Shony revisited

One of the traditions that has long piqued my interest is the tradition of offering porridge or ale to Shony and its possible connection to Manannán, and since I was poking around a few old journals and found some stuff that provoked some Thoughts, I figured I'd work them all out here.

The custom has been most famously described by Martin Martin, who wrote about it in his A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland, first published in 1703:

"John Morison of Bragir told me that when he was a boy, and going to the Church of St. Malvay, he observed the natives to kneel and repeat the Paternoster at four miles distance from the church. The inhabitants of this island had an ancient custom to sacrifice to a sea-god called Shony, at Hallow-tide, in the manner following: The inhabitants round the island came to the Church of St. Malvay, having each man his provision along with him; every family furnished a peck of malt, and this was brewed into ale; one of their number was picked out to wade into the sea up to the middle, and carrying a cup of ale in his hand, standing still in that posture, cried out with a loud voice saying, "Shony, I give you this cup of ale, hoping that you'll be so kind as to send us plenty of sea-ware for enriching our ground for the ensuing year"; and so threw the cup of ale into the sea. This was performed in the night time. At his return to land they all went to church, where there was a candle burning upon the altar; and then standing silent for a little time, one of them gave a signal, at which the candle was put out, and immediately all of them went to the fields, where they fell a-drinking their ale, and spent the remainder of the night in dancing and singing, &c.

The next morning they all returned home, being well satisfied that they had punctually observed this solemn anniversary, which they believed to be a powerful means to procure a plentiful crop. Mr. Daniel and Mr. Kenneth Morison, ministers in Lewis, told me they spent several years before they could persuade the vulgar natives to abandon this ridiculous piece of superstition; which is quite abolished for these 32 years past."

Martin Martin, A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland (1703)

Some of the key points that have been debated over the years include who, exactly, Shony is, and what Martin meant by "Hallowtide."

Some academics argue that "Shony" is Gaelic for Johnny (Seónaidh), possibly St John the Baptist, and that it's related (in a very roundabout way) to Manannán:

The porridge, gruel or ale was dedicated to a god or saint called Manannan (Manntan, Bannan) or Shony (Seónaidh)... As it involved immersion and was usually performed on the night of Holy Thursday in Easter Week, it appears that Seónaidh is St John the Baptist, having undergone gradual Christianisation from Manannan mac Lir through St Bannan. Some writers, notably Banks and Hutton, have misunderstood Martin's 'Hallowtide' as meaning that the ceremony took place at Hallowe'en. In one recorded instance in Lewis (MacPhail 1895, p.166) Manannan turned into St Brendan the Navigator (Brianailt, Brianuilt) instead, and the ritual took place on his feast-day, 15 May... 

Black, The Gaelic Otherworld (2005), p590. 

Others favour a Scandinavian influence in the name, suggesting that "Shony" comes from the Old Norse son-, meaning "an atonement, a sacrifice:"

As ö from Norse would become o, an fn became nn, one thinks of Sjöfn, one of the goddesses in the Edda. In any case the word is Norse. Captain Thomas thought the word was són, a sacrifice; sjóni, a nickname in the Landnámabók, and akin, suggested Vigfusson, to són, atonement, sacrifice; German sühne, ver-söhnung. In the Hebrides they gave what they had, which would account for the departure from ancient usage. The ancient Norse sacrifice of atonement was thus performed: “The largest boar that could be found in the kingdom was on Yule-eve laid before the king and his men assembled in hall; the king and houseman then laid their hands on the boar’s bristly mane and made a solemn vow… The animal being sacrificed, divination took place, probably by chips shaken in the boar’s blood…. Són was the name of one of the vessels in which the blood of Kvásir, the mead of wisdom and poetry, was kept” (Cleasby-Vigfusson). But cf. N. sjóli, which occurs in an epithet of Thor: himin-sjóli, heaven-prop, heaven-defender (?), hence perhaps king.

Henderson, The Norse Influence on Celtic Scotland (1910), pp101-102.

Henderson has a tendency to assign Norse origins to a lot of things, rightly or wrongly, and it has to be said that the description of the sacrifice doesn't suggest much in the way of similarities with Shony's offerings. This doesn't rule out any Norse influences, conclusively, but (personally) I'm skeptical. Stiùbhart mentions the possible Norse connection, but also suggests that the word may have originally been something like "Sionn" or "Sionnaidh," giving a cognate with Gaelic words like sionn (something mysterious, uncanny, supernatural), sionnach (a fox), sionnachan (Will-o'-the-wisp), and sionnaich (bright). Clearly something Otherworldly or supernatural, either way, and the people of Lewis long had a tendency to refer to supernatural beings and other kinds of phenomena with euphemisms – the sìth being muinntir Fhionnlaigh, for example, or an Otherworldly whirlwind that has a tendency to spring up on the moors being known as uspag Fhionnlaigh. Stiùbhart further suggests that the "Fhionnlaigh" in question here may well be "a modern 'rationalisation' of the original 'Sionnaidh'." Although on the surface this might seem like a bit of a stretch, both "Shionn" and "Fhionn" would sound quite similar to the ear, since the lenition (the addition of the "h" after the consonant) kills the sound of the consonant before it and you'd end up with a "h" sound instead.

If this is the case, we're probably not looking at an association with Manannán, as far as the offering to Shony goes, but more an offering to the spirits of the place (though presumably originally a deity, before Christianity?). Looking to Dwelly's Dictionary, we find an entry for seonadh that supports this idea:

seonadh -aidh, sm Augury, sorcery. 2 Druidism. Martin says that seonaidh is the name of a water-spirit which the inhabitants of Lewis used to propitiate by a cup of ale in the following manner. They came to the church of St. Mulway, each man carrying his own provisions. Every family gave a pock of malt and the whole was brewed into ale. One of their number was chosen to wade into the sea up to his waist, carrying in his hand a cup filled with ale. When he reached a proper depth, he stood and cried aloud “Seonaidh, I give thee this cup of ale, hoping that thou wilt be so good as to send us plenty of seaware for enriching our ground during the coming year.” He then threw the ale into the sea. This ceremony was performed in the night-time. On his coming to land, they all repaired to church, where there was a candle burning on the altar. There they stood still for a time, when on a signal given, the candle was put out, mid straightway they adjourned to the fields where the night was spent mirthfully over the ale. Next morning they returned to their respective homes, in the belief that they had insured a plentiful crop for the next season.

It seems clear that as far as the issue of timing goes, Black is right and Maundy Thursday (or Holy Thursday) was the traditional date, though he kind of glosses over what Hutton actually says about the matter. Hutton doesn't just state that it was held at Hallowe'en, but argues that:

The ceremony was ended in the 1670s after a determined campaign against it by the two ministers, but it simply migrated to, or resurfaced upon, the midnight before Maundy Thursday at the opening of the sailing season. 

Hutton, The Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain (1996), p369.

Quite why it supposedly shifted from one part of the year to another isn't commented upon or explained by Hutton, making the claim seem less than convincing.

Returning to Ronald Black's commentary on the subject, after noting a possible connection with Manannán (above), he goes on to note that R. C. Maclagan records a "development" of the rite, which began involving animal sacrifice:

Dr R. C. Maclagan was told of a development of the custom as practised in Lewis c. 1800. Just as the porridge, gruel or ale had formerly been given to the sea to stimulate a supply of seaweed to fertilise the fields, so was a living creature now given to it to encourage the fish (Tocher 20, p.162): "A sheep or goat was offered as a sacrifice. The oldest man of the sea was expected to take the lead, assisted usually by the one who came second in respect of seniority and experience. The animal was brought down to the edge of the sea, and after a certain order of procedure was observed, the officiating person, who was a kind of priest for the occasion, in the midst of dead silence, and surrounded by the whole company of those interested, who stood looking on, went down on his knees, and proceeded to kill the victim, whose blood was carefully caught in a dish. This over, the officiating man waded out into the sea as far as he could, carrying the vessel in which the blood was, and scattered the blood as widely as he could on the water round about him. Then followed the disposing of the carcase, which was cut up into pieces corresponding to the number of poor persons in the district, and a piece was sent to each such person, to be eaten by them; but none else would touch it."

