New videos!

Back in March, my colleagues and I at Gaol Naofa worked on producing some videos for our new Youtube channel. Those first two that we did focused on St Patrick's Day, and our intention from the start was to continue on with videos for other festivals in the Gaelic year - ones that are ancient in origin like the quarters days, as well as the more modern ones like Hogmanay and Là na Caillich.

Yesterday, on Tynwald Day - the Isle of Man's national holiday (which is usually on July 5th, but it moves to the following Monday when it falls at the weekend), and we released a bunch of new videos to go with the two St Patrick's videos we've already done. These are (and forgive me for regurgitating the list I already gave on the Gaol Naofa website...):

Lá Fhéile Bríde:

Detailing the lore and traditions associated with the festival that marks the first flourish of Spring.

Là na Caillich:

The Day of the Cailleach in Scotland, which falls on March 25th and marks the beginning of the Cailleach’s rest period, until she reawakens in winter.

Bealtaine:

Focusing on the traditions and customs of the festival of Summer.

Midsummer: Áine and Grian:

Introducing the Midsummer traditions in Ireland, and the issue of solar deities in Gaelic tradition.

Midsummer: Manannán mac Lir:

Taking a look at the Midsummer tradition of “paying the rent to Manannán mac Lir, which originates on the Isle of Man.

What we want to do with these videos is give a short introduction to each of the festivals, and hopefully articulate a sense of some of things that we can't always do with words alone. We're working on some other videos for another bunch of the festivals, which will hopefully be ready for release soon, and then we'll work on finishing the rest of the festival year as and when we can. And I'm sure we'll find plenty of things to talk about after that! 

Before I finish, I'd like to take the opportunity to thank everyone who helped me and Kathryn while we were putting these videos together - helping us source pictures or giving us permission to use their own, helping us find music we could use, offering feedback, and generally being wonderful and supportive. Mòran taing!

Feed the beach

Somehow the solstice managed to sneak up on me almost unawares, so plans ended up being a little impromptu, to say the least. I had a vague idea that I'd go to the beach and do...stuff. Like I usually do. But beyond that my brain hadn't really got much further.

So it happened that the solstice was at the weekend this year, and seeing as Mr Seren was working, any plans would have to include the kids. I usually like to go to the beach around sunset, if I can, but that would be too late for the kids. In the end, after I explained to them that what "solstice" means, we decided that an early evening picnic would be just the thing. We prepared a wee feast (and offerings) to take with us, and set off with the dogs for a long walk.

This year I've pretty much given up on gardening - not for lack of enthusiasm, but because I know it's just too much for me to able to handle. Although I'm doing a lot better these days, my back is still a delicate and temperamental beastie, and overdoing things doesn't go well for me. A lot of the containers I've been using are pretty much done for now, and replacing them will involve too much heavy work, so I haven't planted any veg this year. Instead, I'm just concentrating on the fruits that are happily chugging along left to their own devices, but a side effect of my general gardening neglect is realising that what I had thought was a weed that was trying to propagate itself all over my flower beds is actually a type of rush. Which is very timely, considering.

The first Midsummer after moving here I took a long walk through the village, down to the beach where I made my offerings. That time I found a rock covered in tiny fossils:

I took it home with me, interpreting it a sign of some sort of gift of acknowledgement (as I noted in a long and rambly post here), and it lives on my shrine now.

And like I said in that post, it's not a fossily beach. Since finding that fossil, I've not found another one at all, in spite of keeping a lookout for them whenever I go. Except yesterday, while we were having our picnic, Rosie found an even bigger rock that's covered in the exact same fossils - right where we were sitting:

I suggested to Rosie that she should ask the beach if it would be OK to take it home; we mustn't take things without asking. So Rosie asked, and cocked an ear briefly, and then said yes, the beach said we could take it home. But we had to give something back in return. We had to feed the beach as a thank you.

Luckily I'd come prepared, with some things as an offering to Manannán to "pay the rent," along with some offerings to the spirits of the beach. We built a wee cairn right by where we'd had our picnic, like we usually do, and picked up some of the litter that had been left by previous parties:

And after the dogs had had a good run around and a swim, and Tom had given Rosie some lessons in skimming stones:

We headed up to the rocks where I usually make my offerings. First we made our offerings to "feed the beach," and both Rosie and Tom insisted that they should do it themselves, so I gave them some of the food I'd brought and left them to it while I prepared the offerings for Manannán:

It's the first time that Tom's asked to take an active role in anything related to our celebrations - I'll invite them to watch and join in with the words if they want to, and sometimes he does, but Rosie's always been much more interested in taking an active role than her brother has so far. So this was the first time he's really done anything by himself. He asked about all the different kinds of ways he could say thank you (in Gaelic - they've been learning a bit. Slowly), and I gave him a few ideas of what to say and he put them together into his own prayer.

