The Wild Geese , Irish Myths & legends

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The Wild Geese , Irish Myths & legends

http://thewildgeese.irish/page/focus-on ... es_network

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irish Myths and Legends Part 1: Introducing Rab Fulton


I am a very lucky man. I live on a hill in Galway surrounded by a landscape and seascape filled with myths and legends, and make a living doing what I love - telling stories and writing books, mostly about (or influenced by) the older tales of Ireland and Scotland. Yet, I would be the first to admit that I am perhaps not the best person to talk to about the myths, legends, history and culture of those two querulous nations. As someone with monsters and tricksters and beguiling lovers living inside my skull and heart I lack detachment from it all, lack the ability to hold them at a distant and look them over forensically and give an objective account of them. Strange characters play and fight and love inside me: Cúchulainn is caught like Christ in the barbs of my synapses; Queen Med bellows like an enraged bull in the caverns of my heart.

Sometimes these weird inhabitants of my body trick their way onto my tongue and escape from me as the stories I tell to an audience or my children. Other times they squeeze down through the cartilage and bone of my hands and make my fingers write or type strange tales. Where ever you look inside me, you’ll find the stories of Scotland and Ireland, the myths, folktales, urban legends and stories of family, friends and strangers, all tangled up somewhere. But perhaps there is nothing too surprising about this: humans by their nature, all end up being a collection of strange and often magical bits and pieces; a rag and bone shop of the heart as Yeats put it ( though I would like to think my little corporeal shop is more joyful than that of the old poet).

I have been asked to talk about the Myths and Legends of Ireland, but let me begin by talking about my background. In my long serialised blog essay, "Social Justice and Scottish Independence," I make a passing reference to my family being a mixture of those who left Ireland in the wake of the famine and those Scots who tried, by all means available, to stop them finding a haven in Glasgow. What I did not say in that essay was that my family continued to go back and forth between the two nations throughout the first half of the twentieth century, as both the Scots and Irish (and those of Irish decent) found themselves caught up in the great events of those years. In the slaughter grounds of Italy they played their part in defeating fascism; through labour agitation and the creation of the trade union movement in Scotland they struggled to bring about a more just world. More recently, members of my family have passionately campaigned to create an independent Scotland founded on the principles of anti-fascism and social justice.

However, even as I write I am in danger of creating myths of my own. The narrative of my family history is, like the history of every other family on this planet, far more tangled and contradictory. As a child I was very aware of the ugly and debilitating green and orange divisions in my family. With the greens in ascendancy, I did the Irish Scottish childhood thing: Holy Communion, catholic school, putting a coin in the box for the black babies in Africa. When the orange side put its foot down, all that was taken away from me: a whole childhood of friends, rituals, references and landscapes was banished, never to return. Perhaps it is as a result of my convoluted heritage, that the magical stories of Scotland and Ireland have left such a deep impression on me.


For more on Rab’s work as a writer, storyteller and tutor see: http://rabfultonstories.weebly.com/

Follow Rab at: https://twitter.com/haveringrab

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Irish Myths and Legends Part 2: Cúchulainn

Given the history of Scotland and Ireland - two sibling nations with fierce and loyal ties to each other but also marred (and often scarred) by bloody disagreement, rivalry and the power politics of these islands - it will be no surprise to learn that many of the stories, heroes and magical beings of one nation can often be found having adventures in the other. The adventures of great Irish hero Cúchulainn are a good example of this to and froing between Ireland and Scotland.

The story of Cúchulainn’s boyhood is well known. When young his name was known as Setanta and as a stubborn child he desperately wanted to become one of the Red Branch Knights who served his uncle mac Nessa, the king of Ulster. Coming across the apprentice knights playing a hurling match, he ran on the field and defeated them all. Not surprisingly Mac Nessa let him become an apprentice. He also invited his young nephew to join him at a feast being given in his honour by Culain.

Setanta arrived late only to be attacked by Culain’s savage guard dog. Setanta smacked his sliotar into the beast’s mouth and killed it. Culain was upset at the death of his mighty dog, so Sentanta pledged to act as Culain’s Hound until a new one was found. From then on he became known as Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Culain. But of course having acquired a new name, the young hero now had to gain the skills to match his strength and courage.

(Image: "Cuchulain Slays the Hound of Culain", illustration by Stephen Reid from Eleanor Hull's The Boys' Cuchulain, 1904.)

Eager to learn warcraft, Setanta / Cúchulainn went to study with the greatest swordfighters of all. Which of course, as we all know, are the women warriors of Scotland. The youth made his way to the Isle of Skye and found himself entangled in an adventure that would have made a great plot line for one of those soft porn movies from the 1970s. I cannot do the story justice in so short a time but in summary the woman warrior Scáthach agreed to teach the young hero in return for certain amorous favours. Her daughter Uathach got in on the act and then Scathach’s sister also demanded some attention.

Being a young gentleman Cúchulainn manfully attempted to meet all these demands in between learning how to use his sword properly. It all ended badly; with the sisters making war against each other and Ireland’s greatest hero quietly pulling up his trousers and returning to Ireland a wiser – if somewhat drained – man. (In his book ‘Celtic Myths and Legends’, Peter Berresford Ellis tells the story in more detail). All of which may explain both the lad’s problematic relationship with older women, and also Queen Medb’s foolish contempt for him. Some may regard the lesser known adventures of Cúchulainn as frivolous and lacking proper gravity, but I think they make the man more real, and his death all the more poignant.

Oliver Sheppard’s statue of ‘The Dying Cúchulainn’, with its echoes of the passion of Christ, is regarded by many as the perfect elegy in bronze to those who died for Ireland in 1916. Though Sheppard was an Irish nationalist, the statue was actually made in 1911, long before the Easter Rebellion. For me, the power of the figure derives as much the later association with the rising as it does from the skill of the artist. Without the 1916 connection the work does not strike me as particularly outstanding, being just one more over the top dying male nude figure that Europeans of a certain epoch liked to churn out.

The best that can be said for ‘The Dying Cúchulainn’ is that it is better than Sheppard’s other famous work The Pikeman, a statue in the middle of Wexford Town that commemorates the 1798 rebellion. This statue is of a giant muscle bound youth standing on a plinth staring heroically over the town. It is a work utterly divorced from the reality of the rebellion – the fear, desperation, hope and acts of incredible courage and folly carried about by men and women who were most certainly not giant muscle bound figures. To see how a commemoration to rebellion should look go to Athy and walk around and through the 1798 memorial, with its portraits of men and women’s faces carved into the solid stone. Heroism does not need or deserve images of musclebound youths. That’s all very enjoyable in a Marvel comic, but as a reflection on history it is foolish if not downright insulting.

But I see that, like Oisín of old, I’ve wandered a little of course. However, I am a storyteller – wandering is pretty much obligatory for me. What I am trying to point out is that the stories of Ireland are never quite as simple as they seem and many wind and wander their way over to Scotland. Apart from versions turning up in the two different countries, the telling of these stories change from teller to teller and from era to era. Even Cúchulainn the most iconic of Irish heroes has a life beyond the borders of Ireland, and certainly beyond the limited borders of Celtic Revival enthusiast. In fact it could be argued that the transformation of Cúchulainn and the rebels of 1789 and 1916 into icons diminish the stories, struggles and lives of the men, women and children of Ireland.

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Irish Myths and Legends Part 3: The City Beneath the Waves

Whether ancient legends or modern family tales, the stories of Ireland and Scotland have all played an important role in my life. They give me great pleasure and they help provide the income I need to raise my children. More than that, the wonderful tales of the two nations allow me a medium in which I can examine and express my feelings about the world around me. Two Irish stories in particular stand out for me and it is these I would now like to talk about. One is such a delight to tell that, apart from one year, I perform it at every opportunity. The other is a story that I rarely perform. I constantly find myself thinking of, but it is a tale that I find simply too powerful to tell on a regular basis.

The story I delight in telling at every opportunity is "The City beneath the Waves" which I sometimes refer to it as "The Axe, the Hook and the Long Sharp Knife." It is a story about the Claddagh fisher-folk and was first written down by the Scottish folklorist David Thomson, who heard the story from a Claddagh fisherman in the 1940s. The story tells of the adventure of three young lads who are caught in a storm. After many mishaps they find themselves in a great mansion miles beneath the waves. Inside the house the three boys must overcome temptations offered them by three beautiful and mysterious women. Only then can they return home.

Living in Galway I find it very easy to step into the colour and landscape of this tale, and have a lot of fun describing the storm and the three temptations. In my telling the story contains a lot of humour, but also the poignant sorrow revelation that the three boys are the only survivors of the terrible storm. It often happens after I tell this story somebody asks if it is true. The tale is so full of fantastical things that the answer seems obvious, but there are always people in the audience who will know stories of fishing tragedies: boats do capsize; freak waves happen; storms can blow out of nowhere. Many Galwegians are also familiar with the tragedy that took place in Galway Bay a hundred years ago, when eight fishermen drowned after their boat capsized.

But it is not only boats that can be lost at sea I tell my audience; entire fleets can be destroyed. In 1818 a disaster took place off the coast of Donegal, which may well have some bearing on the ‘City beneath the Waves’ story. In the nineteenth century the Scottish fishing fleet used to get its supplies from the northern Donegal fishing village of Dunfanaghy. In 1818 local fishermen warned the Scottish fleet not to go out as a storm was coming. The Scottish fishermen ignored the warnings and took their 100 vessels out into the Atlantic. Only one boat came back. The storm that erupted threw up waves that swallowed some boats and smashed others against the rocky headland. All the fishermen who manned those ninety-nine boats died.