Black, The Gaelic Otherworld (2005), pp590-591.

However, Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart has since published a letter from 1700 that describes animal sacrifice being involved already, a hundred years before Maclagan described this "development"; even more interesting is that the letter was written by John Morison (Iain mac Mhurch' 'c Ailein), the same person who Martin says was his informant in describing the offerings to Shony that he included in his A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland.

The letter that Stiùbhart published and provides commentary on is "Ane Accompt of some heathenish & superstitious rites used in the Isle of Lewis given by a friend to Mr Alan Morisone Minister of Ness 15 April 1700," and in it the author lists a number of "paganish customes," some of which he fears are "not as yet abolyshed." In giving a list of these customs, he includes:

Others contribut a quantity of Corn & make malt of it, & brew it into ale, and drink it in the kerk pouring the first coigfull into the sea, that they may have fish the better that yeir and sea ware for there land, And all the town with joyn in this work but now its abolyshed, they called this kynd of sacrifeceing Shion, but the Etymology of that word I know not. Others killed ane heiffer or bullock and threw the blood of it into the sea wt certaine rites and ceremoines promiseing to themselves therby the more abundance of fysh and sea ware to be brought ashore to them.

Stiùbhart, "Some Heathenish and Superstitious Rites: A Letter from Lewis, 1700," Scottish Studies: the journal of the School of Scottish Studies 34 (2000-2006), pp205-205.

According to Morison, then, the sacrifice of a cow was an alternative method of doing the same thing (perhaps something that was reserved for more desperate times?)

In spite of the author's claims that the rite was already "abolyshed" by his time of writing, references to such efforts continued up into the 1900s, though it's not entirely clear if the descriptions are from contemporary accounts, or are a recycling of Martin Martin's own description. Alexander Carmichael mentions the custom in the Carmina Gadelica, saying:

Maunday Thursday is called in Uist 'Diardaoin a brochain,' Gruel Thursday, and in Iona 'Diardaoin a brochain mhoir,' Great Gruel Thursday. On this day people in maritime districts made offerings of mead, ale, or gruel to the god of the sea. As the day merged from Wednesday to Thursday a man walked to the waist into the sea and poured out whatever offering had been prepared, chanting: 

'A Dhe na mara,
Cuir todhar ’s an tarruinn
Chon tachair an talaimh,
Chon bailcidh dhuinn biaidh.' 

O God of the sea,
Put weed in the drawing wave
To enrich the ground,
To shower on us food.

Those behind the offerer took up the chant and wafted it along the sea-shore on the midnight air, the darkness of night and the rolling of the waves making the scene weird and impressive. In 1860 the writer conversed in Iona with a middle-aged man whose father, when young, had taken part in this ceremony. In Lewis the custom was continued till this century. It shows the tolerant spirit of the Columban Church and the tenacity of popular belief, that such a practice should have been in vogue so recently. 

Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica Volume I (1900), pp162-163.

Although Carmichael doesn't mention Shony explicitly, it's clear that he's describing the same rite as Martin and our letter-writing friend up above. Mark Williams favours the idea that Carmichael was drawing from Martin and argues that "Carmichael was drawing, not on oral tradition, but on a text that was already two centuries old," (p366) and that he "hedged" with referring to "A Dhe na mara" rather than explicitly naming Shony:

Carmichael's version generalized Martin's highly local account... and ignored his testimony that it had long been extinct. He also gave a Gaelic version of Martin Martin's invocation which looked so suspiciously like a verse from one of the Carmina that it may well have been his own back-translation from Martin's English. If this is so, he inserted another significant hedge, replacing the outlandish 'Shony' with the tactful A Dhè na mara, which he translated 'O God of the sea.' The difference between the 'God of the sea' and the 'god of the sea' exactly encapsulates the tension between piety and paganism that Carmichael was negotiating.

Williams, Ireland's Immortals: A History of the Gods of Irish Myth (2016), p368.

If this is the case, Carmichael's prayer is effectively artificial, "back-engineered" from Martin's account. One thing that isn't explained here, however, is Carmichael's reference to having spoken with a man from Iona who's father had taken part in the rite; in spite of the problems with Carmichael's work, he very obviously did speak to a lot of people and collect information from them directly. I think here it seems likely that while Carmichael did draw on Martin's description (consciously or not), he also noticed a similarity between Martin and his informant's description. To what extent he may have embellished or blended things to reflect what he thought was "true" is unclear.

Carmichael also doesn't ignore Martin's reference to the fact that the custom was "long extinct" by his time as Williams writes, but neither does he present the custom as being current to his day. Claims like that – of customs "surviving until recently" – are a common trope amongst folklorists of his day, and if it weren't for the fact that other writers mention the custom as being recently observed it would be tempting to explain Carmichael's portrayal as just that: a common trope. There really does seem to be more to this than authors like Carmichael rehashing Martin and adding their own touches to things, and John Gregorson Campbell might be a good start in helping to explain why and how it survived, in spite of the Church's disapproval and attempts to stamp it out: Campbell mentions the custom a couple of times, first of all commenting that the rite was only observed during stormy weather in the spring after a sparse winter that was lacking in seaweed being brought to shore:

BIG PORRIDGE DAY (LÀ A' BHROCHAIN MHÒIR)
In the Western Islands, in olden times (for the practice does not now exist anywhere), when there was a winter during which little seaware came ashore, and full time for spring work had come without relief, a large dish of porridge, made with butter and other food ingredients, was poured into the sea on every headland where wrack used to come. Next day the harbours were full. 

This device was to be resorted to only late in the spring – the Iona people say the Thursday before Easter – and in stormy weather. The meaning of the ceremony seems to have been that by sending the fruit of the land into the sea, the fruit of the sea would come to land.

Black, The Gaelic Otherworld (2005), p134.

In his commentary on the Gaelic year, Campbell reiterates this point:

SHORE OR MAUNDY THURSDAY
This was the Thursday before Easter, and was known in the Hebrides as là Brochain Mhòir, 'the day of the Big Porridge'. It was now getting late in the spring, and if the winter had failed to cast a sufficient supply of seaweed on the shores, it was time to resort to extraordinary measures to secure the necessary manure for the land. A large pot of porridge was prepared, with butter and other good ingredients, and taken to the headlands near creeks where seaweed rested. A quantity was poured into the sea from each headland, with certain incantations or rhymes, and in consequence, it was believed, the harbours were full of sea-ware. The ceremony should only be performed in stormy weather. Its object no doubt was, by throwing the produce of the land into the sea, to make the sea throw its produce on the land.

Black, The Gaelic Otherworld (2005), pp548-549.

So it seems plausible that it was only done during times of need (or at least ended up that way, after the Church succeeded in stopping it for a time), and this could easily explain why it keeps on popping up over the centuries after having "died out." As Alexander Carmichael points out, seaweed was incredibly important to the local economy in the Western Isles because it was used as manure:

The people of the Western Isles are greatly dependent upon seaweeds for the manuring of their lands. The soil, being for the most part either peaty or sandy, and containing little lime, mineral salts, etc., is poor and infertile unless constantly refreshed by seaweed, which, though rather poor in quality, is available in large quantity. Seaweed is detached by the action of storms and thrown upon the shores by the prevailing westerly winds. The scarcity of seaweed caused by a prolonged calm period is a serious matter; the people watch and hope and pray for the coming of seaweed, and are anxious at the prospect of impending famine. When the seaweed comes they rejoice and sing hymns of praise to the gracious God of the sea Who has heard their prayers.

Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica Volume IV (1941), pp32-33.

This is something that Carmichael had previously written about in his Grazing and Agrestic Customs of the Outer Hebrides (1884), which he produced for the Crofter Royal Commission. It's pretty clear that without the seaweed, things could get pretty dire. Old ways die hard, and tried and tested tradition are easy to fall back on when the stakes are raised. 

Returning to the Carmina Gadelica, Carmichael goes on to give an example of a prayer (or hymn) that celebrates the arrival of the seaweed, and then follows it with an Ortha Feamainn, "Prayer for Seaweed." What's interesting about this prayer – published in Volume IV of the Carmina, which came out posthumously in 1941 and well after John Gregorson Campbell had died as well – is that the first two lines of it echo – almost exactly – the last line of Campbell's about "throwing the produce of the land into the sea, to make the sea throw its produce on the land." The Ortha goes:

Toradh mara gu tìr,
Toradh tìre gu muir;
Neach nach dèan 'na ìr,
Crìon gum bi a chuid. 