When the kids were done, I climbed down into a wee cove to pay the rents while the kids watched the dogs and made sure Eddie didn't decide to take a dive down to join me. Tom started singing a random song as he wandered about on the rocks, and Rosie clambered down to be with me while I prayed and made my offerings. Once I was done, I climbed back up on to the rocks and made a libation (I don't like to pour drinks into the sea, in case it upsets the sealife), and the kids followed suit with some of the juice they'd brought with them. Tom wanted to know if Manannán has a trident like Poseidon does, and was very disappointed to hear that he doesn't. He suggested that we should make him one, while Rosie suggested that we could make a small boat and put messages in it that we could send to Manannán out at sea.

Just as we were chatting, the sea suddenly began to make a roar - the waves picked up and the acoustics in the cove must have amplified the sound, and the sudden noise was startling. The waves rose and lapped at the offerings I'd laid down, and they started to drift away. The kids gasped and got really excited and Tom decided it was awesome. We all agreed that our offerings had been well-received.

Rosie's resolve to make a boat for Manannán was cemented, and as we made our way home it was all she could talk about. By the time we got home we were all pretty tired from the long walk and the excitement, and we all just collapsed for an hour or so before the kids had to go and get ready for bed. I even had a short nap.

All in all, it's one of those times when I'm reminded that even the most impromptu kinds of observances can make for pretty powerful experiences, and being able to share it with the kids puts a whole new perspective on things; thinking about what it all means to them. Thinking about how it will shape their outlook as they grow older, and the kinds of things they'll look back on as being meaningful moments. In a way, it makes it all the more meaningful to me, as well; it adds layers.

But for now, the days are growing shorter and the summer holidays are looming. Six glorious weeks of no homework, as far as the kids are concerned. We'll hopefully manage a family holiday away at some point, and the kids are going away with their cousins and Nana for a while, too. One thing's for sure is that there'll definitely be a few trips to the beach again, if the kids have anything to say about it.

Doin' stuff with the kids

I mentioned in my last post that it's now the summer holidays for the kids – six loooong glorious weeks of freedom!

They're of an age where they're more than happy to make their own entertainment for the most part now and many of Tom's friends like to come round and hog the Playstation or iPad call on them so I will at least be able to grab the occasional bit of peace and quiet. Plus they're due to go off on a wee holiday with their Nana at some point and before that we'll be dog sitting for my sister- and brother-in-law so there will be plenty of things to do.

The past few years we've had a wee informal sort of celebration that kind of ties in with the Midsummer festivities, and this year was no different (although involving less cake than usual). One day a few weeks ago when Rosie was off school with a rotten cold we made some salt dough and cut out some shapes and made a wee hobhouse for the kids' bedroom, which we finally got round to painting and decorating just in time for school finishing.

I made a hobhouse not long after we moved into where we live just now, on the suggestion of Judith (whose book I just reviewed), after experiencing some of the usual odd-things-going-missing-testing-and-feeling-out sort of stuff that can come with settling into sharing a space with new spirits:

The hobhouse lives on my shrine-shelf and seems to keep the wee spirit happy. I give the occasional dab of milk to him but I don't pay too much attention; he prefers to just get on with things. But the hobhouse has been much admired by Rosie who's wanted to make one for herself for a while now, and with plenty of salt dough to go around I figured we could make one together. Rosie painted most of it herself but – ever the perfectionist – began to get frustrated with splodges, so I helped out with the fiddly bits. She's of the mind that painting over splodges is wrong because even if they're hidden, she'll still know they're there. It's hard being a Rosie sometimes.

So in spite of a few splodges, we ended up with this:

(The roof sagged as the dough dried – Rosie wants to write a note to whoever might move in to say sorry about that. We did what we could). It's currently living on the kids' bookshelf in their bedroom, and I've suggested that Rosie could put some other bits and pieces with it – some shells and stones and other kinds of things she likes to pick up when we're out and about, like I have. I'm running out of space on my shrine to take anymore, anyway...

