She Told Me To

It’s been years since I had the chance to do what I love to do, flipping the pages of Cary Meehan’s Sacred Ireland, driving down new roads, finding a well, a stone, a secret hillside. A few weeks ago I set out on an innocent day trip visiting Irish sacred sites, but I might have ended the day cursing FaceBook. 

If you think of it, who hasn’t? 

Like my trip to the Enchanted Strand in Dingle, Ella Young got me out of the house and down the road. Last winter when I finished Ella Young and Her World, I wrote the author Dorothea McDowell a fan letter. Since then, we've been corresponding. She and a production company created a radio play based on the Ireland part of Ella's life. She wrote me last week to meet her at Cave of the Cats in Roscommon and to talk about her next project, a play about Ella’s life in California. We had great fun and made big plans, but that’s not what this post is about.

Since I was there in Roscommon, I decided to spend the night and take a meandering trip back home, visiting holy wells along the way. 

St. Patrick’s Well at Urain

The name of the town means “The Spring” so you can be sure the water is older than the saint. 

St Attracta’s Well near Ballaghaderreen

This might have been a holy well visited by my Irish gr-gr-grandparents, because they lived near here. 

St. Attracta’s Well in Clogher, Monasteraden is still in use today and is only a 10min drive from Ballaghaderreen. … According to local folklore, St. Attracta killed a serpent resulting in a holy well erupting from the ground! In ancient Ireland a serpent was said to be a fertility symbol and along the top of the well are 13 water worn stones, known locally as the serpent’s eggs but many also believe these stones may represent the 12 apostles and Jesus. This well was used by women who wanted to have children, the woman would take one of the stones from the well and after her child was born the stone was returned. There is also a bullaun at this well which is a small hollow in a boulder. The water in this stone was believed to cure children with rickets. (source)

On my way to the next well, I stopped by this dolmen. I didn’t stay long, because I really wanted to find:

St Lassair’s Well in Kilronan

There is a story recounted by Mary Condren in her book “The Serpent and The Goddess” which links Lassair to St. Brigid in a curious way. The story is that St. Brigid came to visit St. Lassair, and so Lassair slaughtered her last ewe in order to provide food for the saint. During the meal, however, St. Patrick then dropped by. Lassair had no more to offer the new guest (presumably both clerics had brought full retinues), and Lassair was at risk of breaking the laws of hospitality. Brigid shared her portion so that Lassair would not lose face, and in gratitude, Lassair gave Brigid her church (of women) and her flock of sheep. Condren reads into this a passing on of the following of a local female figure to the stronger, national figure of Brigi; a handing-on of the flame, or the mantle, to keep practices of female spirituality alive in an increasingly male church.(source)

After I got home, I learned from Story Archeology that St Lassair means flame, so this saint is just our own dear Bridget.

Her name means “Flame”, and a 17th century hagiography from the Stow Missile reports that this name was given to her when she survived a raging fire. She was apparently so absorbed in the singing of psalms and prayers that she didn’t notice the flames roaring high above her head. The onlookers saw the young woman surrounded by fire, and the name “Lassair” stuck to her from then on. This naming story mirrors almost precisely a story of the young St. Brigid.

This is a lovely spot, well signed, with wide roads and easy parking. The photo above shows the cross, the altar table and stone, and a shrine to Our Lady. You can sort of see the wall around the well just beyond the altar.


What you can’t see is this bust of St. Lassiter herself, a commemoration of the visit of the pope.

At wells with elaborate rites in the folklore you often find a soggy notice from the Bishop, like you do at St Lassair’s, telling you how to use the shrine. This one describes prayers and circlings of shrine, well, altar, and cross, ending with thanksgiving for one’s own baptism and contemplation everlasting life in the graveyard on the hill above the shrine. (The Dead there share the sacred ground with a shrine to O’Carolan, the harpist. )

I stood in front of the shrine to Our Lady, covered in rosaries and Majugoria bracelets. There was a 50 c coin and a euro coin near her feet. 

I took the euro off the altar and put it in my pocket. 

I swear, she told me to. 

Then I went to the well. I forgot to take a picture of it, and it probably would be disappointing, as photos of wells usually are. It was filled with clear water, suitable for magic of all kinds. The only odd thing was a 4-inch plastic dashboard Jesus in a red robe standing on the rim. He’s not there any more. 

I swear, she told me to. 

Next, I walked to the altar table. Folklore says if you crawl under it three times, it cures backache, but my back doesn’t hurt, and I felt no compulsion. 

The top of the altar is pitted as if covered in Neolithic cup marks, but this could be a natural phenomenon. I’ve read that the stone probably once covered a neolithic grave. (You can see the well in the background. )

I have met a few cursing stones on my travels, the last one was near Killybegs. It’s a simple ritual, turn the stone to the right to bless, and turn the stone to the left to curse.

I turned the stone to the right for my wife, and then again for all my friends in Ireland and America.

And then, since I was there, I thought I might as well curse my enemy. But do I have an enemy? 

No. 

What about an enemy of the world we live in? The name of a sociopathic social media billionaire came to mind. 

Then the Saint reminded me of the coin in my pocket. She wanted to get in on it. So I tucked it under the stone.

A few days later, I heard about some shareholder lawsuits, and the WSJ began publishing internal corporate documents about the sociopathic billionaire. If that curse is working, then the blessing is too, and I’m sure you’re already feeling it.

Mushroom season

 

The badger’s mushroom garden. 

Polypore on a felled pine. 

