Summer Solstice sunrise at Newgrange, Boyne Valley

Good morning from the Boyne Valley!

I'm delighted to share this beautiful photo of Summer Solstice sunrise at Newgrange/Síd in Broga (taken a few days after the actual day of solstice).

For a moment of the year,
the sun stops its run,
and stays awhile in the
northeast at dawn.
But, like everything in nature
the spiral will wind down once
more towards winter, when the sun
will come home again.

The big crowds that come to Síd in Broga on winter solstice are completely absent for summer solstice. I am glad for that! At 5am it's probably no surprise, but sometimes it's nice to be the only human figure walking among these magnificent remains...

Winter sunlight does some beautiful things with the ancient megalithic art on the stones at Dowth

I've been able to spend a few mornings at Dowth recently. It's one of three of the great monuments of Brú na Bóinne (the others being Newgrange and Knowth), but is the least visited of the trio. Personally, I'm glad that Dowth retains this almost-forgotten status. It is not on the official tour. It is wild and overgrown, and many of its secrets are in the deep slumber of many centuries. I like it that way. It's a lovely place to spend time. Despite the fact that it is named after darkness (Irish Dubhadh), it presents a very interesting notion - the belief that we must experience the darkness of the longest night before the new year dawns.

Winter sunrise at Dowth, the third great passage-tomb of the Brú na Bóinne complex.

While it near neighbour Newgrange is famous for its winter solstice sunrise alignment, Dowth's alignment to the sunset on the shortest day is less well known. Discovered (rediscovered) in 1980 by Martin Brennan and Jack Roberts, it was studied in detail over the course of a number of winters by Anne Marie Moroney, who published a lovely little book about it called Dowth: Winter Sunsets.

While the focus at Dowth is undoubtedly centered around winter sunset, there is something really beautiful that happens just after the sunrise on these short days of midwinter. The very well-known kerb stone 51 at Dowth, more famously referred to as the Stone of the Seven Suns (named so by Martin Brennan), is gloriously lit up by the warm luster of the midwinter sun. For about an hour after sunrise, these ancient solar symbols are highlighted in a dramatic fashion by the acute angle of the low sun. As a photographer who has spent many years photographing this stone under various lighting conditions, I can safely say that I have never seen them so impressively and dramatically in relief. It's quite striking. Below are a couple of photos showing some of the megalithic carvings, which are thought to be up to 5,500 years old, lit up by the winter sun.

Some of the solar emblems on the Seven Suns Stone lit up by the low winter sun.

The megalithic art is highlighted in dramatic and pristine fashion by the acute angle of sunlight.

The Stone of the Seven Suns is on the eastern side of the great mound of Dowth. Curiously, over on the southwestern side, the entrance stone to the southern chamber is also lit up by the morning sun in winter time. This is due to the alignment of the stone, which is orientated roughly northwest-southeast. There are two large cup holes on the stone, referred to by some as 'Lucy's Eyes'. There is also some worn megalithic art, which appears to be part of a spiral. A good bit of the stone is still buried beneath the ground - only the top third or quarter is visible above the surface.

The spiral and cup marks on the entrance kerb. I added flash to this one because the sunlight was a bit watery.

For a place that is named after darkness, the sun plays a big role at Dowth. It penetrates the southern chamber at midwinter, as we know. Until recent centuries, it probably also shone into the northern chamber around the time of Samhain and Imbolc sunsets (November/February). And there may be undiscovered passageways within its huge bulk. But as I said before, some of its secrets are in slumber. For now at least. And that's just the way I like it.

See more photos of Dowth.

Reflecting on the metaphor of the slaying of Balor by Lugh - we must kill the evil eye in ourselves

I recently had the opportunity to visit Tory Island, off the northwest coast of Ireland, nine miles out into the Atlantic Ocean off Donegal. Being acutely aware that the island is known in myth as the stronghold of the Fomorians, those dark, brooding forces of evil that sought to suppress and vanquish the Tuatha Dé Danann, I somehow felt that I should gird myself for the journey. Shortly before I went to Tory, I visited Newgrange, where I hoped that, in some way, the Dé Dananns would make their presence felt in my own mental being - that, somehow, I would be imbued with some supernatural psychological strength to repel any of that dark energy that might perhaps lurk on this mysterious island out in the ocean.