The shapes we cut out have been painted and varnished with a protective coating which I'm hoping will help protect them from the weather. After the kids' finished school on Wednesday we all went out to the garden and hung them up on the rowan:

Tom wasn't particularly interested in the decorating process, but he did decide to blow bubbles (with a tub he got as a gift from his teacher...not just random bubbles) in support as I tied them on to the branches. And so begins our holidays.

Midsummer

While the national news is complaining that we (by which they generally mean England) haven't had much of a summer, it's been beautifully sunny in this little corner of Scotland. It's certainly a nice change from the past few years when summer consisted of a nice week in April before getting stuck in an interminable age of grey...

Today heralds the start of the summer holidays for the kids, and so yesterday I took a trip down to the beach while I still had time to myself to enjoy a little peace and quiet and pay the rent to Manannán. I took the dogs with me (my older dog, Eddie, is pretty much broken today, but he seems to think it was worth it) and they both had a good swim and a run around before I did my thing. A lot of fruits and trees are late this – we haven't had any strawberries ripen yet, the raspberries are being slow and the blueberry bush is still flowering so I'm not sure if I'll really get any this year, I think by the time they want to ripen the cold might kill them. But down at the beach the summer flowers were all out in force, especially yellow flag, for the benefit of Himself I'm sure:

And so I followed the trail of them down over the rocks to a sheltered wee cove that offers a bit of privacy. I'd brought some rushes from the garden, along with some food offerings and a pine cone (Rosie's contribution), and after having to rescue Eddie twice because he kept on face-planting himself into the cove from the surrounding rocks and then whimpering because he couldn't get up again and ZOMG he was stuck, I did my thing and set the offerings down.

The past few years I've tended to bring things home with me but this year I wasn't intending to. In recent months I've had the feeling I should lay off and even brought a few things back to the beach because they weren't sitting right with me for some reason. But yesterday it felt different and when I stumbled across a hag stone I immediately felt it was right to pick it up. It's not for me, anyway.

I spent some time wandering about and taking things in and discovered an embarrassment of bees. Bees! Bees, everywhere. I was speaking to a beekeeper a few weeks ago and he keeps eight hives in the area but said he lost half of his bees thanks to the hard winter, along with the pesticides and parasites that are killing them off. The EU have recently banned the pesticides in question (though typically the UK voted against it), but it will be a while before that has much of an impact. So bees are good:

Especially bees that are conveniently posing on a plant I photo'd last year and couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. Thanks to the As Manx as the Hills page reposting a Wildflowers of the Isle of Man post on Facebook, though, I've discovered it's Bird's-foot trefoil (yay!).

On the way home I discovered that the foxgloves are out in bloom (also with convenient bee):

Also known as lus-nam-ban-sìth "the fairy women's plant" in Gàidhlig, or else meuran nan caillich mharbha, "dead women's thimbles," and is supposed to be good for breaking fairy spells. The more you know.

And now...I have six weeks of summer delights. Yay me...

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

Midsummer

I'm a little late posting about my Midsummer, which I celebrated last week, but I'll do a rundown just now anyway. Mainly because I took pictures, and it's a shame to waste them...

It's not a time of year I usually make much fuss about, but I do tend make a trip down to the beach to make my own devotions to Manannán - my version of paying the rents, as it were. Usually I make the most of the longer days at this time of year and take myself off to the beach after the kids are in bed, and I can watch the sun start to set. This year, though, considering the weather has pretty much consistently sucked all summer up until the last week or so, I made the most of some dry weather and went during the day, taking Rosie and the dogs with me before having to pick Tom up from school.

Along with the dogs and Rosie, we took some supplies for a wee picnic, and offerings, and we set off to make an afternoon of it. Somebody had left a wee red spade on the beach (continuing a theme from the red jacket I found at Bealltainn, perhaps?), and Rosie set to searching for 'treasure''. This necessitated speaking in Pirate for most of the time we were there, while the dogs 'walked the plank' and rescued sticks from the sea.

I took in the dramatic scenery:

And managed to find Rosie some treasure:

A heart-shaped(ish) rock, which kind of reminds me of the fossil rock I found on my first Midsummer here. I didn't realise she'd kept it until the next day, when she took it to nursery to show her teachers, but she just had to keep it, she said. It's got pink flecks in it.

We built a wee cairn (Rosie insisted on making it a tower, so it's more like a sort-of-cairn):

And beside that we left some food offerings after we'd had our picnic. Then we moved off and picked our way over the rocks, to a vantage point where I could throw some silver pennies into the sea and have a quiet meditation; I took an old shilling with me, and found another silver penny in my pocket so figured that should go in too.

