by Wendy Hawkin | Jul 25, 2017 | Ireland, journal, mythology, travel
If you enjoy the experience of visiting sacred sites, Uisneach (pronounced ish-neck) is one you should not miss. It has all the magic and myth of places like Tara and Newgrange, but it’s off the tourist trail, so you can enjoy a heartwarming trek with a small group. It is in the process of becoming a UNESCO site, so this may not last. The space has a warm and friendly energy, and is staffed by just two (at least the day I went). Justin met me and invited me into the Visitor’s Centre for tea and biscuits. He is an archaeology expert and knows much about this site and others like it in Ireland. He also provided tea and biscuits after the two-hour tour and people had opportunities to converse and ask questions. (The tour begins at 1pm daily–closed Monday and Tuesday.)
Marty was our wonderful storyteller. Here he is explaining how this 10,000-year-old glacial rock is actually the bellybutton of Ireland.
The two-hour tour involves walking (some up) around the hills and pasture lands. We were several families from Europe and North America and the kids kept us entertained by asking the coolest questions. Marty didn’t miss a beat but incorporated their queries into his stories. (Unicorns even made it into the story). He told us tales of the Tuatha De Danaans and their battle with the Fomorians, and the triumph of the bright and shining Sun God, Lugh, who is said to have met his mortal end here in the pool.
This place is Druid HQ so many pagan groups come here for rituals. Local artists have carved the faces of the gods, Lugh and Eriu (Erin=Ireland). Every May 1 on Bealtaine (Be-al-tin-a) Uisneach hosts a Fire Festival that looks amazing. This is now on my list. You can watch a video here.
The God Lugh
One of my favourite stories was about the souterrains used by Iron Age people. A souterrain is a cave structure dug out beneath the ground. Marty gave us a slapstick retelling of his experience crawling down a channel into a souterrain that was as black as night. After getting over his initial terror, he fell asleep in the womb of the mother earth. The hidden entrances were marked by rocks. If another tribe invaded to steal your cattle (cattle were highly valued as status and currency) the tribe would hide them along with their women and children below ground in these darkened caves where they would be protected. This gorgeous Angus bull would have been a prize, I’m sure.
To take a tribe’s women and children diminished their tribe and strengthened yours. Slaves were always needed in this hierarchical culture.
It reminded me of a story I heard many years ago on the Sunshine Coast in British Columbia. The Coast Salish people did something similar when the Haida came down the coast in their war canoes hunting slaves. On top of Mount Daniel (in Pender Harbour) is a beautiful space with a fresh water lake. The women and children would be moved up the mountain where they would be safe and protected from the Haida. I like this idea and wonder how we protect our women and children now?
A Stone Map of Ireland
The same 10,000 year old glacial map depicts a map of Ireland from this angle. You can see the four provinces: Connacht in the west, Ulster in the north, Leinster in the east, and Munster in the south. Mide was in the middle where we stood at Uisneach. In ancient times, ceremonial centres were located like spokes around Uisneach and were joined by log roads over which horses, chariots, wagons, people, and food moved. (This brings to mind that image of Gandolph pulling into the Shire with his wagon full of fireworks.) Marty says that each Sabbat festival was celebrated in a different location. This is fascinating sacred geography and it can still be done.
On Winter Solstice, the sun is aligned with the passage tomb at Newgrange. You need to win a lottery to get inside, but it’s worth a try. You can always just camp out on the grass and soak up the magic.
The Spring and Fall Equinoxes are aligned at the ceremonial complex at Loughcrew.
Bealtaine was celebrated at Uisneach.
Carrowkeel in Co. Sligo aligns with Summer Solstice.
The Mound of the Hostages at the Hill of Tara is aligned with the sun at Samhain (sow-in)
To celebrate the turning of the wheel of the year and the passing of the sun through its annual phases brought stability to an agrarian world that depended on the weather for survival. In fact, in times of weather upheaval, whole tribes could be wiped out or have to relocate. This is something to think about given our current predicament.
Blessings from the Faerie Tree at Uineach!
by Wendy Hawkin | Jul 24, 2017 | healing, Ireland, journal, mythology
I do believe in Faeries. It’s true. And not just because I am named after Wendy Darling in Peter Pan. Or because I write urban fantasy. Faeries or Spirits or Angels (whatever you want to call them) exist beside and around and between us. They see and hear us, and sometimes answer our prayers.
