me in you can make £500 for yourself.’

‘Well,’ she answered, ‘that money will be a long time unclaimed if they’re waiting on me to give information. My honour is dearer to me than money.’ Shortly after that O’Brien was captured and brought to trial. He too was sentenced to transportation to Van Dieman’s Land, but later was pardoned and returned to Ireland to live a quiet life.

Mrs McCormack and her five children emigrated to the US in 1855. The house in Balingarry is now the ‘War House’ museum.

Sources: NFC 1119, p.258 from John Morris, age 77, from Killenaule; Revd Philip Fitzgerald notes from narrative of proceedings against confederates, Nenagh Guardian, 21 July 1841, p.4

FIONN MACCUMHAILL AND THE HOUSE OF DEATH

Fionn learned the skills of hunting from the women in the Slieve Bloom Mountains, so it was no wonder that it was there he often went to hunt many years later, when he eventually became the leader of the Fianna, that legendary band of warriors. The Fianna were as famous as footballers, golfers, or celebrity rock stars are now. They had the run of the country and were welcomed everywhere.

One time Fionn was hunting in the mountains with his companions, Conán Maol Mac Mórna, Diarmuid O’Duibhne, his own son Oisín and his grandson Oscar. They stayed out too late and when evening came, they had no shelter for the night. They walked on for a while, then Fionn saw a house in the distance. By the light which shone in the window, they could see that it was inhabited. They went up to it and banged at the door. The door was opened by an ancient old man with a long, white beard.

‘Fionn MacCumhaill, you’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Come in, all of you.’

‘You know us?’ Fionn asked.

‘Indeed I do,’ said the man. ‘Who doesn’t know the stories of Fionn and the Fianna, and all about your skills and your courage? You are more than welcome. Come in, for sure, you can rest and eat here.’

In they went. The room was comfortable enough. A fire was burning and a big wooden table in the middle of the room, laid out with delicious food, was all set up for eating. In the corner of the room there was a lamb tethered to the wall. Sitting by the fire sat the most gorgeous-looking girl they had ever seen. Her beauty alone would light up a house. A black cat sat by her feet.

‘Sit and be comfortable,’ said the man. ‘You’ll have something to eat?’

‘We will indeed and thank you,’ said Fionn and the others nodded. They couldn’t take their eyes away from the young woman. The old man nodded at the girl and told her to get the food ready.

Just then the lamb broke away from his tether and leapt up on the table, causing consternation.

Oscar was the first to move. He would impress the young woman. He leapt on to the table and caught the lamb, but the lamb was stronger than he looked. It shoved him away and he landed on his backside. Oisín, Oscar’s father, had a go, but the lamb kicked out at him, tossed him over and he landed head over heels. Then Diarmuid was headbutted and thrown to the ground. Conán Maol Mac Mórna, a huge lump of a man, was a bit slow on the uptake, but he was a great fighter. But when he approached the lamb, he was also thrown across the room. Now, thought Fionn, I suppose I’m the next to go. He grabbed at the lamb, but it was as steady as a rock. One little nudge and Fionn, the great warrior, landed flat on his back and couldn’t move a muscle.

‘That’s some lamb you have there,’ he said to the man. Then the cat, who was sitting by the fire, came over and lifted the tether from around the neck of the lamb. The lamb followed it meekly back to its place in the corner. This caused some astonishment but the lads said not a word. It was all very strange.

Then when the food was ready, they sat down to eat and enjoy it.

Afterwards the old man showed them the room they would all sleep in for the night. There were plenty of beds there. They weren’t long settling in when the door opened and the girl they had all been admiring walked in carrying a candle and went over to a small bed by the window. She got in under the blanket and blew out the candle.

None of the men in the room could get a wink of sleep, but they pretended they did. When the odd snore could be heard and Oscar, the youngest, thought the rest of them were asleep, he got out of bed and quietly went over to the girl in the corner. She opened her eyes.

‘Oscar,’ she said, ‘you had me once, but you thought little of me and you will never have me again.’

Oscar returned to his bed, disheartened. Then Oisín slipped over to her, and he too got the same response, as did Diarmuid and Conán Maol. They all returned like gentlemen to their beds, each wondering what she might have said to the others. Fionn, who was still awake, was well aware of what was going on. But he was the leader and therefore, he assumed, very attractive to women. So he approached her, smiling. She looked at him and smiled back.

‘Fionn,’ she said, ‘I once was yours, but you thought so little of me and I will never be yours again.’

Fionn had been with a lot of women and thought he remembered them all, but this beautiful woman, he didn’t recognise at all.

The next morning, before they left the house, Fionn spoke to the old man.

‘We are grateful for the hospitality,’ he said, ‘but this is a very strange house. What’s going on here? That lamb was so strong, none of us could lift it, but the cat, who is much weaker, just carried it off as though it was as light as a feather.’

‘Ah,’ said the man. ‘That lamb is Life. Life has its own will. And the cat – well, the cat is Death. Only Death can control Life.’

‘And that young girl?’ said Fionn. ‘Who is she? She seems to have known us all. But I can’t recognise her at all?’

‘That girl is Youth. You all had her once, you know, and you were careless and thought little of her, and now you will never have her again.’

‘And who are you?’ Fionn asked.

‘Ah,’ said the old man. ‘My name is Time and I hold power over Life, over Death and especially over Youth.’

THE BACACH RUA

John Keegan, the poet and writer, was born in Shanahoe in 1816. He heard this story one night from a group of local men. He wrote the story in a style which was literary rather than colloquial. I have told it many times and this is my version.

I was gratified to meet May Kelly from Cashel, near Ballyroan, who confirmed the story and told me that her father had worked on the construction of the bridge and that he used to walk twenty-five miles every day to get to and from the site, and that indeed the bridge was completed in less than one year.

The beautiful River Nore flows through County Laois. Nowadays there are many bridges built across the River Nore, but time was when the crossing of a river took place at fords, shallow spots on the river, where it could be crossed by people and animals without too much fear of drowning. Shanahoe, outside Abbeyleix, the birthplace of the Laois writer and poet, John Keegan, was named after one of these fords. The Irish word for a ford is ‘átha’, so Shanahoe is the anglicisation of ‘sean átha’, meaning ‘old ford’.

Many years ago, Neil O’Shea and his wife Kathleen lived in a small cottage beside the ford on the river. Theirs was the only cottage within shouting distance of the ford. Local people had constructed a ‘footstick’ across the river, so that travellers could find a steady path as they made their perilous way across the water with their carts and their animals. This stick would be attached to heavy rocks and boulders to keep it steady and it took skill and knowledge to cross safely. As theirs was the only house within calling distance, many a night Neil and Kathleen would be wakened by a shout for help, if the river was in flood or a hapless traveller chose to risk the crossing after a few drinks too many. In fact, like a lot of women, Kathleen slept with one ear open, in case of a call in the middle of the night.

One wild winter night in November, when the wind was howling and the rain lashed against the window panes, Kathleen was woken by what she thought was a cry of distress. She woke her husband, telling him to ‘get up quick – someone is in trouble in the river!’

Neil got up immediately, threw on the big grey coat that was always at the ready, and he went out into the darkness with his long iron-shod stick. When he reached the bank of the river, he called out, over the wind and the watery roar, ‘Is there anybody out there?’ In the murky darkness he could not see clearly, but then he thought he heard a faint human cry. With his stick to balance him, he made his surefooted way across the foaming water, stepping on the footsticks he knew were there. As he came nearer to the bank, he could make out the shape of a human figure, desperately clinging to a bush, half in and half out of the water. He reached out and with herculean strength lifted the body over his shoulder. He stood and steadied himself and then made his way carefully back to the other side without slipping once. Back in the house, Kathleen was up and busy and making hot tea. She had the fire banked up. Neil brought the soaking body into the room and deposited him on a chair beside the fire. They took a good look at him.

He was a tall, thin man with a face that looked worn, more from hardship than from age. His clothes were ragged and through a tear in his trousers they could clearly see he had a wooden leg. His head was covered with a broad-brimmed leather hat and underneath he wore an enormous nightcap of rough red flannel wool.

But this poor man was weak and wet, and they asked no questions until he was dry and warmed by the hot tea, a supper of brown bread and jam before him and the heat of the fire warming his bones. As they sat around later, the stranger eventually told them his story.

He was from the north of Ireland originally. He ran away to sea when he was a young lad of sixteen and travelled the world in his youth. He was involved in a skirmish with pirates in the Bay of Biscay and lost his leg in the fight. Now a one-legged sailor is useless on board a ship, so he left his job and had to take to the roads. There was no alternative but to ask for any help he could get, and he had depended on the kindness of strangers for the last twenty years. But his luck had almost run out when he was found half dead at the ford and saved by Neil O’Shea. He was alive now thanks to the generosity of Kathleen, whose tea and food had restored him. Kathleen offered him a bed for the night in the ‘settle’ at the chimney corner, which he gratefully accepted as he was exhausted.

He was up at sunrise next morning and ready to leave when Kathleen took pity on him again. ‘Look,’ she said ‘you’ve had a hard life, travelling the roads of the world. Why don’t you stay here for a while? We have a spare room at the back and we’ve only the one son, Terry, here with us now. You could do worse than sitting down there by the ford and asking for a few pence from the people passing over the river. The people around here are decent and charitable and I’m sure they would cheerfully help you out if they could.’

The old sailor was happy with the arrangement and every day after that he would sit himself down on a big stone down at the ford. As people passed, he would take off the big leather hat and ask them for a few coppers for the good of their souls. He was rarely refused. Time passed and people got used to seeing him there, with the wooden leg and the outstretched arm and the red nightcap always covering his head.

They named him the Bacach Rua, ‘bacach’ being the Irish word for a cripple and ‘rua’ because day and night, winter and summer, he wore the red nightcap. The stone he sat on, they called ‘Cloch an Bhacadh Rua’, the Stone of the Bacach Rua. In fact, there were people who never remembered a time when he wasn’t there. He seemed to have become part of the landscape, sitting on his stone with a greeting for everyone who crossed the ford.

He never washed himself or changed his clothes and people wondered what he did with all the money he had gathered. Kathleen fed him well and he had a bed to sleep in every night. If anyone asked him about the money he’d collected he would rage and swear he hadn’t a penny to jingle on a tombstone after he’d paid for his tobacco and other stuff he needed. But if he was spending his money, there was no sign of it anywhere.

The years passed and in time, Neil O’Shea grew old and died and was buried in the nearby graveyard at Shanakill. Nobody lamented louder at the funeral than the Bacach. ‘What’ll I do without him?’ he cried. ‘He saved my life and kept me alive. Och, I’m lost without him!’

But although Neil was gone, Kathleen promised that as long as she and her son Terry still lived, there would always be a bed for the Bacach Rua.

Forty years had passed since the Bacach first crossed the River Nore and all that time he was to be found sitting from early morning to night on his favourite stone by the riverside.

One morning Terry awoke and found the Bacach was still in his bed in the room where he slept. He was surprised as the old man was usually first to rise up in the morning.

‘Are you alright?’ Terry called through the door. There was no answer. Terry looked in and there was the Bacach, stretched out on bed, pale as a ghost with the nightcap on his head, as usual.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Ach, Terry, I’m dying … I’ve taken a turn and I won’t be up again till you lift me into the coffin.’ Terry was fond of the old man, who been part of his life since he was a child.

‘Can I do anything for you? Will I go for the priest?’

‘Ach, no, there’s nothing a priest can do for me now. I haven’t said a prayer for years and I’ll not start now.’

‘What about a doctor?’ said Terry. ‘Give me some money and I’ll get the doctor for you.’

‘What are you saying? Give you money for a doctor? I’ve no money! How can I pay for a doctor?’ And he let rip such a string of curses that Terry went out of the room. The old Bacach’s anger made him upset. The ungrateful old miser was dying and he still wouldn’t spend a penny. He went back in.

‘Is there anything you want to say to me before you go?’

The Bacach heaved one great sigh. ‘Bury me with my nightcap on!’

Terry went out to call his mother and when they came back in the Bacach was breathing his last few breaths.

They gave him a good funeral, as was the custom in those days, and all the neighbours came to pay their respects. They carried his coffin to the graveyard where he was buried with all the dignity they would give to one of their own.

Rumours were rife, of course, about the money they all knew the Bacach had collected over all the years, sitting there by the ford. Where was it? The neighbours assumed that Terry and his mother had got it.

But Terry and Kathleen had not a clue where the money was and wondered even more than the neighbours where he had hidden it.

Terry went to bed that night, but couldn’t sleep a wink. He tossed and turned and came down in the morning with deep dark lines under his eyes.

‘What’s the matter with you, Terry?’ said his mother when she saw him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Terry. ‘I’m tormented. I see visions of that auld Bacach before me every time I close my eyes.’

‘It’s no wonder,’ said his mother, ‘when the misfortunate man died without a priest and a curse on his lips. Tell me though, what is the Bacach doing when he appears in your dreams?

‘He’s just as he always was, but he has his withered old finger pointing up in the air.’

‘To his head, is it?’ Kathleen asked. ‘Maybe we buried him with a knot or a string tied on the nightcap. It’s well known that a spirit won’t rest if there is a knot tied anywhere on the burial clothes when the coffin is closed. I’d advise you to go down and make sure or we’ll have no peace in this house.’

Terry had no intention of going to the graveyard alone. So he asked one of the neighbours to accompany him. They went to the grave, where the soil over the coffin was still loose. They opened the coffin, the corpse was examined and Terry saw that his mother was right. The red nightcap was knotted tight under the dead man’s ear. Terry bent down to unloosen it. His hand shook and he tore a bit of the lining. He did think he noticed something, but he said nothing. He opened the knot and closed the coffin again.

When the neighbour had left he told his mother. ‘I think I know now where the Bacach has hidden his money.’

He decided to go back to the graveyard that night, alone this time, with just a spade to clear the earth from the coffin. It was a bright moonlit night as he walked, the only sound the scrunching of gravel beneath his boots. He scraped away the earth from the top of the coffin. He turned the screws and slowly lifted the lid. The moon shone down on the dead man’s face. Terry bent over and quickly whipped the cap off the head of the Bacach. It was heavy, he thought. A dead weight. He closed the coffin and screwed it tight. He spread the earth over the top, then left the graveyard at speed. He walked home along the river bank.

His mother was waiting for him, full of fear and expectation.

‘Are you alright, Terry?’

Terry flung the cap on the table. His mother produced a scissors and set to work. What a discovery! Inside the lining of the old woollen nightcap, carefully stitched to conceal and to protect the old man’s skull, were no less than three hundred golden guineas.

Joy and ecstasy! Mother and son rejoiced at their good fortune. They sat up for hours, planning how the money would be spent. It would come in handy. The roof needed fixing. They could restock the farm. They could even buy another farm! Terry could approach the girl he fancied, the daughter of a rich man, now that he had something to offer for her hand. Terry was clear about what she could offer him!

There was hope for a prosperous future and mother and son were smiling broadly as they lay down to sleep that night.

But Terry had hardly closed his eyes when the noise started and woke the house. The banging of doors and the tramping and stomping from room to room of a wooden leg. A rattling of cups and plates. A crashing of pots and pans. The dog was barking, the cat was screeching. The ashes from the fire were blown all over the place. It was as if a demon was rampaging through the house, causing havoc.

Terry and his mother were terrified.

‘It’s the Bacach,’ she said. ‘He’s back and he’s searching for his money! We’ll have to get rid of it!’

‘I want no more to do with it,’ said Terry. He gathered the coins up in his mother’s old check apron. Next morning at daybreak he ran the two miles to the parish priest’s house and banged at the door. When it was opened by the housekeeper, he pushed past her and up the stairs into the bedroom. The priest was sitting up, eating his boiled egg and toast.

‘What brings you here, Terry?’

Terry threw the apron of money on the bed and told the priest he could have it. He wanted nothing to do with the miser’s money.

‘I won’t have him tormenting me and my mother, polthogue-ing about the place. You can take the money.’

‘I don’t want it either,’ said the priest. ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

‘I don’t care,’ said Terry. ‘You can make a bog or a dog or a deal with it.’ With that, he ran back down the stairs and away.

Well, within an hour, the Bacach Rua’s money was parcelled up in brown paper and was transported on horseback and delivered to the Secretary of the Queen’s County Grand Jury in Maryborough, along with a letter detailing the story of how the money came to be in the possession of the priest.

A month later the matter of the money was discussed by the Grand Jury and it was agreed that it would be used to construct a stone bridge across the ford where the money was collected.

Within twelve months of that date, a fine bridge of seven arches was built across the river. From that day to this, the bridge is called the Poor Man’s Bridge in memory of the Bacach Rua. Terry O’Shea and his mother were never troubled again. They are long gone now, but local people say that sometimes on a moonlit night, the figure of an old man can be seen on the bridge, his head covered in a large nightcap, and from the sound of his wooden leg thumping the ground, they know it’s the Bacach Rua returning to search for his money. Some say more of it was hidden under the stone he sat on, but it was never found, for the large stone was incorporated into the bridge when it was being built.

NOT GONE AND NOT FORGOTTEN

There was a woman in Limerick who was to be publicly hanged in that county who fled to Wicklow for the protection of Barrington of Murrough, a wealthy man of the powerful Barrington family. But her journey was to no avail.

