Hail to the hooded crow...

Blogger has a handy widget that lets you know the kind of search terms people use that result in their stumbling across your blog, along with other fun stats and stuff. It's always entertaining, especially since one of the most common search terms these days involves 'king's nipples' or 'nipple cult'. A while ago, somebody stumbled across the blog after doing a search for 'matriarchal spaceships' (I think that one's my favourite). Yesterday, somebody arrived by way of searching for 'invoking Irish zombies.'

The mind boggles, it really does. But I'm sorry to disappoint.

Anyway, I've not had much to say recently aside from bits and pieces in the news and reviews (of which I'm intending to catch up on a few more at some point), and that's mainly because I haven't been doing much. I slipped a disc in February and I've been having problems ever since, though quite what the problem is now is yet to be determined; I'm undergoing another course of physiotherapy and it's been decided that my disc isn't the problem right now, and I suspect I'm heading for a diagnosis of fibromyalgia (though that's by no means certain); whatever the case, it seems I'm stuck with whatever it is for good now, and will be dependent on a cocktail of medication just to get through each day. I can't be too active, or else I end up in even more pain, and alongside not sleeping too well and taking a lot of drugs that can make you tired, well. There's not much chance of that happening often. So yeah, not up to much these days while I figure out the limits of my capability now. It's a voyage of discovery!

A life of pain and drugs is not a prospect I relish, to be honest (though I'm well aware my situation is nowhere near as bad as it could be; I know folks with similar problems who have it far worse than I do), but it's not something that comes as much of a surprise, really. Just before this all happened I'd taken a trip into town to run some errands, and just as my daughter and I had got off the bus and were walking towards the shopping centre, there was a hooded crow perched on a wall. They're very distinctive birds, with their light grey bodies, and I've seen them before on travels around the Highlands - always in large groups, though, usually flocking around roadkill, or something. I don't live in a part of Scotland where they're common, but I do live near the edge of where they tend to live, so it's not outside the realm of possibility to happen across one. But when you happen across one in unusual circumstances, and they have religious significance to you...well. I don't know about you, but I tend to take note of that. And if it was supposed to be a sign, then I wasn't expecting it to be a good one, given the associations. (Pointless aside: In Ireland, the hooded crow is the emblem of the O'Tooles of Wicklow. In the fourteenth century, they are said to have gone into battle with the cry, Feannóg abú! - Hail to the hooded crow! That's a kind of attitude I can admire...)

So anyway, here I am, lumped with it for the foreseeable future. And of course, I'm not the only one facing something like this, and nor am I first. When the general diagnosis involved a buggered disc I went searching for folk cures and charms to see how people dealt with it before the advent of Tramadol and the like (might as well make it a learning experience). I didn't exactly find much that could help! Take, for instance, George F. Black's Scottish Charms and Amulets:

Some of the natives [of North Uist] wear a girdle of the Seal-skin about the middle, for removing the Sciatica, as those of the Shire of Aberdeen wear it to remove the Chin-cough.

Well, I did see a seal sun-bathing on a rock near the shore last month, but I think people tend to frown on that sort of thing these days. Personally, I like seals alive more than I like them worn as a girdle in the hopes of relieving sciatica.

John Gregorson Campbell, on the other hand, has this to say about leum droma ('leap of the back' - a slipped disc, or bad back in general):

When the back is strained and its nerves are affected so that motion is painful, the afflicted person is to lie down on his face, and one who was born feet foremost is to step thrice across him, each time laying his full weight on the foot that treads on the patient's back. There is not cure unless the person stepping across has been born feet foremost.

Ronald Black, The Gaelic Otherworld, 2005, p228/490.

Technically speaking, I could give this one a go because my husband was a breech baby, but then again he's about twice the size of me, and even without a knackered back I suspect trying this would break me, even if I could persuade him to try.

At least there's Tramadol...

The latest clever idea...

Another news item, it's a newsy kind of day. This time, my moral outrage is directed here:

HOLY WELLS, bridges, milestones, vernacular buildings, lime kilns and other industrial sites that post-date 1700 will be “left without any protection” following moves to “delist” them, the Institute of Archaeologists of Ireland has claimed.

In what it described as a “very worrying proposal”, the Department of Arts, Heritage and the Gaeltacht is seeking to exclude all post-1700 archaeological and historical structures and sites from the national Record of Monuments and Places (RMP).