This is a true story.
I arrived at my AirBnB late on Saturday after a full day. I’d driven from Jampa Ling in the north of Co Cavan, down to Uisneach (which is the naval of Ireland and close to Athlone). After touring the site with Marty, the amazing storyteller, I drove on to Navan and finally found my BnB (4+ hours of driving and it was only my second day driving on the left, seated on the right–a tad stressful).
The host was lovely and accommodating and the room looked lovely. But I suffer (and I mean suffer) from multiple chemical sensities/allergies and the house was awash with scented products. I lay in bed all night, taking Benadryl, terrified that I was going to need my epipen. I dozed off around five or six for maybe an hour. I mentioned the problem to him the next morning but there wasn’t much that could be done. The chemicals from scented laundry detergents, fabric softeners, and plug-in air fresheners cannot be magically removed. So, I went off to explore the Hill of Tara wondering what to do. I’d booked three nights there, you see.
Now, Tara is a magical place, the Seat of 142 High Kings of Ireland. The entrance to the Otherworld. The Lia Fail or Stone of Destiny brought to Eiru by the Tuatha de Danaan (the Sidhe) rests here. And beneath the Faerie mounds are carved Neolithic stones with ancient symbols.
I wandered the fields as long as I could feeling horrible. My tongue was swelled and tingling and the antihistamines weren’t alleviating it at all. I was frightened, to tell you the truth–anaphyalaxis is terrifying. It also creates brain fog, so I can’t think straight. This happened to me a few weeks ago and it took days to go away. I was afraid to go back to the BnB, yet I was supposed to stay there again that night and the next. I breathed in the wind and sun, hoping it would magically cleanse me. Tara is largely pasture lands and mounds, a dog-walkers dream, and it’s still run like a farm, so you can wander the grassy vales for hours.
At last, I saw a few people off in a far corner of a field. They were photographing a Faerie Tree.
I took the only scrap of fabric I had in my bag–which happened to be a dark red lens cleaner–and tied it to the branch asking with my all heart for the angels or the spirits of this sacred place to help me with my health…to please just help me feel well. And then I left.
On the way home, I passed a restaurant/motel called Tara House and thought… hmmmm. I turned the car around, went back and inquired about a room. They had a room, but it wasn’t quite right either. You have to understand that once my immune system goes berserk, I react to everything. What a “normal” person might smell as a two, I smell as a TWENTY! On top of all the chemicals, I am allergic to dust and mold. I told the woman what was happening and she said, “Ah you’re suffering. Have you tried Josey’s across the way?” “Where?” I said. “Show me.” And she did.
I left my car there and walked across the road. Josey was out in the driveway. She had a room for two nights. She took me upstairs and showed it to me. Suddenly, I felt like a princess in a faerie tale. She understood all about chemical sensitivity and said she’d cook me an Irish fry-up in the morning that was gluten and dairy free. Oh my! I almost cried. I told her that she was my angel.
I couldn’t believe it. And yet… Manifestation is rapid-fire magic!
I went back, packed up my things, and left a note to explain. And then I came back to Bothar Alainn
Today I am much better. The swelling’s gone down and I was able to explore Newgrange and Knowth…two other places made sacred by the faeries. So, remember, when you need them, the spirits really do come through. But you must believe.
by Wendy Hawkin | Apr 8, 2017 | journal, literature, mythology
Dare I say it? A halo of hummingbirds?
Doing research this afternoon, I discovered this wonderful compilation by Terry Ross (tross@ubalt.edu) and thought it fascinating enough to share. It’s posted through the Baltimore Bird Club but I offer it here.
Just a quick scan, creates favourites. Some are melancholy: a murmuration of starlings; a pitying of turtle doves. Others lavish: an ostentation of peacocks; a parliament of owls.
Meanwhile, a siege of herons is nesting in the tall trees beside the nearby sea, and I often succomb to a charm of finches. Thank you, Terry Ross, for this.
