At the Well of the White Tree

Driving through the Blackstairs mountains I was in a daze.

Irritated that I had forgotten the map, I took the wrong direction out from town and now I needed to clear my head. Negotiating a bend in the road I was thinking the perfect place to stop would be at a sacred well...

... minutes later there it was, an ivy covered sign and a path leading away from the road.

By chance I had stumbled upon Tobar Cranabhán, the Well of the White Tree, a ritual site and holy well. 

Also known locally as “Saintly Cranavane”  its’ name is said to derive from a silver birch tree which grew over the well and tradition tells that it was once the site of pre-Christian ceremonies associated with druids and aligned to the sun. 

Today a whitethorn grows above the well.

In later times it is thought that St. Finnian, born at nearby Myshall, founded a monastery on the site and other sources connect Cranabhan to St. Barrach, whose church lies in ruins along the road.

The stone near the well is said to bear the foot print of St. Finnian. 

In common with many holy wells in Ireland, sacred water, a tree and a special stone are all present at Cranabhan and collected folklore tells of a circle of standing stones which once stood between the well and the old church.

The nine stones may refer to the large slabs now built into the surrounding walls,

thought to be grave markers or perhaps they are stones with a more ancient use. 

Tobar Cranabhan where water rises to the surface as a spring.

The well holds cures for soreness of the eyes, pains and afflictions of the limbs, and the water 

is especially powerful if taken during Bealtaine, May. 

In the past hundreds of people came to Tobar Cranabhan on the pattern day, May 3rd however, 

during the Rising of 1798 gatherings were banned by the British authorities and the visits ceased for 

a time.

Large crowds returned in 1800’s when whiskey and poteen were sold by the roadside and faction fights ensued. 

The pilgrimage to the sacred well was finally banned in 1870 by the parish priest.

At the entrance to the well there is a large, stone lined, coffin-shaped trough where it was customary to bathe

delicate children on the third day of May.

There was also a local tradition of dipping coffins in this water before taking them on 

for burial in nearby Barragh graveyard.

A few metres to the north of Tobar Cranabhan there is a second spring well.

Above this, a third well once flowed but its location, name and any traditions associated with 

both these wells has been lost.

Over time the wells at Cranabhan became overgrown although they were still visited by local people.

In 1998 the community cleared the foliage and landscaped the site and it was officially opened with a mass at the well in 2000.

From Carloviana - Journal of the Old Carlow Society 1994-1995.

The sacred wells were restored but remained as they were originally constructed and a stone cairn 

was re-built which may have been a pilgrimage station or the remnant of some other ritual.

Today the site is well maintained and peaceful.

I wandered away from the well and into the trees where the light was green and calm.

Along a path lined with mossy stones and the bones of a home reclaimed by nature

I sat within the old walls.

Clear-headed and finally relaxed I resumed my journey.

Tobar Cranabhan had worked its’ magic.

***

You can find read my other posts about Sacred Wells in Ireland by clicking these links:

SACRED WATER AND 3,000 HOLY WELLS

BY STONE, WHITETHORN & WELL

SEARCHING FOR BRIGID'S WELL

Meeting the Othercrowd in a Scented Land.

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

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

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

unlucky to bring indoors.

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

and was thought to be a changeling. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was greeted by mossy islands. 

 And miniature landscapes.

A green swathe around St. Fachtnan’s well.

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

New offerings had been left, a tribute to Brigid.

From limestone crevices ferns unfurled.

 And orchids bloomed.

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

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

where limestone walks lead to sensual delights. 

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

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

old farmhouse garden of 1800’s.

A path, leading deeper into dappled green 

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

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

It was in that silence I heard Them.

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

I held my breath, all senses keen, 

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

***

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

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

Otherworld Shenanigans - Stepping on the Stray Sod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to the road. 

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

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

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

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

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

The Stray Sod, Fód Seachrán.

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

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

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

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

for hours never reaching it.

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

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

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

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

Read more about these graveyards HERE

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

no means certain to work. 

***

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

in the foothills of the Slieve Bloom.

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

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

a small field, near to several houses.

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

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

In hindsight I probably lingered too long. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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