The rationalist in me balked at the whole idea. Supernatural forces indeed. What a load of nonsense.

However, at Newgrange I had a strangely unique experience. The place seemed bereft of presence. It felt bizarrely devoid of any energy or power. It had become, for the first time in my experience, just a heap of stones. Under the stars in the summer twilight, I felt very alone. What was happening?

This self portrait was taken at Newgrange on the night in question.

Upon reflection, it now seems clear that the perceived absence of energy at Newgrange was the unconscious realisation within myself of a distinct lack of presupposed personal energy of any form - good or bad, Dé Danann or Fomorian - that I might have used in my own imagined battle with the Fomorians out on Tory. In other words, while I went to Newgrange to mentally prepare for the trip to Tory, where I feared I might encounter a darkness in my own nature, when I got to Newgrange and found it bereft of vitality, I should have realised that this was a blunt message from within, which might have said something like "there is no need to gird yourself, because the only energy you will encounter on Tory is whatever energy you bring there yourself".

Through such experiences, we realise one of the great truths about sacred sites like Newgrange. And that is the idea that they are expressions of our own numen-seeking nature. They reflect back to us the energy that we bring to them. Newgrange is a place of peace and power because we make it so. Does this mean we only imagine that it has power, and that in fact, as many archaeologists have perhaps concluded, it is merely a man-made cairn of stones and nothing more? Does this mean it has no power at all?

The answer to that question depends entirely on your own perception of it, and indeed your own general approach to such issues. For many of us, Newgrange has an intense power. The monument functions as a mandala of sorts. It activates for us great sources of awe and wonderment, of some deep bliss within us, or perhaps even a sense of our greater connection to the cosmos, and to forces of spiritual vitality and oneness that lie beyond rational explanation. It has this power because we allow ourselves to be open to the possibilities.

How can we know whether any of this power with which we imbue it was an intention of the builders? We can't. And therefore we must allow it to be whatever it will be for each and every individual. And therein lies the true power of Newgrange.

Arriving on Tory Island in June, coming towards midsummer and the longest days of the year, I can truly say that I was enchanted. It did not hold any sort of dark energy perceptible me, except for whatever feelings such a remote and windswept and barren piece of rock might instill in the human spirit. While I enjoyed my time there and really warmed to Tory, I can imagine that the picture must be much bleaker in winter time, when the island often becomes cut off from the mainland, sometimes for several weeks or even months.

A view from Tory Island looking towards Donegal on the mainland.

On most days, you can see the mainland, and the mountains of Donegal. But despite their relative proximity, there are times when they seem a lifetime's journey away. Tory is one of those unique places where it is possible to experience a sense of loneliness and detachment, in a way that visits to Newgrange cannot possibly do.

Staying in the easternmost property on the island with a group of amateur radio friends gave me the opportunity to visit what is perhaps the single most powerful part of the island from the point of view of both mythology and dramatic landscape - Dún Bhalóir (Balor's Fort). This very striking promontory is the highest part of the 5km-long island, with dramatic precipitous cliffs that present almost-vertical drops to the surging Atlantic below.

Over the course of five days on the island, I made many visits to Dún Bhalóir. The first was filled with some trepidation, as I am not blessed with a good head for heights! Despite my fear, I was captivated and enthralled by Balor's Fort, which is a fantastic example of an Iron Age promontory fort. There are dramatic views of the whole island from up there, and indeed the Atlantic Ocean. It was here that Balor had his stronghold, and in an a cleft on its eastern side, surrounded by high sea cliffs, was Príosún Bhaloir, into which he was said to have kept his prisoners. Was it here at Balor kept his daughter, Eithne, who would eventually become the mother of Lugh, the one who would kill Balor?

Dún Bhalóir with its precipitous cliffs in the midnight twilight.

I made repeated visits to Balor's Fort. It kept calling me back. This isolated spot, high on a rocky isthmus on this remote outpost of civilisation, had a power for me similar to Newgrange. It awakened within me some deep-seated sense of awe, and of rugged and raw isolation, such that it was possible, momentarily at least, to lose all sense of myself. Of course the camera was always on hand, and the nature of the sunsets and long drawn-out, everlasting twilight of June meant that the constantly-changing scene presented dramatic pictures that transformed from one moment to the next.