Group Names for Birds: A Partial List
A bevy of quail
A bouquet of pheasants [when flushed]
A brood of hens
A building of rooks
A cast of hawks [or falcons]
A charm of finches
A colony of penguins
A company of parrots
A congregation of plovers
A cover of coots
A covey of partridges [or grouse or ptarmigans]
A deceit of lapwings
A descent of woodpeckers
A dissimulation of birds
A dole of doves
An exaltation of larks
A fall of woodcocks
A flight of swallows [or doves, goshawks, or cormorants]
A gaggle of geese [wild or domesticated]
A host of sparrows
A kettle of hawks [riding a thermal]
A murmuration of starlings
A murder of crows
A muster of storks
A nye of pheasants [on the ground]
An ostentation of peacocks
A paddling of ducks [on the water]
A parliament of owls
A party of jays
A peep of chickens
A pitying of turtledoves
A raft of ducks
A rafter of turkeys
A siege of herons
A skein of geese [in flight]
A sord of mallards
A spring of teal
A tidings of magpies
A trip of dotterel
An unkindness of ravens
A watch of nightingales
A wedge of swans [or geese, flying in a “V”]
A wisp of snipe
Any of these group names may properly be used by birders who wish to display their erudition, although it is probably linguistically inaccurate (and it certainly is bad manners) to upbraid someone who refers to “a bunch of ravens” by saying, “Surely you mean `an unkindness of ravens,’ my good fellow.” Most of these terms date back at least 500 years. Some of them have been in continuous use since then; others have gone out of fashion and been resurrected in the last century or two; still others only exist on lists.
Most of these terms are listed in James Lipton’s An Exaltation of Larks. Lipton’s list is substantially based on very old sources. There were manuscript lists of group names in the 15th century, and these lists appeared in some of the first books printed in England. Many of them make their first appearance in John Lydgate’s Debate between the Horse, Goose, and Sheep (1440); and Lydgate’s terms along with others appear in The Book of Hawking and Hunting (also known as The Book of St. Albans) by Dame Juliana Barnes (1486). Whether Lydgate and Barnes coined any of these terms, or whether they were setting down the terms that were considered proper in their day is not known. Many of the terms did catch on, and the lists they appeared on were frequently reprinted.
The best source I know for investigating the histories of English words is the Oxford English Dictionary. Unfortunately, on the question whether these terms ever were or still are appropriate, the OED is not entirely helpful. To make sense of the matter, I have placed the group names into groups–
GROUP A–The following group names are standard:
A bevy of quail
A bouquet of pheasants
A brood of hens
A cast of hawks
A charm of finches
A covey of partridges
A flight of swallows
A gaggle of geese
A nye of pheasants
A siege of herons
A skein of geese
A trip of dotterel
A wisp of snipe
GROUP B–These terms are not group names for a particular type of bird, but have been commonly used for many different types:
Colony
Company
Flock
Parliament
Party
GROUP C–These terms are archaic; they were once obsolete, but they have been revived somewhat in the 19th or 20th centuries:
A building of rooks
A murmuration of starlings
A muster of peacocks
A peep of chickens
A sord of mallards
A spring of teal
A watch of nightingales
GROUP D–These terms are obsolete; they appeared on the old lists, but almost nobody has used them in centuries:
A congregation of plovers
A dissimulation of birds
A dole of doves
A fall of woodcock
A host of sparrows
A paddling of ducks
An unkindness of ravens
GROUP E–These terms are not in the OED at all as group names for birds:
A cover of coots
A kettle of hawks
A murder of crows
An ostentation of peacocks
A pitying of turtledoves
A rafter of turkeys
A tidings of magpies
My categories are imprecise, but they provide some guidance about usage. Have no qualms about using any of the terms in group A; use the terms in group B for any group of birds that seems apt; use the terms in groups C and D only if you don’t mind being thought pedantic or literary; avoid the terms in group E unless you know something the OED doesn’t.
Alas, the OED itself is not totally reliable: the word “kettle” (as both a noun and a verb) has been used by hawk watchers for many years, and it has often appeared in print; the OED editors obviously are not birders. It may well be that the other terms in group E appear on the 15th-century lists and were simply missed.
by Wendy Hawkin | Mar 27, 2017 | art, journal, mythology
Driftwood and BC artists embrace in the sands of time. In this article, Debra Bernier, a Canadian artist from Victoria, reveals goddesses among us. Her work is extraordinary…divinely-inspired. To see more click the link.
via 10+ Stunning Driftwood Sculptures By Debra Bernier Tell The Forgotten Stories Of The Ocean | Bored Panda
by Wendy Hawkin | Mar 3, 2017 | Ireland, journal, mythology
I think of Yeats often these days. Perhaps, I conjure him in the dreamtime and we meet in hazy green fields beyond time and place. He is one of my muses and seeps into my work.