Feamain 'ga cur gu tìr,
Builich, a Thì na buil;
Toradh 'ga chur an nì,
A Chrìosda, thoir mo chuid! 

Produce of sea to land,
Produce of land to sea;
He who doeth not in time,
Scant shall be his share. 

Seaweed being cast on shore
Bestow, Thou Being of bestowal;
Produce being brought to wealth, [fruitfulness being caused in kine]
O Christ, grant me my share!

Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica Volume IV (1941), pp34-35.

The similarities here makes me wonder if Campbell was (independently) aware of the prayer himself and was referencing it, consciously or not.

But still, Campbell doesn't mention Shony, and Carmichael uses the term "God of the sea" on more than one occasion, which gives a clear hint that he was well aware of something going on but for whatever reason didn't go into details. So far, though, we only have Black's speculation on Manannán's connection with the custom. Both Carmichael and John Gregorson Campbell make clear references to Manannán in other prayers, so clearly they weren't shy of mentioning him or other figures they may have seen as pagan. The fact that they didn't make a connection with him in relation to the offering to Shony, or mention Shony either, suggests that they weren't aware of anything like that, not that they didn't want to say.

Looking elsewhere, we find a key piece of information that might help to explain what's going on here. Alexander Macbain gives us this tidbit after rehashing Martin's description of the offerings to Shony:

This superstition is but lately dead, though the sacrifice had been repressed, for they proceeded in spring to the end of a long reef and invoked “Briannuil” to send a strong north wind to drive plenty sea-ware ashore. 

Macbain, Celtic Mythology and Religion (1885), p100.

This is presumably corroborated by the source that Black references above (an article I can't access), which links Brendan the Navigator (Brianailt, Brianuilt) with Manannán, and was apparently observed on May 15. Either way, it seems clear that the custom continued, and as it did so, it continued under a slightly different guise. This goes a long way to explaining why it's so difficult to pin down just who we're dealing with here.

So are we looking at Manannán in one form or another here? Or some kind of local spirit? Or what? Following up the references that Black gives in his notes in relation to all this (the ones I can access), I've found an explicit reference to Manannán being connected to the custom from Eoghan Mac a Phi, in his Am Measg nam Bodach (1938), but he doesn't say where this information comes from. The comparatively late date of publication here doesn't help to inspire confidence... Poking around elsewhere, however, brought up an intriguing piece of commentary from Malcolm MacPhail that adds a slightly more convincing link (assuming Black's equation between Manannán and Banann/Manntan is correct):

Lite-cuire (Sowing-porridge), otherwise Lite-Mhanntan (Manntan’s porridge), was porridge made of Ulag-meal, and made once a year only, of what remained over, after sowing, of the grain that had been prepared and set apart for seed-corn. Thick porridge was made of this Ulag-meal. The thicker and richer the porridge the heavier and richer would be the crops in harvest. 

This custom came down almost to our own times embodied in the following rhyme: 

“Là lite Mhanntain,
Lá ‘us fearr air bith;
An coire ‘us an croucan,
’S a’ maide crom air chrith.” 

“The day of Manntan’s porridge,
The best day of all;
Kettle-crook, and crooked-stick,
Shaking like to fall.” 

Ulag was grain expeditiously dried for the quern, either in a pot over the fire or by a red-hot stone that was being kept perpetually rolling among the grain in a tub. The operator preserved his hands from being injured by the hot stone by keeping both his hands full of grain as he rapidly rolled the stone round. Ulag so made is the origin of the Gaelic proverb, which not many understand now: “Clach fo shiol” (stone under grain); or in full: “Tionndadh na claich fo’n t-siol” (turning the stone under the grain); in other words, “A rolling stone gathers no moss.”

MacPhail, "Folklore from the Hebrides IV," Folk-Lore Volume IX (1900), pp440-441.

It doesn't say what happened with the porridge, but presumably at least some of it was given as an offering, if not all of it. What's interesting, though, is that the custom described here is explicitly associated with the fields, not bringing the seaweed to shore. If offerings were made to the sea to bring the seaweed, it would make sense that similar customs would be observed when sowing the seeds in the very fields that are fertilised with that seaweed, too.

The frustrating thing is that all of this doesn't exactly add up to much that's especially conclusive... But it does offer a bit more perspective, I think. Clearly there's something going on here and it's a lot more complex than it might seem on the surface.

Oran Buaile – Teiris a bhò

You may have noticed I have a bit of a thing about cows...

Part of the reason I chose "Tairis" as a name for my website is that I found a definition given in Macbain's Dictionary that described its meaning as:

tairis! int. The dairymaid's cry to calm an unruly cow at milking. 

Ordinarily, however, it means:

tairis -e, a. Kind, sincere, loving. 2 Compassionate, tender-hearted, soft, tender, kindly, urbane. 3 Confidential. 4** Trusty, faithful, loyal. 5** Acceptable. Cha tairis leam ur fàilte, your invitation is not acceptable to me; guth tairis nam bàrd, the mild voice of the bards.

And while the latter definition seems apt in itself, the former meaning tickled me enough for it to stick in my head. When the time came to buy a domain name I couldn't think of anything else so that's what I went with.

One thing I always wondered, though, was that in all of the milking songs I'd seen (in places like the Carmina Gadelica), the term was always absent. I figured maybe it was either a very localised term that Carmichael never came across, or else perhaps Macbain himself had kind of... made it up? Misheard it? Today, though, I came across the following song thanks to Google, and things make a bit more sense now. The song itself was recorded by the folklorist "Nether Lochaber," the pen name of Rev. Alexander Stewart, who lived in the area he took his pseudonym from. In the song we have teiris, not tairis, though Dwelly gives Macbain's spelling and lists teiris! as a local variant of the same word, recorded in Poolewe – which is in the Nether Lochaber area. As a plain old verbal adjective, however, the word teiris is listed as meaning:

teiris ** va & n. Tame, quiet, as unruly cattle. 2 Stop. 3 Be at peace.

So it all makes a bit more sense to me now.

Gaelic milking songs were kind of legendary – folklorists of the nineteenth century often liked to note that Highland cattle were some of the best milkers in the world, and it was said that a cow of the Highlands wouldn't give milk unless the dairy maid sang to it a soothing song. Since I can't find the song recorded by Rev. Stewart published anywhere else, I thought I'd transcribe it here (the site I found it on has a poorly done OCR transcription).

As this piece notes, the song was originally published in the Inverness Courier, though no date's given for that. In the copy I found, though, the date given is Saturday 23 March 1895, and it's interesting that this is from an Australian newspaper, the Northern Star from New South Wales. Anyway, here it is, with the newspaper's own write up. I've transcribed it as best I can, though some of it was difficult to read. I'll note that some of the words have the accents in the wrong place, as far as I can tell, but I've kept it all as-is and I haven't updated any spellings either. The translation is as given in the paper, though it's not completely literal – there's an extra line added in (and hopefully the table comes out OK; Blogger can be finicky with tables so if the formatting's off, apologies):

The following Oran Buaile or Shieling song, as sung in the Highlands of Scotland, was taken down from the words of a woman still living in Adnamurchan, and sent to “Nether Lochaber,” who gave it a place in the INVERNESS COURIER. It will be interesting to Highland readers, many of whom have perhaps heard it sung:

ORAN BUAILE	A MILKING SONG
Teiris a bhò Teiris an t’ aghan beag Teiris a bhò Teiris a Chaòmhag; Bleoghnaidh mi bhò Le lamh bhog nach goirtich i, Mo dhearn mar an sìde, Bleoghnaidh mi ‘Chaòmhag.	Gently my cow. Gently my little heifer, gently! Gently my cow, Be gently and quiet, my darling: I will milk the cow With soft hand that will not hurt her; With the palm of my hand soft and smooth as silk, I will milk my darling.
Bi laghach, a bhò, Bi laghach, bi ceanalta, Bi siòbhalta, ceanalta, Laghach, a runag; Gheibh i bad feoir, Is leaba de’n rainnich ‘nam, Gheibh i min air burn lainnir, ’S am bainne cha diult i.	Be nice, now, my cow. Be nice and be gentle, Be quiet and gentle, [And all you should be now –] Of all pets the dearest! She will get a nice wisp of hay, And a soft bed of ferns from me, With (a drink) of meal on crystal-clear water, And (meantime) she will not refuse me her milk.
Bheir i am bainne dhomh, ’S i bheir am bainne dhomh, Criosalt no buarach Cha luaidh mi ri m’ eudail, Cha thog i eas idir, ’S cha teann i ri crosdachd, Mar a ni an crodh mosach nach tuig ach a bhéurla!	She will give me her milk, Ay, her milk she will freely give me; Foreleg fetter or handset shackles Shall not be so much as mentioned in connection with my darling; She will not lift a leg, Nor will she show any ill-temper, Such as is only shown by the nasty cows That understand only the English language!
Tha’n t’sine bhog, bhlàth Aig martan an aigh, Tha ‘bainne bog, blàth, ‘Se fo bharr a ta cùraidh; Mo ghaol is mo chíali Air an aghan bheag, lurach, Fhuair mise do ghealladh, Am bainne orm nach diult thu.	Soft and warm is the teat Of my charming little cow; Soft and warm, too, is her milk Under its froth of delightfullest odour. My dear and delight Is the beautiful little heifer; She has given me her promise That she will not refuse me her milk.
Mach thu ’n an ionaltraidh, Mach thu ’n an ionaltraidh, Mach thu ’n an ionaltraidh, Moch maduinn a màireach, Bi’dh ‘m féur thu’n na glùn dhuit ‘An Doire-na-Giubhsaich, Bheir thu dhachaidh làn ùth, ’S cinnt’ nach diult thu dhomh pàirt deth!	Out to the grazing ground, Out to the grazing ground, Out to the grazing ground, To-morrow morning early! The grass will reach well up to thy knee In Doire-na-Giubhsaich (the Fir Tree Woodlands); She will thence carry home a full udder, And sure I am that she will not there-of refuse me a fair, full share.

There is considerable humour in the song, as in the way the heifer’s character is exalted at the expense of the Ayrshire cattle of the township, who are spoken of with contempt as only understanding English, while her own heifer (a genuine West Highlander, we warrant her!) is so thoroughly up in Gaelic that she understands its every word! TEIRIS is a term of conciliation and kindness used in soliciting the friendship and good behaviour of cattle in stall – something like the “Gently, now,” of a good-natured groom when astride a steed disposed to be skittish. To be of effect it has always to be uttered in a conciliatory, or in what may be called a wheedling tone of voice. It is never addressed to horses; only to the bovine race, in their every stage of growth from clashed to extremest old age.

New page and lead mines...

First off, a quick note about a new page on the Gaol Naofa website...

If you're following us on Facebook then you'll have noticed that we've been putting out a number of memes on proverbs, prayers, triads, and so on. Our latest meme is a prayer to the moon:

Original image: Dawn Perry

And now that we have quite a few of them we've created a page to host (and archive them) in the library section of the site. If you'd like to share any of them feel free, but please make sure you credit the original photographer, as per the terms of the Creative Commons licence. (Thanks).

Anyway, at the weekend the kids and I went on a fieldtrip with my mother-in-law and the archaeological society she's involved with. It was a long day with a few stops arranged (plenty of opportunity for my mother-in-law to show off her grandkids), the first one being to a lead mine situated in the highest village in Scotland. It's maybe not the most typical thing I'd be blogging about here, but the mine was really interesting and also involved a visit to a cottage that's been laid out in three sections, each section showing what living there would've been like during that period. It brought home a lot of things, for me, that I want to waffle on about here.

The mines date back to around the eighteenth century and it first started off with men setting up camp in the area and mining – rather haphazardly – whatever they could find. They lived in makeshift tents during the summer and worked as much as they could, then returned home in the winter. The conditions in the winter were too harsh to survive comfortably in tents, and being so high up it was pretty uncomfortable at other times of the year as it was.

Then a company moved in and advertised jobs that came with a real home. Men flocked to the area, bringing their families, encouraged by the prospect of a roof over their heads and a regular income; being able to settle permanently in the area meant that a regular income from mining was possible. As far as the houses go, what the company really meant was that they'd give the workers a small plot of land and then – along with working in the mine all day – they'd have to build the house themselves. Which wasn't exactly what was advertised, but people made do, and a village began to flourish... This is one of the streets today:

If I recall correctly, things like water mains, sewers, gas, and electricity were still being installed in parts of the village in the 70s.

The men would go to work in the mines for ten or twelve hour shifts during the summer, going down to around six hours in the winter. They got double the wages in the summer, given the longer hours. Boys from around eight years of age were employed to wash the galena that was mined out of the hills, before it was sent for smelting. In the summer they'd spend ten or twelve hours standing barefoot in the stream. In winter they'd often have to smash through the ice before they could begin washing – again, spending the whole shift barefoot in the water. The mining company would advertise the positions as "healthy outdoor work" for boys.

At the age of twelve the boys who worked in the stream would be allowed to move up in the world, being promoted to work in the mine. They wouldn't do the mining itself – not yet. Instead, they'd spend their shift dragging the lead out from where the miners were working, to pass their load on to the boys washing the galena in the stream and then trudge back in for more.

Of course, using the stream tainted the water with lead and other minerals, but it was the smelting that was the most dangerous job: A by-product of the smelting was arsenic, which was freely inhaled. To begin with, the furnace was situated near the village to cut down on the time it took to get the ore there, but it soon became obvious that the fumes hanging over the village weren't doing anyone any good. Eventually the furnace was moved further out, and built into the hillside. Boys would be employed to clean out the flues of all the soot and sediment – men were too big to climb up there – exposing them to the arsenic, too. The average life expectancy in the village – in the 1750s – was 35, although the high rate of infant mortality is the main factor in giving such a low figure. The age group with the highest mortality rate was between 0-2.

As new shafts were opened, the miners would leave the first piece of galena that alerted them to a potential seam they could mine. The rest of the galena would be taken, but that first piece was left, for luck; take it, and the mine would take you. So there it stayed. Each day as the miners entered the shaft they'd walk pass that piece of galena and rub it for luck. At the end of the shift they'd rub it again as they made their way out. The mine deserved this respect.

The tour guide showed us the piece in the mine we explored:

You can see how worn it is. The moss is from the damp and the spotlight they use to show it off – the tunnels are otherwise too dark for anything to grow ordinarily, but it's just as damp as it ever was.

Once they were in the mine they'd stay there until the end off the shift – in the dank and dimness. They'd eat where they worked and they'd piss and shit there too, so the mines were full of rats. The miners would tie their trouser legs at the knee so the rats couldn't run up inside them. They didn't have any specialist clothing, they just wore everyday clothing that they covered in melted wax so help give some waterproofing. It was always damp in the mines, but especially so in the rainy seasons when the rain water would filter down through the hills and drip into the mine shafts.

While the galena was dragged out by the older boys, the rest of the rock was usually stacked up on the wooden props used to shore up the shaft walls – it was a waste of time dragging out rock that wasn't going to make any money, because less ore meant less pay. The piles of rock added weight to the props, and with the damp in the mines it meant that the wood could rot quickly and there would often be collapses. Conditions left a lot to be desired...

The lead that was produced from the mines was only shipped off once a year – perhaps two years if the mines weren't especially fruitful. They wouldn't be shipped off until the load could fill up a ship, which meant the miners wouldn't get paid until a whole load was ready to go. Each miner would have to buy their own tools, pay for their own candles to light their way, and so they relied on the mining company to provide a store where the families could get food and any other supplies they needed, on tab. The miners worked in groups called "bargains," because the head of the group would haggle and bargain with the mining company to agree a rate of pay for the group. When the miners were finally paid they'd have to settle their tab and hope they had money left over; in a bad year, sometimes the miners would find that they owed the mining company more than they'd been paid, and would need to work another year and hope that this time they'd earn enough. Families would try to supplement their incomes by panning for gold in the streams that ran through the village, and the miners would carefully cultivate stalagtites of hematite that would form from the shaft ceilings from the minerals that leeched out of the rock. When the stalagtite was big enough, the miner would break it off and take it home to polish it up, and then sell it on to travelling merchants.