Irish Times

I'm mentally filing this one under What The Fucking Fuck; who the hell thought this is a good idea? There seems to be overwhelming objection and resistance to the move, which is mildly comforting. Hopefully it will force the proposals to be shelved. Or dumped in the bin, for preference.

Irish zombies?

Forget the nipple-obsessed Irish kings, now we have Irish zombies! Yay!

Two early medieval skeletons were unearthed recently in Ireland with large stones wedged into their mouths -- evidence, archaeologists say, that it was feared the individuals would rise from their graves like zombies.  

Discovery News (although I think the latter word is meant somewhat loosely...)

Although before we arrive at the zombies, vampires were considered (of course):

Initially, Read and colleagues thought they had found a Black Death-related burial ground. Remains of individuals buried at the end of the Middle Ages with stones stuck in their mouths have hinted at vampire-slaying rituals.

It was believed that these "vampire" individuals spread the plague by chewing on their shrouds after dying. In a time before germ theory, the stone in the mouth was then used as a disease-blocking trick.

Since the vampire phenomenon didn't emerge in European folklore until the 1500's, the archaeologists ruled out this theory for the 8th century skeletons.

To be fair here, as wacky as this bit might sound, the journalist does actually mention the proper word for it, revenants. But zombies and vampires? It's a perfect combination for a sensationalist article.

Except, of course...

In spite of the excitedly breathless opening paragraph, the archaeologists in question at no point during the course of the article ever mention the word 'zombie.' But of course, everybody loves zombies these days, so why not, if it gets people reading the article? The zombie word implies the eighth century Irish were concerned about the living dead rising with a penchant for other people's brains, though, whereas I think what the archaeologists were actually saying is that the dead might rise due to an unholy communion with Satan, or something, with the general intent of terrorising the local population or spreading disease (but not the living dead zombie kind). That's not something that necessarily implies eating other people's brains and turning the whole world into zombies.

But no. Zombies.

Book Review: Celtic Devotional: Daily Prayers and Blessings

Celtic Devotional: Daily Prayers and Blessings
Caitlín Matthews

I bought this book because I'd heard good things about it, along the lines of it being good inspiration for prayers and so on. Having read a few of the Matthews' collective works over the year and having not been particularly impressed, I'd held off bothering with it, but a preview of it on Google Books coinciding with a fit of boredom piqued my interest. At a penny and change for postage, second hand, I figured even if it was awful I wouldn't be losing out on much.

It's not bad. I can't say I found it to be fantastic, either, though. There are some genuinely good bits and pieces in here, but there is also a lot in here that as poetry goes, is not so good. I'm no expert in poetry, but I can spot clumsy and strained attempts at maintaining a rhyme or rhythm a mile off. Those I am an expert at...

For the most part I found the way it was all framed and phrased to be very off-putting. The book is very New Ageish, and that might sound more than a little snobbish but what I really mean is that much of it articulates ideas and concepts that are just alien to my thinking: Lots of Lords and Ladies, Grandmothers and Grandfathers (of this, that and the other), soul-midwives, self-contemplation and self-realisation, and love, light and life (notes of, drops of, glows of, greetings of, gems of, etc)...Some of the terminology does make me cringe a little, in amongst a good smattering of jargon.

The book is set out season by season, with prayers and invocations to usher in and see out each season/Quarter Day, and then there are daily prayers and invocations given for each day throughout each quarter, along with activities, meditations or contemplations to concentrate on that are relative to the theme of the quarter. There are kindling prayers on rising, smooring prayers on going to rest, and so on, but they are all to do with the soul rather than any literal kindling or smooring. In that respect, I can't help but wonder if smooring the soul each night is rather ill-advised? Hmm...Smooring is also explained as a Scots Gàidhlig word - it's not. It's a minor mistake, but an unnecessary one. But anyway, the soul theme in general is consistent with the over-arching aim of the book - the first chapter is titled 'Opening the Soul Shrine.'

In spite of my reservations and the New Age phrasing a lot of the time there really is some genuinely beautiful work in here. Matthews has certainly managed to capture the general essence and tone of Irish and Scottish poetry in particular (to my eye) and that in itself gives good inspiration to see the kind of things she's picked up on. As you work through you can see that much of it is pretty formulaic, which will either seem nicely consistent or thoroughly repetitive. I don't see myself ever actually working my way through the book day-by-day, to be honest.