On our way home I took Rosie through the arboretum that runs through the middle of the village (the good thing about the summer having sucked, weatherwise, is that at least the midgies have been kept at bay for longer than they normally do. They're only just starting to bite and normally I wouldn't bother going to the woods in the afternoon on a sunny day - we escaped unscathed this time); we hadn't been for a while and somebody had set up a rope swing from one of the trees along the path:

This was a great discovery for Rosie, and we spent some time playing on it before having to hurry for Tom. I suspect we'll be coming back here a few times at least, now that the summer holidays have started.

Seeing as Midsummer coincided with the wrapping up of the school year, we've had lots of school work being sent home. I haven't got round to doing any seasonal murals with the kids so far this year, so instead I put up some of the artwork that got sent home, and which seemed apt. This is my favourite piece, by Tom - pretty good for a five-year-old:

And also, to round it all off and celebrate the end of the school year and the arrival of summer - finally! I decided to make a cake (and cheese scones). At school this term Tom's teacher had some caterpillars, which the class looked after while they watched them grow, and then seal themslves off into their crysallis', and then come out as beauuuuutiful butterflies. Tom was fascinated by the whole thing, and couldn't stop rabbiting on about them, day after day. He was sad that he missed the butterflies being let out into the wild when he was off sick with a cold (although I'm glad they were let go). So it was decided that the cake should be butterfly shaped, and the kids helped decorate it with sprinkles and edible glitter:

Not the best photo - the flourescent lighting makes for sucky pictures. There's a butterfly farm near my hometown, so the next time we go for a visit I might take the kids along. 

And finally, while most of the garden is running rampant and being woefully neglected, the slugs have at least left some of the strawberries alone:

OMNOMNOM. At least I can claim one success this year, if not for much else. It's a nice, bright finish to the celebrations, and the splash of cheery colour feels almost symbolic of the fact that - touch wood and probably famous last words - my back seems to be getting a little better. Or at least, not worse. Here's hoping, though.

Midsummer

Midsummer's come and gone and with it, so has the sun, it seems. But we're still getting some pretty impressive sunsets. See?

Very dramatic. June was a very dry month for us, so the return of the rain is good for the garden, at least. Everything's coming along in leaps and bounds now.

For midsummer, I took the kids to the beach for a picnic with the intention of making some offerings - plans had to slightly change though, because we ran into our neighbours and they joined us for the afternoon, so offerings were somewhat surreptitiously done as we left, after a lovely afternoon in good company instead.  It was quite a momentous afternoon, too - Mungo was brave and attempted a swim in the sea. Although I don't think he's in any hurry to try it again.

After starting Margaret Fay Shaw's Folk Songs and Folk-lore of South Uist a while ago, I found a recipe for a proper festival strùthan - a traditional version using barley, and a more modern version using flour. It was perfect timing, so I decided to try out the flour version, in the evening, and had some success with it. Sort of? I made it as thin as I possibly could by hand, but it rose more than I was expecting as it baked in the oven. It was also difficult to gauge how doughy the caudle should be, so that bit I had to wing and possible ended up with something a bit too paste-y rather than doughy. It kind of ended up rock solid and brick-like once the strùthan cooled. I tried some fresh from the oven and it was tasty, but chewy, but it definitely needed to be thinner - at least half as thin as it turned out. I would guess it would be quite solid but brittle then, once it cooled.

This is how it looked:

And this is the recipe, based on Shaw's description:

Ingredients
1 lb flour
1 tsp baking soda (bicarbonate of soda)
Salt
Sour milk - enough to make a dough
Caraway seeds, currants or raisins

Mix the ingredients together, using enough milk to make a pliable dough. Shape the dough into a flat round and bake on a girdle, or 'not too hot' oven. Turn about half way through cooking to make sure it bakes evenly.

For the caudle:

Ingredients
3 tbsp treacle (golden syrup)
2 tbsp milk
1 tbsp sugar
Flour

Mix the ingredients together, using enough flour to make a 'dough' that will stick to the strùthan. Cover the strùthan and return to the oven until ready.


If I'd got it the right thickness, then I imagine it would have been quite tasty, even after it had cooled. I saved some for the kids to have the next day, but when I tried to cut it, I couldn't even make a dent in it. I decided to bin it - seeing as it was basically inedible, I didn't want to leave it as an offering, but the rest of it that I'd left out fresh from the oven seemed to have been well received, along with some Orkney beer.