For one reason or another, she had killed her husband, with the intention of marrying a particular young man. It was said that she hoped her influence with Barrington of Murrough would shield her and so she set of to his place on the coast of Wicklow, intending to stay there until the danger had passed, which in her foolishness she thought it would.

But her travels across the country were in vain, for her crime had scandalised the nation. She was arrested, tried and condemned. The date of the public execution was fixed and that was that.

But, some days before she was to depart this life in a most conspicuous way, she sent for the young man of her heart’s desire. He went to see her in prison, though he’d had no hand in the murder of her husband.

If he expected remorse or lamentation for the place in which she found herself, he was very much mistaken. The condemned woman very coolly told the object of her attraction that she would come to marry him on November Eve: Hallowe’en.

The law took its course and she was duly taken out to be hanged before the local populace, as a warning to others not to transgress in a similar manner.

Determined to the last, it was said that she paid the greatest attention to her dress and how she would appear in public, for the last time. She walked to the gallows wearing a pair of fashionable brogues with silver buckles that caught the light and tapped out a step as she made her journey from one world to another.

Though she was dead, she would never rest. In the days following her execution, she still managed to upset the senses of the young man on whom she had set her sights while still alive.

It was not long before neighbours remarked that when the young man went out at night for his evening stroll the sound of those silver-buckled brogues was heard on the road beside him as he went on his solitary way.

Thus it may be supposed that the young man did not look forward to the final day of October with particularly joyful anticipation. Reports say he dressed himself very carefully in the evening, as if in anticipation of some very important and exciting moment. The evening wore on towards midnight and, to the horror of his friends and family, the sound of brisk brogues came to the door. Like one enraptured, the young man broke away from his sister and brother and his friends, and left their company. They reported later that they heard the steps of two persons fading in the distance, until all was quiet once more in the dark night.

Next day, the young man was found drowned in the nearby river.

The echoing footsteps were heard no more, nor as far as is known did the spirit of the hanged woman return to her hiding place in Wicklow.

Wicklow abounds with stories of the dead and of their return to this world if matters did not go well with them on their departure.

The well-known walker J.B. Malone recounted a story of a man who was buried in the turf-banks in Kilcoagh, in the west of the county. Before the potato famine had devastated the country, the said man – a Donard man named Lynch – had murdered his wife, and promptly disappeared. It wasn’t known why he killed her, but he did.

There being no family to plan a wake for the dead woman, the neighbours did so, in the woman’s own house. Candles were lit about the place, but come the witching hour of midnight, the horrified watchers saw the candles around the corpse suddenly quenched, as if by an invisible hand.

Needless to say, there was consternation in the sudden darkness. Someone lit a taper from the fire in the kitchen and the candlelight flickered to life once more as they relit each candle in turn.

A search was made at once, both inside and outside the wake house, in case it was a prankster intent on frightening the pious and the overly susceptible.

The sudden and unexpected death of the unfortunate woman was bad enough, but tragedy followed tragedy when they found the body of her husband, Lynch, hanging from a beam in an outhouse. He had taken the life of his wife and then taken his own.

It was a sin to take the life of anyone, or so it said in the Ten Commandments. At that time, a suicide was considered to have died in sin, for he had taken his own life. It followed that the person who took their own life did not have time to be shriven of their final mortal sin.

This complicated the matter of burial in consecrated ground, as in normal circumstances only those who were thought to have died without sin could be buried there.

So, the good people who were attending to the burials of Lynch and his wife had a problem. With the light of the candles restored and prayers said for her soul, Mrs Lynch was buried in the graveyard with ceremony and prayer for the peaceful rest of her immortal soul.

The next problem was how to dispose of the coffin in which the suicide lay. It was buried somewhere or another, as was convenient; but imagine the astonishment of the decent people who knew both deceased parties on discovering the coffin back in Donard the following morning. They buried it again; but whenever an interment was made, the coffin would return with the body of the wife killer and suicide inside it.

In the end, they made no further attempt to bury the confused man in either consecrated or unconsecrated ground. The coffin was put down below the surface somewhere in the turf-banks of Kilcoagh, where it has ever since remained, according to local lore. Though that may not be the end of the matter, for it is a fact that the bog protects and preserves some things, especially wood, and the man was buried in a wooden coffin. Perhaps the last has not yet been heard of Lynch. Who knows what the bog may give up, in its own good time?

The playwright John Millington Synge came across a Wicklow story from the nineteenth century that has echoes in other parts of the country, where it seems that people in official positions were all too happy to declare someone dead, even if the grim reaper had not yet arrived to collect them.

He said he had met a man at the top of a long hill (of which there are many in Wicklow). Damp clouds hug the mountains of Wicklow three days out of five, and on three days out of five they bring rain to the hills.

On this particular day, Synge met an old man with a white, pointed face, who told him a story. They spoke first about the broken weather, and then the misfortunes that had been witnessed in Ireland. The man recalled the blight that came in the year 1846. Up to then, potatoes had been clean and good; but that morning a mist rose up out of the sea and you could hear a voice talking nearly a mile off across the stillness of the earth, said the man.

This continued in the following days until people saw the tops of the potato stalks collapse as if the life was gone out of them. That was the start of the failure of the potato crop. The famine devastated the country; but even when it was over, a cholera epidemic followed on, in 1849, and killed many of the famine survivors, already weakened by starvation and fever.

Mandatory reporting was the order of the day and when the wife of a man called Michael took ill he reported it to the authorities. She was duly taken away to the sick-house, and he heard nothing more till he was told she was dead, and was to be buried the following morning.

At that time, sufferers would be brought in during the collapse stage of the disease, when it appeared there was no pulse extant. Such was the fear on every person not to be in contact with the condition that they buried people they had no hope for, even if they still had life within them. At least, that is according to the old man on the top of the mountain pass in Wicklow, who claimed knowledge of such things.

Michael, wishing to be sure that his wife was indeed lifeless before she was buried in the ground, went down in the darkness of the night into the dead-house, where they had put his wife.

There were more than fifty bodies in there, lying among the shadows. All was still and quiet. There was no movement anywhere, except for the breath rasping in and out of Michael’s mouth. Not knowing what to do, he went along feeling from one body to the other to see if he could meet with the familiar form of his wife.

It may be supposed that his wife heard him coming in the darkness, for she wasn’t dead at all.

In which case, she said: ‘Is that Michael?’

He said it was, and asked if she had her last gasps in her still.

She replied that she had. She told him they had laid her out with fifty other bodies, so they could put her down into her grave at dawn.

Michael asked if she had the strength left in her to hold on to his back if he lifted her up.

She replied that she had, surely.

He then took his wife on his back and carried her out by lanes and tracks till he got to their own house once more. She was not missed from the dead house. Michael said nothing at all to anyone about what had happened, or what he had done.

At the end of three days his wife began to improve and, in a month’s time, to the astonishment of her neighbours and the entire town, she began walking about again, just like her old self.

For all that the townsfolk were glad to see her back from the dead, there were many people who were afraid to speak to her, for they thought she had returned from the grave. And that was too strange an occurrence for many people. So they nodded at her and passed on in silence, the same as if they had met a ghost on the road.

THE RESURRECTION OF SEAN

Wicklow abounds in stories of confusion, mistake and mischief.

Sean did not own his land, but paid another person rent for the privilege of living and working on the property. At the time of this story, Sean was unable to pay the rent. Non-payment made forfeiture of his holding inevitable and so the landlord gave Sean a week’s notice to leave.

Sean had two stacks of corn in hand when he was told to leave. The corn could generate some ready revenue for him, so he, along with two kindly neighbours, threshed it and Sean then took his leave to travel to market with the oats, hoping to sell to the highest bidder and return with funds for the family.

He was well on his way when he met a man who asked what Sean had with him in the cart. Sean showed the oats to the man, who tested them and offered to buy them for almost nothing. Sean refused with a great show of disinterest in the offer. The man increased his offer a little. Sean came down a small bit in his asking price. It went on that way until they finally agreed on a bargain of £5 for the lot.

It is after this exchange that the story takes a strange turn. For whether Sean lost his way home, or decided to ‘take a drop for the road’, it seems he did not immediately return home with his newly found funds.

That is, according to Luke Ford, of Knocanoocra, who was 60 years of age when he related the story for the Schools Folklore Collection taken up in the 1930s by primary school pupils who collected stories from older people in the community.

As the story goes, for some strange reason Sean’s wife, after some days, declared Sean dead and proceeded to have a wake for him in their house, around a closed coffin.

Neighbours came to pay their respects; the landlord was informed of Sean’s passing and was asked to stay the termination of the family’s lease, which he did for a while, being a man of standing in the Church.

The coffin was buried in the parish graveyard, with full solemnity, by the local priest, who said Sean had been a fine family man whose every thought was for his family’s care, and who should be remembered in the prayers of all present for the repose of his sweet soul. Everyone nodded their head and agreed to do so, at least for the moment. And that was that.

It was not long after Sean’s burial that he arrived home, a little the worse for wear but otherwise hale and hearty and, most importantly, alive.

It was a dark night when he walked into the yard. The house was dim and quiet when he lifted the latch and stepped into the little home, with just a glow from the hearth where some neighbours had brought sods of turf to see the bereaved through their time of torment.

Sean made his way to where the small family lay asleep, their arms wrapped around one another for comfort and warmth. A considerate man, rather than disturb the slumbering bodies he went to sleep out in the barn, intending to return the following morning, Sunday, to join the others for a stirabout breakfast before walking to Mass in the church, a few miles away.

He found a comfortable spot for himself in the barn and dozed off, content that he was home and that the few shillings left in his purse would satisfy the rent. Waking early the next morning, with the light spilling around him, Sean heard someone moving about the yard and sat up to see who was about at such an early hour. He peered out of the door to see a pair of bailiffs attempting to take his last remaining pig away in settlement of rent arrears. He knew both of the bailiffs well, and they him, from the many conversations they’d had over slow payment of rent on the holding.

Annoyed by their avaricious manner, Sean grabbed a nearby pitchfork and erupted from the barn in a fury to chase the two men away.

Both of them had been at his funeral several days earlier and did not linger to argue over rent arrears with an aroused ghost, who was advancing on them with what looked like a trident borrowed from the Devil.

They did not look back until they were the best part of an Irish mile away, and glad to be alive and able to relate that the ghost of Sean had returned to haunt the little farm on the hill. What the landlord was going to make of the story was another matter.

His success at seeing off the bailiffs so easily puzzled Sean, as the two men had a tough reputation and he had expected a shouting match, at the very least.

That the bailiffs had run away from him would be a nice little boast to make to his wife. But when he entered the house, it was empty. This was a situation that perplexed Sean, who had hoped for a welcome home, at least. However, he noticed that the children’s boots were missing, so he realised they were away to Sunday Mass, as it was the only time in the week when they were not allowed to go barefoot. When they returned from church, the boots would be put away for another week.

So, Sean stepped out in the direction of the church and hoped that the first reading of the gospel would not be over by the time he got there; he would technically have missed Mass on that account even if he stayed for the rest. That was the rule and, if broken, absolution had to be sought in confession, as soon as possible, or risk dying beforehand with an unclean soul. Such was the way people lived their lives in Ireland of a hundred years ago.

It was later than he thought by the time Sean made off down the lane. He skipped along the empty road, for on Sunday mornings everyone moved in the same direction towards the church, returning later on from the other direction. There is a point in between these two migrations where the road is empty and nothing stirs. It was along this deserted road that Sean made his determined way. It would be a good opportunity to meet his two neighbours who had helped thresh the corn and thank them for their assistance. He would be glad to reassure his wife also that they were once more in funds.

There was a tradition at Irish Sunday Masses that children and women sat on one side of the church, while menfolk and older boys sat on the other. Outside, in the porch, spilling out into the open air were more men who were present in body only, but who occupied their minds with other things until Mass was concluded.

Some claimed they were following a tradition that an outer ring of men kept watch for priest hunters, as during the Penal Days when it was an offence to celebrate Mass. They stood guard and would raise the alarm, delaying the pursuers until the priest got away.

However, when Sean happened down the road it had been many a year since anyone had kept watch for a foreigner at an Irish Mass. He turned into the churchyard with a greeting for some old school companions, quite unaware that he had been buried out of this same church not a week since, and so was surprised when the worshippers fell away from him in silent dread. Some took to their bicycles and abandoned all semblance of worship as they made their speedy way home. They could shrive their souls at confession on the following Saturday.

Very soon, the remaining faithful had also left the church, including Sean’s little family who were swept out in the confusion when the priest announced that Mass was suspended for the moment, while he faced a challenge of faith, there inside the church. Pretty soon there was only the priest and a pair of terrified altar boys, in black surplices and white soutanes, facing the bewildered Sean.

With what authority the priest could muster, he asked Sean what he wanted of him, this day. Sean said he’d come for Mass and to see his family and was sorry he was late but thought, as he eyed the witnessing altar boys, that his lateness might wait until Saturday next in the confessional.

The priest had not undergone seven years of intensive training to be bested by a dead man apologising for missing the first reading of the gospel. He dismissed the altar boys, who exited with alacrity.

Sean answered the priest’s questions as to where he had travelled with the oats and where he had been afterwards, some details of which escaped Sean entirely in recall, in fairness. He was more than a little surprised when the priest told him he had been buried in the graveyard on his wife’s say-so. She had asked that his coffin not be opened. The priest added that his wife would be shocked to see him, no less than the fleeing congregation.

Sean was somewhat nonplussed and apologised but said he would return on the morrow, Monday, to dig himself back up and make restitution to the graveyard; but, for now he was anxious to call on the landlord to pay the arrears on the family’s holding.

The priest agreed to this but did not bother to send word to the landlord of Sean’s mission, for the landlord was of a different persuasion and it was none of the priest’s business to call on him at home.

The unfortunate landlord had already been primed by his terrorised bailiffs about the arrival of a demon. So, when Sean walked into the pebbled yard, the landlord gave instructions that he be allowed in by the front door and not by the back scullery door, where tenants generally knocked when there on business.

By now Sean had become used to the reaction of the living to his reappearance and said nothing at all to the landlord when he was asked in a trembling voice what his business might be there.

Instead, Sean held out a cloth-wrapped package with the money therein. The gesture had a surprising effect on the man who claimed Sean’s land as his own. He fell to his knees and swore he would not take the money from the widow and her poor family. What’s more, they could all stay on the small farm rent free for the rest of their lives, and would that satisfy Sean and would he go away and not return again?

Sean nodded assent and walked out in silence. All that could be heard was the crunching of his departing feet on the landlord’s driveway.

He decided not to return to his own home that night, not until he saw the contents of the coffin. Next morning, as soon as the eight o’clock Massgoers had departed and all was quiet, he began to dig. The freshly disturbed soil was easily removed and he soon had the box hoisted out of the grave. Inside, he found a large lump of bog oak that had accounted to the pall bearers for the weight on their shoulders in the funeral procession.

He removed it and donated the empty coffin to the priest for the use of any mendicant parishioner who turned up dead. The bog oak he left for another day’s work while he set his gaze towards the hill and his little rent-free farm – and his impatient wife who had given up his ghost before he was ready to do so himself.

There was a conversation to be had between them, at the every least. On the way home he stopped at the crossroads shop and bought sugarsticks for the children from a quaking shopkeeper. The children would be glad to see him (and the sugarsticks), that much he knew.

As for the rest, he would have to wait and see.

STORY OF A PONY

When Mick’s ass died he knew he would have to replace it, so he waited until the fair of Leighlin on 14 May of that year and made his way to the Bawnogue. There he found there were no asses for sale, only ponies, horses, cattle and sheep, and on seeing that some of the ponies could fit neatly between the shafts of his ass’s cart he took an interest in them. Although he knew very little about ponies he went, without anyone to advise him, in among the pony sellers asking questions and prices. Not a wise thing to do. From amid these head-scratching, pipe-sucking, some gruff, some sly-looking pony dealers, Mick found a smiling friendly owner of a hairy pony who had the greatest sympathy for a man that lost his faithful ass. Suffice it to say Mick made his purchase, the hairy pony.

When word got out that Mick had bought a pony, people came from all round to see. Sure Mick was delighted to display his purchase while they poked and prodded the creature voicing their opinion. It was Mary Hennessy who remarked about the hairiness of the creature, but Mick assured her that the man said that that breed of the pony was like that when young, and would become smooth haired after a year or so. Tommy Farrell inspected the animal from tail to head and then had a look at the teeth, declaring that from what he could see the pony was not young but aged. Again Mick declared that the man said that it was the breed, that the teeth were soft while the pony was young and that after another six months or so the teeth would harden and grow. In a low voice Tommy assured those around him that he thought the pony was nearer the coffin than the crib.

Well the pony worked between the shafts for a very pleased Mick who found it quiet, obedient and inexpensive to keep with free grazing on the roadside. About two years later in the month of November, Mick went down the road one morning to bring home his pony, only to find it lying on the grass margin, stiff, showing no sign of life. Concerned, he touched it with his boot, poked it with his stick and eventually beating and kicking it he called out for it to get up and walk, but there was not a stir. Mick was no miracle worker. Heartbroken and about to leave, he spotted the skinner Hogan approaching and asked him to check on the pony just to make sure.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Mick.

‘Indeed and he is,’ was the reply.

‘If he is any good to you, take him,’ said Mick, hoping to avoid the trouble of removing the body.

‘That I’ll do, the skin for me and the meat for the foxhounds at Moyle,’ called out the skinner as he turned to hasten home to get the cob and cart to get on with the job.