So storms are certainly real, and fishermen certainly die in them. Having ascertained that at least one element of the story has some sort of truth in it, the discussion with my audience then twists and turns as ideas and suggestions blow back and forth. Often people will bring in other stories they heard of, or family tales, or descriptions of parts of Galway Bay further along the coast. One time some local students began talking about the legend of a small harbour where fisherman go to hang themselves. The death ropes, so it is said, are still hanging from inner wall of that harbour. Another time a fisherman told me that the sea can kill you even on dry land. He had been walking along the shore when he saw a giant freak wave suddenly rushing towards him. Throwing himself flat he dug his fingernails into a large rock and clung on. The wave pounded and roared over him, and then just as quickly receded again, leaving him soaked but alive to tell the tale.

The sea is relentless and often, as I learned in 2009, does not pause to let us tell stories about it. In that year I was giving a talk about ‘The City beneath the Waves’ to the RNLI College in Poole. As the audience and I left the lecture room, a whisper began. The terrible news was soon confirmed. Whilst we were busy examining a folk tale, two fishermen from Claddaghduff up in Connemara had drowned after being swept from their currach whilst checking lobster pots. It was a year and more before I was able to bring myself to tell again the story of the young three lads.

I guess what matters is not whether "The City beneath the Waves" is factually true or not; what matters is that it is an incredible story that contains very real truths about the sea and the lives of people who live off it. The sea is a source of blessings and sorrows, it brings food but it also takes life. It is a living thing, as represented by the three women in the tale, which can tempt fisher folk into foolish decisions. Ultimately ‘The City beneath the Waves’ is a tale about death and sex and survival, which truth be told is pretty much what every story ever spoken or written or sang is about, whether religious tales, great legends, or local folk tales.

Our span of life is short, we come from a dark unknowing and after our last breath we depart into a dark unknowing. The lives of we fragile creatures are brief and often touched by awful troubles, and yet as we negotiate the temptations and dangers we somehow become all the more wiser and fuller. Life may be short, but it is also an incredible breath taking journey. Stories that reflect the triumphs and failures, the temptations we face and the decisions we make in life are inevitably filled with truths, whether they be folk tales, sci-fi novels or our daily fare of jokes and gossip.

There is another curious aspect about ‘The City beneath the Waves’. It is quite a recent tale yet there are elements within it that are very old indeed. The three women who the boys meet beneath the waves all have different coloured hair. One has black hair, one has red hair, and one has silver. It may seem a minor detail, but there is a story in Irish mythology about three sisters who are offered up as wives to stop a civil war in the ranks of the Tuatha Dé Danaan. Niamh the oldest sister was dark, Aoife the middle was red haired, whilst the youngest Aobh was fair haired. The lord who had to choose which one to marry was none other than Lir, the Irish God of the Sea, whose palace according to legend was in Dunfanaghy, the town from where the doomed Scottish fleet sailed out from two centuries ago.

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Irish Myths and Legends Part 4: Aoife's Tale

Lir is known to many as the father of the boys and girls turned into swans by their wicked step mother Aoife in "The Children of Lir." This is the story I only tell on very rare occasions, and when I do so I simply call it: "Aoife’s Tale."

To summarise the story as it is best known: When Aobh the mother of the four children dies, her husband Lir marries her sister Aoife. Aoife is jealous of Lir’s love for the children so turns them into swans, in which form, they are blown around the waters between Ireland and Scotland for nine hundred years. Finally they are turned back into human form, but now they are ancient and dying. Fortunately, in the preceding nine hundred years, Ireland has become Christian so they are baptised and then are given a Christian burial.

There is much in this story to move and entertain an audience, but what troubles me is that the simplicity of some versions diminishes the true horror of the story. For me, this is a story of terrible dislocation and the choices forced on people by warfare and the threat of annihilation. The Tuatha Dé Danaan may be magical, but they are not immune to suffering. In their arrogance they had killed the first human to visit Ireland. In the wake of this one act of bloodshed, Ireland is invaded, and the Tuatha Dé Danaan, suffer defeat and massacre. The survivors, still stumbling to understand what has befallen them, try to rally around a new king, but their reduced ranks are weakened and split by rumours and conspiracies. One of the most powerful faction leaders is Lir. To avert civil war, the reigning king Bodb Dearg proposes a solution: If Lir accepts him as king, then Bodb Dearg will allow him to marry one of his three foster daughters. Lir married Aobh, who bore him four children, after which she died. Fearing that Lir’s grief will open up dangerous divisions in the Tuatha Dé Danaan, Bodb Dearg offered Aoife as her replacement. For me this is the crux of the story; the lives and deaths of women being used as bargaining chips in the game of power and politics.

In my version, Aoife and Lir fall in passionately in love, and Aoife loves her step children as much as Lir. But she is not satisfied with this. Having been originally overlooked in favour of Aobh, she now seeks to create a love that is bigger and more dazzling. This is understandable, even commendable, but it is also a fatal compulsion; in order to enhance the love around her she must have a child of her own. When she fails to conceive, horror follows.

Aoife has much in common with Medea, the mythological Greek princess. Where Aoife bound herself to Lir to prevent civil war, Medea bound herself to Jason the Argonaut in order that he succeed in his quest. Having committed treason against her family and nation, Medea fled to Corinth with Jason, where they married. Unlike Aoife, Medea does have children and her life seems complete. Yet when the king of Corinth asks Jason to marry his daughter, Jason agrees to put Medea aside. In a patriarchal world, both Medea and Aoife have very limited control over their lives. With Medea, this realisation transforms her love into a terrible hatred; her beloved children provide the means by which she takes her gruesome and awful revenge against Jason and his would be bride. Aoife also seeks revenge and an awful empowerment by attacking her step-children. Unlike Medea though, Aoife allows the children of Lir to live (though perhaps death would have been preferable to spending centuries imprisoned in an alien form.)

If "The City beneath the Waves" is a story that illustrates the danger and the beauty of our daily lives, "The Children of Lir"/ "Aoife’s Tale" is a never fading condemnation of war and violent patriarchy. Aoife may be a purely mythical figure but there are powerful truths in this story: The repercussions of war and violent trauma do not end after peace comes; the ramifications of violence echo and boom down through the peace. This is a contemporary as well as historical truth

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Irish Myths and Legends Part 5: Never-Ending Stories

I hope that my examination of the stories in this series show that Irish myths and legends are not museum pieces to be taken out once in a while, dusted down, admired and then put back in a glass case. These stories are the living companions to our daily lives. They make us weep, laugh, cheer or sit in awed silence. They are as relevant now as when they were first created, and will be as equally relevant in a thousand years hence. You never know, our descendants could one day be telling their own version of these stories to colonists on Mars as the distant sun shines weakly over that strange pink and mauve landscape.

In the meantime, if you would like to enjoy Irish tales, please come along to my summer shows in the Crane Bar, Galway. If you can’t get along to the show, you can enjoy the stories in my book Galway Bay Folk Tales. What I set out to do with the book was to create a written work that would have the same energy and impact as my live performances. And what shapes my telling of stories is my belief that stories should never be passive – they must excite emotions, debate, disagreements and moments of breath taking wonder. As well as local folk tales, myths and urban legends from the west of Ireland, the book combines history, archaeology, theories on early settlements in Ireland, as well as philosophy, astro-physics and my own imagination. The book is also filled with wonderful illustrations by the artist Marina Wild. The result is a fast paced book filled with magic and adventures that covers a period of time from the birth of the universe right up to post Celtic Tiger Ireland.

But Irish stories also impact on my other work. In my novel ‘Transformation’ a terrifying creature from Irish folklore, a Pooka, threatens the lives of two young lovers. The use of a traditional magical creature allows me to examine the nature of love and grief as well modern Galway’s vibrancy, multi-culturalism, poverty and divisions. Even my sci-fi story ‘Marcus Marcus and the Hurting Heart’ is shaped by Irish and Scottish stories. As well as playing with Scots and Irish words in the text, the main female character Nooma owes a lot to the much maligned Aoife.

But of course there are other ways of enjoying Celtic myths and legends: in books, film, comics as well as storytelling. The Secret of Kells animated movie and the tie in book by Eithne Massey weaves myth, saint tales and history into a children’s adventure story. It's great fun but also a wonderful introduction to Ireland’s rich heritage of myths and legends. Hugh McMahon takes a different approach in Limerick Folktales which retells the rich folklore of Limerick in a comic book format; the stories and pictures appear simple enough, but as you read them they reveal a richness of curious facts and details. Marie Heaney’s Over Nine Waves: A Book of Irish Legends is a perfect read; a lyrical and paced retelling of ancient stories about Irish heroes and saints.

I began by saying I am a lucky man to be living in Galway, writing and telling stories. But I am also lucky to be a father to two boys who are as engaged in stories and words as I am. We often go for walks up a little rise of boggy ground which we call the Yeti Hill. From the top we can see the full stretch of Galway Bay and all the surrounding landscape. Everywhere we look around us there are stories; stories of saints, warriors, princesses, giants and magical islands. They are tales that nurture my children and take their imaginations on incredible journeys. With a nod to my children and the future generation of storytellers and story lovers, I’d like to finish this essay with the closing words of Galway Bay Folk Tales:

"In the evenings we sometimes stand at the boys’ bedroom window and watch as the sky darkens and the first stars appear over Yeti Hill. The infinite stars were there before the children were born. The star will be there when my Galway boys become Galway men and, who knows, maybe Galway fathers. The stories, and the infinite possibility of endless other stories, will also be there. Doubtless the lads will have their own versions, and may even add a tale or two of their own. Anything and everything is possible…"

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The Recovery of the Tain

In days long gone, at a time that is long past, Guaire, the King of Connacht, hosted a huge gathering of poets. The King was famed for his generosity, but this gathering was testing his goodwill; they ate and drank everything they saw. Now even in the hardest of times, poetry is regarded as a treasure by the Irish, but these poets had abused their position. The King’s brother Marban, annoyed that the poets’ demands and appetite had included his favourite pig, resolved to discredit them.