I didn't do much else for the day, just kept it quiet and simple (and nursed a mild case of sunburn from the beach). And somehow it's mid-July already, how did that happen?

Paying the rent

Midsummer approaches, so I thought it would be good to throw down a few bits and pieces for it. I've just started Charles MacQuarrie's The Waves of Manannán (again...) so I figured I'd skip to the relevant bits about paying the rents to him (Manannán, that is) at midsummer (most traditions of which appear to be duplicates of Bealltainn, to be fair). I found an excerpt from a sixteenth century poem that mentions the rents, which I've copied up:

Dy neaishtagh shin agh rish my skeayll,	If you would listen to my story,
As dy ving lhieu ayns Chant;	I will pronounce my chant;
Myr share dy voddyms lesh my Veeal,	As best I can; I will, with my mouth
Yinnin diu geill dán ellan Sheeant.	Give you notice of the enchanted Island.
Quoi yn chied er ee row rieau ee,	Who he was that had it first,
Ny kys eisht myr haghyr da;	And then what happened to him;
Ny kys hug Parick ayn Creestiaght,	And now St. Patrick brought in Christianity,
Ny kys myr haink ee gys Stanlaa.	And how it came to Stanley.
Mannanan beg va mac y Leirr,	Little Mannanan was son of Leirr,
Shen yn chied er ec row rieau ee;	He was the first that ever had it;
Agh myr share oddym's cur-my-ner,	But as I can best conceive
Cea row eh hene agh an-chreestee.	He himself was a heathen.
Cha nee lesh e Chliwe ren eh ee reayll	It was not with his sword he kept it,
Cha nee lesh e Hideyn, ny lesh e vhow;	Neither with arrows or bow;
Agh tra aikagh eh lhuingys troailt	But when he would see ships sailing,
Oallagh eh ee my geayrt lesh kay.	He would cover it round with fog.
Yinnagh eh doinney ny hassoo er brooghe,	He would set a man, standing on a hill,
Er-lhieu shen hene dy beagh ayn keead;	Appear as if he were a hundred;
As shen myr dreill Mannanan keole,	And thus did wild Mannanan protect
Yn Ellan shoh'n-ayn lesh Cosney bwoid.	That island with all its booty.
Yn mayll deeck dagh unnane ass e cheer,	The rent each landholder paid to him was
Va bart dy leaogher ghlass dagh bleiu;	A bundle of coarse meadow grass yearly;
As eisht shen orroo d'eeck myr keesh,	And that, as their yearly tax,
Trooid magh ny cheery dagh oie-lhoine.	They paid to him each midsummer eve.
Paart ragh lesh y leaogher seose,	Some would carry the grass up
Gyn yn slieau mooar ta heose Barool;	To the great mountain up at Barool;
Paart elley aagagh yn leoagher wass,	Others would leave the grass below,
Ec Mannanan erskyn Keamool.	With Mannanan's self above Keamool.
Myr shen eisht ren adsyn beaghey,	Thus then did they live;
O er-lhiam pene dy by-veg nyn Geesh;	O, I think their tribute very small,
Gyn kiarail as gyn imnea,	Without care and without anxiety,
Ny doggyr dy lhiggey er nyn skeeys.	Or hard labour to cause weariness.
Eisht haink ayn Parick nyn meayn,	Then came Patrick into the midst of them;
She dooinney-noo, véh lane dy artue,	He was a saint, and full of virtue;
Dimman eh Mannanan er y tonn	He banished Mannanan on the wave,
As e grogh vooinjer dy lieh-chiart.	And his evil servants all dispersed.

The original is here (page 26 onwards, although I've followed MacQuarrie's capitalisations of certain words in Manx - see page 292-293). He notes that other translators give the meadow grass as 'rushes', which I do think makes a bit more sense, and Moore agrees with this, commenting:

"As regards Man, however, we have no definite information about the observance of this day from tradition, except that there was a fair, which still continues; and from written sources there is only preserved a letter written, in 1636, by Bishop Parr to Archbishop Neile, in which he states that on St. John Baptist's day he found the people in a chapel dedicated to that Saint "in the practice of gross superstitions," which he caused "to be cried down," and, in the place of them, "appointed Divine services and sermons." We can only wish that the good Bishop had informed us what these "gross superstitions" were. We have already seen (Chapter I.) that Manannan received his tribute of rushes on this day, and it is curious that the pathway leading up to the chapel is still covered with rushes supplied by a small farm close by, which is held on the tenure of doing this service."