I think the main problem I have with the book is that it's a 'Celtic' devotional, but aside from being framed around the use of the Irish names for the Quarter Days and the general idea of daily prayers that echo what you find in the Carmina Gadelica, there's nothing that's really Celtic at all. For one, the main inspiration is clearly Gaelic, but there's nothing really Gaelic in there and so the whole thing comes across as more than a little bit superficial. A lot of the prayers address 'Grandmother' and 'Grandfather', 'Lord' and 'Lady', or the soul-friend or soul-mentor of your choosing. In general, when anything theological is touched on, it's framed in terms of 'the Divine', which seems to be a way of keeping everything as neutral as possible in order to appeal to a broad audience. It's not something that appeals to me, though, and over all the books is not something I find to be particularly workable or adaptable to my own circumstances. For me, the quibbles permeate the whole content, so even the bits I do like I don't think would be something I'd find myself looking back on or using in my own devotions (your mileage may vary, of course).

All in all, it's a beautifully presented book if nothing else. Ultimately I'm not sure I'd jump up and down raving about it and recommending it to anyone who might care to listen to the crazy lady.

"The Cailleach is milking her goats to-night; don't you hear the milking-lilt?"

The tail end of Hurricane Katia seems to have blown itself out now so this one's probably a little late, but, as a kind of tradition I've just decided to keep up with, it's times like this that sharing stories and lore about her seems like a good way to honour the Storm Hag. She was definitely singing her milking-lilt these past few nights.

This is another story from K.W. Grant's Myth, Tradition and Story from Western Argyll (1925, p10), and this time it's about the Cailleach Bheinn a' Bhric. Enjoy:

“Beinn a' Bhric” - Trout Mountain – is in Lochaber. It's presiding genius was a “Bean-shìdhe” - fairy woman. (Sìdh, the abode of the gods; not sìth, peace as so often rendered.)

The Cailleach tended her herds of deer in Glen Nevis, and often milked them there, especially in the “dead” months of winter. The huntsmen heard her song as she milked her deer; for all Highland milkmaids were wont, in times past, to charm the milk from the cattle by keeping time with their fingers to a ringing lilt. The song of the Cailleach was unlike that of every other milkmaid; it was peculiar to herself, and unique in every respect.

Sometimes the women folk accused her of driving her deer to the shore to feed on dulse, or upon the tender blades of their winter kale. This was no more than women's gossip; the herds of the Cailleach loved not such pasturage.

It was known among the huntsmen that, as certainly as any one of them caught a glimpse of the Cailleach he might stay at home for that day, for he should have no “shooting-luck.”

Once when the tempests of late Autumn marched down the hills, a young hunter of stout heart, on hearing that the Cailleach was abroad, determined to brave her. From dawn till sundown, he hunted in the deer forest of Loch Tréig, the chosen haunt of the Cailleach, but never a trace of deer or roe did he light upon. When twilight came he betook himself for shelter to a hut built for that purpose by the huntsmen. As he gathered wood and leaves wherewith to light a fire on the hearth, he began out of sheer bravado to rhyme a taunt against the Cailleach, imitating her peculiar tune as he hummed the stanzas:-

The grizzled Cailleach, tall and stern,

Tall and stern, tall and stern;

The grizzled Cailleach, tall and stern,

Swift she glides o'er peak and cairn.

Cailleach Bheinn a' Bhric horó!

Bhric horó! Bhric horó!

Cailleach Bheinn a' Bhric horó!

Warder of the mountain well, etc.

The hunter had completed but a few stanzas when the Cailleach, lilting as was her wont, approached and saluted him.

“I am aware,” said she, “that thou hast wandered far to-day in search of game. I have come all the way from “Lagan-nam-féith” - Quagmire Hollow – since the first spark of fire fell on thy tinder, to give thee sure luck in hunting. To-morrow, as I milk my deer, watch thou, and whichever of the deer becomes restive, I will strike with the knob of my fetter. (A fetter was made of plaited horse-hair with a loop at one end and a knob of hard wood at the other for fastening it.) Note it well; take good aim, and thou shalt have good luck.”

The hunter obeyed; and from that day forward he never hunted in vain.