He declared that his servant’s wife’s grandmother was a poet’s great grandchild. Even with this remote connection to the art, he showed he knew more than all the other poets. He asked them questions they couldn’t answer and for performances they couldn’t deliver. Finally, he challenged them, ‘tell the most famous and celebrated Irish story, The Tain bo Cuilange’. There was a long silence. Then the poets had to admit that no one knew more than a few fragments. The story had been lost.

The chief bard, Sanchan Torpiest, resolved to recover the story, and the honour of the poets. The story had been written down in Ogham and taken by a bard to Italy. A band of Sanchan’s followers, and his son Muirgen, set off to seek this bard. They stopped for the night at Enloch in Connacht. Muirgen, exhausted, asked the others to go on and find a place to stay while he rested against a large stone. Alone, Muirgen noticed carving on the stone. The strokes and lines of Ogham spelled out the name of Fergus Mac Roich, hero of the Tain.

The companions returned to fetch Muirgen, they found the stone encircled in dense fog, so cold they could barely breathe. They tried to reach their friend but became confused and arrived back outside the wall of fog.

In three days the fog receded. Then they found Muirgen, elated. He told them Fergus Mac Roich had appeared to him, dressed in a green cloak over a red tunic with a great sword that had a pommel of bronze. The spirit of Fergus had told Muirgen the whole story of The Tain, calling up other long forgotten players to bear witness.

The band of poets returned and a crowd gathered to hear the story. The hall was perfectly still as Muirgen conjured up the Tain; they could hear Cuchulain’s war cry, smell the fires of battle and feel the cold steel of weapons.

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The Boar of Ben Gulbain

In days long gone, at a time that is long past, the steward of Aengus the greatest magician in Ireland fathered a child by the wife of Donn a member of the Fianna. Donn was away on the battle field with Fionn Mac Cumhail. He had arranged for Aengus to foster his son Diarmuid. On his return Donn was enraged that his wife had a child by another man, and he killed the child. But the steward cast a spell that turned the dead boy into a great boar. He prophesied that the half-brothers would kill each other. To frustrate the prophecy, Aengus placed a binding vow, a geis, on Diarmuid never to hunt wild boar.

Years later Fionn and the Fianna came to Tara, to the hall of Cormac Mac Airt, the High King of Ireland, to claim his bride Grainne, Cormac’s beautiful daughter. Grainne, had no eyes for Fionn, who was by now an old man, but was smitten by the handsome Diarmuid. Against his judgement she persuaded him to run away with her. With the help of Aengus, they evaded Fionn’s wrath, married and had a family.

But this was not the end of the story. Grainne invited Fionn to a feast, hoping to renew their friendship. One night during their stay, Diarmuid was wakened by the belling of a hound. Grainne begged him not to heed it, but he armed himself, summoned his favourite hound and climbed Ben Gulbain. He met with Fionn, who told him of how he was tracking a great boar that had killed fifty of his men. Suddenly the boar appeared driving back the Fianna with its fierceness. Fionn warned Diarmuid to leave and reminded him of the geis, the binding vow. Diarmuid refused, ready to meet his fate. As Diarmuid was left alone to face the boar, it was hard to say who was the hunter and who was the prey. The battle roared for hours, then there was silence. Fionn and Grainne, together with their followers climbed back up the mountain. They found warrior and boar so entwined in their killing and their dying that they could not be separated. The men built a great pyre and the spirits of the two dead warriors were released together up into pathways of the stars. They all grieved, but Donn grieved most of all, for he knew that his jealousy had killed his son.

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Fiacc the Raven

In days long gone, at a time that is long past, Fiacc, the great raven, watched as the King of Ulster, Conor Mac Nessa arrived at the home of Phelim, a storyteller. Fiacc knew that there would be food for a hungry bird at such a gathering. The raven, wise in the ways of men, ate and listened with half an ear to the shouted exchanges within the hall. He heard the whispers too. Cathbad the druid warned the king that Phelim’s unborn child would be a beautiful girl, but that much blood would be shed over her. The child would be called Deirdre and Conor, intrigued, decided to keep her, perhaps they would marry when she was grown. Deirdre was placed in the care of the old veiled one, Leabharcham.

Years later, on a hard winter’s day, Leabharcham and Deirdre were skinning a calf in the freezing snow. Fiacc, the raven swaggered over to take his share of the scraps. As she watched the bird, Deirdre sighed, “One day I will marry a man with hair like the raven’s, with skin white as the snow, and with lips as red as the calf’s blood”. Leabharcham knew of such a man, Naoise, a warrior and poet in Conor’s court. She arranged for the young pair to meet and, against Naoise’s better judgement, they fell in love. They eloped to Scotland accompanied by Naoise’s brothers.

For a time they were happy, but Conor tracked them down and persuaded them to return with promise of a pardon for abandoning Naoise’s duties. When they arrived at Conor’s court he sent Leabharcham to see whether Deirdre was still beautiful. Leabharcham returned telling the King that Deirdre could be mistaken for a cailleach, a veiled one, a hag. Conor did not believe her and sent Gelbann, who only glimpsed Deirdre before Naoise threw a gold chess-piece at him and blinding him in one eye. Gelbann told Conor that Deirdre was as beautiful as ever; 'Your majesty, Deirdre is still so very beautiful that I think it was worth losing an eye just to see her for a moment.'. Conor ordered his men to surround the hall, to kill the men and capture Deirdre. Some of the knights were so horrified at this betrayal of trust that they defended the fugitives, but still Naoise and his brothers were killed.

High above, Fiacc the raven called to his kin to come and feast.

Deirdre was forced to marry Conor, but in time her grief overwhelmed her and she threw herself from a chariot and died. And when they buried her it is said there grew from her grave and from Naoisi's two yew trees, whose tops, when they were full-grown, met each other and intertwined together, and none could part them.

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The Cauldron of Bran' by Mallon Foundry

In days long gone, at a time that is long past, there was a king of Wales called Bran, the Raven. It was a time of war, and Bran the King sought the strength of an alliance with Ireland. So a marriage was arranged between the King of Ireland, Matholwych, and Bran’s sister, Branwen.

During the marriage, Bran’s half-brother, Efnisien, arrived and asked, "Why the celebrations?" He was outraged. He ran to Matholwych’s beautiful horses lined up on the beach and slashed them with his sword. When the Irish King heard, he and his men returned seething with anger to their ships. It seemed that the alliance was doomed before it began. Bran offered gold and horses to make amends but Matholwych was not satisfied. To restore the peace the Welsh King offered the greatest treasure of his kingdom, the Cauldron of Rebirth which had the power to bring the dead to life. Matholwych returned to Ireland with gold, horses, his bride and the Cauldron. But he did not forget the bloody insult.

Time passed. Branwen bore a son, Gwern. But Matholwych’s resentment against Branwen had grown and when the child was old enough, she was driven from her husband’s bedchamber and into his kitchens, to work as a scullery maid. Bran heard of this and swore vengeance and set out to rescue his beloved sister.

As the scores of Welsh ships sailed for the Irish coast their masts appeared like a forest. Fearing defeat in open battle Matholwych retreated westward, but Bran continued the fight, across Boyne and Shannon and Moy. Finally, exhausted from the battle, Matholwych agreed to surrender and abdicate in favour of his son and Bran’s nephew, Gwern.

A celebration followed, but evil still followed evil, and Bran’s half-brother Efnisien, who resented everything won by the Welsh king, in rage, threw the young Prince Gwern into the feasting fire.

The battle resumed with great ferocity. Having the Cauldron, the Irish dead were restored to strength, while the Welsh were whittled away. Near the end of the fight, a poisoned dart struck Bran. Knowing that he was dying, his final request was that his head be buried in London, the city of the God Lugh. The seven Welsh warriors who survived made their way to London, and buried Bran’s head on the White Hill. There, the Tower of London, with its resident ravens, now stands.

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'The Salmon of Knowledge' by Mallon Foundry

In days long gone, at a time that is long past, a great salmon named Bradan rested calmly in the Pool of Wisdom on the River Boyne. The salmon fed on the nuts from the nine hazel trees growing around the pool and all the wisdom of the world became concentrated in his flesh.

Fineagas, a poet and teacher, lived in a hut beside the River. Watching the salmon feeding, he knew that whoever ate Bradon would inherit all his knowledge and judgement. It is not easy to catch such a beast that is endowed with wisdom, and for seven years Fineagas tried and failed. One day, Fineagas was sitting with his pupil Fionn on the bank of the river when he saw the great fish swimming up the river towards them. Suddenly the salmon leapt into the air in front of Fineagas. Frightened, Fineagas looked straight into the salmon’s eyes and fell into the river and into a deep sleep. He might have been drowned, but Fionn pulled him to safety and shook him awake.

After this Fineagas showed that he too had great wisdom. He ordered Fionn to blindfold him, and all afternoon he fought with Bradan, and eventually conquered the salmon. Exhausted, he ordered Fionn to prepare the fish. Fionn did as he was told. He lit a fire of peat and wood and built a spit for the fish. He turned the spit carefully and watched until everything was cooked. He then called Fineagas to eat and removed the fish from the fire. As he did so, there was a splutter and fish oil dripped on his hand. It was so painful that he sucked his injury to ease the pain. He thought no more of it and brought the old man’s supper to the hut.

Fineagas saw the glint of wisdom in the boy’s eyes and knew that his long held dream of having all the salmon’s knowledge had turned to dust. But he took solace, knowing he had trained the boy well and that his wisdom would always serve for good. From that day forward, Fionn MacCumhail could summon all the wisdom of the salmon of knowledge by putting his thumb in his mouth. He became the most celebrated leader of the Fianna.