MacQuarrie also agrees - "Rushes would seem an appropriate offering to Manannán in light of his connections with salt and fresh water in that they tend to grow on the banks of, or actually within, lakes and streams." (p294) And so does Sophia Morrison in Manx Fairie Tales (1911).

So rushes it is, it seems.

Archive: Daily practises and other deep thoughts...

I lurk and occasionally post on a couple of the larger CR mailing lists and I have to say they're becoming less and less relevant to me these days. It's not just the fact that the same arguments tend to go round and round with alarming regularity, it's the infuriating kind of discussions that seem to be cropping up recently, and at the heart of it there's just nothing there to interest me. So mostly I skip and surf until something piques my interest. I suppose I could try and stimulate a bit of discussion that does interest me, instead of bitching quietly to myself, but I can never think of anything that I think would be good for discussion...

...Books. I can do books. But that's a little cliche, perhaps.

There was a thread not so long ago where someone asked something along the lines of "What things do you like to do to make yourself feel Celtic?" And I thought...Odd question, and I really don't know where to start with how wrong that seems to be...Maybe it was just badly phrased, maybe I wanted it to be. But it seemed to imply that the idea was to 'play Celtic' as part of CR's religious practice, and then once it's over we go about our daily business as we were. It seemed a few responses were framed in that manner, anyway. And I admit I'm probably being completely judgemental (in the bad way, because apparently you can only be judgemental if you judge negatively. Otherwise you just have great perception skills...), but it got me thinking...no. There were people who replied with the usual: language, literature, music, traditional activities like weaving tartan. And they're all good answers, to an extent, but they seemed to lack something and I began to chew on what it was that I couldn't put my finger on.

And then I think the list owner pointed out that it's not things that makes you 'Celtic', you either are or you aren't - it's who you are, not what you do. There are things you can do that are all good ways of honouring a particular culture, but that goes beyond 'being Celtic' if you want to end up being CR in a serious way that speaks to the core of your being. It goes beyond slipping these things on as is convenient, and then going back to normal, so to speak. Or even endeavering to learn music, language, arts and so forth on an ongoing, daily basis. Unless you're a part of a culture, indigenous to it, do you fully understand it? Conversely, I'd say, if you're a part of the culture should you be considered to be the fount of all knowledge...Experience says no, in that respect, because obviously personal biases come in to play. And unfortunately those biases are often based on politics and racism, it seems. As far as internet forums go. And inevitably such biases are open to taste and interpretation, too.

But then, I thought, you have to start somewhere. Most CRs don't have the benefit of having being brought up in Ireland, Scotland, Wales and so on...I've always thought that CR has been quite clear that first and foremost, it's a movement that started within the diasporal peoples, or has been hugely influenced by them at the least, and that first and foremost the emphasis should be on striving to understand those cultures as best you can. Some of those from the diaspora - CR or not - seem to be more defensive and conservative of the culture(s) than some of those who are of it/them. But most CRs don't have the benefit of spending any length of time in the particular countries that form such a large part of their cultural focus, and that can be important or not. Sometimes I wonder if, from the outside, the differences between Ireland and Scotland are really appreciated outside of those countries, in a specifically Gaelic context. Then again I think it's something I'm only really beginning to appreciate a lot more as an outsider myself.

So maybe there has to be a start somewhere, a way of incorporating these cultural elements into one's daily life until it becomes an integral part, a solid foundation to build on. Is there a scale? Where would I be on it? Does it matter? The language is something of a final frontier in that respect, for me, since my efforts at learning by myself are somewhat limited (I'm hoping to start lessons in the autumn, but there's no word yet on whether these will go ahead for this year). I can only try, even if I feel doomed to mediocrity in this respect...But I do feel it's important and integral, ultimately, to my practices. It's frustrating, sometimes, knowing how far away I am from it. But if I fail, I'd rather say I tried, and keep on plugging away at the basics.

But thinking about it further, it's interesting that many of the responses in the thread focused on doing things first, and then religious practice second (if it was mentioned at all). Maybe practice is a given. I don't know. But I would've thought that as a reconstructionist, this kind of answer would be first. It got me thinking, along with some discussions I've seen elsewhere recently about daily practises, that these really are the lynchpin of CR in many ways. It's something I've been musing on since all this cropped up in the last month or so, in various places.