It was not long until the skinner was back to remove the body to a piece of waste ground away from the road and there, out of sight, he set to work with his knife. He worked away for nearly an hour until he had all the skin loosened on one side of the pony and to complete the job tried to turn the body over.

Well didn’t he catch the rigid hind legs and heave as hard as he could until he had the dead animal on its back with the legs pointing up to the sky, when there was a snort out of it and a mighty kick that sent the poor skinner skidding in a horizontal position out across the field.

A badly shaken skinner got to his feet to find the pony he believed to be dead standing there looking at him, the skin on one side of its body hanging loosely like rags in the wind. Being a softhearted man he knew he had to get the skin back on the pony as soon as possible to save it from being in misery. He had no thread, nor had he a needle and he knew there was no time to lose. Sure it was then that his eyes fell on the blackberry bushes with their leaves gone and their thorns well in view and that gave him an idea.

With the blackberry thorns he very carefully fastened back the skin on the pony, a suturing job equal, if not better, than that done by the top surgeons in the best hospitals. By Christmas the skin had knitted and healed and there was hardly the sign of a scar on its body. Towards the end of the following spring little bumps began to show where the thorns had taken root under the skin. These had broken into green buds by the end of May.

Mick had now got a replacement so the recuperating pony was left to survive as best it could, grazing around the waste ground where it preferred to stay. By the end of that summer the green buds had developed into long healthy blackberry shoots that later in the year had to be pruned by the skinner to give ease to the pony for the coming winter.

To cut a long story short, by the end of the following summer that pony sported the finest bunch of blackberry bushes loaded with berries that ever you could see. To everyone’s surprise the pony, under this extraordinary load, seemed to be thriving and getting livelier by the day with many years of grazing to look forward to. That’s what should have been had not the poor creature been trampled to death by a crowd of youngsters out picking blackberries.

Remembered from the 1950s by Jack Sheehan.

LABHRAIDH LOINGSIGH

Once there was a king named Labhraidh Loingsigh. He might have been a good king but he had a secret he didn’t want anyone to find out about. You see Labhraidh Loingsigh had two big hairy horse’s ears. He was ashamed and embarrassed about these two ears and did everything in his power to keep them out of sight from all the world. He let his hair grow long and straggly and unkempt to cover his ears, and wore a brath, or blanket, over his head at all times.

One day his mother came to him and said, ‘Labhraidh, look at the state of you, with your long tangled straggly hair. It’s time you did something about the way you look. It’s time you got your hair cut!’

‘But ma, I can’t,’ replied Labhraidh. ‘If I go and get my hair cut the hairdressers will see my ears and they’ll all be laughing at me.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said his mother, ‘but no king in Europe is going to take you seriously and you looking so untidy and unkempt!’

Well, Labhraidh spent some time reflecting on his situation and after a while he came up with a plan, which he felt would solve his dilemma. He would get the hairdresser to cut his hair and then he would chop off the hairdresser’s head so they couldn’t tell anyone about his ears.

That was Labhraidh’s plan, and whatever you or I might think of it, Labhraidh thought himself very clever to come up with it. And so it happened that twice a year a hairdresser would come to Dinn Righ to cut the king’s hair. They would brush his hair, and comb his hair; they would see the two hairy horse’s ears and say, ‘Oh, Your Majesty, did you know that you have two horse’s ears?’ Labhraidh would say nothing, but when their work was done, they would be taken down to the dungeons and never seen again.

Well, people noticed that the hairdressers were going into the castle, but not coming out again. So, the hairdressers that were left changed their jobs and instead of remaining hairdressers they became bakers and teachers, storytellers and farmers.

Eventually there came the day that there was only one hairdresser left in all of the area, a young man not long since a boy and the only son of a poor widow woman. Now, this widow woman was so old that she couldn’t work for herself any more and the only income she had in the world was the few pennies her son earned from his hairdressing. She was terrified of what would happen if her son were to go into the king’s castle and not return. Where would she get the money to pay the rent? Where would she get the money to buy food? She’d be put out of her home to starve on the side of the road. She had begged her son to change his job, but he wouldn’t. He loved the work he did. Nothing in his life gave him more pleasure than cutting people’s hair.

One day the dreaded letter arrived from the king. He needed a hairdresser and the young man would have to go. His mother went to the castle with him. She came before King Labhraidh Loingsigh and pleaded with him.

‘Oh Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘Please sir, look at me. I am an old woman. I am past the days when I would have worked for myself. All I have in the world are the few pennies my son earns. If he doesn’t return home to me today where will I find the money to pay my rent? I’ll be thrown out of my home on to the side of the road. Where will I find the money to buy food? I’ll die of starvation on the side of the road. Please, please don’t take my son from me.’

Labhraidh Loingsigh looked at the old woman and took pity on her. He promised her that he would release her son home to her once his work had been done.

The young man went to the king’s room and set to work. He brushed the king’s hair, and he combed the king’s hair, then he saw the two horse’s ears.

‘Oh Your Majesty,’ said he. ‘Did you know that you have two horse’s ears?’

The king looked sternly at him. ‘Don’t say a word about my ears to anybody or I’ll have your head chopped off,’ he said.

‘I won’t, I won’t. I promise,’ said the boy and he went on with his work. When he finished, the king released him home to his mother as he had promised.

The widow was delighted to see her son return home and asked all kinds of questions about the castle and the king. The boy described the rooms and hall, and all that he had seen in the castle, and went on to talk about the king.

‘Oh Mam, he has lovely fine hair and I saw his two …’ Just in time, he clapped his hand over his mouth and stopped himself from giving away the secret. He would have to be much more careful in future and mind what he was saying.

The next day the young man found himself in the local village when he bumped into a group of his friends.

‘Hello,’ says they. ‘So, any news for us, anything strange happening these days?’

‘Well lads,’ said the widow’s son, pleased and proud with himself. ‘I was in the king’s castle, so I was, and I was cutting the king’s hair, and I saw his two …’ Just in time again, the boy clapped his hand over his mouth and stopped himself from revealing the king’s secret.

He was so afraid now that he might tell somebody the secret, that he stopped talking. He kept his lips tight and spoke to nobody. At night, he was afraid he might talk in his sleep so he did everything he could think of to keep himself awake. He put nails and pins in his bed, and he pinched himself all night. In the daytime, he was so tired from want of sleep that he couldn’t eat properly. Over time, he got weaker and weaker and poorer and poorer in health till in the end he couldn’t leave his bed.

His mother was concerned and called for the doctor. The doctor checked the boy all over. He listened to his heart, listened to his chest, listened to his back. He looked in his eyes, looked in his ears, looked down his throat. He checked him up and down and finally said:

‘Hmm, I can find nothing wrong with his boy. He hasn’t got measles, mumps or rubella. He hasn’t got cow pox, small pox or chicken pox. He hasn’t got a cough, cold, flu or swine flu. All that’s wrong with him is that he has something he needs to talk about, and he’d want to start talking!’

‘But I promised,’ cried the young man weakly from his bed.

‘Well you don’t have to tell a person,’ replied the doctor. ‘You could tell a horse, or wall, or dog. Just say it out loud!’

So off went the young man to find a place to tell his secret. He wandered down the lane and passed a cow looking over the hedge, but he didn’t fancy telling the cow. He passed a great big granite gate post, but he didn’t fancy telling the gate post. Then he saw ahead of him, in the middle of a field, a little mound on which grew a lone sycamore tree. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this is the place to tell my secret.’

He made his way up to the tree and making sure he was alone he whispered his secret into the tree:

‘Labhraidh Loingsigh has horse’s ears. The king has horse’s ears.’ Immediately, he felt a little better, so he said it again. ‘Labhraidh Loingsigh has horse’s ears. The king has horse’s ears.’

He felt much better, and as he walked home he could feel the spring come back into his step.

Now, it happened that there was a fine musician who lived in those parts, a well-known harpist who was out looking for a piece of wood to make a new harp. And you’ll never guess, but of all the trees he could have chosen he chose a great big branch from that very same sycamore tree to make his new harp. He cut off the branch and took it back to his workshop. He cut it and carved it, sanded it and shaped it, and from it made a beautiful harp. He was just fixing the strings to it and tuning them in when a messenger came to say that the king was having a feast and that he wanted the musician to come and play a few tunes.

‘Very well,’ thought the harpist. ‘I will give the king a special gift.’ And, taking the new harp up under his arm, he made his way to the castle. When he came before the king and all those gathered at the king’s feast, he bowed low, showed the new harp to the king and said, ‘Your Majesty, this is a brand-new harp. I have just finished making it. It has never been played, so as a special gift, I give you the first tune played on the strings of this harp.’

The king was very impressed and the musician sat to play. He ran his fingers over the strings of the harp, but … oh … that harp didn’t play ordinary music. No. That harp began to sing and it sang out:

‘Labhraidh Loingsigh has horse’s ears. The king has horse’s ears.’

The king was shocked. The court was shocked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at Labhraidh. Labhraidh didn’t know what to do or where to look, but in the end he decided to do what is always the best thing to do in these circumstances and that is – to tell the truth. He stood up, took off the brat he wore over his head and let up his two horse’s ears.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I have two horse’s ears, and I suppose now you think I’m not good enough to be your king, hmph!’

One of the men at the feast stood up.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘We don’t care about your ears. Look at me,’ and this man had the biggest nose you can imagine. Not only was it a big nose but it was covered in every type of wart, spot and pimple. It was an awful ugly looking thing. ‘Look at my nose,’ he continued. ‘It’s an awful ugly nose but that doesn’t bother my friends, because they know it’s not how you look on the outside that is important, but how you are on the inside. If you’re good and kind and fair that’s what’s important.’

‘You are so right,’ said the king. ‘It is much more important to be good and kind and fair. What a fool I’ve been to be so worried about my horse’s ears.’

And from that day on, Labhraidh Loingsigh let his ears up for all the world to see. He did his best to be a good king and a kind king and a fair king, and he never cut off another hairdresser’s head again.

THE LEGEND OF GRENNAN CASTLE

The Castle of Grennan was once occupied by a medieval knight who went by the name of Denn. He was, by all accounts, a fair and good man and his family and tenants prospered under his care and protection. In fact, his lady wife loved him dearly and proved her love in a most unusual and spectacular manner.

It seems that the good knight Denn was so busy protecting and getting involved in all aspects of rural life that he conveniently forgot to pay his taxes to the king’s men who sat in Dublin, counting the vast funds they were collecting from lowly landowners like Denn.

Well, maybe he forgot or else he hoped that they would forget all about him and his lovely castle in Grennan, after all it was a bit off the beaten track when it came to places of importance. But there is always a clever little maneen somewhere when it comes to keeping tabs on people and what they have. It has ever been so since Cain killed Abel. So, news eventually came to the ears of the king that Denn was remiss in paying his dues to his liege lord.

The liege lord to whom Denn was beholden was none other than Richard II of England. Wouldn’t you think he had enough to do over in England without bothering poor Denn? Well indeed, he probably had but he decided to take a break from chasing them and came over to Ireland for a little rest; kings don’t get much rest you know, for there is always someone hounding them for this, that or the other. King Richard II was no different, some conniving little revenue collector, hoping to ingratiate himself with him, reminded him continually that his wayward subject, the knight known as Denn who held a castle in Grennan had not paid his respectful dues to his sovereign lord.

It appears that the collector, for good measure, said that Denn was getting too familiar with the mere Irish and was adopting their Irish ways and customs. Worst of all was the possibility that because he was becoming so involved locally he was dressing himself in the style of the Irish.

When the king heard this he was nearly hopping mad with indignation at the perceived slights to his royal person. He declared that he would drop in on Castle Grennan when he was travelling from Waterford to Kilkenny and that he would have Denn’s head served to him upon a dish at table in the hall of his own castle of Grennan.

Oh, there were some who were delighted to hear this oath declared and many hoped that they would be given the castle for themselves once the king had feasted his eyes on the head of Denn. Greed is a terrible curse.

In those times the journey from Waterford to Grennan would have taken much longer than it takes today. The king was always accompanied by a huge retinue. The many nobles who accompanied King Richard wished to impress him with their attentiveness and loyalty. They all dressed up in medieval grandeur of the finest wool and silk and bejewelled leather, but were careful not to show colours above or below their own station. Next, came the knights and squires who would be followed by a great number of archers and men-at-arms. Following along on the heels of this grand parade would be the cooks and servants.

Sure, it was like trying to move a whole village with all the paraphernalia they needed. The progress therefore was always going to be slow and it was no wonder then that a man on horseback with nothing to delay him might reach Grennan Castle long before this expedition drew near. Or indeed maybe the word was just passed from village to village until it reached the knight called Denn.

When the Denn household heard about the king’s oath to have their lovely knight’s head on a platter there must have been a right hullabaloo. If Denn was now truly a man engaged in the ways of the men of Ossory he probably said more than ‘Oh heck’. But his wife, on the other hand, took time to think things through. She was a grand woman, bless her.

Well, while King Richard and his huge retinue rested overnight at Knocktopher there was little rest at Grennan Castle. There were a lot of things to be organised and the lovely lady wife of that much-loved knight was clever as well as beautiful. Hurried orders were given and servants were seen to make many trips to the cellars and kegs were loaded up on several carts and sent off into the dark with specific instructions, which must be followed to the letter for the fate of Grennan depended on it.

When the king’s progress continued the following day he was amused to find that every mile of the road on the way to Grennan Castle was marked by patient Grennan servants with butts of rich Spanish wine. Needless to say these were sampled and enjoyed by the whole company and it was not cheap wine either, but the best stock to be found in Grennan’s cellars.

King Richard was impressed with the gesture and the obvious good quality of the wine being served at each mile-post and expressed regret that he had uttered the oath about having the head of the good knight Denn. He reminded everyone that even though he had regrets he could not go back on a royal oath, no matter what form of persuasion was used. This worried the wine servers from Grennan but cheered up the king’s companions for they all thought they still had a chance to gain possession of the castle.

Well, mile passed upon mile and the king was full of the joys of life and wine when he came to the causeway, which led to the gates of Castle Grennan. There, to his amazement, he found the pathway carpeted with the finest rich velvet and brocade and Denn’s lovely lady wife waiting patiently to greet her liege lord. Her curtsy was deep and her eyes grave when they met his, which had lost their merriment at the sight of this lavish and respectful display. Regret for his hasty oath was uppermost in his heart but he walked beside the lady as they went into the banquet hall.

The hall was bedecked with the finest furnishings and the tables piled high with every good food and a plentiful supply of wine. However, the king’s eyes were drawn to a large silver covered serving dish which was placed directly in front of the seat which was obviously for him. Did he imagine it or was that red liquid seeping out beneath the lid? The king took his place and the lady Denn allowed a blank seat to remain between herself and her monarch. There were many indrawn breaths as the nobles and king’s men noted this. A deep silence suddenly hung over the room. The lady Denn gestured with her hand and a servant reached forward, past the king, and lifted the lid from the silver serving platter.

The king recoiled in horror and anguish and the nobles one and all turned pale at the sight which met their horrified eyes. There, pale and bloodied, rested the head of the good knight Denn and red blood flowed freely around the platter.

With a startled oath the king, who was given to oaths, cried out that he would give a dozen of his knights if Denn could be recalled to life. No sooner had the words echoed around the hall than Denn’s lady wife rose and drew aside the table covering directly in front of the startled monarch. There on his knees was the good knight Denn with his head stuck up through a hole in the table and fitted with the silver platter like a collar around his neck.

For a moment the king lost his breath and nobles reached for their weapons in genuine alarm then Richard II, king of all he surveyed, threw back his head and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. The nobles subsided sheepishly and soon joined in their liege Lord’s merriment.

All was forgiven. The king had indeed been served Denn’s head on a platter and now all was in order once again. In the full flush of relief and good wine not only did the king forgive Denn but he gave to him additional lands and honours and stayed in his castle for many days hunting with hawk and hounds in the surrounding lands.

When the king and his huge party finally departed from Castle Grennan, the good knight known as Denn, Lord of Grennan celebrated quietly with his lady wife and household and as they drank to the health of Richard II it was noted that no taxes had been paid nor had the king asked for any.

THE STORY OF DAME ALICE KYTELER

This story of witchcraft and Inquisition was often told to us when we were young and I never really liked it. It was frightening on so many levels and the power of the Inquisition horrified me.

However, I recently visited Ms Nicky Flynn, the present owner of the famous Kytlers Inn, which is situated in the fantastic medieval city of Kilkenny, and found myself caught up in the strange world of the late 1200s. Sitting down to a meal under the ancient stone arches of the inn can certainly bring the story to the forefront of your mind.

Alice de Kyteler was born in Kyteler’s House, Kilkenny, to wealthy Norman parents. The date of her birth is given as the year 1280, but who knows now. She would have been brought into this world with the aid of a ‘goodwife’ or midwife and would have more than likely been taken care of in her infant state by a wetnurse.

Life in a well-to-do Norman household would have included education for the girls as well as the boys. The boys were usually fostered off to other families, of similar standing, for their education. The education of the girls was less formal but would have included codes of conduct, where you stood in the pecking order of the aristocracy, the running of a large house and the finer and genteel occupations of ladies.

I am sure that Alice was well versed in all these skills and indeed seems to have improved on them and added a few of her own particular ideas as well.