Eithne's son Lugh built himself a fort called Dún Lúiche, at the base of mount Errigal on the mainland. It was here that Balor was said to have been killed by Lugh with the help of Gaibhdín Gabha, a Tuatha Dé Danann smith. They killed him by thrusting a red hot spear through the back of his head and out through his evil eye. Gleann Nimhe/Poison Glen is named from the liquid which poured from Balor's eye.

On one of my last visits to Dún Bhalóir, while climbing up its steep slopes, I reflected on this story of the killing of Balor by Lugh, and the version from the Second Battle of Moytura with which I was more familiar. In some versions of his story, his eye was said to have burned the landscape. While pondering the symbolism of the evil eye, a thought suddenly came into my head, very clearly:


"We must kill the evil eye within ourselves."

Sunset on Tory, captured from the cliff tops at Balor's Fort.

Reflecting on the metaphor of the story of Balor's evil eye, and how he was killed by a spear or slingshot from Lugh, it became clear to me that what the evil eye represents is our own shadow, the dark aspects of ourselves which we might perhaps project onto others - in this case, these others are represented by Balor and the Fomorians. They are not some dark or evil race, some shadowy mythical beings. The Fomorians are our shadow. In the human lifetime, there is an everlasting conflict between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians. This battle, or counter-positioning of the forces of light and darkness, is present to some extent in all of us.

But furthermore is the notion that the evil eye of Balor represents the human weakness of projecting our own shortcomings and failings, and prejudices, onto others, as exemplified by Matthew 7:3:

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

This problem of the evil eye - the eye that sees malevolence and misdeeds in others and perhaps wants to act upon this prejudice - is present in very destructive and threatening forms in the world today. This current manifestation of the evil eye in Europe and America in particular threatens to bring the world to a new conflict - a clash of civilisations akin to the great battles between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians.

We must not seek to kill the Fomorians. For one cannot kill one's own shadow. One must merely acknowledge its presence and, to an extent, "make friends with the devil". Jung might have referred to this as assimilation of the shadow. We should retain an awareness of our own shadow, but not identify with it.

It is more important that we kill the evil eye, that prejudice within us that wants to blame others for the ills of the world. Let us pierce that evil eye with a great spear, or break it with a slingshot, so that the world of mankind does not bring itself towards a Third Battle of Moytura.

"We must kill the evil eye within ourselves."

Watching the northerly march of the sun as we head towards the longest days of the year

I realise that I haven't written a blog post in a while. It's not that I haven't been doing anything. Quite the opposite. One of the things that's been keeping me busy is photography. Among many other things, I've been tracking the northerly progress of the sunsets over the past month or so as we march inevitably towards summer solstice and the longest days of the year. It's just over three weeks away now, and as much as I love this time of year, personally watching the sunsets is always tinged with sadness for me. And in this blog post, I will attempt to explain why.

The sadness finds its source in a number of places. I think that its difficult to live at any latitude so removed from the equator that the difference in the length of day from midwinter to midsummer is enormous. It's not so difficult to live in Ireland in summer, when the days are long and there is a great spurt of life and growth evident all around. Winter is a very different story. The days are short, and are often shortened further by a darkness that is creeping and all-encompassing. Immersed in this darkness, all you can do is accept it, and perhaps embrace it, and wait for the days to lengthen.

A recent sunset over the Boyne from Millmount.

Summer then arrives rather abruptly. In late March, the clocks go forward by an hour. Where previously the sun was setting around 6pm, now it sets at 7, and it doesn't get dark until nearly 8. Because it's the time of equinox, the sun's rising and setting positions on the eastern and western horizons are moving at their greatest speed. The days are getting longer rapidly from Imbolc (the ancient Celtic spring festival of early February), through spring equinox, and on towards Bealtaine (early May). Before Daylight Saving Time kicks in, you are probably driving to and from work in the dark, and find that the only daylight activities you can partake in (apart from whatever work you do) are at weekends, when you try to "cram it all in".

From late March onward, you can start to enjoy the "stretch in the evenings", as it is commonly referred to here in Ireland. And very quickly, within a month, you've gone from driving home in the dark to enjoying brightness until well after 9pm.