These days I seem to have found myself in a good rhythm as far as my daily practises are concerned: I've been making regular offerings and every evening as I prepare for bed and make sure everything's in order I turn it into a meditation as well as an act of prayer. I do the same in the morning, as I take a pause and look out of the window to see what the day might bring, and I lift my cup of coffee to greet the crows, rooks, magpies and jackdaws that invariably hop about the garden looking for tasty treats before Mungo tries to say hello (they're not so keen). My evening walks also tend to end up being meditative, and I'm finding it all very comfortable and it all feels like second nature now. I cook; I pray; I clean; I sing; I do; I am. It's not something I have to get into the right frame of mind for now, because it's become such a part of my routine. It's how I'm living my life.

It's not something that's other anymore, it's integral. And I realise I risk sounding incredibly smug at this point, sorry. Bear with me as I ramble, I might have a point...I'm not sure yet. It's just that maybe - more than anything - I've realised that CR as a spiritual practice is so pervasive, and it should be. I don't have the benefit of those who were brought up with survivals in the diaspora, along with language and a strong and deep-seated love for one's ancestry. I grew up with a few survivals and superstitions, but these were Catholic, not appropriate to my culture and the cultural milieu I was brought up in as an agnostic/atheist and by-default-Protestant.

Like many, my love and passion for exploring my ancestry is seated within a foggy romanticism that's somewhat removed from reality. I can claim a name, or two, a heritage at some remove, but really it means very little in defining me or my beliefs. As I'm raising my kids, idealising their upbringing as much as I can as a parent who wants the best for my children, and who sees that as lying in this country, Scotland, rather than the country I was born and raised in...I'm seeing what it is to be born and raised Scottish in a new light. I know my husband; I know how he was raised. But discussing and coming to understand many of the finer points of his upbringing not so far from here gives a new perspective to how I see myself, too. I learn a lot just as my kids do. For them, it's second nature, but for me it's something to analyse to embrace but see as something incorporated rather than inherent...And yet, not incorporated. It just is. We adapt...

I was brought up as an atheist or agnostic at best, although my mother encouraged religious exploration in the hope that my sister and I might find some answers as she felt (and still feels) that she never could, or can, find. So I can claim some survivals, few and disjointed though they may have been, but they're disjointed at best - mostly through my nan's efforts to save us spiritually and give us an identity culturally.

So I can only throw myself into the idea of reconstruction of traditions, rather than traditionalism. The principles seem simple on paper, but finding a personal understanding, a rhythm, takes a bit longer, I've found. It all seems to have fallen into place when I stopped worrying about doing things properly, as I've focused on so much before, and the realisation has kinda crept up on me since I made my offerings for Midsummer last week. Rather than finding that the routine of doing, praying, being and so on gets stale and old after a while - the same thing, day in, day out - I'm finding that it's helping me to evolve my practises and outlook as a whole. I've been experimenting some more with traditional dishes (Mr Seren was particularly grateful for the gingerbread I tried) and different types of bannocks (though I still can't find any barley meal, I've been looking for ages - the barley bannocks will have to wait), and even cheese-making. In addition to this stuff, I'm finding that developing a devotional sort of ritual that I can use as a formal Good Wishing and Deiseal ritual to start off my formal festivities has been very helpful in keeping me focused and structured, somwhat. Even if Bealltainn wasn't all that focused at the time, I felt...

The blueberries and raspberries growing in the garden have given me a sense of continuity for my practices, and I think for once, when I harvest them for Lùnasdal (assuming all goes well), I'll feel a real sense of connection to the festival that I usually lack. I've finally found a sense of energy again, and my increasing focus on daily practices has given me an anchor for that. It's not something that gives me mindblowing spiritual insights everyday, but it's giving me a balance. And sometimes, maybe, there might be a bit of an aha! moment along the way. But more than anything the rhythm, the reassurrance of continuity, helps ground me.

Since Bealltainn I've been feeling a lot more positive, for some reason. Being interrupted by a dying cat on one of my meditations the other week can't be interpreted as a good sign, I suppose (and thank you for your kind words, those of you who commented or sent a nod my way in some form or another), but I think I got a few more positive ones when I went to pay my dues to Manannán last Wednesday. There were no dying cats, anyway...Although it is dead jellyfish season now, apparently.