She must have been a clever young girl for she made a good marriage to one William Outlawe, who was a banker. He was definitely a good catch, as they say, but whether Alice loved him or not who knows. He must have been quite a few years her senior to be an established banker and she was just a young girl.

However, they had a son and he too was called William. Giving birth to a son was a great boost to Alice and she was probably showered with affection and gifts from her husband. Here was a son who could follow his father’s footsteps into banking. You may laugh now but that was how the gentry made their plans at that time. A male heir was all important.

It is likely also that her husband was anxious to have another son, just to be on the safe side. Children in those times sometimes died young as they had none of the medicines which we have today, poor creatures.

Well, things seem to have gone well with them for a few years but then William senior took ill and died rather suddenly. Alice and her little boy were suddenly on their own, but they were not left destitute by any means. Alice was left a wealthy widow and was still a young and attractive woman. It was no surprise therefore to people when Adam de Blund of Cullen began to pay court to Alice.

Wasn’t he a great man to take on another man’s son? That was the word going around. The courtship didn’t last very long and soon Alice became the wife of Adam de Blund. I forgot to mention that he was a wealthy man also, so he was not, in any way, after her money.

I am afraid that Adam was not long married to Dame Alice when he too found himself dying of some strange ailment. I wonder did he wonder, or indeed did he know, that he had been given a speedy ticket to the next life? However it was, he didn’t get any time to change his will, and once again Alice became a wealthy widow.

All this time young William, son of the banker, was growing and was well provided for by his doting mother.

People were beginning to look at Dame Alice with a jaundiced eye. To lose one husband could happen to anyone but to lose two, in such a short time and so suddenly in each case, seemed downright careless – if not suspicious.

Alice was wealthy now beyond all expectations and ran her hostelry business in Kyteler’s Inn with skill. It was an eating house with a good reputation and ideally situated to facilitate visitors to Kilkenny City who needed a place to stay with good food as an added bonus. The local inhabitants enjoyed the warmth and welcome at the inn and many of the local gentry indulged themselves in the excellent food and wine provided by Dame Alice.

The part which was beginning to upset her neighbours was that she was managing this herself, without the aid of a strong man. No matter how wealthy a woman became, she was always a target for the men who thought she was getting above herself. The woman should, after all, know her place. Only men were capable of controlling such finance as she possessed.

Now, whether the deaths of her first two husbands were as a result of something they ate or heart attacks induced by some other means, who knows.

Alice must have known very well that she was in a dangerous situation but thought she could weather the storm. One way of doing this would have been to take on another suitable husband and keep him alive long enough for people to forget their suspicions and for their begrudgery to subside.

Not every man would rush into marriage with a woman, no matter how wealthy, who had lost two husbands in mysterious circumstances. But a man called Richard de Valle seems to have had no hesitation for he was next to find comfort in the arms of Alice Kyteler.

It is possible that he loved her and trusted that no harm would come to him. The poor man should have stayed at home with his own mother for he soon succumbed to the same mysterious illness.

I have wondered lately about the son of the banker, William. Was it he who was getting rid of the husbands? Did he see them as possible fathers of rival children for his mother’s affection or his inheritance? It is said that he was of a graspying, greedy nature, though how this is known I am not sure. I find it hard to believe that Dame Alice would be that stupid. Why would she draw more trouble on herself now with a third husband?

I am sure there were many harsh words spoken about Dame Alice following the demise of her third husband but no one had any proof of wrongdoing. Alice was now wealthier than ever and business was booming.

Her son William was now running his own business where he had charge of the nearby parklands. Dame Alice organised things so that the sweepings of rubbish and waste were cleared from the city streets by night and delivered to her son for use as manure on the land. There were no street cleaners in those days and many things were discarded in the walkways and lanes of the medieval city. She was either a very clever lady who was centuries ahead of her time in doing this recycling or perhaps there was more here than meets the eye.

All would probably have passed along peacefully if Alice had not agreed to a fourth marriage. I know, it is really hard to believe. Minny, a friend of my sister Kit, had a saying: ‘Once through the hoop should be enough for any woman.’ Maybe Alice never knew that. Maybe she just wanted a man in her life. That happens, they tell me.

Perhaps Alice was one of those women who had a naturally magnetic personality or was it that the men in her life wished to dominate this outrageously wealthy female. They surely can’t all have fallen madly in love with her, one after the other, knowing that their predecessors had come to sudden untimely ends.

Well, for one last fling, Alice married Sir John de Poer. I hope they had a good honeymoon period because in a very short while Sir John began to feel unwell. Alice must have nursed him and taken such loving care of him that in no time at all he changed his will in favour of Alice and her son William.

It is reported that the illness took the form of his hair and nails falling out and he became sickly. I have tried to find what might cause this and there are many things but it is hard to believe that any of them could have caused the death of all the four husbands.

Mercury was one of the things which could cause such symptoms but where would Alice have access to mercury? Did she know an Alchemist or was she dabbling in things which were dangerous on other levels? Would William have had access to these sources either?

When Sir John passed away all hell broke loose. Some of his own family members were outraged and were less than circumspect in the charges they began to level against Dame Alice.

At that time, one of the worst possible charges you could bring against anyone was that of witchcraft. The relatives of Sir John were looking for the greatest possible punishment to befall Alice. They approached the then Bishop of Ossory, Richard de Lederer, who was a Franciscan from England, with their charges and demanded that he do something about this woman.

England at that time was full of witch hunters and the Church was on a roll, burning and drowning many women accused of witchcraft. If you survived the ducking in water you were a witch but if you drowned you were innocent. Who would be a witch?

Bishop de Lederer was open to their suggestions that Dame Alice had somehow bewitched Sir John to get him to change his will in her favour and the charges of witchcraft and sorcery were formally brought against her.

The bishop seems to have found the savagery associated with the Inquisition to his liking and straight away assembled a Court of Inquisition which included five knights. I have often wondered about knights but sure they were only men, when all is said and done, and they did serve the Crown, which was also the Church at that time. Several noblemen were included and we can be sure that they were all hostile to this woman who had amassed such wealth and carelessly lost four husbands.

It was declared that Alice was the head of a coven of witches and had sex with a demon called Artisson, who is sometimes depicted as Aethiops, the mythical founder of Ethiopia.

Would anyone get away with such a claim today?

Alice was not standing by idly while all this was being done by Sir John’s relatives and the bishop. She had her own people who did their best to defend and protect her and, despite the bishop’s best efforts, he could not get the Temporal Authority to arrest and condemn Alice. He wanted to make a clean sweep of the den of iniquity so he went after her son William and her unfortunate friends and servants.

The bishop apparently wrote to the Chancellor of Ireland, Roger Outlawe, demanding to have Alice arrested. But he misjudged badly in doing this for Roger was Alice’s brother-in-law. The bishop found himself incarcerated in Kilkenny by Sir Arnold le Poer, who was another brother-in-law of Alice’s and also seneschal of Kilkenny. The poor bishop didn’t know where to turn.

Even the brother of the late Sir John was against him. You would think that this would have given the bishop cause for pause, but no, he went ahead again as soon as he was released from prison.

The charges against Alice became more outrageous by the day. It was said that she had in her employ many unearthly creatures which only came out at night to sweep the filth from the streets of Kilkenny so that her son would prosper from their work.

She was said to ride upon a broomstick, accompanied by her two maids, Petronilla and Basila, to meet with other enchanters, who were, of course, nameless. But most fascinating of all the wild stories was the fact that she was said to have received a pot of special ointment from the demon to oil her broomstick. Surely even the bishop himself must have laughed at this one.

A finer tale still was that after holding nightly conferences with Robin Artisson, the evil spirit, the ladies would sacrifice nine red peacocks in the middle of the highway and offer up their eyes. The mind boggles. There was a great storyteller somewhere in the background surely.

But no, the bishop didn’t laugh, indeed he seems to have delighted in all these fantastical stories and eagerly passed them on. He would have his Inquisition no matter what. No mere woman was going to get the better of him.

Alice was no fool and took herself off to England. This was curious as England would have been dangerous for her too if the bishop got his way, but she must have had a plan to lose herself in some out of the way place or in the thick of some city. Apparently she slipped away from Ireland in the company of just one of her maids.

This is where I fall out with Alice. Why didn’t she take her son and all her maidservants with her?

Did she misjudge the animosity of the bishop? Did she think they would be safe once she left?

Or, and this is also a fearful possibility, if she had not been the one who did away with her many husbands, was she now fearful for her own safety? Was William the real villain? Would she be next?

Well, leave them behind she did and she herself disappeared into the unknown. The bishop must have been frothing because he now pursued those left behind. He would exact terrible vengeance on the friends and servants of Alice. The poor, unfortunate maidservant Petronella was to suffer the worst of all. She was tortured and flogged and, not satisfied with this, the bishop had her burned at the stake. Wouldn’t you wonder about religion?

William, son and possible villain, got off very lightly indeed. Some say that all he had to do was to attend three masses a day and give alms to the poor. He was by this time a very wealthy man so it was no hardship for him. Some say that he re-roofed St Canice’s Cathedral as part of his repentance.

Alice never showed herself in Kilkenny or indeed in Ireland ever again and all we can say is, small blame to her.

This story is also portrayed in much more detail by author Claire Nolan in her book The Stone. Her publication is, in itself, another tale of interest involving the American artist Paddy Shaw and his portrait of Dame Alice. He painted the portrait many years before Claire wrote her book, and had never met her, yet when the two came together, the similarity of looks between his depiction of Dame Alice and author Claire were startling.

The portrait now hangs in Kyteler’s Inn, with a note from Paddy Shaw which says,‘I painted this piece for myself. It doesn’t like living with me. I think she wants to go home. So have her.’

TREASURES OF WEXFORD

That there is buried treasure all over Wexford County has never been in any doubt. There are few parishes that do not have a true tale of riches lying beneath the soil, to be had by the right person, at the right time, approaching the matter in the correct way. However, finding it and making it your own is a different matter, for traps and obstacles are in place to protect the treasure until its original owner returns to claim it.

Sometimes it is a Norman marauder who hid his plunder until he could return, like a jay bird burying an acorn for when he would next need food; but he may have forgotten where he buried his store or been killed while he was away.

Consider this: in the second field from the house of Patrick Purcell, in Drumdowney, there is a deep hole in which there is a large stone. Patrick’s mother recalled that long ago a man called John had a castle near that field. The castle was called Castle John. It was said that he buried his money in a box in that hole. The box was still under the stone in the 1930s, when Patrick related the story in the seventy-ninth year of his life. Frustratingly, the box of money is buried down so deep that it cannot be reached, so there it lies, according to local folklore. At least there are no reports of strange beings on hand to chase people away until John returns, in some form or another, to attend to business.

In Carriganurra, which is situated near the main road from Ross to Waterford, it is said at one time there was a woman living there whose name was Nurra. She had a great deal of money and in a time of trouble she hid it in the ground, away from her home, in case anyone came calling with greedy purpose. There, for some reason now lost to time, the money stayed, never to be recovered by the owner. It is a common belief in the area that the money is there to be found by those who would look properly for it. Several attempted to get to it but none of them succeeded. They tried in droves and in small intense groups, and they tried alone. Richard Kneefe of Ringville was said to be one of those who tried. He was named by local girl Margaret Kearney’s grandmother, then aged about eighty-six, as being one of those who returned empty-handed from the task.

Moses Curtis aged fifty-five years from Gusserane, New Ross, recalled a slightly different story from the 1920s when farm worker Pat Walsh was out ploughing the land with a pair of horses. (It was not to be until the 1940s when the first Fordson tractors would begin to replace working horses on farms.) A decent-sized farm in Wexford in the early part of the twentieth century would have used up to eight pairs of working horses to work the land, and on this day Pat was using his favourite pair when a large stone was struck by the plough. The well-trained horses stood stock still and would go no further. Pat, seeing what had happened, unyoked the pair and tied them to a ditch to rest and calm while he investigated the stone, which had lain buried and was now revealed.

He took a long bar of iron and began to tip the stone, digging around and underneath it so that he could see how he might get a chain on it to pull it from the soil and clear the land for better tillage. But Pat himself became rooted to the spot when he finally managed to pull up the stone. For underneath it, so the story goes, was a crock of gold sovereigns, left there by someone so long ago that nobody even knew the secret of their existence.

What happened next is still spoken of in the parish. People in those days did not work by the clock. However, it was usual for people to turn in for regular meals. Pat’s fellow workers gathered for their lunch, but when Pat failed to show up they asked themselves where he could be and why he was not coming in for his food. It was well known that an empty sack will not stand and a hungry man cannot give of his best in the field. Some feared he had suffered an accident or met with misfortune. When more time passed, they went looking for him and his horses.

They found the horses right enough but Pat was gone, never to be seen again. The crock (now empty) was still in the hole in the ground where Pat had first uncovered it in the disturbed soil. A single gold coin was found in the green grass not far away, where Pat had dropped it in his haste to be away with his new fortune.

There was nothing to be done but to untie the pair of horses and bring them back to the stables for a new ploughman to take care of them. The pair went willingly enough, for it was all the same to them who they worked with and gold was of no interest to horses.

The next anyone heard of Pat Walsh was the news, or rumour more likely, that he was sailing for America and a new life there. What was certain was that the missing ploughman was never seen again in Wexford, or in Ireland for that matter. There are some who say he died in America shortly afterwards, but since he did not send word on how he was doing, he may well have bought up half the prairie and ploughed away to his heart’s content. For that matter, he may never have looked at a plough-horse’s behind ever again. He was away with the found gold, one of the few who ever achieved that feat. Or, at least one of the few that we know about, for if he had not vanished out of a Wexford field on a working day no heed might have been paid to his leaving the place.

As far as anyone knows, Pat Walsh was left with no ill effects to his health, unlike a man in Templeton who had his face changed forever when he went seeking gold. Fifty-year-old John Lambert recalled some eighty years or so ago the tale of a man who dreamt for three nights in a row of a can that held gold, which was buried near Loftus Hall gates.

It is easy to dream of something that you desire and he had often dreamt of this and that; but the man determined to follow this new dream to the hidden treasure. He did not expect there would be a large fortune awaiting him; but he had seen a can with gold in it, and that’s the type of dream that is very hard to ignore.

One night, therefore, he arrived on his own at the gates and, going on his hands and knees, he searched the grass beneath him, sniffing about almost like a hunting dog. In the darkness he spotted a hollow with a bar across it. Below that he could see the can with an iron bar across it, protecting it. He leant down to get his scrawny fingers in around the bar and was almost there when a blast of air hit him in the face. He rolled away from the hollow and staggered off home. His face was never the same afterwards. It had been twisted in the blast and he was forever afterwards like a gargoyle in appearance. Still, no matter how many asked him, or how they cajoled him, he would never reveal the resting place of his can of gold. It was for him to know and for them to find, he said with a laugh that sounded a little insane to those who had known him since he was young.

Big houses and castles seemed to be the logical place for buried treasure, the odd field notwithstanding. Mrs Elizabeth Cusack of Lewistown, Duncannon, said one time that there was rumoured to be treasure buried underneath a flag at Kileske Castle.

One night, a crowd of men went there to find the treasure and to divide it up, in equal shares, among them. They brought with them holy water and a ball of wool to guard against non-mortal beings. This was common practice among treasure hunters.

They found the flag readily enough and dug down beneath it. With an effort they raised it up and quickly dipped the wool in the holy water and draped it around the flag. Inside the cordon of holy water it was safe enough to work, for they were under divine protection.

Having achieved the raising of the flag they anticipated an end to their temporal concerns. Instead, they heard a terrible roaring and jangling of chains. When they looked around they saw an enormous bull gouging the earth, on its way to charging them. Well, the men did not wait but scattered in all directions, cascading over the boundary of holy wool as if it never existed and away they went in all directions.

The next morning, it was discovered that the flag had fallen back into its place once more; by whose hand they could not say. Nor did anyone know who owned a bull so ferocious that it would attack a gang of men in the dark of a castle at night.

It is said in many places that when treasure was buried an animal was often killed and buried with it, to guard it until the owner returned. Perhaps there is more to the Greek mythological legend of the golden apples of the Hesperides being guarded by a dragon or serpent than we know, or care to acknowledge.

For it is all very well to be sceptical of such things in company in a brightly lit room. It is a different matter entirely to place your trust and well being in a ball of holy wool in darkness when beasts roar, the earth trembles and all about you have run away.

HURLING DAYS AT LOUGH CULLEN

Hurling is on a par with breathing for Wexford people. Every Wexford child knows that hurling is a unique Irish game and one of the oldest and fastest field games in the world.

Cúchulainn, the warrior hero of Irish mythology, was given his name when he killed a fierce guard dog, which was attacking him at the time, by driving a sliothar down its throat with a well-struck shot from his hurley. He was berated by the villagers for killing the hound, which had belonged to Culann the blacksmith and so Setanta, as he was known at the time, undertook to find another animal and train it for Culann. In the meantime, he acted as Culann’s guard and so became known to all as Cúchulainn, the Hound of Cullen.

Not every hurler has been called upon to kill a dog with a hurling ball, but some have tried to take the life of an opponent in the heat of battle. By the Middle Ages, hurling was being played between different parishes with teams of up to thirty players taking part. It wasn’t until the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) was formed in 1884 – and put manners and rules on the confrontation – that counties had the chance to play each other under set rules. Even then, with a rulebook in place, there were still rows and ructions over transgressions.