So conditions were hard. On top of the long hours and demanding physical work, the earliest houses built by the miners had to be erected using the cheapest materials available. Rock wasn't hard to come by for the walls, but the roofs were often little more than thatches of bracken and heather – not always completely waterproof, but slate or proper thatching cost money that most workers didn't have. The glass tax of the eighteenth century meant that most families couldn't afford windows either, so they just had small holes in the wall, with wooden shutters that were kept closed in winter. The floor of the house was little more than earth (or mud at times, because the thatch wasn't exactly water-tight).

The hearth was roughly in the middle of the room; there was no chimney, so the smoke would just have to work its way out through the thatch. The furniture – a chest, a few stools, and probably not much more – were low down to help keep people out of the worst of the smoke. The beds were little more than piles of heather and bracken to provide a mattress, covered over with warm blankets. Cottages typically housed between 8-10 family members:

The weather was pretty miserable on the day we visited, and even though it's only September the damp and cold really brought home how it important it would have been to keep the hearth alight day and night. The fire was smoored each night – smothered over to keep it at a steady, slow smoulder rather than a roaring blaze, to conserve fuel and so it wouldn't need constant attention throughout the night, and so it could be easily raised up again in the morning without having to start from scratch. Allowing the fire to go out completely could mean freezing conditions. I can't help but think of all the feeling that was put into the smooring prayer as those words were said each night. In the face of such uncertainty, routines of daily prayers like that could provide a sense of comfort and consistency.

Within a hundred years things had improved some. Slate became more widely available and affordable for roofing, and the window tax had been abolished so people had the luxury of natural daylight. The central hearth was becoming a thing of the past, being replaced by a cast iron fireplace off to one side of the room, with a chimney to take away the smoke. A bed was built into a cosy nook near the stove, and wood panelling on the walls provided extra insulation:

(A bit blurry but the light was crap, sorry). The nook was the prime spot for sleeping, especially in the winter.

Life was a little more comfortable and dry, although the slate roofing could still be a bit leaky. The average life expectancy in the village had risen to 55 by the mid-nineteenth century. By 1910, housing had improved once more:

People had warmer housing and better access to education and health care. Life expectancy had risen even further, hence baldy granddad in the corner there. One of the major changes was that the mining company recognised the benefit of a healthier workforce, so they'd begun to offer subsidies to the workers so they could buy seeds to grow vegetables. A healthier diet was a major improvement.

So that's the museum. The little tidbits of folklore – like preserving the first bit of galena – were really striking, for me. I doubt the miners thought of the mine as having a spirit, as such, but all the same they behaved as if the mine had a life of its own, and they worked to appease it just as they did with their offerings of milk to the Good Folk, the smooring and setting the house in order each night to make sure that the spirits couldn't come in and interfere... Life may not be so precarious as it was then – for most of us – but our concerns remain much the same. And respect to those we share our space with is always due.

Book review: Myth and Magic: Scotland's Ancient Beliefs and Sacred Places

Myth and Magic: Scotland's Ancient Beliefs and Sacred Places
Joyce Miller

This book is on the Gaol Naofa recommended reading list, but until now I hadn't had a chance to read it myself.

Over all, this is a nice little book and an easy read, and I think it makes a good introductory book for anyone looking to learn about things like sacred places (both Christian and pre-Christian) and the beliefs associated with them, along with a bit of an overview of the Good Folk and other Otherworldly beings, and the kinds of charms, amulets, and talismans that are traditional to Scotland. It's going cheap, second-hand, so that's always a plus, too.

Some of the chapters are effectively lists of different kinds of places around Scotland, while other chapters give an introduction to different kinds of subjects -- healing and holy wells, festivals and rituals, stones, amulets and talismans, superntatural beings, and so on. We start off with one of the chapters that lists places of interest -- shrines and pilgrimages in this case, which I found a little off-putting to start with. A little preamble about them first would've been nice. Each entry in this chapter is listed by the saint we're dealing with, and there's a brief overview of the site (or sites) they're associated with. Then we move on to a more conversational sort of chapter, detailing the ways in which healing and holy wells are used. I preferred these kinds of chapters, as they were more informative and the listed chapters were a little repetitive, going over material or sites already covered elsewhere, and I'm not sure the choice of listing them by saint, or name of the site, is terribly useful. If you want to look up sites in a particular area or location then it gets fiddly...

For the most part the information given is pretty solid, and there's some genuinely interesting stuff in some of the chapters that I've not seen elsewhere. The chapters towards the end of the book - on stones, and on talismans and amulets, and the one on supernatural beings offered the more interesting stuff, for me, but it's a shame there aren't any references given anywhere in the book. There's a short, but pretty solid bibliography, but that's about it.

This problem with lack of sources is especially unfortunate when it comes to some of the more interesting tidbits I found in the book. In the second chapter Miller mentions a St Triduana, who she describes as a "Pictish princess from Rescobie in Angus... Triduana had converted to Christianity but she was desired by a pagan prince Nechtan. The prince particularly admired her eyes but, rather than submit to him, Triduana is said to have plucked out her eyes and sent them to her admirer on a thorn." As far as I'm aware there aren't any names of Pictish women recorded, so this reference piqued my interest. Looking into it further, however, I can't find any agreement that Triduana was actually a Pict. So just be aware that sometimes the author seems to put her own spin on things.

One serious niggle I have with the book is in the chapter on festivals and rituals, which gives some rather dodgy information:

Imbolc or St Bride's Day was the feast of the Celtic spring goddess, and celebrated the first day of spring. Beltane was associated with the feast of Bel, ruler of the Celtic underworld, and celebrated the renewal and growth of crops and the land. Lugnasad, or the feast of Lugh, was the same as Lammas and marked the start of the harvest. Samhain -- the feast of the dead -- marked the end of the yearly cycle and the first day of winter.

I mean, at least it doesn't say that "Samhain" is a god of the dead, right? But Bel just isn't a thing and Lúnasa and Lammas are two separate (though admittedly similar) festivals, and "Celtic" just isn't a useful term to use here... So although I'd recommend the book, I'd also recommend taking the information given with a pinch of salt unless you're already familiar with what's being talked about from other sources, or you follow it up yourself. For the most part it's really OK, but there is the odd clanger here and there. It's not a major downer, and it's par for the course in any book, but it needs noting, I think.

The title kind of implies that you're going to learn loads about pre-Christian belief and practice, but if you go in expecting to find this then you'll be disappointed... What you will find is a good overview of Scottish folklore and folk practice, and in this respect it's a good complement to F. Marian McNeill's The Silver Bough series, in particular. Miller covers much of the same ground, but gives a little more detail here and there, especially when it comes to places, so I think if you're looking for a more rounded view of Scottish folklore then it's a good book to get hold of. All in all, a good read with a few caveats.

Là Fhèill Brìghde links and stuff

Taking a break from getting the house ready for the celebrations this evening, I thought I'd do a quick post with some links and stuff. Last year Gaol Naofa made a video series on the festivals, but the video for Là Fhèill Brìghde came out some months after the fact, so it seems like a good time to repost:

The song we used for this one is a version of Gabhaim Molta Bríde ("I Praise Brigid"), and we have the lyrics on the Gaol Naofa website in the Music section of the Library. When we were making the videos we tried, where possible, to use songs that fit in with the festival or the themes/season, at the very least, and this song is perfect. Another song, if you prefer your songs in Gaelic rather than Irish, is Tha Bainn’ Aig Na Caoraich Uile (All the Sheep Have Milk), which is a puirt a' beul song that ties in with the theme of lambing and sheep's milk at this time of year (traditionally, anyway; most farmers have their sheep lamb a little later, around Easter, these days). The BBC has a video of it being sung from the Mòd Nàiseanta Rìoghail last year.

The video has some ideas for things to do, but if you're looking for something more in depth then there's always the stuff I've done over on Tairis:

Là Fhèill Brìghde
Celebrating Là Fhèill Brìghde (edit: Now available in Portuguese)

And I've also updated the pictures on my Creating a Dealbh Brìde page. We've already made some for tonight, and once we've decided which one we're using we'll be welcoming Brìde in with a traditional call.