[Fairlie]

Oisín and Niamh

I don’t know what to make of this story, a great adventure of pre-Christian Ireland. There are many variants to this tale, but here are the basics: Oisín (oh-SHEEN) is one of the brave band of warriors known as the Fianna. One day, while hunting, Oisín and the Fianna encounter a beautiful young lady on a magnificent white horse. This lady, Niamh (NEE-if), says that she has come to Ireland to find the great warrior Oisín and bring him to her homeland, Tir Na nOg, the land of eternal youth over the waters to the west.

Oisín immediately falls in love with Niamh and travels with her to Tir Na nOg, where every year is like a hundred years on earth. Three Tir Na nOg years later, Oisín is homesick and decides to visit Ireland. Niamh agrees to let him ride the white horse back to his home, but warns him that if his feet were to touch the ground, he would become an old man. Oisín goes to Ireland, where 300 years have passed, and is saddened to learn that his family is gone and the Fianna have vanished.

Oisín then comes across some men attempting to move a great stone. Attempting to assist, he leans over to help push aside the rock, the saddle breaks, he hits the ground and instantly is transformed into an old man. The horse returns to Tir Na nOg without its rider, Niamh’s lover.

Is this a reverse Adam and Eve story, with Oisín's Eve tempting him not with the allure of transient joy, but with an eternity of bliss in a Garden of Eden beyond the sea - or maybe more precisely a Fountain of Youth? Three hundred years of bliss - not bad in the Love Game. But what about Oisín's itch to return home? Let’s concede the passion of his love for the golden-haired Naimh, but also allow the passion he feels for his warrior youth. And don’t forget: Oisín didn’t jump off the horse; he fell. Dollars to donuts, if Oisín doesn’t fall, he returns to Tir Na nOg. That’s my take.

Maybe we can also see Oisín as a fellow Wild Goose, like many of us emigrating to those lands beyond the mist of Ireland’s western shores. We learn from history that the Irish came to 19th century North America in great numbers, pined for the "Auld Sod" in song and verse (and continue to do so), but returned to Ireland only to visit. Only 5 percent of those Irish immigrants would return to Ireland for good, compared with about half of Italians, who also came to our shores seeking a new life, then went back to Italy to live. As a friend of my father used to tell him, “The Irish are always talking about Home Rule, but never home to enjoy it.” Ultimately, though Ireland tugs at our very being, for many of us exiles, “our love is in America.”

[Fairlie]

Diarmuid and Gráinne

Gráinne is the daughter of Cormac mac Art, High King of Ireland. She is betrothed to Fionn mac Cumhail, the leader of the Fianna, who, while still a mighty warrior, was at this time getting old. The famous chiefs of the Fianna were all assembled at Tara for the wedding feast and as they sit at the feast Gráinne surveys them and asks their names of her father's Druid, Dara.

"It is a wonder," she says, "that Fionn did not ask me for Oisín, rather than for himself." "Oisín would not dare to take you," says Dara. Gráinne, after going through all the company, asks "Who is that man with the sweet voice, curly dark hair and ruddy cheek?" "That is Diarmuid O'Duibhne," replies the Druid, "of the lightsome countenance who is the best lover of women and maidens in all of the land of Ireland." Gráinne then prepares a sleeping potion in a drinking-cup and gets her handmaid to pass it around to the king, to Fionn and to all the company except the chiefs of the Fianna. When the draught has done its work she goes to Fionn's son Oisín the poet. "Wilt thou receive courtship from me, Oisín?" she asks. "That will I not," says Oisín, "nor from any woman that is betrothed to Fionn." Gráinne, who knew very well what Oisín's answer would be, now turns to Diarmuid who at first refuses to have anything to do with her. "I put thee under bonds [geise], Diarmuid that you take me out of Tara to-night." "These bonds are evil, Gráinne," says Diarmuid; "and why did you put them on me rather than on any one of all the kings' sons that feast at this table?" Gráinne then explains that she has loved Diarmuid ever since she saw him, years ago, taking part in and winning a great hurling match on the green at Tara. Diarmuid, still very reluctant, pleads the merits of Fionn, and urges also that Finn has the keys of the royal fortress so that they cannot pass out at night. "There is a secret wicket-gate in my bower," says Gráinne. "I am under geise not to pass through any wicket-gate," replies Diarmuid, still struggling against his destiny. Gráinne will not listen to any of his excuses as any Fianna warrior, she has been told, can leap over a palisade with the aid of his spear as a jumping-pole so off she goes to make ready for the elopement. Diarmuid, in great perplexity, appeals to Oisín, Oscar, Caoilte, and the others as to what he should do. They all advise him keep the bonds that Gráinne had laid on him so he takes leave of them with tears.

Outside the wicket-gate he again begs Gráinne to return. "It is certain that I will not go back," says Gráinne, "nor part from you till death part us." "Then go forward, Gráinne," says Diarmuid. After they had gone a mile, "I am truly weary Diarmuid" says Gráinne. "If you are weary," says Diarmuid, making a last effort to rid himself of the entanglement, "return now to your household again, for I pledge the word of a true warrior that I will never carry you nor any other woman to all eternity." "There is no need," replies Gráinne, and she directs him where to find horses and a chariot, and Diarmuid, now finally accepting the inevitable, yokes them and they proceed on their way westwards by Áth Luan (the ford on the Shannon river)

(Left: 'Diarmuid and Gráinne' by Jim Fitzpatrick)

Next day Fionn, burning with rage, sets out with his warriors on their track. He traces out each of their halting-places and finds the hut of wattles which Diarmuid has made for their shelter and the bed of soft rushes and the remains of the meal they had eaten. At each place he finds a piece of unbroken bread or some uncooked salmon - Diarmuid subtle message to Fionn that he has respected the rights of his lord and has treated Gráinne as a sister. But this delicacy of Diarmuid's is not at all to Gráinne's liking and as they are passing through a piece of wet ground a splash of water strikes Gráinne. She turns to her companion: "You are a mighty warrior, Diarmuid, in battle and sieges and forays, yet it seems that this drop of water is bolder than you." Her hint that he was keeping her at a distance was obvious to Diarmuid and at that moment he knew that the die was cast and that he could never go back to his old life as a member of the Fianna and would never meet Fionn and his old comrades again except at the point of the spear.

Many times Diarmuid is attacked or besieged by the Fianna, and rescues himself and his lady by miracles of boldness or dexterity or by aid of the magical devices of his foster father, Aongus Óg. They are chased all over Ireland, and many places throughout the that country are popularly associated with them, being called in the folklore of the area "Leaba Dhiarmaid’s Gráinne (Bed of Diarmuid and Gráinne)".

At one time, in the wood of Dubhros, near Kinvara, they were hiding in the upper branches of a tree and Fionn, knowing where they were, had a fichell board set up under the tree where he played a game of chess against Oisín. Diarmuid, the champion fichell player of the Fianna, was watching the game from above and couldn't resist aiding Oisín in the game. He directed Oisín's moves by tossing berries at the chess-pieces. Beaten in the game, Fionn was enraged but Oscar, the strong man of the Fianna, saved Diarmuid on that occasion by drawing his sword and warning the others to let the eloping pair escape out of the wood.

After sixteen years as an outlaw, through the mediation of Angus his foster father, peace is at last made for Diarmuid with King Cormac and with Finn. Diarmuid receives the lands of the O'Duibhne, and other lands far away in the West, and Cormac gives another of his daughters to Fionn. They lived in peace for a long time and it was said " ... that no man then living was richer in gold and silver, in flocks and herds, than Diarmuid O'Duibhne, nor one that made more creach. (plunder -the old Gaelic term of “ag creachadh"– plundering other areas – they had ‘great craic’)

Gráinne bears to Diarmuid four sons and a daughter but she is not satisfied until "the two best men that are in Erin, namely, Cormac Mac Art the high king and Finn Mac Cumhall, the leader of the Fianna" have been entertained in her house. "And how do we know," she adds, "but our daughter might then get a fitting husband?" Diarmuid agrees with some misgiving and the king and Finn accept the invitation and they and their followers are feasted for a year with Diarmuid and Gráinne.

All is well until one night, towards the end of the year of feasting, Diarmuid is awakened from sleep by the baying of a hound. He jumps up in fright - "so that Gráinne caught him and threw her two arms about him and asked him what he had seen." "It is the voice of a hound," says Diarmuid, "and I marvel to hear it in the night." "Save and protect you," says Gráinne; "it is the Tuatha de Danaan (underworld folk) that are at work. Lie down again."

(Right: Diarmuid and Gráinne's Cave on Ben Bulben, County Sligo)

But three times the hound's voice awakens him and in the morning he goes forth armed with sword and sling followed by his own hound, to see what is afoot. On the mountain of Ben Bulben he comes across Fionn with a hunting-party of the Fianna. They are being hunted by the enchanted boar without ears or tail, the Boar of Ben Bulben, that has killed thirty of them that morning. "Keep away Diarmuid," says Finn, knowing well that Diarmuid will never retreat from a danger;"for thou art under geise not to hunt pig." "How is that?" says Diarmuid and Finn then tells him the story of the death of the steward's son and his reincarnation in the form of this boar, with its mission of vengeance. "By my word," says Diarmuid, "it is to slay me that you have made this hunt, Fionn and if it is, then it is here that I am destined to die. I have no power now to stop it." The beast then appears on the face of the mountain and Diarmuid slips the hound at him but the hound flies in terror. Diarmuid then slings a stone which strikes the boar fairly in the middle of his forehead but does not even scratch his skin. The beast is close on him now, and Diarmuid strikes him with his sword but the weapon flies in two and not a bristle on the boar is cut. In the charge of the boar Diarmuid falls over him and is carried along clinging to his back but at last the boar shakes him off to the ground and turning upon him rips out his bowels while at the same time, with the hilt of the sword still in his hand, Diarmuid dashes out the brains of the beast and it falls dead beside him.