Some years before the meeting in Thurles that set up the GAA, a cross-country football match was played at a point between Kilmacow and Vanrog, which would have been similar to hurley in the application and enthusiasm of the players – not that Wexford men needed outside encouragement to get stuck in.

The number of men on each side was thirty, more or less, according to Patrick Byrne of Ballincrea, Slieverue, whose version of what occurred is recorded in the Irish Folklore Commission Collection. The experience of the match was more akin to a war of invasion, conquest and resistance than the conventional scoring of goals and points with a referee on hand to adjudicate. Each team from the opposing parishes strove to end the game by gaining possession of the other’s heartland; that is to say, where they lived during the week.

The elder folk of both Kilmacow and Vanrog, whose galloping days were at an end, gave opinion and advice to the players on their own teams, sometimes followed, sometimes ignored; the attention or non-attention to which only became an issue on the outcome of the game for victor or vanquished.

The game was played on Sunday, as was usual for leisure pursuits at the time, given that Saturday was a working day for most people. The match lasted for a long and furious two hours. Sunday dinner, then taken at noon, was swallowed in haste, after which the players hurried rather than ran with hurlies in hand to the field. There, in a state of intense perspiration, and after the terrible exercise of two hours battling implacable foes, they threw themselves motionless on the green grass to refresh, with heaving lungs, their life force, aching bones and tired-out muscles.

To begin the game, one team captain pitched up his hurley in the air and caught it neatly as it came down; he held it out at arm’s length, grasping it at the precise spot that it met his palm in its descent. The other captain took hold of it, his hand resting on the other’s; he, letting go his hold, fixed his grasp immediately above his opponent’s hand. Finally, the thumb and first finger of one coming within one inch of the top, the other player seized the hurley by the small remaining portion and, swinging it three times round his head, was adjudged the first choice for best position.

The ball used was a long narrow ball. A tall fat man named Angus, who played with Kilmacow, won every match for them and did so once more on this occasion by going into Vanrog before the Vanrog men could swing the contest into Kilmacow. Vanrog had to be content to live to fight on another day.

Curiously, the same storyteller, Patrick Byrne, recorded a story about a lake by the name of Loch Cullen, a name not a million miles away from Cúchulainn. The site where the lake is today was at one time a flat plain, and was where massive games of hurling took place.

One day, two teams of hurlers were arranged in line and fronting each other about ten ridges apart, when an independent spectator, taking the heavy leather-covered ball of about 3lbs weight, flung it high between the lines, and at once dozens of hurlies were brandished. They rose into the air like pikes of war and a rush like a battle charge took place towards the supposed spot of its meeting the ground. Several aimless swings and muscle-bruising blows were made as it descended with increasing speed. One champion’s hurley, wielded by his muscular arms, received it on the broad curved end with a heavy stunning sound as the hurley met the ball. The ball flew back into the clouds, to make its next descent at the distance of half the field away.

By and by, one of the hurlers grew thirsty from the exertions. He left the playing field and went searching for water. While he was searching he met a witch, though he did not know she was a witch. He asked where he would find water. She pointed to a holly bush and told him if he would lift the bush he would have water in plenty. But, she warned him, when he was finished drinking his fill he must be careful to replace the bush again. The man went and found the water beneath the bush just as she had said. He drank his cold fill until his sleek belly ballooned with water and his tongue shrank back to normal size – but he forgot to return the bush to where he had removed it from the earth. Unconcerned, he returned to his companions. It is said the water from the holly poured out and out without pause or pulse until it formed a lake of new water that nobody could prevail against. The man, the witch and the hurlers were all drowned, according to Patrick Byrne of Ballincrea.

John O’Donovan, the great Irish scholar of the nineteenth century, had a slightly different version. He said that, according to popular belief, Tory Hill, which rises over Loch Cuileann, was formerly a theatre of pagan worship for the people of the surrounding county. On one occasion, pagan worship being completed, athletic contests commenced. The people were assembled on the faiche, or plain, which extended up to the border of the thick wood. Women and girls occupied the portion next to the road, as the direction of the play was parallel to that side, and they would be out of harm’s way. They were there to encourage and admire the flying limbs of the men whose days were otherwise passed in physical labour.

At that time, O’Donovan said, hurling teams were of the order of sixty players a side with hurleys made of holly and hazel. In a twist to the story, he said there was a wicket at both ends: goals through which a team scored.

The teams rushed at each other like the wind; one team tried to speed it to the goal near the fence of the field on that side, the other attempted to arrest its progress and send it back. One player would send it flying back over the heads of the mingled forces of both teams. That would send the confused tide backward as fleetly as it came forward. Seldom was an opportunity for an unencumbered stroke to be had by a player from either side, such was the galloping intention of all players.

One of the hurlers turned off the hurling green to quench his thirst, but, not finding any water, wandered about in search of a well or a spring that might offer some cooling water for him to drink. Tragically for all, he was met by a witch in disguise, who told him there was no well near at hand but that if he went over to the tuft of rushes which she pointed to and pulled one rush from there, a well of pure water would issue from the earth from which he might slake his thirst.

He did so, the rush coming away quite easily in his hand, but such a flood of water issued from the soft ground that it overflowed the plain and drowned, not only the thirsty youth, but all of his unsuspecting companions on the hurling green.

It is further narrated by O’Donovan that for succeeding ages afterwards, when the full moon arose over the calm surface of the placid lake, ghost players could be seen hurling on its surface. The exultant shouts of the victorious and the defiant cries of the vanquished could be heard echoing back and forth. The waters of the lake became unusually agitated while the match progressed, until the hurlers seemed to sink beneath the water once more, and the night air was still again, save for the voice of the enchantress exultingly calling: ‘An luachair! An luachair!’, ‘the rushes, the rushes’.

She alone had her way.

SLABHRA NA FÍRINNE – THE CHAIN OF TRUTH

This story could have originated in any country in the world. It is told in Arab countries in a slightly different form but I am sure it must have begun in Ireland, when God was a boy, for haven’t we still got the hill to prove it. If you doubt me, let you follow the River Suir as far as Carrick-on-Suir and there you will see it for yourself, and it is called Sliabh na mBan.

Long, long ago, at the dawn of time, when God was a boy, only learning his trade, and Éire young, there was a place in Ireland which was a wonder to the world. The Hill of Truth. It was in this place the young God let down from heaven a chain of gold and if you told a lie while holding on to this chain you would be burnt to ashes. God bless us and save us all.

Well, there was a man and a beautiful woman, married happily, in Portlaw, which is in Co. Waterford. It rests snugly in beneath the thickly wooded hills of Curraghmore Estate, with the little River Clodagh hurrying, through the village, to meet the River Suir just beyond it. Joseph and Aisling were their names.

Every morning Joseph went off to work, making tables and chairs and other nice pieces of furniture, in the little workshop he had out on the Carrick road. After saying goodbye to her man, the beautiful Aisling would clean and scrub her little home. She would make sure she had the fire cleaned out and the ashes away outside before lunchtime, not to bring the bad luck. She would scrub the front step and anything that would wait for her before making grand dinners for them, for she loved to cook. Some men have all the luck. Sometimes she would take a break and go walking through the woods, picking flowers and broscain for the fire. Life continued like this for a couple of years but they were never blessed with children and Aisling became dissatisfied. Lord help us all.

It was hard on her, the cratur, going down for the water at the village well and meeting with all the other young women she had gone to school with, and they with babies on their hips or by the hand and maybe carrying again, bless us and save us. At first it wasn’t something that anyone passed a remark on, but there is always one spiteful hussy in every community, and so it began as little digs like ‘Have you any news yet Aisling?’, then eventually reached the stage where if she admired a child, they would say, ‘Sure what do you know of children.’ It nearly broke her heart but she never let on to her husband that she minded at all. She just avoided people and got the water early or late after they were gone.

After a while this beautiful, lonely woman met another man, while she was going through the wood. Sean was his name and soon they were meeting in the wood regularly. They liked to talk and little by little they began to fall in love. That’s how life is sometimes. Well Sean began to call to the happy little house, when the husband was out working, so that he could spend some time with the beautiful Aisling. Life became very pleasant for a time, for everyone. The beautiful woman would spend the morning working in the house, cleaning and scrubbing doing all the little things which made life good. In the afternoon her man friend would call and they would spend time together and by the time her husband came home, she would have the dinner ready and be contentedly waiting for him and the glow of love about her.

Little by little the whispers started. There are people in every corner of the world and they have nothing else to do only whisper about everyone else’s business and that is what happened here. One of the local ‘old biddies’ started it. She looked at Aisling as she passed and remarked loudly, that no married woman should look that contented. There had to be something wrong there, and so it progressed. Everyone began to notice just how joyful Aisling looked, and there was no sign that she was with child either. No, they decided she had no right to look so pleased with herself, no right at all. So it is nothing new that when people settle down on their pillows that they would recount their day’s happenings, so word spread like wildfire. Aisling was up to something but no one could prove it.

When Joseph went to the local Seanti, to have a drink, in the evening, there would be whispers behind hands, sudden laughs and eventually someone, too far gone in their cups to be circumspect, said it outright that he had heard that the beautiful Aisling had a new man friend. Well, the blood drained from Joseph’s face as he turned to face him. The man realised he had crossed a boundary and murmured that they just knew there was another man in her life. There had to be, after all, she was too contented according to the older women, and old women knew these things. He backed away and was gone out the door before Joseph could say a word. Well, once it was out in public, Joseph felt obliged to confront his lovely wife even though he himself would never doubt her, but still.

So he went home and, because of the kind of people they were, he asked her straight out if there was any truth in the rumours he had heard. Need I tell you she got a bit of a start but straight away pulled herself together and began to cry. ‘Oh my lovely man’, said she, ‘you have a big doubt in your heart about me. How could you say such a thing to me. Amnt I a loving wife working day and night for you? Is it breaking my heart you’ll be?’ Well he looked into her lovely big eyes and they full of tears, and he was ashamed. ‘I am sorry I asked’, said he. ‘I knew there was no truth in the rumours, oh my love.’ He took her in his arms, the dinner went cold and need I say more.

Well things should have been left at that, but that is never the way of the world. The other man still called, the lovely woman was happy and a wonderful woman she was indeed for in the evening time she would have a dinner fit for a king waiting for Joseph and she was a most loving wife. Well things went on satisfactorily for a time and then the rumours began again. This time the husband got really angry and he decided to end the talk once and for all.

He headed home early one afternoon and God bless the man who invented gravel. They heard the sound of his feet crunching up the pathway. He very nearly caught the other man with his wife. Quick as a flash she ushered the man friend out the window, looked wildly around the kitchen then grabbed a towel which she threw about her shoulders and proceeded to wet her hair in the basin. When her husband opened the door he found her in her skimpy shift, washing her hair in the basin. ‘Oh my love’, said she, ‘I haven’t the dinner ready yet, I wasn’t expecting you so early’. He looked at her with her damp hair clinging in around her lovely face and the grand white shoulders of her and his heart turned over with love.

What could he do? ‘Oh Aisling, Aisling’, says he, ‘I had to come home because I heard the rumours going the rounds again and I was afraid you would hear them yourself and be upset’. Her heart leapt but she held firm. ‘Oh my love’, said she, ‘what will we do? They are really tormenting us. They are jealous, I suppose, because we are so happy’, and she slipped into his arms. ‘You are right’, says he, ‘and do you know what I thought of as I came along home to you, couldn’t we go to the Hill of Truth and put an end to the whispers once and for all. What do you think?’ Well what could she do only pretend to go along with the idea even though her heart nearly stopped with fright. She could smell the burnt flesh already. ‘You are right’, said she. ‘We’ll go’.

Oh isn’t the mind of a cornered woman marvellous indeed? That night as they lay in bed they talked. ‘I know’, said Joseph, ‘I will take a few days off work and then we can get a loan of two donkeys and make the journey without too much trouble’.

‘Donkeys!’ said she, ‘me on a donkey!’ and there was genuine alarm in her voice.

‘Na na na, don’t worry’, said he. ‘I will ask the man who owns the donkeys to come with us and they will be nice and quiet for him’.

She sighed resignedly. ‘All right’, said she, ‘we would have to bring someone with us as a witness anyway so it might as well be the donkey man’.

‘Yes’ agreed her husband, ‘he’s very well known and respected, people will accept his word as witness’. This agreed he turned over and slept soundly. Aisling lay awake a long time thinking.

Word spread, as it does, and when Aisling passed through the village there were remarks made loudly like, ‘Ah do you get a smell of ashes on the wind this morning?’ and there would be a skit of laughter following. There was nothing she could say or do, for sometimes in her own terror she believed she too could smell burning on the wind.

The morning came when they had arranged to go with the donkey man and after all sorts of oh-ing and ah-ing the beautiful Aisling was seated on the donkey. ‘I am afraid!’ said she. ‘Don’t be frightened’, said the donkey man, ‘I will help you and everything will be all right’. So off they went and the whole village out to see them off. Some with spite, whispering how he would be coming back a widower, and others with hope that indeed he might for would he not make a grand husband for one of them. Such is the way of the world.

They stopped several times to eat and to give the donkeys a rest, and all the time the husband wondered if he were doing the right thing. Every time they re-mounted the donkeys his wife became more and more fearful. Then just when they were within sight of the Hill of Truth didn’t the donkey she was riding give a sudden buck and down she went head over heels onto the wayside, her clothing over her head and she in a heap. Well was there panic? She crying out in hurt and fear and trying to get her clothing down to cover her nakedness, her husband trying to help her and the donkey man trying to calm the donkey.

Well there was no consoling the beautiful woman now. ‘It’s all your fault’, she said to her husband, ‘you and your donkeys, now how can I swear that no man has seen beneath my skirts except you when the donkey man has seen everything? I’ll be burnt to ashes over you’. She cried as though her heart would break and he was sorry for her. He held her in his arms and told her he believed her no matter if she never held the golden chain which reached from heaven to the top of the hill. He was a foolish man, he said, to be shamed by the rumours. Just then the donkey man interrupted them. ‘It would be a terrible disgrace if we went home and herself not after holding the chain’ said he, ‘Ye would be destroyed entirely’. They both agreed with him and Aisling wailed even louder. ‘But wait a minute now, I think I may have the answer to your problem’, he said. That donkey man was clever too.

They went up the hill and, sure enough, there was the golden chain which the good God had let down from heaven and it swinging too and fro in the gentle breeze. On the ground beneath there was a circle of ashes and footprints left by previous visitors to the spot. They were frightened now I can tell you. What would happen to Aisling or indeed to any one of them if they took the chain in their hand and spoke an untruth. Well eventually the lovely woman gathered her courage and taking hold of the Chain of Truth, she was startled to find it soft and warm in her hand and for a minute hesitated. Then quickly, she said, ‘No man has ever seen beneath my skirts except my dear husband Joseph and Sean, the donkey man.’ There was no thunder, no lightening. Praise be to God! She was all right. The three of them went happily back to Portlaw. No one dared question God’s Chain of Truth and everyone was happy.

After that the husband went out to work every morning. The wife cleaned and tidied the house, put out the ashes before lunchtime, not to bring the bad luck, scrubbed off the front step and prepared a dinner fit for a king. In the afternoon, Sean, the donkey man, called as usual, and by dinner time he was gone and the wife waiting with open arms for her husband. What a woman.

But God wasn’t happy that the Chain of Truth could be fooled so he took it back up to heaven and from then on the Hill of Truth became known as The Woman’s Hill or Sliabh na mBan.

AOIFE AND STRONGBOW

This story began in another county but has always had a place in the hearts of the people of Waterford. That it is based in historical, traceable fact makes it all the more real and special. The River Suir, which Aoife saw when she came here, still flows by the city quays. Standing on the end of the quay, near the Tower Hotel, is Reginald’s Tower, which must have loomed large before her, the day she first came to Waterford.

Her feet touched our streets, even as the blood of our ancestors stained them. She was a frightened, beautiful princess, promised, as part of a military alliance, to a man old enough to be her father. The story runs like this.

In and around the years 1157 and 1167 there was a king named Dermot MacMurrough Kavanagh, ruling the kingdom of Leinster. He was a strong and ambitious king and he dearly wanted to be made king of all Ireland. At that time there were many small or petty kings but the four provinces of Ulster, Munster, Leinster and Connaught had greater kings and ruling over the whole lot of them was Ruairi O Connor – the High King.

The Brehon Laws existed then and there was a law covering every circumstance that could possibly arise in any human relationship.

For a king to have several wives was not uncommon, for didn’t it mean that the people of their clan would have to help him in times of difficulty. But it was not just that, there were laws which governed how much ‘honour price’ must be paid to the first wife or ‘ceit muintir’, when he brought in a second wife and so on. Then everyone settled down and the women got on with their lives, quietly ruling their roost, or sometimes not so quietly. But the system worked.

Well it happened that while Dermot was young he had a close friendship with a beautiful girl called Dervogilla. Now Dervogilla came from the Maolachlann clan and they were close allies always of the MacMurrough Kavanaghs, indeed her own brother fought alongside Dermot in most of his battles.

It was the practice at that time for kings to make alliances of political necessity, which usually meant marrying off their sons or daughters into suitable strong kingdoms. Dermot was no different from any other king in this – he had made a marriage with Mor O Toole so as to have strong connections with her clan, and a little while later to Sive O Faolain from a small kingdom, which controlled a section of land between himself and the O Tooles. He was paving his way to High Kingship, he thought.