For more creative stuff, you could try making a cros Bríd. We usually make ones like this:

Which are pretty simple to make and are in the style of the ones I made as a child. If you want to go for a more traditional style of cros, then there are some good websites and video tutorials around, like:

• How to make a St Brigid's Cross (slideshow)
• How to make a St Brigid's Cross (static page)
• Making a Cros Bríd (video)

And Jane over at The Ever-Living Ones has some fantastic pics of other styles of crosses, too.

Marsaili wrote up a tutorial for some woolly sheep decorations (they're so good!) on her blog that I wanted to try out with the kids. I haven't got round to it yet, having had an unexpectedly busy week, but we'll give them a go at some point I'm sure. We did make some beeswax candles last weekend, which Tom and Rosie did a brilliant job with. We're going to light them tonight, before they go to bed.

With the start of Spring comes the start of the gardening season. We've had snow here recently that's kind of frosted over so I won't be turning over any soil or sowing anything just yet, but once it's time I'll be consecrating the seed in preparation for sowing. Laurel has shared how she does it over on her Unfettered Wood blog.

For food, I'll be churning some butter in a little while with a traditional churning song, and I'm planning on using some of it to make a potato apple cake. The butter milk that's left over from the churning will go towards some drop scones for breakfast tomorrow.

If you're looking for a festive tale to tell, then The Coming of Angus and Bride is always a good one!

An Cailleach Bheara

I've posted a link to this short film before, but it's well worth another watch! 'Tis the season, and all...

Soon the Cailleach Bheur will make her lament as she gives up and admits defeat in trying to hold back the onslaught of Spring. As she throws down her wand, she shouts out:

‘Dh’ fhag e mhan mi, dh’ fhag e ‘n ard mi Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha lamh mi, Dh’ fhag e bial mi, dh’ fhag e cul mi, Dh’ fha e eadar mo dha shul mi.		It escaped me below, it escaped me above.     It escaped me between my two hands,     It escaped me before, it escaped me behind,     It escaped me between my two eyes.
Dh’ fhag e shios mi, dh’ fhag e shuas mi, Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha chluas mi, Dh’ fhag e thall mi, dh’ fhag e bhos mi, Dh’ fhag e eadar mo dha chos mi.		It escaped me down, it escaped me up,     It escaped me between my two ears,     It escaped me thither, it escaped me hither,     It escaped me between my two feet.
Thilg mi ‘n slacan druidh donai, Am bun preis crin cruaidh conuis. Far nach fas fionn no foinnidh, Ach fracan froinnidh feurach.’		I threw my druidic evil wand.     Into the base of a withered hard whin bush,     Where shall not grow 'fionn' nor 'fionnidh,'     But fragments of grassy 'froinnidh.'

While the Irish An Cailleach Bheara doesn't have such firm associations with the seasons as the Scottish An Cailleach Bheur does, there are some hints. Cairn T, at Loughcrew (or Sliabh na Caillí) is thought to have an equinoctial alignment:

The light of the equinox sunrise illuminates the back chamber of the Cairn T at the Loughcrew complex, lighting up carvings that are thought to have astronomical meanings. Near to Cairn T is the Hag's Chair, and she is said to have created the tomb by accidentally dropping a pile of stones from her apron. But of course, in spite of her associations with the place today, we can't really say when the Cailleach came to be associated with the place – certainly not until after Christianity, when the word 'cailleach' came into the Irish language – or if her associations are meant to tie in with the equinoctial alignment. The coincidence with the Scottish Là na Cailliche is tantalising, however.

It does seem like she has other, older names as well, which offer further (possible) seasonal associations. In The Lament of the Old Woman of Beare, she calls herself Buí, who is referred to as a wife of Lugh in other sources, and is said to have been buried at Knowth (Cnogba). In the Dindshenchas of Nás (another of Lugh's wives) she is mentioned again, along with Tailtiu, so one wonders if she has an association with Lúnasa, which were often held at places that are thought to have been the burial place of supernatural women or goddesses who were married to Lugh, or otherwise associated with him? The Dindshenchas of Nás seems to hint that this was the case, since it mentions games and gatherings.

Another Dindshenchas, Lia Nothain, refers to two sisters, Nothain and Sentuinne, both of whom are "Old Women" and Sentuinne itself means "Old Woman" just as "Cailleach" can. The Dindshenchas associates them with May-day, suggesting further seasonal associations:

Nothain (was) an old woman [cailleach] of Connaught, and from the time she was born her face never fell on a field, and her thrice fifty years were complete. Her sister once went to have speech with her. Sentuinne (” Old Woman”) was her name: her husband was Sess Srafais, and Senbachlach (“Old-Churl”) was another name for him. Hence said the poet: 

      Sentuinne and Senbachlach,
     A seis srofais be their withered hair!
     If they adore not God’s Son
     They get not their chief benefit. 

From Berre, then, they went to her to bring her on a plain on May-day. When she beheld the great plain, she was unable to go back from it, and she planted a stone (lia) there in the ground, and struck her head against it and….and was dead. ” It will be my requiem….I plant it for sake of my name.” Whence Lia Nothan (“Nothan’s Stone”). 

     Nothain, daughter of Conmar the fair,
     A hard old woman of Connaught,
     In the month of May, glory of battle,
     She found the high stone. 

Source

The association with Berre (Beare), just as Buí is associated with that place, suggests that they are probably one and the same. So there are some hints and bits of seasonal lore that may be associated with An Cailleach Bheara. It's guesswork, for sure, but I thought it's worth putting out there to ponder.

The Slender Man (duhn duhn DUHN)

People often talk about the "thinning of the veil" at this time of year, along with unseen, intangible dangers being afoot. There's talk of the dead coming back to visit – usually in a good way, not a threatening way – but also those tricksy kinds of spirits being about, which must be protected against. Just as the guisers who knock on your door should be appeased with offerings of sweets and good things to eat, so must the spirits who might not be made of sugar and spice and all things nice. Really, you can't say for sure if you're dealing with kids or Other when there's a knock at the door.

So there's a tension of sorts, throughout the night. Throughout the whole period, really, depending on how long you see it as lasting – three nights, seven nights, up until the Old Style date...However you see it. The season turns, and while it shifts, things are unbalanced. The things we do at this time help us navigate our way through the potential pitfalls and dangers, and see us safely out the other side.

It's something I've been thinking about this year in particular for a number of reasons. Partly because the kids are old enough to be really getting into the spirit of guising and thinking hard about their costumes and making careful choices, and asking what it's all about (and also learning about it at school, prompting more questions). It's also kind of been reinforced by the fact that a neighbourhood dog broke into our house on Wednesday for the express purpose of attacking one of our dogs – nobody was hurt, thankfully – but in the wintry gales that have been hammering these parts, which blew open the gate that allowed the dog to roam in the first place and seek out Mungo...well. Unpredictable forces are very much afoot.

The kids have been thinking about their costumes long and hard in the run up to this year's celebrations, and while Rosie has changed her mind on a near daily basis, Tom hit upon an idea and stuck with it from the off. After considering a meerkat and several other options, Rosie decided she wanted to dress up as Lily Munster (she thinks The Munsters is hilarious "even though it's old"), but coming up with a costume for that was difficult so eventually she decided to go as a vampire bat instead. I say bat, but it ended up more like a butterfly...And less of a vampire because she decided against wearing the vampire teeth in the end. To be honest, all she really cares about is the face-paints, so she ended up more than happy.

Tom, on the other hand, decided that he wanted to dress up as Steve from Minecraft. The kids are both keen on the game and enjoy building their own little worlds in it, which they've populated with all kinds of things, so there's that as a reason. There's also a rumour going round at school that the Slender Man is living in one of the local woods, and as the story has grown and evolved the kids have come up with all sorts of ideas about it; since many of the kids at school are also Minecrafters, the story has had elements of the game added in – you have to make certain potions to kill the Slender Man, or use a certain kind of sword or pick and so on. I'd never heard of the Slender Man before but apparently it's some sort of internet meme crossed with a typical urban legend of the spooky child-kidnapper variety. It's also kind of crossed over into Minecraft anyway, because a type of character in the game – Enderman – was named that because it kind of looks a bit like the Slender Man. So in Tom's world, Steve from Minecraft is the perfect choice of costume, because who better to do battle with the Slender Man? Since everyone's in costume at Hallowe'en, the Slender Man might leave the woods and try and take some kids. Something Must Be Done.  