The implacable Fionn then comes up, and stands over Diarmuid in his agony. "It likes me well to see you in that plight, Diarmuid," he says, "and I would that all the women in Ireland saw you now for your excellent beauty is turned to ugliness and your choice form to deformity." Diarmuid reminds Fionn of how he once rescued him from deadly danger when attacked during a feast at the house of Derc and begs him to heal him with a draught of water from his hands as it was well known that Fionn had the magic gift of restoring any wounded man to health with a draught of water drawn from the well in his two hands. "There is no well," says Fionn. "That is not true," says Diarmuid, "for nine paces from you is the best well of pure water in the world." Fionn, at last, on the entreaty of Oscar and the Fianna and after the recital of many deeds done for his sake by Diarmuid in old days, goes to the well but before he brings the water to Diarmuid's side he lets it fall through his fingers. A second time he goes and a second time he lets the water fall and Diarmuid gave a sigh of anguish on seeing this. Oscar then warns that "if Fionn does not bring the water quickly either he or Fionn shall never leave the hill alive" so Fionn goes once more to the well but it is now too late. Diarmuid dies before the healing draught can reach his lips.

Fionn then leaves taking Diarmuid's hound with him. The warriors of the Fianna lay their cloaks over the dead man and they return to Gráinne. Gráinne, seeing the hound led by Fionn, realised what has happened and swoons upon the rampart of the Rath. Later, when she revives, Oisín gives her the hound much against the will of Fionn and the Fianna return to the Hill of Allen leaving her to her sorrow.

When the people of Gráinne's household go out to fetch in the body of Diarmuid they find there Aongus Óg, his foster father and his followers from the Tuatha de Danann who, after raising three bitter and terrible cries, bear away the body on a gilded bier and Aongus declares that though he cannot restore the dead to life, "I will send a soul into him so that he may talk with me each day."

Gráinne is at first enraged with Fionn, and sends her sons abroad to learn feats of arms so that they may take vengeance upon him when the time is ripe. But Fionn, wily and far-seeing as he is portrayed in this tale, knows how to forestall this danger. When the tragedy on Ben Bulben has begun to "grow a little faint in the shallow soul of Gráinne", he visits her and though at first he "meets with scorn and indignation" he woos her so sweetly and with such tenderness that at last he brings her back as a bride to the Hill of Allen. When the Fianna see the pair coming towards them in this loving guise they burst into a shout of laughter and derision, "so that Gráinne bowed her head in shame."

[Fairlie]

Etymology of the Name Ireland, Éire, Erin

In Gaelic myth, Ériu, Banbha and Fódla were three goddesses who greeted the Milesians upon their arrival in Ireland, and who granted them custody of the island.

Ériu is generally believed to have been the matron goddess of Ireland, a goddess of sovereignty, or simply a goddess of the land. The origin of Ériu has been traced to the Proto-Celtic (800 B.C.) reconstruction.

Hibernia (ancient name and Latin variant): apparently assimilated to Latin hibernus ("wintry").

Ireland is known as Eirinn in Scottish Gaelic, from a grammatical case of Éire. In the fellow Celtic languages: in Welsh it is Iwerddon; in Cornish it is Ywerdhon or Worthen; and in Breton it is Iwerzhon.

In Gaelic bardic tradition Ireland is also known by the poetical names of Banbha (meaning "piglet") and Fódhla. The Proto-Indo-European reconstruction of the Irish language suggests a meaning of "abundant land".

It is highly likely that explorers borrowed and modified this term. During his exploration of northwest Europe (circa 320 B.C.), Pytheas of Massilia (350 B.C. - 285 B.C.) called the island Ierne. In his book Geographia (circa A.D. 150), Claudius Ptolemaeus (A.D. 90 - A.D. 168) called the island Iouernia. Based on these historical accounts, the Roman Empire called the island Hibernia.

While Éire is simply the name for the island of Ireland in the Irish language, and sometimes used in English, Erin is a common poetic name for Ireland, as in "Erin go bragh." The distinction between the two is one of the difference between cases of nouns in Irish.

[Fairlie]

Leprechaun: Ireland’s Most Distinguished Fairy


The following is an excerpt from an article of the same title, first published on the website: Tales and Whispers.



The Leprechaun, today, is well known for its stereotypical image, commonly associated lightheartedly to Ireland, but this wasn’t always the case. Scholars of Literature, Nobel Prize winners and folklorists have written about this solitary faery, and have done so in a serious manner. In fact, The Leprechaun, according to folklorist Thomas C. Croker, during the 1800’s was even explained in the Irish court of Justice! One could assume, this could be due to the notion that fairies, including the Leprechaun, happened to exist at one time but continued to shrink into non-existence, and with them, many of their stories. Fairies, in general, are often said to have descended from the Tuatha de Danann. They were Gods that shrunk in size due to the loss of worship with the coming of Christianity. Some have direct linkages and some are impossible to trace back to their former selves. The Leprechaun is an interesting case. There’s no real way to pinpoint, a definitive starting point for this creature, as he has evolved so much since its origins. Stories about the Irish Leprechaun are dependent on when and where the stories originated from. His dress, moods and even his name can change as you search across the island of Ireland. One thing that is for certain, is that this little island must have been a greatly more interesting place with their presence, than without!

The Shoemaker



“There was another class of beings, unlike fairies, of diminutive stature, who also were believed to be much interestedin human affairs ; of these the most popular was the Luchryman (recte, Leith-bhrogan, i.e., the artisan of the shoe or brogue), because he was always found, when discovered by the human eye, busily engaged in mending or making a shoe. This tiny sprite always proved very cunning, when surprised by the human eye resting upon him, and used many wily inventions to induce the beholder to look one way or the other, when he became instantly invisible, and was never seen after. If he did not thus succeed in baffling the mortal, the latter had him completely in his power, and had nothing more to do than to capture the wealthy sprite ; but he could be bound by no manacles except a plough-chain, or a clue of woollen thread manufactured by the industrious housewife. The Luchryman possessed a twofold source of wealth, one, a treasure hidden in the earth, which he bestowed on the husbandman ; and the other, sparan na sgillinge, an inexhaustible purse, which always contained a piece of money ; this purse he gave to the merchant or dealer only. The Luchryman was the type of industry : if the beholder, or he who made industry his principal object, turned his eye to the right or left from the motive of his pursuit, then, like the Luchryman, he was certain to be disappointed, and lose his golden prize. The nature too of the bonds, by which alone the sprite could be possibly bound, is emblematical of industry. So firm was the belief in the existence of the Luchryman, that if a farmer was known to better his condition by industry and economy, or a trader to grow wealthy by honest dealing, they were said to have captured a Luchryman, and robbed him of his treasure or inexhaustible purse.”

- N. O’Kearney, 1854

Nowadays people know the Leprechaun as a jolly little sprite, wearing a green jacket, matching top hat, black leather boots and possibly, a dudeen (pipe) hanging from his mouth; or worse again, peering from a cereal box, with the cheesiest grin one commercially driven cartoonist could muster. Although this little figure has similarities to our Leprechaun, this version is not only bastardized, but it is laughable. Traditionally, he is more often found to be wearing a red waist coat and matching paddy hat. He is commonly known, throughout Ireland, as being the only working fairy; a cobbler that makes the finest footwear and clothing that money can buy. In fact, Lady Wilde wrote in 1888:

“The Leprehauns are merry, industrious, tricksy little sprites, who do all the shoemaker's work and the tailor's and the cobbler's for the fairy gentry, and are often seen at sunset under the hedge singing and stitching. They know all the secrets of hidden treasure, and if they take a fancy to a person will guide him to the spot in the fairy rath where the pot of gold lies buried.”
- The Leprechaun, 1888

It is sometimes rumored that the reason he has a pot of gold is due to his trade. A very popular tradesman, the leprechaun made the clothing for all of the fairies who in turn, paid him in gold. Some say, his work ethic was driven solely by greed and, unlike what is commonly thought, he was not always found to be jolly. The introduction of a rainbow, to this cunning little fellow’s tale, is a modern addition and is never mentioned in authentic tales. One thing is clear; stories of our Irish Leprechaun can be dependent on different factors. Interestingly, he was not always known for his hard graft or his hidden fortune and most importantly, he was not even always known by the same name.
For example, in the county of Kildare he was known as "the Lurikeen." A Treasury of Irish Folklore, by Padraic Collum describes the Kildare Lurikeen exactly the same as Lady Widle’s Leprehaun, and exhibits all the common traits that we know.

There is a story depicting a leprechaun, who was working under a hedge row when a girl caught him in her hands and refused to release him until he produced the gold. The story ends, as many others do, with the seemingly dimwitted Leprechaun convincing his captor to avert their eyes and when doing so, he disappears into thin air. It is important to note that although the Leprechaun was known for his greed, the greed, in this case, happens to sit on the side of the abductors. The Fairy in these stories is always found working, not counting his riches. His only greed-like trait is that he does not want to part with his hard earned money…. and why would he?

The Drunk and the Prankster



N. O'Kearney states that:

“The Clobhar-ceann was another being of the same class: he was a jolly, red-faced, drunken little fellow, and was ever found in the cellars of the debauchee, Bacchus-like, astride of the wine butt with brimful tankard in hand, drinking and singing away merrily. Any wine-cellar known to be haunted by this sprite, was doomed to bring its owner to speedy ruin.”
Kearney’s Clobhar-ceann (or its more well-known translation, "The Clurichaun") suggests that he wore clover upon hishat or head. He was found more so in the province of Munster, but the name was not the only differing attribute. The Clurichaun was a creature that found his way to your cellar and would drink your reserves. Was he a leprechaun that has lost his way and found too much of a liking for the good stuff? WB Yeats writes, “Even if you move house, the Clurichaun will find his way with you.”

On the other hand, Thomas Crofton Croker’s version of Cluricaune, in the story ‘The Little Shoe’, was in fact a cobbler and true to the hard working Leprechaun ways. It would seem that, their names were the only difference between the Clurichaun and the Leprechaun.