Well, Dermot was not an easy neighbour for any king and there were often skirmishes between them but it was not until Dermot decided to rescue his old friend Dervogilla Maolachlann from an unhappy marriage to Tiernan O Rourke that his troubles really began.

Now according to the Annals of the Four Masters and other historical records, Dermot was fully to blame, but I am not inclined to believe them, nor indeed are many other modern historians. It was easy for the Church to make Dermot the villain. He was foolish, in a lot of his ways, thinking he was above the law. Sure, didn’t he cause the Abbess of Kildare to be raped so that he could put one of his own relatives into power there instead of her? The Abbess had rule over the monks as well as the sisters at that time, so it was a powerful position.

Well, to get back to my story. It appears that Dervogilla had made arrangements with Dermot and her brother that they should spirit her away from her unhappy marriage to Tiernan O Rourke. She was party to the plan, for don’t those same records tell us that she had all her goods and chattels ready and waiting for them, when they came in the dead of night and took her back to Leinster.

Now it is also recorded that she cried out for help as she was taken away, but why wouldn’t she? If things went wrong she needed a way back. If she had to come back, through whatever cause, she could always claim she was kidnapped. But the fact is that she went to Leinster and spent almost two years living with Dermot, having paid ‘honour price’ to his first wife Mor, and his second wife Sive, and the three women were very fond of one another, apparently.

Now Tiernan O Rourke was not idle while these years were passing, and in fact all the religious men of power turned against Dermot, so he had more trouble on his hands than he could handle. His two sons, Eanna and Conor, were taken as hostages to ensure his good behaviour, by the High King, and Dermot was in serious trouble because he refused to pay an ‘honour price’ to O Rourke for the taking of his wife. Had he paid that he might indeed have become the High King, but he didn’t and war raged up and down the borders of Leinster.

It was only when his lovely son Eanna, who would have ruled after him, was sent home to him blinded that Dermot realised his mistake. A man with any imperfection, especially of the physical nature, could not rule a clan. But Dermot would not give back Dervogilla and it was only when his kingdom was finally being overrun and the head of his son Conor was sent to him that he gave in. Dervogilla had to go back to O Rourke and Dermot had to flee to Wales, but he took his daughter Aoife and her female servants with him.

Between the two of us, I don’t think that going back to her husband lasted long either, for it is said that she entered Mellifont Abbey, shortly after, God help her. She was probably very glad to do that. I wasn’t there so I don’t know, but by the sound of things he was a terrible man.

The women of Dermot were left behind to take care of things, with his half brother, Murrough, who helped to quiet things down. It was Dermot’s intention to ask for help from King Henry II but that king was busy fighting in France and it was almost a year later that Dermot finally caught up with him at Aquitaine. Things didn’t really favour Dermot at that meeting, but he did get a letter from the king to take to an out-of-favour earl back in Wales.

He hurried back to Wales and together with Aoife, journeyed to meet Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, otherwise known as Strongbow. No one else would help them. They were all afraid of their own king Henry and watching their own positions. It was common practice then for mercenaries to be hired by Irish kings to fight in Ireland and in turn Welsh kings hired Irish mercenaries. There was nothing new in this seeking aid from across the sea.

Well anyway, Strongbow turned out to be a man as old as Aoife’s father, but Dermot promised Strongbow that, if he would help, he could not only marry his lovely daughter Aoife but he could have the kingdom of Leinster, on his death, also. Now that was not his to give, but either Strongbow knew and took the chance, or he didn’t know and badly wanted the alliance.

When the lovely Aoife saw this old man and heard her father negotiating, she was mortified. How could her father do this to her, and worse still how could he belittle himself in this way? Strongbow met her eye more than once and even went as far as offering her wine himself. She trembled as their hands touched, when he steadied the goblet, but lifting her dark eyes to the grey of his she saw understanding and sympathy. This shook her more than anything else. Later, when her father was well in his cups, Strongbow sent his women to her, to show her to her rooms.

The deal done, Dermot returned to Ireland in the early summer of 1167, on the pretence that he was going to incarcerate himself in the Abbey in Ferns with the monks. That was common enough in those times, when men wanted to duck out of their duties. Now that was an easy thing for Dermot to announce, for who knew which monk came and went, from there, under a cowl.

Mor welcomed home her daughter and she and Sive listened to all she had to tell them about the man Strongbow and the proposals her father had made. Aoife described Strongbow as being very tall, with a nice face and freckles, and his eyes were grey, but he was very old. Worst of all had been the promises her father had made. Mor shook her head and laughed. Dermot was trying it on with the man, she said. He probably intended to kill him once he had regained the kingdom of Leinster. She knew her man well.

Aoife knew she should be happy about this but there was something in her that went against it. She took to riding out to the cliff tops, facing Wales, and watching to see if the ships bearing Strongbow might come. More often than not, the wind was in the wrong direction. The poor child had a path of her own worn along the headland before long.

Sometimes she would sit with the women and they would tell her how she might please her husband, when he finally came, for they were sure it would not be long now, and they used their skills with needle and loom to make the necessary bridal wear.

Often and often, Aoife began to wonder if Strongbow was going to come at all, and this would change her mood. Sometimes, she was the proud princess going to do her duty, and other times, she was doubtful, thinking that maybe he did not desire her. It was three years later, in 1170, when her husband-to-be finally came, in the month of August. When the ships were sighted, passing along the coast, it was only then Dermot came out from under his monk’s cowl. Then he rallied his women and men.

Mor and Sive prepared Aoife, whispering advice and laughing, sometimes sad and sometimes joyful.

A messenger came from Strongbow, who had landed at Passage East, in Co. Waterford, and had gone swiftly up to attack that city, without waiting for Dermot. Dermot must have been greatly annoyed but he had made promises and now he must keep them.

That grand Viking city of Waterford, or Vaderfiord, as they had named it, had stood firm, at first, against this attack until Strongbow’s man, Raymond le Gros, had discovered a little, lean-to house on the outside of the city wall, by the river. He had sent in men to knock down this house and as it fell away into the river, a big chunk of the city wall fell with it. Then it was an easy matter to flood into the little hilly streets of Waterford, bringing blood and slaughter.

Aoife rode with her father and his men. They could see the smoke and hear the sounds of battle, even before they reached the banks of the River Suir. The only building which stood out strong in the smoke-filled air was the tower that was called Reginald’s Tower. It stood down close on the bank of the river, and so it still stands there this very day. Everything else was shrouded in smoke. Seagulls, rooks and ravens circled over the devastation. Ships burned in the harbour. Screams and cries of terror echoed intermittently on the air. Strongbow had descended on that city with little pity.

It is said that Dermot and his wedding party crossed the river, wading through the dead and dying, while Strongbow and the Normans still fought and pillaged. That may be so, but they probably crossed the river near Passage East, and came in along the road that runs up beside the river from Passage. We have no way of knowing.

There, Dermot presented his daughter, as promised, to his new ally, Strongbow, and they were married. She, according to that pompous man Geraldus Cambrensis, ‘was radiantly beautiful’, and why wouldn’t she be, all young girls are beautiful, but the cratur must have had terror in her heart that day. Maybe her father had regrets, but maybe not. Waterford had fallen to his new son-in-law and Dermot was back on his feet again.

Now things did not work out as Dermot expected. Aoife seems to have loved Strongbow and they had a good life. She never attempted to ‘repudiate’ him, as she could easily have done under the Brehon Laws. We should never have let those laws go, we could do with them badly now.

Aoife filled the role of advisor to her husband. She knew the lie of the land and what would work in the way of alliances. They spent time, always battle ready, in Waterford, Wexford and Dublin, if the old tales are to be believed.

She prevented her father from trying to kill him, and she and Strongbow had one daughter, Isabelle, who, in turn, married William le Mareschal, Earl Marshal of Ireland. They had many sons and daughters and they all made good political marriages. One of these marriages, it is reported, resulted in the lineage which leads down to the present-day Queen of England, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. You never know what way your children will turn out in the end.

In Waterford, we like to think of Aoife as one of our own, after all wasn’t she married in our city, and she only a young princess. She was strong and brave and must have been glad to get away from her father and his plotting and planning. She lived for many years after Strongbow and although there is a tomb in Christ Church in Dublin, where it is said Strongbow is buried, other sources claim that he is buried in the churchyard in Ferns, in Co. Wexford. My belief is that there are as many endings to their story as there are scribes who write about it.

GEARÓID IARLA

Maurice, the Earl of Desmond, was a Norman knight whose castle was near Lough Gur. Many stories are told in the area of his son, Gearóid Iarla or Earl Garret, a half-human, half-fairy warrior-enchanter, who rises from the lake every seven years on a white horse with silver shoes.

The Desmond earls were the kind of settlers who had a great respect for the native culture, and became ‘more Irish than the Irish’ through their love of Irish language, music and poetry.

One day as he walked by the shore of Lough Gur, Maurice, the first Earl of Desmond, saw a swan gliding on its calm surface. When the swan came to the shore, it took on human form, removing a white cloak and laying it on a rock by the water’s edge. A stunningly beautiful young woman, tall and slim, and glowing with life and light, stepped into the water to bathe. From behind a bush he admired her long legs, the curve of her hip, the roundness of her belly, her upturned breasts, the gentle smile on her lips. Maurice was overwhelmed by her beauty, but more than that, never before had he seen such grace. His heart leapt in his breast: he knew this woman must be his love.

It was none but Áine, the beautiful Dé Danann goddess whose name speaks of joy and delight. Bright Áine whose beauty inspires love and desire. Áine who had power to confer sovereignty of the Munster lands upon those she saw fit. As she walked to the shore, drops of water sparkling with rainbow light fell from her body. When she picked up her golden comb and began untangling her long fair hair, Maurice quietly lifted her white cloak from the rock. With this in his possession, Áine would be in his power: she would be his to love.

Áine turned her face towards the earl, and her smile was warm and radiant as the sun, offering Maurice an invitation to delight. She went with him willingly and the pair lay together, sharing pleasures the whole day long by the lake shore.

As evening came they rested and Áine told Maurice that she would bear him a son. ‘You will not see me again until I bring your son to your castle, nine months from this day.’ Wrapping herself in her swansdown cloak, Áine was gone. Maurice looked everywhere: along the shore, behind bushes, on the water, but there was no sign of the beautiful Áine who had so enchanted him.

True to her word, Áine remained hidden from the earl throughout her pregnancy. Where she spent her days as her belly swelled, he did not know. He had heard it said that Áine dwelt in a fairy palace within the hill named after her, Cnoc Áine; that she was ever-young. The people held fairs and dances below Áine’s hill, and each three months they still marked festivals from the old times when the ancients had worshipped the sun. Yet faithful as the sun itself, Áine appeared at the castle door nine months later, and in her arms was a sleeping child wrapped in a knitted blanket.

‘Here is your son,’ she told the earl, handing the infant into his arms. The earl’s face opened into a broad smile as the baby grasped his finger.

‘Swear to me you will take care of him,’ she beseeched the earl.

He agreed, ‘He is my son and my heir, and as precious to me as the air I breathe. I will. Of course I will.’

Áine continued, ‘Get him a nurse for his early years, and as he grows ensure he has a good education, as befits a gentleman.’

He agreed that nothing less would do for the son of an earl.

‘There is one thing more,’ said Áine. ‘I lay this on you as a geis that you dare not break. I warn you, do not show surprise at anything he does, no matter how extraordinary it is.’

‘I hear your warning, Áine, and I will do as you say. I swear,’ said Maurice, thinking, his mother is certainly an uncommon woman, so perhaps I should expect astounding things of the boy!

‘His name is Gearóid and he will be remembered as Gearóid Iarla,’ she said, then turned to go. Leaving her child in the earl’s care, Áine once more vanished from human sight.

The days and years of Gearóid Iarla’s childhood and youth passed without incident. He might have fallen from a horse landing in a bed of nettles, or been clobbered in a wrestling match, but these were fairly ordinary things that might befall any young man. He was a willing pupil and quickly learned all that his tutors could teach him. He became fluent in several languages, Irish, French, Latin, Greek; gained proficiency in mathematics; he read ancient texts, and wrote with a careful and skilled hand; he learned the arts of poetry and music and more besides. He learned the skills of horsemanship and sword-fighting, falconry and hunting. He learned how to make fire in the woods; how to make tools and weapons from a branch; how to defend himself with his bare hands; how to follow tracks and recognise the calls of wild creatures. He learned to dance and to paint, and some say he learned the art of magic too.

When Gearóid grew to manhood, he was a fine-looking man: dark, handsome, tall and strong, intelligent, quick-thinking and entertaining – quite the young earl! His father was proud of him and his accomplishments.

One evening the earl held a ball at his castle. The smartest of ladies and gentlemen were in attendance. For the first while Gearóid Iarla entertained the ladies with his poetry and his wit. All were charmed by his attention, his rich and mellow voice, his sensitivity. Next, he debated with the gentlemen on the politics of the day. All agreed that his opinions were well reasoned, his words convincing and his argument hard to resist.

When the music struck up for dancing, everyone was on their feet. Men, women, all ages and sizes, threw themselves enthusiastically into the dance. One young woman stood out of the crowd. She wore an elegant gown of green silk, held herself tall and pointed her toe with great delicacy. Each of her gestures was an example of such grace that all the other women felt put to shame. She stood up for every single dance, when others might have stopped to catch their breath. And although she seemed familiar, no one quite knew who she was. The young earl took her as a dancing partner and matched her every step.

When the dancing abated, the young woman entertained the party with feats of gymnastics, leaping the length of the long table, tumbling and turning in the air. When the cheering and applause died down, she turned to Gearóid Iarla and challenged him to perform a similar feat.

‘That was quite a spectacle, young lady, but I am sure that my son can match it. Go on, my boy, and show us what you can do!’

Gearóid leapt onto the table and somersaulted his way along its length. ‘Bravo!’ called out the crowd, greatly impressed by his agility.

‘You think that was impressive, well, wait till you see this!’ called the young earl, taking a short run and then leaping straight into a bottle, and out again.

The entire room gasped with astonishment, including the old earl. He was so astounded by this feat that he called out to his son, ‘Well done, son. I never thought you could do something like that, my boy. That was such a surprise! I am truly amazed!’

As soon as he heard himself saying those words, the earl regretted it.

‘Oh, father! Do you not remember? My mother warned you never to show surprise at anything I do. You broke your word, and now you have forced me to leave you.’

With those words, Gearóid Iarla left the hall. His shocked father and his guests followed him a little way. They watched the young earl stride down towards the Camoge River and step into the water. At once he lost his human form, and swam away in the shape of a goose.

Lough Gur and its environs are now a wild-fowl sanctuary, and geese are known to nest on Garret Island. Perhaps one of these is the young earl himself in bird guise.

SEVEN-YEAR CYCLE

After leaving his father’s house, Gearóid Iarla took up residence in a palace beneath Lough Gur, the enchanted lake. There he had every comfort and all he might desire. Once every seven years, on Midsummer’s Eve, he leaves his palace and is seen in the land of men. He rises from the water on a white horse shod with silver shoes, and leads his cavalcade of knights around Lough Gur. They say that anyone who sees him will die within the year.

The enchantment on him means that Gearóid Iarla cannot speak to anyone as he rides the land, but should someone speak to him first, then the spell would be broken and his voice restored.

It was high summertime and the days were long, the air was warm, and the light still good enough to see by. A blacksmith living near Lough Gur was working late into the night, when he heard hoofbeats approaching. He turned to see who was passing so late at night. Who should he see but Gearóid Iarla on his white horse, followed by his party of knights. Gearóid Iarla, unable to speak, pointed to his horse’s shoe, wanting him to shoe the creature. The blacksmith, knowing the enchantment on the earl, would not speak to him, nor shoe his horse. The earl, in his frustration and rage, struck out at the blacksmith and disappeared into the night.

On another occasion, a man came into the forge near Lough Gur one evening and found a well-dressed gentleman there before him, with a white horse needing shoeing. ‘Will you put a pair of shoes on my horse, my fine man?’ the gentleman asked. The smith shod the horse, while the gentleman watched in silence. When it was done, he asked the man, ‘Now will you lead my horse home for me? I will pay in silver for your trouble, but I cannot pay you until I am back home.’ When the man agreed, the gentleman showed him a path leading out to the island in the lake.

When the smith reached the big house, the gentleman warmly welcomed him in. A servant brought him a suit of fine clothes to wear, and shoes with silver buckles. Once changed into this more suitable attire, the man was brought to the table and treated to a four-course meal. Everything around him was a delight to the senses. The furniture was elegant, yet comfortable; the walls richly coloured and hung with paintings of beautiful landscapes; the tablecloth of the finest linen; there were china plates, and cutlery that balanced very well in his hand; the flowers in crystal vases filled the room with sweet aromas. After they had eaten, the gentleman thanked him for his work and gave him a purse full of silver. As it was now late, the gentleman led him to a room where a bed was prepared for him.

He slept so well in that warm, soft feather bed, but when he awoke next morning, he found himself lying on hard ground, with only his own old coat for a blanket. He saw that he was up on the side of Knockfennel Hill, looking down over the lake below. And what of the purse of silver, was it gone too? He checked in his pocket, but all he found there was a handful of leaves.

THE SLEEPING WARRIORS

Some say that Gearóid Iarla lies sleeping in a cave below Knockadoon, awaiting a wake-up call, when he will arise, take up his sword and, with his company of warrior knights, lead all Ireland to freedom.