So that was that; as far as Tom was concerned, this year it's serious business. He wanted the costume to be made entirely out of boxes but we managed to persuade him towards a compromise on just a head and body, seeing as the legs and arms would make the costume unwieldy and I wasn't convinced I had enough paint for that much cardboard. So after several days of gluing and painting, we got Tom's costume sorted, and he was very happy with it. As I was painting the head he came up to me and gave me a hug and said, "Mum, I really appreciate you doing this for me." *Sniff*

Every year they have a parade at school for Hallowe'en so the kids can go in costume for the day, so everything had to be ready by Thursday morning and I had to make sure I was up early enough to do face-painting duty. And lo:

Mr Seren had to drive them to school in the morning because it was so wet and windy, and Tom insisted on wearing his costume on the way. His fellow school-mates cheered him as he walked across the playground (Mr Seren had to hold on to him to make sure he didn't blow away) – Tom was chuffed to pieces – and then disaster struck: one of the "bat cuffs" I made for Rosie's arms blew off, never to be seen again. Rosie was distraught because everything was ruined and Mr Seren ran home and I made an emergency replacement. In her excitement at getting to school and doing Hallowe'en stuff all day, she'd left her school-bag at home so he had to go back in anyway.

A little later on Mr Seren and I went to the parade – they didn't have prizes this year because there were apparently complaints from parents that some kids got upset about not winning last year, which is a shame. And a little silly, I think, but ah well. I spent the rest of the day preparing for the evening, and so ghostly gingerbread and mummified cupcakes were baked, decorated, and divvied up with some more treats for the guisers, pumpkin soup was made with the innards of the pumpkins I'd carved out the day before (kindly donated by my mother-in-law, and waste not want not, right?), and the house was set in order.

In our planning ahead, the kids had asked for a proper good Hallowe'en feast and they both asked for roast chicken, so that settled that. I was going to do a dessert as well but in the end I figured that the kids would have enough sweets after going out and it wasn't really necessary (and how true that turned out to be). One of Tom's friends was dropped off so he could go guising as well, and while Mr Seren took them out, I stayed in to keep an eye on dinner and hand out treats.

I'd carved out the lanterns the day before – two pumpkins and a tumshie:

Rosie was tired and didn't want to draw a face on one of the pumpkins, but Tom was more than happy to do one (the one of the left). I ballsed up carving the tumshie yet again this year – accidentally cutting too far through the left eye – but ah well. I put them up in the window to let the guisers know we were open to visitors, and so our evening began.

Mr Seren said the streets were pretty quiet while they were out (it was raining), but we got quite a good turnout and we'd run out of treats by the time the kids got home. The guisers arrived in a steady trickle and they all did a turn; most of them told a joke – I don't think we had any songs this year – but one lad in a neon pink lycra onesie did some...interpretive dance? I gave him points for trying, anyway. One of the last couple of guisers to arrive before the treats ran out didn't have a joke or a dance, but instead had a riddle. What does the fox say? They decided the answer was that the fox doesn't say anything, but I pointed out that they do make a noise, and this was very conveniently demonstrated later on in the evening with a fox barking loudly for a good long while. It's the first time I've heard them in ages and the timing was very apt; winter really is here. The foxes made themselves known last night, too. For hours.

Anyway, back to the evening. Meanwhile, on their way round the village the kids collected an inordinate amount of sweets and Tom had his chance to do battle with the Slender Man after all: A guy dressed in the costume was lurking in the bushes outside his own house, waiting to ambush guisers as they came up the driveway. Slender Man leapt out at the kids as they walked up the drive...and Tom was totally oblivious. Chatting away to his friend, in the dark, and with the box on his head, he didn't see or hear the guy leap out at first. Once he realised, though, he rose to the challenge and charged, screaming, arms waving wildly, with Rosie and friend in tow, while the Slender Man legged it into the house. They got and extra big bag of treats for bravery and Tom was mightily pleased with himself.

Dinner was ready when they got home, so after the friend was picked up and taken home we tucked into our meal, accompanied by lantern-light. After that the kids went through all of their treats and picked out a few to enjoy then and there, and then it was time for homework. Things had gone on later than anticipated so we didn't have a chance to play many games or tell stories, but the kids didn't mind at all. Guising is where it's at now (though we'll do some dookin' at some point to make up for it), and knowing that things don't always fit in on the evening, we've been spreading things out a lot more than usual. Usually we get the photo albums out and talk about family – the great-grandparents they never had a chance to meet, or don't remember, and so on – but we did all that while we were making decorations in the lead up to things, on wet weekend afternoons. Mr Seren told us stories about his gran, Rosie's namesake, and his myriad aunties, and I told them about my grandparents, and so on. I need to get some photos gathered together – I don't have many of the family members that I don't really remember myself.

The kids are sleeping in separate rooms now – Rosie's moved into the spare room because Tom has a tendency to wake up early and she likes her sleep. She's wanting it decorated for her Christmas present, and while she's yet to decide on the colour scheme, she knows she wants lots of things up on the wall, so she can create a Wall of Wonder. I've given her an old picture she likes, that needs re-framing, and I've made her some decorations to go up as well (and for Tom, too). Rosie mentioned wanting some hearts up on the wall, so while being somewhat incapacitated again (though much better now, thankfully) I decided to have a go at knitting some hearts. I'm not the greatest knitter in the world, but she likes them, wonky as they are, and I've strung three of them together to hang up. On the first heart, I sewed in a rowan charm, and finished it in time to surprise Rosie with it as part of our festivities. Tom has one in his room already, but Rosie's room didn't have one yet. She chose where she wanted to hang it, and I put it up for her:

While they'd been out I'd had the chance to begin my devotions – to the ancestors, gods and spirits – so after they went to bed all I had to do was sain the house. I was about ready for bed myself, but after a rest I got to it and made some final offerings for the evening. I slept like the proverbial dead that night, and dreamt of them, too.

An Cailleach Bheara

A post on Samhainn will follow shortly, but in the meantime I just wanted to bring a beautiful short film to your attention.

I can't embed the video here, it seems, but follow this link to watch it - it's only eight minutes long and the visuals are quite beautiful. The film references a few traditional stories about An Cailleach Bheara, although it concentrates on one in particular; I found this ages ago and meant to post it, but lost the link and it's only now I've found it - in good time for the season, perhaps!

Anyway, if you haven't seen it already, enjoy.

Healing

Last week I finally had surgery to try and help fix my back problems and I can say with absolute certainty that I still hate hospitals with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. It's not something I'm particularly keen to repeat, let's say.

It's early days yet and it's too soon to tell just how successful the surgery has been but as it is, things are much improved and I seem to be healing up nicely; touch wood it stays that way. For now I'm enjoying the novelties of being able to do exciting things like sit and walk again. That's nice. But I'm also facing the prospect of being able to do stuff and have a life again. Yay! The idea is liberating and a little scary at the same time, in a way, because being only a little less than housebound has meant that I've been holed up in a safe little cocoon for going on eighteen months. My world has been small and predictable in many ways, and stepping out of that is an odd sort of thought to entertain. Maybe I can get a job and be a productive member of society once more? That's going to have to wait a little longer while I see how my recovery goes, but the possibilities on offer could invite big changes. As I've discovered in the last week - in more ways than one - change can be painful and stressful, but sometimes it's for the better. One can only hope, anyway.

In the meantime, one of the things I could do is get back into my Gaelic lessons; I had to give them up when my disc went but hopefully now I might be able to think about going back and pick up where I left off (with a bit of revision over the next few days...). Lessons start next week so if I continue improving then it might be doable and hopefully this time I won't get so frustrated at the slow pace. I'm ultimately hoping to be able to find a way to get some sort of qualification in it; I think for me it's the best way to stay motivated, but that costs money and these lessons are free...In the current economic climate I'm surprised they're still going at all but I'm certainly not complaining.