The Far Darrig, on the other hand, is a curious character. It is not alcohol that he desires, but to play some sinister pranks. He was often found in the west and north, mountainous parts, of the country. These are the areas where the stills would be brewing on the hill sides. When you mix some mountainous woodland and more than a few drops of the Pure (also known as the Poitín) there isn't much doubt that you’ll encounter a few Far Darrigs! In fact, Letitia Mac Clintock’s story ‘



The Far Darrig of Donegal’ is truly sinister indeed; A prankster that leads a travelling man on a series of events that almost results in his death. But is he a Leprechaun, using magic and trickery, or is he different altogether? Maybe the Far Darrig is a Clurichaun, that cannot find a wine cellar. Perhaps the differences depend on age.

“Fir Darrig, correctly written Fear Dearg, means the red man, and is a member of the fairy community ofIreland, who bears a strong resemblance to the Shakespearian Puck, or Robin Goodfellow. Like that merry goblin, his delight is in mischief and mockery; and this Irish spirit is doubtless the same as the Scottish Red Cap. The red dress and strange flexibility of voice possessed by the Fir Darrig form his peculiar characteristics; the latter, according to Irish tale-tellers, is like the sound of the waves ; and again it is compared to the music of angels ; the warbling of birds, &c, ; and the usual address to this fairy is, do not mock us. His entire dress, when he is seen, is invariably described as crimson ; whereas, Irish fairies generally appear in a black hat, a green suit, white stockings, and red shoes.”
- Thomas Crofton Croker, Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland 1834

Thomas Crofton Croker tells of stories of both the Clurichaun and Far Darrig. His Far Darrig is also a prankster in ‘The Lucky Guest’ but does not show himself to the people he is haunting. In different situations, this Far Darrig could be labeled as the Clurichaun, and would still be believable. It is fair to say that Thomas Crofton Croker saw the Far Darrig as its own spirit entirely. Alternatively, one may consider it highly plausible, that The Far Darrig, is a fairy in its youthful mischief stage, the Leprechaun reaching a midlife maturity works hard, and the Clurichaun, later on in life, retires with an alcohol problem!

Same or Different?

Notice how Croker does not mention a resemblance to the Clurichaun; so why Yeats’ connection? Yeats refers to Croker’s work quite regularly. Could it be that time and geography were elements that changed the Clurichaun into the Far Darrig? Not knowing the exact origin of Leprechaun or his counterparts it is hard to say, but you could imagine stories of the Clurichaun, wearing his red waistcoat, traveling North from the South West of Ireland and upon its return it was something new, something different. It was the Red Man, the Fear Dearg. In pre 1800’s Ireland, it is easy to imagine how long it would take for a person to travel from Cork where the Clurichaun lives to Donegal where the Far Darrig is known. Surely the person making the journey would change by the time of his return. Stories would be heard and forgotten changed and passed on, misunderstood in translation and adapted to suit the listeners’ wants and needs.

“The main point of distinction between the Cluricaune and the Shefro (Trooping Fairies), arises from the sottish and solitary habits of the former, who are rarely found in troops or communities. The Cluricaune of the county of Cork, the Luricaune of Kerry, and the Lurigadaune of Tipperary, appear to be the same as the Leprechan or Leprochaune of Leinster, and the Loghery-man of Ulster ; and these words are probably all provincialisms of LUACÁNMAN the Irish for a pigmy.”
- Thomas Crofton Croker

The Love Talker

Was Kearney’s Geancanach, at one time, another mood of our Leprechaun?

“The Gean-canach (love-talker) was another diminutive being of the same tribe, but, unlike the Luchryman, he personated love and idleness, and always appeared with a dudeen in his jaw in lonesome valleys, and it was his custom to make love to shepherdesses and milkmaids : it was considered very unlucky to meet him ; and whoever was known to have ruined his fortune by devotion to the fair sex was said to have met a Geancanach. The dudeen, or ancient Irish tobacco pipe found in our raths, is still popularly called a Geancanach’s pipe.”
- N. O’Kearney, 1854

Summary

“The Lepracaun, Cluricaun, and Far Darrig. Are these one spirit in different moods and shapes? Hardly two Irish writers are agreed. In many things these three fairies, if three, resemble each other. They are withered, old, and solitary. They dress with all unfairy homeliness, and are, indeed, most sluttish, slouching, jeering, mischievous phantoms. They are the practical jokers among the good people.”
- W.B. Yeats, "Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry," 1889

The misrepresentations of the creature commonly known as The Leprechaun are endless; too many to include in this piece. Could it be that the many personalities named here are individuals that were at one time part of the Shefro or Sheogue; the trooping Fairies? This question, along with others surrounding the elusive Leprechaun, were unsolved in the time where the Leprechaun walked freely by the hedgerows, and today it is going to remain that way. We now know what the leprechaun has become, but we do not know where he originated from. Like his stories, he seems to have just appeared subtly in the background and the people of old Ireland kept him alive passing him through the oral tradition of storytelling...slowly warping him. However, like the creature himself, it seems that by taking our gaze off of him, we have let his true self disappear into the thin air from which he arrived. Whatever the origins, changes, pronunciations or names of the Leprechaun, none are greater than the stereotype we know today. The green dress of the modern Leprechaun can be found in Irish folklore, but it is as rare as seeing the Leprechaun himself. It seems the maker of the modern Leprechaun has taken the tiniest snippet from all the originals, added a village idiot theme and spread the word.

[Fairlie]

Leanaí Lir - Children of Lir

Long ago when the Tuatha De Danaan lived in Ireland there was a great King called Lir. He had four children--Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiacra, and Conn. Fionnuala was the eldest and she was as beautiful as sunshine in blossomed branches; Aodh was like a young eagle in the blue of the sky; and his two brothers, Fiacra and Conn, were as beautiful as running water.

In those days sorrow was not known in Ireland: the mountains were crowned with light, and the lakes and rivers had strange starlike flowers that shook a rain of jewelled dust on the white horses of the De Danaans when they came down to drink. The horses were swifter than any horses that are living now and they could go over the waves of the sea and under deep lake-water without hurt to themselves. Lir's four children had each one a white horse and two hounds that were whiter than snow.

Every one in Lir's kingdom loved Fionnuala, and Aodh, and Fiacra, and Conn, except their step-mother, Aoifa. She hated them, and her hatred pursued them as a wolf pursues a wounded fawn. She sought to harm them by spells and witchcraft. She took them in her chariot to the Lake of Darvra in Westmeath. She made them bathe in the lake and when they were coming out of the water she struck them with a rod of enchantment and turned them into four white swans.

Swim as wild swans on this lake," she said, "for three hundred years, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the narrow sea of the Moyle, and when that time is ended swim three hundred years on the Western Sea that has no bounds but the sky."

Then Fionnuala, that was a swan, said:

"O Wicked Woman, a doom will come upon you heavier than the doom you have put on us and you will be more sorrowful than we are to-day. And if you would win any pity in the hour of your calamity tell us now how we may know when the doom will end for us."

"The doom will end when a king from the North weds a queen from the South; when a druid with a shaven crown comes over the seas; when you hear the sound of a little bell that rings for prayers."

The swans spread their wings and flew away over the lake. They made a very sorrowful singing as they went, lamenting for themselves.

When the Great King, their father, knew the sorrow that had come to him, he hastened down to the shore of the lake and called his children.

They came flying to him, four white swans, and he said:

"Come to me, Fionnuala; come Aodh; come Conn; come Fiacra." He put his hands on them and caressed them and said: " I cannot give you back your shapes till the doom that is laid on you is ended, but come back now to the house that is mine and yours, White Children of my Heart."

Then Fionnuala answered him:

"The shadow of the woman who ensnared us lies on the threshold of your door: we cannot cross it."

And Lir said:

"The woman who ensnared you is far from any home this night. She is herself ensnared, and fierce winds drive her into all the restless places of the earth. She has lost her beauty and become terrible; she is a Demon of the Air, and must wander desolate to the end of time--but for you there is the firelight of home. Come back with me."

Then Conn said:

"May good fortune be on the threshold of your door from this time and for ever, but we cannot cross it, for we have the hearts of wild swans and we must fly in the dusk and feel the water moving under our bodies; we must hear the lonesome cries of the night. We have the voices only of the children you knew; we have the songs you taught us--that is all. Gold crowns are red in the firelight, but redder and fairer is dawn."

Lir stretched out his hands and blessed his children. He said:

"May all beautiful things grow henceforth more beautiful to you, and may the song you have be melody in the heart of whoever hears it. May your wings winnow joy for you out of the air, and your feet be glad in the water-ways. My blessing be on you till the sea loses its saltness and the trees forget to bud in springtime. And farewell, Fionnuala, my white blossom; and farewell Aodh, that was the red flame of my heart; and farewell, Conn, that brought me gladness; and farewell, Fiacra, my treasure. Lonesome it is for you, flying far off in places strange to you; lonesome it is for me without you. Bitter it is to say farewell, and farewell, and nothing else but farewell."

Lir covered his face with his mantle and sorrow was heavy on him, but the swans rose into the air and flew away calling to each other. They called with the voices of children, but in their heart was the gladness of swans when they feel the air beneath them and stretch their necks to the freedom of the sky.

Three hundred years they flew over Lake Darvra and swam on its waters. Often their father came to the lake and called them to him and caressed them; often their kinsfolk came to talk with them; often harpers and musicians came to listen to the wonder of their singing. When three hundred years were ended the swans rose suddenly and flew far and far away. Their father sought them, and their kinsfolk sought them, but the swans never touched earth or rested once till they came to the narrow Sea of the Moyle that flows between Ireland and Scotland. A cold stormy sea it was, and lonely. The swans had no one to listen to their singing, and little heart for singing amid the green curling bitter waves. The storm-wind beat roughly on them, and often they were separated and calling to one another without hope of an answer. Then Fionnuala, for she was the wisest, said:

"Let us choose a place of meeting, so that when we are separated and lost and wandering each one will know where to wait for the others.