A man was out walking one evening on the far shore of the lake, when he spotted a light on the hillside. Following the light, he came to a cave, partly concealed by briars and bushes. Pushing these aside, he entered a passage and made his way deeper into the hill. The passage opened up into a high-vaulted chamber. In the poor light, he saw a party of warriors and horses on the cavern floor. Scattered here and there lay helmets, spears, suits of mail and weapons. Not far from where he stood, just beyond his reach, there was a sword, its scabbard decorated with scrolls and gems, the hilt gilded. It was a magnificent work of art, and it must have lain there hidden and unhandled for hundreds of years. How he longed to hold that silver sword in his hand! He stretched out towards the hilt and slowly began to draw the sword from its scabbard. It was not an easy task. It was stiff, and grated as he pulled, as if the sword did not wish to leave its sleeping place. It must be rusted stuck, he thought. Suddenly a horrible shrieking filled the air as the sword cried out to its true owner, and the man dropped it as if it was a burning iron. Warriors turned in their sleep and began to stretch, rubbing their eyes. Their chief reached out his right hand for the sword, calling, ‘Has the time come? Is it time for us to rise?’

While he still had his wits, the man called out, ‘No, it is not time yet! You must sleep a little longer, good knight,’ and ran from the cave out into the dark hillside. Nearly driven mad with fright, he shook and shivered all the way home.

The party of knights rolled over and fell back into their dreams. As no one since that night has found the entrance to the cave, they will be sleeping yet, still awaiting their moment to rise and fight for their country.

Source: Michael Dames, Mythic Ireland (Thames & Hudson, London, 1992), pp. 73–112

LOVE YOU LARGE, LOVE YOU SMALL

There was a man and his wife lived together in a comfortable house on a fine bit of land. All should have been well between them: they had no worries about money, nor shortage of food, the land was good and their cow gave plenty of milk. But there was one thing that caused trouble between the two: the wife believed that she was too fat. Because of this, she was never happy with her lot. She was always giving out and her poor husband, who honestly thought she was just fine as she was, had his days filled with her endless complaints.

The man would do whatever he could to try to cheer her up. If he had been to market and made a good sale, he would buy her some small trinket: a brooch, or a pin for her hair, perhaps even a new hat. No matter what he brought her, somehow it was never quite enough.

She would say, ‘If only I was thinner, that would look so beautiful on me,’ or, ‘If only I was smaller that would be so lovely with my colouring.’

In her eyes, nothing could ever compensate for her not being as slim as she would like to be. This burned away within her, making her bitter and cross. So whenever her husband tried to make her feel better, or convince her that he loved her regardless, she would cry, and then fly into a rage, and shout at him, as if her large size was all his fault. The poor man was at a loss. Was there nothing he could do to please his wife?

One evening coming home, he was sorely burdened by the thought of the abuse he would get from his unhappy spouse when he’d step in the door. His path took him by the edge of a fort, and to delay the moment, he sat on a big rock by the side of a spring well and lit his pipe. He hadn’t been there two minutes, when he heard a voice say:

‘This well’s clear water has the power

to make the fat slim within an hour.

A single cup of this clear water will make any body smaller.’

As soon as he heard those words, he leapt up and ran all the way home, desperate to share this news with his wife. She was delighted, and the two danced around the kitchen, laughing and kissing, and happy together for the first time in years.

‘You can go to the well first thing in the morning,’ he said, hoping to have a pleasant evening at home, now that she was no longer mad with him.

‘Not at all. I cannot wait till morning,’ she said, fetching a china cup from the dresser. ‘I would not sleep a wink for thinking about it. Better to go now!’ Out the door she went.

She ran all the way to the well by the fort, then bent down and filled her cup with the clear water. It was cool and sweet as she drank it down, wondering would one cup be enough, as she was so large? Thinking maybe she’d better take a second cup, she filled her cup again, and drank it down. And then a third time.

Suddenly everything around her was changing: trees, rocks, everything was growing bigger and bigger. No, that wasn’t it – it was herself that was getting smaller and smaller. First she was the size of a 10-year-old; then a 4-year-old; and then she just kept on shrinking. When she finally stopped shrinking, she was the size of a baby! What was she to do now? She couldn’t walk home on her little legs, so she had to stay there for the night.

Wondering what was taking her so long, the husband came to the well to find her. He was very surprised to see the baby by the well, but he knelt down and gently picked her up and carried her home in his arms.

Sad to say, the spring water was not a cure-all for relationship problems! Life in that comfortable house on the fine bit of land continued as strife-ridden as ever. Although she now looked like a baby, the wife was still her old self in all other ways. She still had the angry tongue in her head and regularly gave out to her husband with all the abuse she had used before. She was still not happy with the way she looked and now she was blaming him for it. Could you not have come with me to the well? You could have stopped me drinking too much water! Ah, you fool, you useless …’

Still, he stayed with her until she grew back to a ‘normal’ size again, which took quite some time. I couldn’t swear that she was content with the way she looked even then.

But still he loved her, just as she was, and that was the long and the short of it, or the large and the small of it. And who among us could wish for more than that: to be loved and accepted, just as we are?

Source: NFCS 501:290. Mary Daly, Kilscannel. Collector: Bridie Sheey. Árd-achadh School, County Limerick

THE WIZARD PRINCE OF ROSS CASTLE

Ross Castle is a fine example of a fifteenth-century Irish tower house, built for defence and dramatically set on the shores of Loch Léin. It is the ancestral seat of the sept of the Ó Donachadha Mór and in its heyday it withstood many a battle against Gael and foreigner alike, but its final undoing was the fulfilment of a pesky age-old prophecy, which declared that:

Ross may all assault disdain

Till on Loch Léin strange ship shall sail.

It was none other than Cromwell, who, being aware of the prophecy, knew that fulfilling it would have a much greater impact than mere brute force. He was right, the scallywag, and so he had gunships transported by oxen over land from Killorglin to the loch, where they were launched into its waters. This terrified all who saw them and, after a few cannon shots and nothing but a graze to the fabric of the building, the occupants of the mighty castle surrendered.

Before the untimely destruction of the mighty fortress’ spirit, it was home to a great and mysterious chieftain. The Ó Donachadha Mór was respected far and wide as a great warrior and magician, with vast knowledge of alchemy, dark arts, and the occult. From a young age, the chieftain practised incantations and made potions from the plants and herbs that grew around the lake. It was even said by some that he conversed with the devil himself.

As the chieftain grew older, as everybody eventually does, he developed a mortal fear of allowing nature take its course and ultimately becoming an old man. Given his vast experience in the old ways, he thought that he may be able to figure out a solution to his problem, and so he locked himself away for weeks on end in a remote part of the tower, high above where anybody would usually venture. Day and night he experimented with new potions and new spells in an effort to find a cure for what bothered him.

As the sun rose on a May morning, a great commotion was heard over the dawn chorus. The Ó Donachadha Mór declared with great excitement from the chamber window that he had finally found the cure to ageing!

‘My Lady! My Lady!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come hither, you must help me become young again!’

His woman came as she was bade, and upon reaching the top of the stairs knocked on the large wooden chamber door. Given the unpredictability of her man, she was understandably terrified and did not know what to expect. He opened the door and greeted his beloved with a wild, insane look in his eyes.

‘I have found the cure, my lady, and I need you to read the incantation so that I might regain my youth!’ he said. Knowing that he would accept nothing but her unwavering submission to his request, she reluctantly agreed, but he warned her with great fervour that she must recite exactly what is written, otherwise there may be a great punishment.

She took the large book and began to read what he had written. There were many strange words and symbols, as it was written in a strange language that she had never heard or spoken before. It was not the Gaeilge that they had grown up with. She pronounced the words as best she could, but it was soon clear to see that asking the lady to read such a spell in an otherworldly tongue was a foolish move.

A large storm quickly began to brew over the loch outside, and the waters became choppy and dangerous. The wind picked up and ripped around the tower, pulling stone blocks out of the walls and crashing them into the torrent below. Although the lady continued to read, the vicious wind was so loud that she could not be heard anymore and the furniture was being shifted all around the chamber. Suddenly, a large dark hand of wind and rain reached in through the chamber window and snatched the Ó Donachadha Mór from where he stood. Shaking him violently, the hand pulled him out through the small window, shattering his mortal body and taking him downwards into the depths of the raging loch, never to be seen again.

It is said that had he remained in charge of the castle that it would never have fallen to the English, but it is also said that he lives to this day at the bottom of the loch in a large palace, ever preparing potions and reciting incantations. He visits his ancestral home every seven years on the anniversary of his watery incarceration.

THE ORIGIN OF THE KILLARNEY LAKES

Long ago, in Ireland’s ancient past – before the Milesians, Tuatha Dé Danann or even the Firbolgs had set foot upon the shores of Ireland – the area of land now occupied by the three lakes of Killarney was a stretch of green and pleasant valley, wherein a peaceful and happy people once lived.

The land was flourishing, with an abundance of fruit trees in the multitude of orchards, fine seasonal crops from rolling fields that had the very best of soil, healthy game in great numbers in the forest around, and plenty of fish from the rivers and streams that flowed through the area. No people could say that they were more blessed by the gifts of nature than the ancient denizens of this happy valley, and indeed the people were both healthy and merry.

The only minor regret the residents might have was that there were not more springs to drink from and that there was but one well in the place to serve the needs of the people. This well was of great value to the people of the valley and they placed great importance on its maintenance and care. A law was passed for its protection that, when not in use for drawing water, the well should be covered over with a lid at all times. Over the years this rule had always been observed and it became a tradition that, should the well be left uncovered, a great disaster would befall the area and its people.

The chieftain of this ancient people was a just and wise ruler who lived simply and frugally in the same manner as the rest of his people. The chieftain lived alone save for his only child – his daughter Eileen who had grown into a tall and beautiful young woman. One fine summer afternoon Eileen made her way down to the well with a large pitcher, as she was often prone to do, to bring back fresh water to the house.

She took a refreshing drink herself before filling up the pitcher from the well and as she readied herself to return home, a handsome young stranger approached. The young man, who she had never seen before, bowed to her and politely asked to slake his thirst after his long journey. Eileen of course offered him some water and the two sat down to talk a while. The young man was a warrior and he told her of his exploits in a war far away from the pleasant valley, and she was utterly enthralled by his tale.

With his eloquence and charm, the warrior made a deep impact upon the young lady and, as the sun slowly sank into the west, Eileen began to fall madly in love with him. As the darkness grew, she was saddened by the thought of parting so soon after they had met, so she asked the young warrior to accompany her home to meet her father. He too was deeply smitten by the beautiful young woman and readily agreed, carrying the pitcher for her as they strolled back towards the chief’s house.

In her newfound joy at their unexpected meeting, Eileen did what no one had done previously: she forgot to replace the cover of the beloved well-spring.

That night, as the people of the valley slept soundly and peacefully, the great calamity they all feared began to take place. The spring that fed the well grew as the night passed, until the well filled up and eventually overflowed. At first it was no more than a trickle that splashed down upon the ground, but it steadily increased and in no time at all it became a huge torrent that flowed across the valley. Hour by hour the waters rose, filling every hollow and surging across the land as the people continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the danger. It was not until the waters rose to meet the houses that the first of the people awoke as their homes became flooded with the ever-increasing flow of water.

In their fear and confusion in the darkness no one could see where the water was coming from, but before long they guessed that their well had been left uncovered, although by now it was far too late to remedy the situation.

In desperation, some brave souls swam out to the well and dived down in hope of replacing the cover to save their beloved valley from disaster. All those who did so were lost to the rising waters and were not seen again.

Realising that it was hopeless to continue, the people of the valley resolved to abandon their homes and escape. Some clutching a few possessions and most just running as fast as they could, the villagers tried to make it to the higher ground of the surrounding mountain slopes. Sadly, not even the young people were fast enough to outrun the waters that swelled and boiled ferociously with ever-increasing vigour. Even the great chieftain, his daughter Eileen and her companion were swept away by the raging waters and, like the rest of the people, they were drowned.

By the time the sun rose again over the beautiful valley, there was no more valley to be seen. Every homestead, tree, field, beast and person was submerged under the waters of the three lakes that had sprung up overnight.

Silence descended over the now calm waters of the Killarney Lakes, but this was not entirely the end of the story. It is said that the people of the valley were carried by the raging waters to Tír na n-Óg and their spirits returned to their home underneath the lake. On certain calm and misty nights, at certain times of year, the ancient spirits of the valley can be glimpsed upon the waters of the lakes.

Even now, the jarvies (hackney coach or jaunting car drivers) and the boatmen of the lakes might tell you, if anyone should be so bold as to dive to the bottom of the largest lake and replace the cover that still lies there, then the waters of the lake would gradually subside to reveal again the once splendid valley. The tragic forgetfulness of that ancient chieftain’s daughter was the making of one of Kerry’s most famed places of beauty, renowned throughout Ireland and beyond. No one has tried to replace the cover, as far as can be told, for who would want to see an end to the great beauty of the lakes of Killarney?

THE LEGEND OF THE LOUGH

King Corc was an arrogant king, forever boasting about one thing or another. He dwelt in a magnificent palace in a lush green valley beyond the Gallows Green, to the south of what is now Cork city.

He prided himself on his gardens and grounds and delighted in showing them off. One morning he looked out and was surprised to see queues of paupers lining up to get water from a spring in the royal courtyard.

He called his servant to ask what they were doing there and was told those people had heard of his boasts that this was the purest water in the world. Not only could it quench thirst but it was reputed to cure all ills as well, so the poor and the sick were travelling for miles to get some.

The king was proud to flaunt the precious water, but was not happy that all and sundry were taking such liberties as to carry it away by the bucket load.

He ordered a wall to be built around the well so no one could get near it. It was his private property, for his own exclusive use. From now on the pure water would be safely locked away from the public.

The only person he could trust with the key was his own fair daughter, on whom he bestowed the name Fíor Uisce (‘pure water’). This delightful princess was the apple of his eye. When she grew up, he planned to show her off at a lavish party where all the gentry from near and far could admire her.

When the evening came, there were bonfires crackling, musicians playing, meats sizzling, glasses tinkling. All the guests turned up in their finery and got a hearty welcome. In no time, the great hall was heaving with dancing and laughter.

Fíor Uisce was whisked off her feet by a handsome prince who was an exquisite dancer. They moved so well together that soon the whole assembly stopped to admire them and applauded when they finished. The prince was invited to sit at the top table and King Corc could see that his daughter was blissfully happy in the young man’s company.

Soon the sumptuous meal was served. There was an abundance of wine that all enjoyed. However, after the vigorous dancing, most of the guests were thirsty and one of them asked for water.

The king smiled. At last someone had noticed what was deliberately missing from the table. He wanted to impress the assembly by drawing their attention to his most precious commodity.

He ordered a servant to bring in the specially designed golden jug. This ornate vessel, encrusted with sparkling gemstones, was ceremoniously placed in the centre of the table. Then he called on his daughter Fíor Uisce to come forward and take the jug to the well and bring back water for the honoured guests. Fíor Uisce was embarrassed at being asked to do such a lowly task in front of the assembly. She blushed and said, ‘But father I would be afraid to go out alone at this hour.’

The king quickly answered, ‘I’m sure your handsome companion would be pleased to escort you to the well and back.’ And of course the young prince was only too happy to lift up the jug, take Fíor Uisce by the arm and lead her out of the hall into the moonlit courtyard.

Fíor Uisce opened the lock with the golden key that she always wore around her neck. She took the vessel from the prince and stooped to fill it up with water. The bejewelled jug was heavy in her delicate hands and as it filled its weight began to pull her into the darkness. She reached out and clutched the prince and in no time they were both dragged down into the black waters of the well.

As they sank deeper and deeper, the water rose up, surged over the high wall and flooded out into the courtyard. It mounted the marble steps of the palace and kept rising higher and higher until it burst into the great hall.

Water gushed over the carpets, round the feet of the fine guests. Lapping and gurgling, it quenched the royal fire. It silenced the music. It swallowed the food on the table. It engulfed the priceless paintings and tapestries on the walls. It overwhelmed the king and all his entourage, until every person, dog and cat was completely submerged.

The level continued to rise until the palace, the gardens and the grounds were entirely covered over and the whole valley was filled with water. It formed the lovely lake that we know today as the Lough. Its fresh waters are still there for everyone to enjoy.

We are told not to be sad. The prince and princess, the king and all his guests did not die in that great flood. Magically, time stood still and they remained alive to continue attending the same wonderful party night after night.

The legend holds that if you stand by the Lough at dusk you might still hear the music playing below the water and when the level drops in summer, you might also glimpse the tips of the palace turrets peeping above the surface.

Only when the golden jug at the bottom of the lake is retrieved will the party finally come to an end. On that day, the water will drain away and the Lough will be restored to the lush green valley it once was.

THE MERMAID FROM MIZEN HEAD

There were a few sightings of mermaids remembered near Mizen Head. In the nineteenth century, after a big storm, William Canty of Corran More saw a mermaid stranded at Barley Cove. He left her alone and when the tide came in, she went back into the sea.

Another time, Henry Allan saw a black mermaid stranded in Ballydevlin. He left her alone and when the tide came in she too went back to her own realm. Most people had respect for the other kind from land or sea and left them well enough alone.

