Tales from the Cailleach: The Lament of the Old Woman at Samhain.

I am known to my neighbours as the mad one who talks to the fairies and it is said I walk the roads 

whilst others sleep.

These same neighbours come to me for help with the troubles of country living; a sick mare, a lame cow or the strange event that preys upon the mind.

At these times I make the tea, stand the pot on the hearth and let the silence brew. 

I suggest a simple explanation for the opening door, the chill at the fireside or a room the dog won’t enter. 

Most times they are satisfied.

With others a pinch of truth is all that’s needed to recall piseogs and buried knowledge that goes on long into the night.

So I live amongst these people, not quite accepted by them, for I do not go to mass as they do 

nor hail the priest as father.

I keep to my own ways, spirit unbounded by men with rules and robes.

Now and then I catch a sharp glance from some busy farmer as I visit mound and thorn but they do not guess my secret.

Three times a year I leave my home in darkness, needing neither broom nor steed, I rise from bed 

to fly above the sleeping townland.

Whitethorn scent may rise to meet me or, as tonight, turf smoke greets my flight across grey fields.

Image by Peter Gordon at http://explorelight.com

Skimming winding river I am observed but not by human eyes. 

Deer, owl and hare all know my ways, the night is ours.

Over hidden valley and bald mountain top I rise to settle on the tumbled cairn. 

Below land stretches away in shades of darkness undisturbed.

A sigh, long and deep, escapes me. 

Eyes close to invoke Samhain long past when the people knew and held us close.

Heart heavy with old memories, sorrow gnaws at my breasts and I nurse it. 

Alone, unloved, forgotten in this modern world.

Bitter wind shakes me from the past. 

Keen-eyed again, I stretch my sight to spy the distant horizon. 

Far off, a shift, a smudge, disturbs my vision.

A wisp of smoke.   A soar of sparks.   Now a flare of yellow red. 

Tlachta’s fire is kindled !

One by one other heights reply; 

Teamhair, Cruacháin, Uisneach, Sliabh na Caillí, Cruachán Aigle and Binn Ghulbain. 

Sliabh gCuillinn, Sliabh Dónairt, twin fires upon Dá Chích Anann. 

Hill top beacons burst with fire. 

In valleys tiny flames wake as dormant village cross-roads ignite. 

A million flames, a rosary of fire across the land.

The old ways are remembered!

Three calls from sharp-mouthed Raven cleaves the silence, The Great Queen rises from her cave. 

Beneath Brí Éile Brigid’s forge is lit anew as one by one, across the night, mounds open 

and those who have never left return.

Here, upon the Height of Ireland, I stand tall again and at my side Manannán shares his secret smile with me. 

The tide has turned.

Samhain greetings to you all!

This story was inspired by reading ‘The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare’, an Irish poem written in the 10th century,
which led me to wonder if The Cailleach lived amongst us and if so, what sort of neighbour would she be?

This virtual film relates a version of the poem translated by the Celtic language scholar Kuno Meyer. 

In the ancient past the Samhain fire was ceremonially lit by the Druids on Tlachtga, the Hill of Ward in Co. Meath. 

It is believed that answering fires were also lit on other prominent places across the landscape.

In more recent times the Tlachtga ceremony has been rekindled and this short film shows part 

the ceremony in 2015. 

The Homeplace

My new painting:  ‘The Homeplace’.

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

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

Empty cottage in Glenbarrow.

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

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

of an evening to chat and exchange news.

Another empty family home which never knew electricity, 

lit only by oil lamps & candles.

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

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

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

Many are green ghosts of their former selves.

The remains of  Biddy Early's house. 

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

Reminders of old beliefs also remain.

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

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

and deflect the attentions of the Good People. 

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

the Good People on their fairy paths.

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

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

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

Photo © Barry O’Reilly.

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

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

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

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

the home westwards.

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

About Donn HERE

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

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

***

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

Only stones remain to tell the tale.

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

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

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

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

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