The swans, her brothers, said it was a good thought; they agreed to meet together in one place, and the place they chose was Carraig-na-Ron, the Rock of the Seals. And it was well they made that choice, for a great storm came on them one night and scattered them far out over the sea. Their voices were drowned in the tempest and they were driven hither and thither in the darkness.

In the pale morning Fionnuala came to the Rock of the Seals. Her feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saitness of the sea and she was lamenting and calling on Aodh and Fiacra and Conn.

"O Conn, that I sheltered under my feathers, come to me! O Fiacra, come to me! O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!"

And when she did not see them, and no voice answered, she made a sore lamentation and said:

"O bitter night that was blacker than the doom of Aoifa at the first to us! O three that I loved! O three that I loved! The waves are over your heads and I am desolate!"

She saw the red sun rising, and when the redness touched the waters, Conn came flying to her. His feathers were broken with the wind and draggled with the saltness of the sea. Fionnuala gathered him under her wings and comforted him, and she said:

"The day would not seem bitter to me now if only Aodh and Fiacra were come."

In a little while Fiacra came to her over the rough sea. She sheltered and comforted him with her wings, and she cried over the waters:

"O Aodh, Aodh, Aodh, come to me!"

The sun was high in the heavens when Aodh came, and he came with his feathers bright and shining and no trace of the bitter storm on him.

"O where have you been, Aodh?" said Fionnuala and Fiacra and Conn to him.

"I have been flying where I got sight of our kinsfolk. I have seen the white steeds that are swifter than the winds of March, and the riders that were comrades to us when we had Our own shapes. I have seen Aodh and Fergus, the two sons of Bove Dearg."

"O tell us, Aodh, where we may get sight of them!" said the swans.

"They are at the river mouth of the Ban," said Aodh, "Let us go there, and we may see them though we cannot leave the Moyle."

So much gladness came on all the swans that they forgot their weariness and the grievous buffeting of the storm and they rose and flew to the river mouth of the Bann. They saw their kinsfolk, the beautiful company of the Faery Host, shining with every colour under heaven and joyous as the wind in Springtime.

"O tell us, dear kinsfolk," said the swans, " how it is with our father?"

"The Great King has wrapped his robes of beauty about him, and feasts with those from whom age cannot take youth and light-hearted-ness," said Fergus.

"Ah," said Fionnuala, " he feasts and it is well with him! The joy-flame on his hearth cannot quench itself in ashes. He cannot hear us calling through the night--the wild swans, the wanderers, the lost children."

The Faery Host was troubled, seeing the piteous plight of the swans, but Aodh, that was a swan said to Fergus, his kinsman and comrade:

"Do not cloud your face for us, Fergus; the horse you ride is white, but I ride a whiter--the cold curling white wave of the sea."

Then Fiacra said:

"O Fergus, does my own white horse forget me, now that I am here in the cold Moyle?"

And Conn said:

"O Fergus, tell my two hounds that I will come back to them some day."

The memory of all beautiful things came on the swans, and they were sorrowful, and Fionnuala said:

"O beautiful comrades, I never thought that beauty could bring sorrow: now the sight of it breaks my heart," and she said to her brothers:

"Let us go before our hearts are melted utterly." The swans went over the Moyle then, and they were lamenting, and Fionnuala said:

"There is joy and feasting in the house of Lir to-night, but his four children are without a roof to cover them."

"It is a poor garment our feathers make when the wind blows through them: often we had the purple of kings' children on us.

"We are cold to-night, and it is a cold bed the sea makes: often we had beds of down with broidered coverings.

"Often we drank mead from gold cups in the house of our father; now we have the bitterness of the sea and the harshness of sand in our mouths.

"It is weariness--O a great weariness--to be flying over the Moyle; without rest, without cornpanions, without comfort.

"I am thinking of Angus to-night: he has the laughter of joy about him for ever.

"I am thinking to-night of Mananaun, and of white blossoms on silver branches.

"O swans, my brothers, I am thinking of beauty, and we are flying away from it for ever."

The swans did not see the company of the Faery Host again. They swam on the cold stormy sea of the Moyle, and they were there till three hundred years were ended.

"It is time for us to go," said Fionnuala, "we must seek the Western Sea."

The swans shook the water of the Moyle from their feathers and stretched out their wings to fly.

When they were come to the Western Sea there was sorrow on them, for the sea was wilder and colder and more terrible than the Moyle. The swans were on that sea and flying over it for three hundred years, and all that time they had no comfort, and never once did they hear the foot-fall of hound or horse or see their faery kinsfolk.

When the time was ended, the swans rose out of the water and cried joyfully to each other:

"Let us go home now, the time is ended!"

They flew swiftly, and yet they were all day flying before they came to the place where Lir had his dwelling; when they looked down they saw no light in the house, they heard no music, no sound of voices. The many-coloured house was desolate and all the beauty was gone from it; the white hounds and the brightmaned horses were gone, and all the beautiful glad-hearted folk of the Sidhe.

"Every place is dark to us!" said Conn. "Look at the hills!"

The swans looked at the hills they had known, and every hill and mountain they could see was dark and sorrowful: not one had a star-heart of light, not one had a flame-crown, not one had music pulsing through it like a great breath.

"O Aodh, and Conn, and Fiacra," said Fionnuala, "beauty is gone from the earth: we have no home now!"



The swans hid themselves in the long dank grass, till morning. They did not speak to each other; they did not make a lamentation; they were silent with heaviness of grief. When they felt the light of morning they rose in the air and flew in wide circles seeking their kinsfolk. They saw the dwellings of strangers, and a strange people tending flocks and sowing corn on plains where the Tuatha De Danaan had hunted white stags with horns of silver.

"The grief of all griefs has come upon us!" said Fionnuala. "It is no matter now whether we have the green earth under us or bitter sea-waves: it is little to us now that we are in swans' bodies."

Her brothers had no words to answer her; they were dumb with grief till Aodh said:

"Let us fly far from the desolate house and the dead hills. Let us go where we can hear the thunder of the Western Sea."

The swans spread their wings and flew westward till they came to a little reedy lake, and they alit there and sheltered themselves, for they had no heart to go farther.

They took no notice of the days and often they did not know whether it was the moon or the sun that was in the sky, but they sang to each other, and that was all the comfort they had.

One day, while Fionnuala was singing, a man of the stranger-race drew near to listen. He had the aspect of one who had endured much hardship. His garments were poor and ragged. His hair was bleached by sun and rain. As he listened to the song a light came into his eyes and his whole face grew beautiful. When the song ended he bowed himself before the swans and said:

"White Swans of the Wilderness, ye have flown over many lands. Tell me, have ye seen aught of Tir-nan-Oge, where no one loses youth; or Tir-na-Moe, where all that is beautiful lives for ever; or Moy-Mell, that is so honey-sweet with blossom?"

"Have we seen Tir-nan-Oge? It is our own country! We are the children of Lir the King of it."

"Where is that country? How may one reach it? Tell me! "

"Ochone! It is not anywhere on the ridge of the world. Our father's house is desolate! "

"Ye are lying, to make sport for yourselves! Tir-nan-Oge cannot perish--rather would the whole world fall to ruin!

"O would we had anything but the bitterness of truth on our tongues!" said Aodh. "Would we could see even one leaf from those trees with shining branches where the many-coloured birds used to sing! Ochone! Ochone! for all the beauty that has perished with Tir-nan-Oge!"

The stranger cried out a loud sorrowful cry and threw himself on the ground. His fingers tore at the roots of the grass. His body writhed and trembled with grief.

The children of Lir wondered at him, and Aodh said:

"Put away this fierceness of grief and take consolation to yourself. We, with so much heavier sorrow, have not lamented after this fashion."

The stranger raised himself: his eyes blazed like the eyes of a hunted animal when it turns on the hunters.

"How could your sorrow be equal to mine? Ye have dwelt in Tir-nan-Oge; ye have ridden horses whiter than the snow of one night and swifter than the storm-wind; ye have gathered flowers in the Plain of Honey. But I have never seen it--never once! Look at me! I was born a king! I have become an outcast, the laughing stock of slaves! I am Aibric the wanderer!--I have given all--all, for the hope of finding that country. It is gone now--it is not anywhere on the round of the world!"

"Stay with us," said Fiacra, "and we will sing for you, and tell you stories of Tir-nan-Oge."

"I cannot stay with you! I cannot listen to your songs! I must go on seeking; seeking;

seeking while I live. When I am dead my dreams will not torment me. I shall have my fill of quietness then."

"Can you not believe us when we tell you that Tir-nan-Oge is gone like the white mists of morning? It is nowhere."

"It is in my heart, and in my mind, and in my soul! It burns like fire! It drives me like a tireless wind! I am going. Farewell!

"Stay!" cried Aodh, "we will go with you. There is nothing anywhere for us now but brown earth and drifting clouds and wan waters. Why should we not go from place to place as the wind goes, and see each day new fields of reeds, new forest trees, new mountains? O, we shall never see the star-heart in any mountain again! "

"The mountains are dead," said Conn.

"The mountains are not dead," said Aibric. "They are dark and silent, but they are not dead. I know. I have cried to them in the night and laid my forehead against theirs and felt the beating of their mighty hearts. They are wiser than the wisest druid, more tender than the tenderest mother. It is they who keep the world alive."

"O," said Fionnuala, " if the mountains are indeed alive let us go to them; let us tell them our sorrowful story. They will pity us and we shall not be utterly desolate."

Aibric and the swans journeyed together, and at dusk they came to a tall beautiful mountain--the mountain that is called Nephin, in the West.