Tonight, (May 29th, 2016) I watched and photographed the sun as it went down beneath the horizon from Millmount, a mound said to have been built by the Normans in the 12th century, but which local folklore says is an ancient burial mound. The sun finally disappeared beneath the horizon at 9.33pm. As I write, it's 10.29pm and it's still not dark.

Now don't get me wrong. I love this time of year. And I love the long evenings. I enjoy the extra light. It invigorates my spirit. There is something about the lingering of the light that I have always connected with hope, and vitality. I suppose there's probably nothing unusual about that.

However, part of the sadness that I feel, even at this time of year, stems from the realisation that inevitably the sun will reach a certain maximum setting azimuth and, after halting there for a few days, will begin to start heading south again. No sooner do the glorious days of summer arrive and suddenly the pendulum swings against us. From Millmount, the sun at midsummer appears to set over Hill of Rath, in the direction of another hill at Collon known as the Black Hill. I wonder if this name is one of many place names in Ireland that might possibly be explained through such astronomical alignments. Is it called the Black Hill because it marks the place from which the sun turns back, towards the shorter days and darker evenings?

Today was a particularly glorious day in the Boyne Valley. It was warm and sunny and the whole valley is alive with the business of summer. People were out in droves, walking, playing, relaxing. It was one of those days when you might say to yourself, "if it was like this all the time you'd never want to leave."

But some of us are so married to the place - despite the sometimes endless rain, and the short cold days of winter - that we never leave it anyway.

The swifts and swallows and house martins, having recently arrived back from their faraway wintering grounds in Africa, perhaps conversely remind us of our own rooting to place, our connection to home, something that, until the invention of powered flight, was largely intrinsic to our lives as humans. We might have ventured across the globe as a species, but locally, once we find home, we tend to stay there. And sometimes, bound to that spot on the earth by our sense of belonging, and perhaps reinforced by our sense of community, we might wish that, like the swallow, we could just alight into the great air and fly off somewhere else for the winter, leaving the harsh chill behind.

One of the other things that makes me sad, even on these lovely long evenings of summer, is the fact that the relentless movement of the sun, and the consequent brightening and darkening of the days, is an eternal reminder of the fleeting and changing nature of our own lives. There, reflected in the everyday movements of that golden ball upon which we depend for so much, we see in vivid reality the corruptible nature of our own carnal selves. Just as the day rises tentatively in the east, and the noon comes brightly to strengthen the day, the evening arrives all too swiftly and the day is spent. All this is extended and magnified in the great drama of the seasons, and all too quickly the autumn arrives, with its fallen leaves and drooping spirits ushering in the harsh winter.

The setting sun in early May viewed from Millmount.

So even as we watch the sun dropping down onto the far green-grey hills in the warm evening, we contemplate the relentless march of time, and of season, and how the winters and summers rise and fall with alarming haste. And we think back, perhaps, to the metaphorical dark and bright seasons in our own lives - times when we might have enjoyed a fulsome vitality, or times when maybe there was darkness or a lack of light. We might think of people - friends, relatives or acquaintances - upon whose lives the sun set all too soon.

All of which gives us good reason to enjoy, as much as possible, while we have the time, and while we might be able to, the glorious coming of the long evenings of summer.

And perhaps, as we watch that sinking red orb strike the horizon, we might remember also the ancient ancestors who possibly stood at the same spot and watched that same sun disappear into the earth.

Newgrange and the return of the Tuatha Dé Danann

I wake up some days and I wonder what we started when we left the forests and turned away from the hunter-gatherer lifestyle towards organised agriculture and monument construction. It was the beginning of modern civilisation, and perhaps the beginning of real conflict between humans. It was a brave but perilous step, emerging from the woods, and clearing land so that we could state in stone and earth something of our cosmology and our spirituality and of our meagre understanding of the great metaphysical mysteries. These questions do not have a time frame. They are relevant today just as much as they were in ancient prehistory:

Who are we?
Where did we come from?
Why are we here?
Where is here?
What is out there?
Why do people die?
What happens to us when we die?

Sunlight enters Knowth's western passage at the autumn equinox.

I've come to believe that the stone monuments of the Neolithic embody those questions. Their construction was an attempt at understanding - or at least attuning to - some of these mysteries. The mythology of the great monuments of Newgrange and Dowth speaks of the desire to control time on behalf of the gods or kings. If you could measure time, and elucidate some of the complex patterns of the sky, perhaps you could open a vista into deeper mysteries.