The Glavins were not like most people. They were a tough old crowd who thought nothing of moving into an evicted man’s house at Lissagriffin, in the parish of Kilmoe. The same man was a kindly father of eight who could not afford to pay his rent to the cruel landlord, O’Grady.

Patrick Downey, his wife and family were thrown out of their home and left without a roof over their heads, while O’Grady cast about for better-off tenants. Some kind neighbours, sensitive to the abject circumstances, helped Downey build a mud cabin on the roadside to shelter his poor family from the elements.

It did not cost the Glavins a thought to pass the hovel everyday as they came and went to their new abode.

Somehow Patrick kept body and soul together and managed to raise his children to be as decent as himself and his good wife.

One day, he was making his way towards Barley Cove when he stopped for a moment on the cliff edge and gazed out to sea. He wondered what would have happened if he had managed to cross the Atlantic to America. Would he have made a better life for his family, or would he have died on the way? But, like many others in West Cork, he did not have the means to leave. He could not afford the fare for everyone and the thought of leaving them all behind was too heart-breaking. Bad as things were, at least they were together and one day things might improve for them.

The morning was fine and fresh after last night’s storm – a good time to go beach combing. He looked down on the golden sand of Barley Cove. White and pink ground sedge on the shoreline showed how the seabed had been worked by strong currents. Lots of driftwood had washed up along the beach. Rotted seaweed lay in matted lines where the retreating tide had left it.

As he made to go down the cliff path, his eye was drawn to two figures on the beach below. Old Glavin and son were out early, collecting sand for their fields. Patrick didn’t want to be seen by them and decided to head over by the rocks.

Where the stream joins the sea he saw a big mound of seaweed and wood. As he made towards it, it let out a low moaning sound. He took a closer look and saw that long strands of auburn hair were twisted through the moss and weeds. What at first appeared as broken branches now moved as straight thin arms. Through the tangle of seaweed, two watery eyes peered out. And beneath the mound, a scaly tail flapped helplessly on the sand.

Patrick stood transfixed as the creature writhed and stretched her twig-like fingers towards the sea. Embedded in the muddy shallows nearby something glistened. It was a silver bridle. Patrick went over and lifted out the bridle and placed it within her reach. Then he retreated behind a rock, not wanting to frighten her or interfere with her business.

As she leaned out to grasp the bridle, Patrick heard gruff voices rise and fall on the wind. He kept himself well hidden as he watched Glavin and son arrive on the scene.

They oohed and aahed as they clumsily untangled the sea creature from the weeds. They prised the bridle from her hand, exclaiming, ‘Well, look what the tide brought in … What a beauty! A mermaid, all on her own, and she wanting to be rescued!’

Patrick could hear her pleading to be put back in the water. Her horse had galloped away in the foamy waves, leaving her washed up on the sand after the storm. She longed to go home. She begged with human voice in a pitiful tone.

Glavin and son dismissed her pleas. They said her bridle needed fixing. They lived nearby. They would bring her to safety while they mended it for her. They chortled with glee as they lifted the stranded mermaid from the shore and carried her home.

Patrick emerged from behind the rock. He looked again at the spot where the apparition had lain and saw something else glinting in the sand – a silver comb. He picked it up, put it in his pocket and went home. He told no one of the strange happenings that morning and hid the comb under his mattress.

Meanwhile, Glavin and son sat the fishy lady by the fire. Her hair remained wet, her skin pale and her lips blue. She was a vision of strange loveliness as she sat there, with her scaly tail stretched out along the floor.

Old Glavin took the bridle to the outhouse and hid it there under a pile of torn nets. When he returned he said it would take a long time to repair. She had better be prepared to stay with them for a while.

Young Glavin looked into the dark eyes of the mermaid and decided it was time he had a wife.

‘If ’twas unlikely she could return to the sea, would she ever consider staying on land and marrying a human husband?’ he asked awkwardly.

She said if she had to stay ashore, she would never stop pining for the sea, but it was within her power to become a woman and marry a human, on three conditions: the man she would marry must promise never to eat at a sheriff’s table, never to kill a black sheep and never to harm a seal.

Young Glavin agreed to keep those promises and in no time they were married. The mermaid found her feet and resigned herself to life on land.

Years passed. They had children. She was a quiet and obedient wife. With her hair pulled back under a neat shawl, she kept herself to herself and worked tirelessly for her family, but her eyes were always full of longing. Patrick Downey often saw her standing alone, gazing at the waves, humming strange songs to the sea.

Her human children grew robust and healthy. For the Glavins, everything seemed to turn out in their favour. They always appeared to stay on the right side of the law; they were never caught committing a crime, in spite of their ruthless reputation. Locals disliked and mistrusted them, but they continued to prosper.

One of Glavins’ cousins was well in with the landlord and got promoted to be sheriff. Was Glavin aware of this when he stood as godfather to this cousin’s child and ate fine food at the christening – at the sheriff’s table?

When times were hard and meat was needed, Glavin didn’t think twice about sneaking off at night and stealing a neighbour’s sheep. How was he to know what colour it was in the dark? All sheep look black at night. And when even sheep were hard to come by, who could wonder that the irrepressible Glavin would be tempted to go out with other hardy souls to kill and skin a few small seals?

It was on that night that their youngest son found the bridle while playing in the outhouse and it was on that same moonlit night that Patrick Downey took the comb from under his mattress and felt compelled to return it to its rightful owner.

Disturbed from a fitful sleep, Glavin’s wife awoke to a gentle knock at the door. She went to answer it. No one was there but she beheld her silver comb gleaming on the threshold. Eyes glistening, she picked it up and turned to the broken mirror on the mantle. For the first time in many years she gazed at her own reflection and combed out her long shining tresses.

Hearing her youngest child whimper, she went to comfort him and there beside him on the pillow lay her silver bridle. Tears trickled from her eyes as she clutched the bridle in one hand and fondly stroked her sleeping child with the other. Silently she kissed her children one by one. Then turned her face away.

The mermaid ran with human feet from her home in Lissagriffin in the parish of Kilmoe, down the path past Downey’s humble cabin, onward towards the moon-soaked bay. She stood on the shore and shook the bridle at the sea. A white horse appeared from the depths. She put the bridle on his head, jumped on his back and rode off into the waves.

Before the mermaid sank forever beneath the foam, she turned and cursed the Glavins. ‘Never again shall seven men of the name of Glavin stand together on the rocks of Lissagriffin.’

They say there was no luck for the Glavins after that. Things went from bad to worse for them until they had to move away altogether. The Downeys survived and went from strength to strength.

No mermaid has appeared in these parts ever since, although some have heard, after a storm, a mournful sighing in the breeze at Barley Cove – like that of a mother calling softly to her children.

MADELINE MCCULLY

Madeline McCully spent many school holidays in her great-aunt’s cottage in Donegal listening to stories and songs at the Ceildhe Nights. She developed a love of storytelling and has won several awards, enabling her to travel abroad to gather folklore and tell stories.

Madeline co-designed an award-winning website, www.derryghosts.com, in 2001 and since then has written four books: Haunted Derry, Derry Folk Tales, Haunted Donegal and Haunted Antrim. Madeline has taken part in several festivals at home and abroad, bringing stories, song and music into her sessions. She has taught storytelling in schools, libraries, hospitals, community centres and prison, and has broadcasted on radio and TV.

BILLY TEARE AND KATHLEEN O’SULLIVAN

Billy and Kathleen began their collaboration after meeting at Sidmouth Folk Festival over fifteen years ago. Kathleen is a highly regarded traditional Irish singer. She recorded and toured solo, as well as being the vocalist in a ‘trad’ band for eight years. She teaches Irish song and is also an accomplished poet.

Storyteller Billy was born and raised in Ballycarry. Starting an early career as a stand-up, Billy has appeared in acting roles on theatre stages, radio, TV and the big screen, having worked with Danny Boyle and Ken Loach. Billy plays harmonica and jaw harp.

Together, Kathleen and Billy have become Ireland’s foremost story and song duo and co-authors of a successful book of Antrim folk tales.

DOREEN MCBRIDE

Doreen McBride was a teacher who found a year’s secondment to the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum a life-changing experience, because it filled her with a desire to record folklore and local history. She took early retirement and became a folklorist and international award-winning storyteller.

Doreen has featured in many TV and radio broadcasts, including The Late Late Show. She has written numerous books, had short stories and plays broadcast on BBC Radio Ulster. Her play ‘The Funeral’s Off’ was given a professional reading, directed by James Grieve from Paines Plough, London, in the Bryan Friel Theatre, Belfast.

FRANCES QUINN

Frances Quinn is from Armagh, where her family have lived for many generations. Like a lot of people in Ireland, she grew up in a story tradition and as a young girl became familiar with some of the ancient stories. The old stories remain her foremost interest but she now has a keen interest in folklore of all kinds and countries.

As an actor she has worked throughout the UK and Ireland in radio, theatre, TV and film; and as a storyteller she has been recorded on radio and television and has toured in the US.

She has a general arts BA from University College, Dublin and a BA in languages from Queens University, Belfast. In 2017 she received an award for her contribution to storytelling at the Tommy Makem 10th Memorial Concert.

STEVE LALLY

Steve Lally is an international storyteller who grew up in rural County Kildare and is now based in the north of Ireland. As a child he gathered stories like corn and stored them away for later years. His late grandmother was a Seanchaí (Irish storyteller) and was a huge influence on his storytelling. He takes his stories far and wide and is passionate about breathing life into this vital and significant art form.

His faith and love of folklore expresses itself through humorous anecdotes, quirky comic tales and haunting ghost stories. Steve has written three books on Irish folklore: Down Folk Tales, Kildare Folk Tales and Monaghan Folk Tales. He has also co-written with his wife, Paula, a unique anthology of fairy stories from the thirty-two counties of Ireland entitled Irish Gothic Fairy Stories.

JOE BRENNAN

Joe Brennan has been telling stories and holding workshops for over fifteen years, having worked in radio and as a teacher previously. He has worked across Ireland and travelled widely, bringing the joy of his telling to a wide range of audiences and cultures. He has performed at many storytelling festivals, including Cape Clear and FATE. Joe has travelled to festivals in Norway, Belgium, the US, Austria, Egypt and Romania. He is the author of Donegal Folk Tales published by The History Press Ireland, which was chosen as the Read Donegal book in 2014. He is the organiser of Ramelton Storytelling Festival and also a children’s playwright.

SUSIE MINTO

Susie Minto was once asked, in jest, if she was inoculated with a gramophone needle at birth. Maybe so! Words spoken and written have been her life’s work – and made her heart sing. Her writing career began in 1975 in Scotland in print journalism and later public relations, and then in 1998, oral storytelling opened a new path.

In 2004 she moved to Ireland, working as a storyteller, workshop teacher, creative writing facilitator, oral historian, and authored two books: Leitrim Folk Tales and The Forgotten People of Ulster: Stories of Orangeism South of the Border. In 2014, Susie returned to live in Scotland.

GARY BRANIGAN

Gary Branigan is an historian, tour guide and writer whose previously published works include Ancient & Holy Wells of Dublin, Fountains of Dublin and books in the Folk Tales series.

TONY LOCKE

Tony Locke is a professional storyteller and member of the Storytellers of Ireland. He grew up listening to the tales of his grandfather, who was also a storyteller. Tony has a degree in heritage studies and also writes and presents his own radio show for Westport Community Radio. His previously published works include Irish Ghost Tales and Tales of the Irish Hedgerows.

JOE MCGOWAN

Joe McGowan is a native of Mullaghmore, Co. Sligo. Born on the family farm, he worked there in his early years until emigrating to the USA in the 1960s. Shortly after his return to Ireland in the ’70s, Joe, became aware of the accelerating pace of change in the Irish countryside and decided to record the old lore before it vanished completely. For many years he has been dedicated to preserving Ireland’s disappearing traditions and customs.

Joe’s books are inspired by countless nights spent listening to the stories of the older generation augmented by meticulous archival research. His publications include: Echoes of a Savage Land; A Bitter Wind; Constance Markievicz, the People’s Countess; Co. Sligo Famine Book; Inishmurray: Island Voices; The Hidden People; Sligo: Land of Destiny and A Fairy Wind CD.

PAT WATSON

Pat Watson is a professional storyteller and writer who has appeared regularly on Shannonside Northern Radio. His previously published works include Original Irish Stories, 60 Lyrical Yarns and Dean Kelly School Memories, a social history. His website is www.roscommonhistory.ie

PHILIP BYRNE

Philip has been telling stories and training Irish tour guides in all aspects of the country’s heritage for many years and has a great love and respect for its folklore. Philip tells stories on a regular basis as a ‘resident storyteller’, as well as appearing at many other functions and festivals throughout the country. The story in this anthology is taken from the forthcoming Longford Folk Tales.

RICHARD MARSH

Richard Marsh is a storyteller in Ireland, visiting schools through the Writers in Schools scheme funded by the Arts Council, and travelling to the US, Spain, the Basque Country and elsewhere to share Irish legends and folk tales. His sixteen published books include The Legends and Lands of Ireland, Tales of the Wicklow Hills, Irish King and Hero Tales, Spanish and Basque Legends and Meath Folk Tales. He was for many years a freelance contributor to Sunday Miscellany and other programmes on RTÉ Radio One.

PAULA FLYNN LALLY

Paula Flynn Lally grew up in Forkhill, County Armagh, in the foothills of Slieve Gullion, which is an area of outstanding natural beauty, and is filled with stories of myth, legend and fairy lore. Paula is a singer-songwriter, who once upon a time had a hit with David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. She is back in the studio again and due to release new music.

Paula is a graduate from Dublin City University, and upon leaving was awarded the Uaneen Fitzsimons Award. Paula worked for a spell in radio and Irish Gothic Fairy Stories was her first book.

RAB FULTON

Rab Fulton is a professional storyteller and author. He is a member of Storytellers of Ireland and his ‘Celtic Tales’ storytelling sessions have a growing local and international reputation and have featured on RTÉ Nationwide, RTÉ Radio’s The Tubridy Show and Arena. In 2007 he was awarded the Deis Award for his storytelling work. For more on Rab’s work see www.rabfultonstories.weebly.com.

BRENDAN NOLAN

Brendan Nolan was a storyteller of wide experience who produced and presented Telling Tales, the access radio programme for writers and storytellers. He wrote and broadcasted more than ninety stories of his own, mostly light-hearted tales. He was a Dubliner, who travelled throughout Europe telling stories.

RUTH MARSHALL

Ruth Marshall is a storyteller, poet, facilitator and tour guide living in County Clare. She is the author of Celebrating Irish Festivals (Hawthorn Press, 2003).

Ruth brings her storytelling magic into schools, libraries, yurts, woodlands, islands, labyrinths, and works with all ages and abilities. Her storytelling and talks on seasonal traditions are a regular part of Clare Museum’s education programme. Ruth believes that a good story can change how we see the world, and how we choose to act in it. For more information visit www.ruthmarshallarts.weebly.com.

AIDEEN MCBRIDE

Aideen McBride is a professional storyteller who has appeared in festivals such as Cape Clear International Storytelling Festival and Spirit of Folk. She is also an oral historian and has been involved in several projects to collect traditional tales.

NUALA HAYES

Nuala Hayes is an actor, storyteller and author, whose interest in storytelling began over twenty-five years ago, when she founded the Two Chairs Company with musician Ellen Cranitch. Nuala has toured internationally to storytelling festivals in the US, Poland, Denmark, Spain, Germany, Scotland and the UK.

Nuala was the founder of Scéalta Shamhna, the first International Storytelling Festival in Dublin, which she ran for ten years. She has also curated and administered many storytelling events, including the Farmleigh Festival of Story and Song, and was the artistic coordinator of the FEST 2017 Conference Storytelling. Nuala is the author of Laois Folk Tales, and was the recipient of a number of Arts Council/Deis awards, including one for her CD of Irish legends and folktales The Brewery of Eggshells and Other Stories with fellow storyteller, Kate Corkery.

As a storyteller Nuala has a vibrant interractive style and she believes the listener is as important as the teller. She is currently the chairperson of Storytellers of Ireland (www.storytellersofireland.org).

JACK SHEEHAN

Jack Sheehan, father of Aideen McBride, is sadly now deceased. Jack had a great interest in local history and was an avid collector of stories.

ANNE FARRELL

Anne Farrell was born into a family of storytellers. She hung on to every word of the tales her father told on the dark evenings in Cloone, County Kilkenny. She brought the same joy to her own children as she filled their imaginations with stories from far and wide. Her storytelling took her on journeys to Wales, America and Newfoundland where she captivated audiences with her tales. Her collections of folk tales live on as a fitting memory of a beautiful and talented lady.‘Storytelling is a delight to the soul for it shifts and changes like the wind.’ (Anne Farrell)

LUKE EASTWOOD

Luke Eastwood is an author, artist and musician who lives in County Kerry.

KATE CORKERY

Kate Corkery is a professional storyteller, with a background in language teaching and theatre and is author of ‘Cork Folk Tales’. Based in London, Kate’s role as Storyteller in Residence at the Irish Cultural Centre was recognised with a Fringe First Award for ‘outstanding work in regenerating the art of storytelling in today’s society’.

A passionate believer in the power of storytelling in education, she is a founder member of ‘Everyday Magic’ and of ‘Spud and Yam’. Kate has travelled far and wide with her stories and has appeared at many festivals throughout the UK and Europe.