It looked dark and sombre against the fading sky, and. the sight of it, discrowned and silent, struck chill to the hearts of our wild swans: they turned away their heads to hide the tears in their eyes. But Aibric stretched his hands to the mountain and cried out:

"O beautiful glorious Comrade, pity us! Tir-nan-Oge is no more, and Moy-Mell is lost for ever! Welcome the children of Lir, for we have nothing left but you and the earth of Ireland!"

Then a wonder happened.

The star-heart of Nephin shone out--magnificent--tremulous--coloured like a pale amethyst.

The swans cried out to each other:

"The mountain is alive! Beauty has come again to the earth! Aibric, you have given us back the Land of Youth!"

A delicate faery music trembled and died away and was born again in the still evening air, and more and more the radiance deepened in the heart of Nephin. The swans began to sing most sweetly and joyously, and at the sound of that singing the star-heart showed in mountain after mountain till every mountain in Ireland pulsed and shone.

"Crown yourselves, mountains!" said Aodh, "that we may know the De Danaans are still alive and Lir's house is builded now where old age cannot wither it! "

The mountains sent up great jewelled rays of light so that each one was crowned with a rainbow; and when the Children of Lir saw that splendour they had no more thought of the years they had spent over dark troublous waters, and they said to each other:

"Would we could hear the sound of the little bell that rings for prayers, and feel our swan-bodies fall from us!"

"I know the sound of a bell that rings for prayers," said Aibric, " and I will bring you where you can hear it. I will bring you to Saint Kemoc and you will hear the sound of his bell."

"Let us go," said the swans, and Aibric brought them to the Saint. The Saint held up his hands and blessed God when he saw them, and he besought them to remain a while and to tell him the story of their wanderings. He brought them into his little church and they were there with him in peace and happiness relating to him the wonders of the Land of Youth. It came to pass then that word reached the wife of King Largnen concerning the swans: she asked the king to get them for her, and because she demanded them with vehemence, the king journeyed to the Church of Saint Kemoc to get the swans.

When he was come, Saint Kemoc refused to give him the swans and Largnen forced his way into the church to take them. Now, he was a king of the North, and his wife was a queen of the South, and it was ordained that such a king should put an end to the power of Aoifa's spell.

He came to the altar, and the swans were close to it. He put his hands on the swans to take them by force. When he touched them the swan-feathers dwindled and shrivelled and became as fine dust, and the bodies of Lir's children became as a handful of dust, but their spirits attained to freedom and joined their kinsfolk in the Land-of-the-Ever-Living.

It was Aibric who remembered the story of the children of Lir, because he loved them. He told the story to the people of Ireland, and they were so fond of the story and had such pity for Lir's children that they made a law that no one was to hurt a wild swan, and when they saw a swan flying they would say:

"My blessing with you, white swan, for the sake of Lir's children!"

[Fairlie]

The Fairies

Irish folk lore is part of our heritage and the tradition of storytelling runs strongly through our veins. It would be difficult to find an Irish person who did not hear the stories of ‘Oisin in the Land of Youth’ or ‘The Children of King Lir’. In the nineteenth century Crofton Croker published ‘Fairy Legends’, Patrick Kennedy’s book ‘The Fireside stories of Ireland’ was popular and Lady Wild published ‘Ancient Legends’. An American by the name of Jeremiah Curtin also collected around twenty stories. In some cases the stories were altered for the English market and the Gaelic speaking communities, who cradled Irish folk lore, were seldom consulted. In the following century works by Douglas Hyde and Lady Gregory were widely read. Douglas Hyde was a fluent Irish speaker and Lady Gregory published works by ‘Blind Raftery of Connaught’ who is considered by many to be one of Ireland’s finest poets. Most of the published works at this time were based on stories gathered in the south, south east and west of Ireland. There are many old stories which were never put into print and this short article mentions some stories from the Finn Valley area.

Over two thousand years ago the Milesians conquered Ireland and banished the residing people, who were known as the Fir Blog, to remote parts of the country. It is written in Irish folk lore that this was a time of supernatural people, of gods and magic. The Fir Bolg practised abstruse arts, from which they obtained the reputation of being magicians. Some believe the Fir Bolgg went underground at this time and they are known today as fairies. A more popular belief is that the fairies are banished angels who refused to take sides when St. Michael crushed the rebellion in heaven.

In Irish mythology we hear of different creatures like the headless horseman who might be seen around midnight on certain Irish feast days. This sighting generally precedes an accident close to where vision appeared. Another creature which takes the shape of a black stallion with burning yellow eyes is said to roam the countryside at night causing damage to remote farmlands.

There is mention of the fairies secretly changing a fairy child for a human baby (as depicted in the image at right). This fairy child is referred to as a changeling and the fairy is only content when there is disruption in the home. There are no stories fairies of dying and the general consensus would be that they are creatures from the underworld and live forever.

The Leprechaun is perhaps one of the best known fairies whom every youngster dreams of catching as it is believed he has the power to grant three wishes in order to secure his release. However, you must be mindful of his cunning and ability to play practical jokes. The Leprechaun is a solitary creature who usually takes the appearance of a small elderly man dressed in a green or red coat. He enjoys mending shoes and counting his money. We would all like to have his pot of gold.

The Banshee is also from the fairy world and she injects fear into those who see or hear her. People who have seen the Banshee say her appearance is ghostly and her frightful crying is the foretelling of a local death.

You will find someone in every town and village in Ireland who will have yarns about the activities of fairies in the area. The fairies have been active in Donegal for generations and taking into account that there have been claims of recent sightings, it would appear they have no intention of moving out anytime soon.

In the Stranorlar area around seventy years ago a young man had an unusual experience with a Banshee. He was walking into the town when the eerie sight of the Banshee confronted him. The unusual thing about this encounter was that the Banshee was not crying her usual death song, she was completely silent. The man was in his twenties and if the shock of seeing the Banshee was not enough then what happened next probably would have scared the life out of an older person. As he sprinted as fast as his body would permit towards the town he saw a woman approaching from the Main Street. As he closed the gap to around twenty yards he recognised the woman. She had been dead for over a year. He fell to the ground with shock and when he got up the woman had vanished. It was then he heard the crying of the Banshee behind him. Later that night the dead woman’s husband died.

Some people believe in spirits and most would agree that they cannot harm you. In Ireland, It is said that spirits like the headless horseman and the banshee (depicted in the image at left) can only occasionally be seen by people with old Gaelic surnames.

It is only fair to mention that probably the majority of people would view such claims with some scepticism but how many of us would rush to pull down a fairy fort? There is a wider belief that the unusual phenomena of three knocks preceding a family death is a sign from the spirit world.

In more recent times a young farmer had a chance meeting with a fairy between Ballybofey and Letterkenny. He was walking in a neighbour’s field with his dog and dragging a stick along the grass beside a stream. All of a sudden a very small man raced up the stick at speed, ran across the farmer’s shoulders and jumped on to the dog’s tail. He proceeded to race at lightening speed to the tip of the dog’s nose whereupon he jumped and disappeared into the stream. The dog took off and rather than race towards the gate, he headed for the nearest ditch and ran clean through it in order to make a hasty escape. When the farmer’s wife saw the dog scratching frantically at the door to get inside, she knew something had happened. Later when her husband got home and had time to settle his nerves, the only explanation he had was that he must have surprised the fairy sleeping beside the burn. The farmer or the dog never entered the field again.

The following story was told in the Gaelic language and handed down for many generations in the Glenfinn area.

Many years ago a family residing in the Cloghan area had a double encounter with the fairies. One evening in a small farm house, the farmer’s wife was doing the usual household chores when she heard a tapping sound behind her in the pantry. When she turned around a small man about a foot tall, dressed in a green suit with green buckled shoes, was standing there. Although she was frightened, she sensed he meant her no harm as he had his hands behind his back and he was tapping his foot on the ground. ‘Don’t be afraid, I mean you no harm’ he said. The woman asked him what he wanted and he said ‘The waste water you are throwing out the back door every day is running into our fort. Walk twenty paces towards the oak tree before you dump it and you’ll have good luck.’ With that he was gone and the woman did as the fairy had asked from then on.

The small farm was not the best of land and animals often got sick. On top of this, the woman’s husband was fond of the cards and drink and she was left mostly on her own to run the farm and rear the children. One evening after he sold stock at a fair in Stranorlar he hit the bottle and went to a card game in the town land of Drim. His was a poor card player and around three in the morning when his money was gone; he bid the party farewell and started home. There is an old saying that it is unlucky to carry cards across a bridge after twelve o clock at night and when he reached Drim Bridge he heard a tapping sound behind him. As he looked around, he could see in the moonlight around thirty fairies and the fairy in front was dressed in a green suit with green buckled shoes. He was tapping a leather football with ease on the road and as the man turned to run, the fairy let rip and struck him on the head with the ball. The man ran for miles and the fairies followed, competing for every kick and striking their target with every blow. He never drank or played cards after that night and the family fortunes greatly improved from then on. For many years after this incident few people would walk the Drim Road, which stretches for about two miles, after dark.

At right: Wild Geese member Jim Fitzpatrick's "Snow Faerie"

There are many who would say that these tales were nothing more than fireside stories which were popular at a time before Edison invented the light bulb. But it could be said that there is at least a moral to each story. You shouldn’t enter your neighbour’s field, play cards after twelve o clock at night, have alcohol taken crossing Drim Bridge or throw water outside your back door. Other people would say that there is a fine line between fact and fiction and we see this in our history going back over two thousand years. Some historians believe that Finn Mac Cumhail did exist, but the stories surrounding him in Irish folk lore were blown out of such proportion that he sometimes is referred to as being a giant. Stories surrounding St Patrick are also mixed with Irish folk lore. But leaving aside ones beliefs, there is no denying that the Irish Leprechaun is probably Ireland’s best ambassador appearing in books, in films and marching in major cities all over the world on the seventeenth of March each year.

[Tricia]

Great stuff Fairlie it has many hits I see