I'm still unsure as to how the 'lesser' festivals fit in with what I do in some respects. I don't go all out like I do for the Quarter Days and sometimes I think maybe I should, so for Midsummer I decided I should at least put some thought into it, in a more structured way. It kind of snuck up on me so I didn't have a chance to do much reading up on it, so I just decided on making some offerings and finishing with a feast. Since Manannán is a god I've had a long relationship with, I started off with taking the dogs down to the beach to leave some offerings there. I've been meaning to post some photos of the village, so now seems as good a time as any...

First we head to the woods - the arboretum that was planted as part of the former estate's grounds, which is situated right in the middle of the village. There are lots of trees that have fallen over because of the soft ground, but amazingly a lot of them seem to survive:

Then we come out of the woods and take one of the back lanes through the oldest part of the village where all the ridiculously big houses are. This is a view of the woods as you leave them, looking back:

Followed by one of the grand old houses further down the lane, heading towards the sea:

Then it's down to the pebbly beach and the rock pools with the views of Bute and Argyll:

(Or just Argyll, really, in this case). And then we loop round on our way home so we get to see all the grand houses sitting up high as we walk along the coastal road:

The roof tiles on the turrets look like fish scales, which seems very apt for the locale.

I went to the beach at dusk this time, and the sun was very low and peaking dimly through the clouds. I'd brought some Pittenweem oatcakes and a generous lump of butter with me and gave it to the sea from the rocks, while Mungo went off for a frolic and Eddie went for a swim. I debated about whether or not I should give something more valuable - would it be too much, or just what was required? I didn't want to offend by giving too much or too little.

I was wearing some silver studs in the shape of shells that I bought a while ago with the idea of giving them in mind, and had put them on in case it seemed appropriate to give them after all. Given the recent stresses and worries, I decided it would be appropriate to give them after all, so they went into the sea with some heartfelt words too. There always seems to be a handy gust of wind at moments like this, that seems to acknowledge what's been given.

I stayed for a while, soaking in the seaweedy salty air and the last rays of the sun, and took a little bit of peacefulness from it all - much needed seeing as my mother was due to arrive the next day. As it began to get properly dark I built a small cairn just by the sea line, so the waves would take it as it came in, and as I looked for a white stone (which I generally put on top), one stone in particular caught my eye and I realised it was covered in fossils. It's not a fossily beach so I've no idea where it came from, but I picked it up and took it as a sign that I was being given something back. A sign of a contract, perhaps. A renewal. I've taken a photo or two, to illustrate:

 

 

It's almost heart shaped, and it's literally covered in the little fossily creatures. Of course I could be wrong. It could be dried on bird poo, or something, not fossily at all...But it seems fossily to me. Either way, I shall add it to my collection of interesting things for my water feature that incorporates representation of the three realms, in my garden (which I really need to finish at some point).

I stuck my iPod on shuffle to see what radiomancy might tell me about the future, not having my ogam fews to hand and feeling that the moment was pretty much now, not later when I'd got the dogs home and fed and so on. It started off with Janis Joplin's Half Moon - very full of three realms imagery, it seemed to me, so uncannily apt given my thought processes at the time. Then there was a break beat called Rolling Thunder, so there were no lyrics but it was very funky and I noted the naturey theme - maybe the thunderiness pointing to Lugh and therefore Lùnsadal...Thirdly came Morcheeba's The Sea. Which made me think that the gods were being a little facetious at this point, but maybe it was also meant to tell me to chill out. Relax, stop worrying!

Point taken.

I went home and made some more offerings to the spirits of the house and more immediate land, and some more specific deities like Badb, before making my way to bed, and I slept well and deeply. Mum wasn't as nearly as demanding as I'd built the whole visit up to be, after she arrived the next day (later than expected), and I cooked a roast chicken with garlic roast potatoes and veg for a celebratory feast for her first night and to celebrate the passing of Midsummer, along with some cranachan and gingerbread for afters - minus the whisky, for mum's portion. She really enjoyed it all, which was a surprise, and it was somewhat gratifying too - high praise from a properly trained cook. I put some chicken out as an offering before the dogs raided the kitchen for leftovers, and it was all gone in the morning, which was a reassuring sight to see. Mungo was pissed off, too, he was really looking forward to scarfing it all down.

So this sense of otherliness...I guess I've realised that that's not what my practices are about. I don't classify them as particularly mundane either, but still. The idea of otherworldliness and thisness is never far in Gaelic cosmology of any flavour. They overlap so heavily as to be almost the same, and yet not. So contradictory and so similar. Thinking about Manannán and what he is, where I am, how I am...It all seems to have fallen into place. Stop worrying. Maybe I might just do that. Hopefully it will take me in the right direction.