Puff ball

Coral mushrooms

Golden chanterelles. I ate some of these under the supervision of an expert. 

More corals. 

Sulfur puffs

Probably death caps. 

An aged amanita. Dog for scale. 

This one is so cool I don’t even want to know what it is. 

These were growing on the side of a ring for. 

This russela didn’t give up when it found itself inside a hollow log. 

Mushrooms on mushrooms. 

Bolete. 

Russelas some in all colors. 

Artemis for scale. 

I don’t know what the purple one is, but the little orange ones are jelly babies. 

Little LBMs growing around the neighborhood well. 

I found one amanita muscaria this season. Growing by itself at the edge of a pine wood, no others of its kind in sight. 

Lilac bonnet or radish mushroom because of its smell. 

Sacred Waters

How big to you think that island is? It’s smaller than the long island next to it, but still, given its influence on world cultures, it must be at least as big as California, right? 

No. The island of Ireland is the size of Indiana, about 300 miles long and 175 miles wide. California, on the other hand, is 900 miles long and 250 miles wide.

Ireland is tiny. And yet, like a cherished friend, it grows bigger and more interesting the longer I live here. Like a good friendship, I seem to be a better person to be in it. 

I haven’t even visited every county. 

And I will never be able to meet but a small fraction of the holy wells. Recently, I donated to the Fairy Council of Ireland, and they sent me a database of Irish holy wells. 

Each X a holy well, the numbers its latitude and longitude. That’s a map of all known wells, even those that somebody destroyed. Because a well must be destroyed, they don’t just die. The Fairy Council of Ireland hopes people will find their local wells and cherish them. But they don’t make it too easy. The sacred journey is the destination. 

Here are the known wells in Donegal and the northwest. Many of them are now destroyed, because Donegal is a rough country, long exploited by people from the long island who feared the gentle Irish spirituality of water, land, and sky. The colonialists found their God in a whitewashed rectangular church, and the Pound Sterling everywhere else.

When I first uploaded the map to Holy Wells I looked for the well closest to my house, Ague Well in Ards Forest Park. But it’s not on the map, even though it is signed and in a public park. So even that crowded map above is incomplete. 

The Ague Well is said to have been a cure for ague, which was probably malaria, but I’m thinking of starting a rumor that it cures covid.

A two years ago, before the first chemo session, I walked to Ague Well. I knew I would be too tired to walk that far until I was recovered. I made a little movie of it to take home with me.

Now I walk there often. When we can travel again, I’d like to find some “eye wells.” Many Irish wells cure eye disease because “eye complaints” are common when you spend your life sleeping in a smoky cottage.

The chemo drugs messed up my eye oil glands so they water all the time. Finding eye wells might not cure my complaint, but tromping around, asking strangers, “Is there an eye well near here?” and hearing stories will make me a better person. 

A friend of mine is planning a trip to the holy well at Lourdes, France, next spring, and I hope to join her. She needs the sacred waters for a real miracle, a cure for Crohnes disease. I wouldn’t waste my prayers at such a giant shrine on my leaking eyes, but will try for a bigger miracle I can’t find in Ireland. I’ll pray to get my eye brows back.

Chasing Butterflies While the World Burns

There’s been a lot of bad news lately, but this was the week I’d signed up to chase butterflies.

A few years ago I heard about a citizen science project called the Irish Butterfly Monitoring Scheme organised by the National Biodiversity Data Centre. (“Scheme” means “project” not something nefarious.)

The first thing I learned about Irish butterflies is that there are only 33 different species. All of them are gorgeous.

For instance, here’s the Common Blue perched on its food, the bird’s foot trefoil. 

Another common species around here is the meadow brown. 

A few species are spectacular, like the peacock and the tortoise shell.

 

You often see one called a “ringlet” which has a jaunty flying style.

At this time of year there are a few white ones, most of them the “Green Veined White.”

The surveys are quite organised and I’m part of a small group of dedicated nature-lovers who walk a set path called a “transect” again and again several weeks over the summer, recording the day, time, wind, and amount of sunshine.

The transect we walk is located in one of my favorite places near us, Lurgabrack, although most people call it “Tramore.” A few days ago, it was my turn to do a survey. Luckily it came after a spell of rainless and hot days—over 80 degrees!

All the butterfly species of Ireland fit into a handy laminated card you can buy for €5.

You need at least two people, one recording and the rest scouting both sides of the path shouting out, “Meadow Brown!” “Green-Veined White!” “Meadow Brown!” “OOOO I think it’s a Peacock!”

Only rarely do they rest on a flower long enough to bring up your binocs and get a good look. And then the group falls silent except for sighs and sounds of appreciation of their fragile beauty.

Here’s a Silver-Washed Fritillery.

Getting a photograph is hopeless unless you have the right gear. I saw all the butterflies in this post on the survey, but the photos are from the Irish Butterflies website.

As we walked the transect, I kept the tally, while my companion and I scanned side to side. We saw 88 Meadow Browns, 25 Green-Veined Whites, 16 Ringlets, four Peacocks (three together) and two Silver-Washed Fritilleries.

When I got home, I transferred the tallies onto a data sheet, then logged in to a website and added our survey to the national database. Thus I joined our Irish data with that collected by other citizen scientists walking 6,200 other transects across 15 countries.

Biodiversity Ireland tells us that these annual surveys confirm what we feared, that humans are killing the butterflies too. Maybe we’re just counting down to zero.

But I don’t care about that, because when I drove home the local radio station played a song from the 1940s: “Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink. Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.”