When we visited the ruins of Lady Augusta Gregory’s estate at Coole Park in Gort, Ireland, a few years ago, I wrote her a letter. A flame, for the Irish Literary Revival, she co-founded the Abbey Theatre with WB Yeats and Edward Martyn.
AE, John Millington Singe, George Bernard Shaw, and Yeats, many of the Irish giants of literature and theatre, came here to socialize and create in the lush lands by the turloughs. They carved their initials on a tree that still stands. Lough Cuil is now an explorable nature reserve of 400 hectares. Yeats wrote several poems here including “The Wild Swans at Coole.” His Norman tower house, Thoor Ballylee, is nearby.
A Letter to Herself
It is August at Coole.
Black cows break from ivy-braided trees, crisscross our path,
and peer from leafy bowers in the seven woods,
While in the stonewalled pasture, a big-racked buck grazes lazily
among his harem.
Wild cows and docile deer. Nature topsy-turvy —
Like Ireland.
There are no wild swans — not nine and fifty — not two, not even one.
But it is only August at Coole.
Horseflies harangue us, freed from swaying heads of purple loosestrife
Where is this still brimming water?
The tide is out.
Sunlight shimmers waves and ripples through my lens and
distant trees appear as shaggy skulking arrows;
We are alone here on the strand.
Tara writing poetry on her Burren rock, and I, courting the ghost of Yeats
It is August at Coole.
Augusta Gregory has passed away, Bohemian crown askew,
Royal Lady, heiress to the unimagined, patroness of poets,
Poet herself and playwright, dearest friend and grand mum,
Molding all in ink-stained hands. But no Victoria.
Desperate Creatrix. The centre did not hold.
Your home demolished in the widening gyre,
Anarchy for the Republic —
All that remains are Yeats’ immortal words on plastic posts.
His vision revealed. All’s changed.
Arrows point tourists here and there through your memories
Your autograph tree now numbered and analyzed, imprisoned behind
Iron bars, tagged and martyred like Patrick Pearse —
Do you mind, Great Lady?
People still come, to know, to feel, to walk in the footsteps of
Poets and playwrights: Yeats and Synge, Æ, Shaw, and Auden.
Children play football and hang like fools, dogs chase sticks,
Dirty your walkways, and life spirals on.
Lough Cuil is Irish now.
Comforted by stone and sea, sun, rain, and western winds
Stories resurrected in the Gaeltacht. This you must love.
And your small patch of Ireland breathing still, a sanctuary of green —
No withered boughs.
I miss him too, but feel him somehow in the worded wind, and
My throat aches …
Yeats.
This is August at Coole.
by Wendy Hawkin | Feb 17, 2017 | Book Review, journal, mythology, writing and publishing
“If we do not raise our arms and will the mists to rise we will stumble forever in the fog.”
I first read The Mists of Avalon, written by Sci-fi Fantasy author Marion Zimmer Bradley, close to thirty years ago. It was a Christmas gift from my sister. No doubt she saw a connection; for this is a book about sisters.
An epic narrated by women, it unravels the story of how the new Christian religion eclipsed magic in Britain. Viviane, Ingraine, and Morgause are the three sisters who birth the kingdom of Arthur. Great granddaughters of Taliesien, the Merlin of Britain, magic is in their genes. Viviane, the eldest, becomes priestess of Avalon and Lady of the Lake; while Ingraine conceives Arthur and then marries her lover, Uther Pendragon, with the magical aid of Merlin.
Ingraine, feeling her heart pounding in her breast, knew it was true, and felt confusion and despair. In spite of the fact that she had seen Uther only four times, and dreamed twice of him, she knew that they had loved each other and spoken to each other as if they had been lovers for many years, knowing all and more than all about each other, body and mind and heart. She recalled her dream, where it seemed that they had been bound for many years by a tie which, if it was not marriage, might as well have been so. Lovers, partners, priest to priestess–whatever it was called. How could she tell Gorlois that she had known Uther only in a dream, but that she had begun to think of him as the man she had loved so long ago that Ingraine herself was not yet born, was a shadow; that the essence within her was one and the same with that woman who had loved that strange man who bore the serpents on his arms in gold…How could she say this to Gorlois, who knew, and wished to know, nothing of the Mysteries? (64).