Going back to the whole surgery thing though: It's been a long journey to get to this point, mainly because my bog-standard, boring old prolapsed disc didn't present itself in the usual manner, which apparently confuses orthopedic surgeons who lack the imagination or foresight to actually listen to their patients (I'm not bitter...). Along the way I've tried to look into ways of dealing with it from a spiritual perspective, if anything to find comfort, and maybe grow and learn a little. I don't believe the gods are there to hold my hand and stroke my hair and make it all better, or shield me from the kinds of trials and tribulations that tend to come everybody's way now and then. Nor do I believe that when bad things happen that we're being punished for something we've done that's wrong...But I do believe that they can offer some comfort in the right circumstances while remembering that first and foremost, one must help oneself, because shit happens. And when it does, at least you're not alone.

So aside from seeking comfort and even perhaps a little wisdom and understanding in it all, I tried looking for the kind of things I could do. With limited success, to be fair (and funny how I revisit the subject almost a year to the day), but recently I did find something from an Irish source (though not too helpful to my circumstances) and an anecdote in Mary Beith's Healing Threads about a journalist who saw a wise woman about his sciatic problems back in the 70s, and he was given a thread to wear. Beith says that much to the man's surprise the threads worked until they got worn and broke, at which point the pain soon came back. So I thought that maybe I could do something like that myself; maybe not as effective as getting it from a bonafide fiosaiche or ban-fhiosaiche, but it's worth a try, right?

It so happened that while Rosie was helping me make the wind-chimes for the garden she found some extra wooden beads that were plain, so she painted them and snuck them upstairs to get Mr Seren to help her thread them. She then proudly presented them to me, saying I could take them with me to hospital and they'd help me get better. That seemed like the perfect sort of thing to adapt to my purpose, and so I have, though a bracelet isn't really feasible for a variety of reasons so I've made a sort of key ring instead.

And now...I'm looking forward to having the opportunity to get out and about; enjoy the beach, walk the dogs, take a walk through the woods and watch the autumn unfold...I managed to go pick some brambles just before I went into hospital and with the cold weather starting to bite hopefully I'll be able to go get some more soon. It's a bumper harvest this year:

I have some rounds to make, offerings and thanks to give. At times it's been a struggle to keep grounded and connected. I'm sure most people can agree that having to deal with pain or illness on a long-term basis can be incredibly wearing. Exhausting, at times. There are times when compromises have to be made, ambitions have to be lessened somewhat, or else there are just not enough spoons left to do much of anything at all. In amongst it all you can end up feeling a little lost or disconnected.

You learn to adapt, and work within your limitations as much as you can. You focus on what you still have - all the many wonderful things, and I'm not talking about faith or belief or personal practices, or material possessions or whatever; I'm talking about community as well. There's a ways to go yet but in amongst all of this the kind of support I've received from close friends (online or in real life, in or out of the CR community) and people I maybe don't know so well yet; people who've commented here with good wishes, or else listened patiently to me while I moan and wail, offered wise words and prayer, or sent the occasional wonderful surprise in the post that brightened my day more than you could know...I think in many ways those are the things have meant the most to me, and makes me realise not just how lucky I am, but how great this community can be.

I want to thank you all for that. Words seem a little inadequate, really. But seriously. Thank you.

Mare stanes, adder stones, frog stones, oh my

Summer is definitely coming to an end, and it feels like the seasons are changing much earlier than usual this year. The leaves on horse chestnuts are already starting to turn reds and yellows, and some other trees around the place are changing too. The seaweed is coming up onto the beach in piles:

And the rainy weather is starting to get a bit of bite and fury to it.

Seeing as it was the first time I've managed to get to the beach since Midsummer, though, it was time to pay my respects to Manannán. As with previous years, Rosie insisted on finding a special stone. Last year she picked up a tiny heart-shaped stone with pink flecks in it; this year, she found a larger heart-shaped stone with white flecks in it. "Like a cow!" she decided. And so it was declared that it was obviously for us, because mummy likes cows.

As usual, the kids made a collection of stones and sea glass they liked, we built sandcastles and had a wee snack, took a turn over the rocks so I could make my offerings, and let the dogs run around mental and rescue sticks from the water (after four years, Mungo finally found the courage to go swimming and rescue a stick himself, even).

And while I was combing the beach, I found this:

Out of habit I tend to call them hag stones because that's what I've always known them as, but I suppose in order to be authentic I should call them mare stanes. They are stones typically found on the beach or river-bed, with a natural hole through them. A mare stane will keep away nightmares or being hag-ridden, if you hang them above your bed or wear one, and they are also a good preventative against disease or witchcraft, and are often found hanging in byres or stables to protect cattle and horses for the same purpose as people might hang them in the home, or wear them. McNeill doesn't have much to say about them, but she does note that stones of rock crystal (quartz) often had holes put through them to be worn about the neck as protection against the Evil Eye and witchcraft.

The Brahan Seer had a stone with a hole in the middle - the stone being described as white (or blue) and smooth - which is said to have been a gift from the daoine sìth. It is said that he could 'see things' if he looked through the hole; he could "see into the future as clearly as he could remember the past, and see men's designs and motives as clearly as their actions." Unfortunately for Coinneach Odhar, the Brahan Seer, things didn't work out so well for him. Apparently his accuracy as a seer meant that when he confirmed a lady's husband was away having an affair, she was so upset that she accused him of witchcraft. Before his execution, the Brahan Seer threw the stone into a loch after one final - and terrible - prophecy.

For some reason Wikipedia conflates them with adder stones, but I really don't think that's right. Every source I have lists them separately, with hag stones or mare stanes being any kind of rock with a natural hole in it from the beach or river, and adder stones (or clachan naithaireach as Black lists it, while John Gregorson Campbell and others give 'clach nathair') being somewhat mysterious in form and origin. Adder stones are usually described as being greenish in hue, and are believed to be some kind of secretion of adders, although Hugh Cheape, the former principal curator at the National Museum Scotland identifies them as simply being spindle-whorls, "lost or discarded and subsequently picked up." There are also such things as adder beads or glass (glaine nathair), and from the description Black gives, I would guess some of the adder beads are probably actual beads made from glass or enamel, that were found in the same way as the old spindle-whorls. Adder stones can offer protection against witchcraft as well, but are generally used for healing purposes. Gregorson Campbell describes them as "Of all the means of which superstition laid hold for the cure of disease in man or beast, the foremost place is to be assigned to the serpent stone (clach nathrach), also known as called the serpent bead or glass ((glaine nathair)." Unlike mare stanes, they don't offer protection from nightmares or being 'hag ridden,' but they are the go-to cure for snake bites in particular (the only potentially deadly snake in Britain being the adder), amongst more general cures.

There are also such things as snail beads (cnaipein silcheig) and frog or toad stones (clach nan gilleadha cràigein). The snail bead is said to be produced by the at least four snails who form them into a mass and somehow "manufacture" the stone between them and is described as being "a hollow Cilinder of blue Glass, composed of four or five Annulets: So that as to Form and Size it resembles a midling Entrochus." It can be used as a cure for sore eyes and breakouts of tetter on the mouth, but also serves to protect against danger. The frog stone, on the other hand, seems to have been a fossilised tooth known as bufonite, although popular belief held that it was formed in a frog or toad's head. Its main value was as a protection or antidote against poison.

I have a few mare stanes now so I might work the smallest of them into a charm I can wear; the one I found yesterday is way too big to wear - it seems to be a mixture of quartz and mica layers - so it's sat on my shelf at the moment. Maybe I'll hang it above the front door at some point, to keep my rowan company. The heart-shaped stones I seem to be collecting now might make good charm stones too; healing stones were often chosen for their shape, being sympathetic to whatever it was they were supposed to cure.


Further Reading:
George F. Black's Scottish Charms and Amulets
F. Marian McNeill's The Silver Bough Volume I: Scottish Folk-Lore and Folk-Belief
Ronald Black's The Gaelic Otherworld
Hugh Cheape's 'From Natural to Supernatural: The Material Culture of Charms and Amulets', in Fantastical Imaginations: The Supernatural in Scottish History and Culture, edited by Lizanne Henderson

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...