There has been a lot of speculation - some of it valid - around the idea of monuments as portals. Do passage-tombs such as Newgrange offer access to hidden realms - realms of consciousness or spirit? Realms of the gods? Detached from the sense world, in the darkness of the interior of Newgrange, do you hallucinate, seeing the geometric shapes that are carved onto the stones of the monument? Trance-like, do you meet the ancestors?

In ancient times, people brought the fragmented remains of their ancestors into these chambers and carefully, lovingly, placed them there in the obvious hope that out of their remains would spring new life - perhaps a life eternal, in other realms. These realms are spoken of in mythology.

In the myths, the gods wage war against each other. There are two battles of Moytura. Eventually, in the second battle, the "good guys", the Tuatha Dé Danann, win out against the "bad guys", the Fomorians. When you witness the magic of the winter solstice light in Newgrange - as I have done - and you see that beam of sunlight piercing the darkness, you begin to realise that that was what the journey of the ancient world was all about. It was about the defeat of darkness by light.

Winter solstice light in Newgrange. © Paul Kelly.

But the light of the Tuatha Dé Danann waned when the Milesians came from Spain. The Tuatha Dé Danann went underground, so to speak, agreeing to occupy the sídhe while the Milesians took sway over Ireland. They weren't defeated as such. They made an accord with the Milesians and vanished into the sídhe. But this was not their defeat, nor their end. In accessing the sídhe, those portals to other realms, they were guaranteeing their survival. And the lasting folklore of the Tuatha Dé Danann is that they will return. In fact, some folk prophecy states that they will return for one last great battle, some end-of-the-world scenario, some apocalypse, and that they will be victorious.

So what does all this mean in practical terms, if anything? Were the rumours of a coming return of the Tuatha Dé Danann (and sometimes other great mythical and historical figureheads, such as Fionn Mac Cumhaill or Gearóid Iarla) founded upon the wishes of a repressed and depressed people - an Irish population that had been beaten, downtrodden and starved by centuries of cruel occupation? It is likely that that is part of the tale.

However, there is something about these people of light that makes them endure and endear. They represent our hopes for a better world, those unquenchable hopes that, out of darkness, light will spring. We imagine the return of Lugh Samildánach to Tara, or we envision Aonghus Óg emerging from the great sídhe of Brugh na Bóinne, to reveal himself once more to the world. We should not lightly discard mythology as mere fairy tale. Joseph Campbell said: “Myth is much more important and true than history.” Myth offers a window into the human spirit, our core nature. We venerate the Tuatha Dé Danann(1) as manifestations of our light and compassionate aspects, those facets of our being with which we would bring about a peaceful, harmonious and just world, where the very best aspects of humanity would be allowed to flourish. Equally, we acknowledge the presence of the Fomorians, as manifestations of our tyrannous and malevolent aspects, those facets of humanity that would see the world destroyed and allow human suffering to endure. In world myths, the conquest of darkness by light is a recurring theme. This is unsurprising. The myth with light versus darkness at its core is an enduring myth of hope - hope that we will vanquish the dark side of our nature once and for all.

Newgrange before excavation, when the
light could not reach inside.

Newgrange slept for four millennia - its kerb and entrance concealed by the stones which slipped down off the cairn and sealed it shut. It was "reawakened" in 1699 when the entrance to its passage was rediscovered, and more significantly in the 1960s when it was excavated and its solstice alignment and illumination revealed to the world. Now, hundreds of thousands of people visit the monument every year. The Tuatha Dé Danann are reawakening.

But let us not make the mistake of creating a religion out of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Let us not make them gods or messiahs. Rather, let us make them symbols or metaphors for the reawakening of our own best aspects. In the constant turmoil of a sometimes baffling human existence, where we do the most horrendous things to one another, let us acknowledge that the power to bring about positive change lies entirely within. To create gods of the Tuatha Dé Danann is to engage in a circumvention of our own power, a cop-out in which we declare that the gods have the power, and that they control our destiny.

The truth of the mytho-prescient folk belief in the future return of the Tuatha Dé Danann is that we should not wait at the doorways of the sídhe for the unlikely emergence of some spectral forms in our desire to prevent a cataclysm. Joseph Campbell also said, in The Power of Myth:

“Heaven and hell are within us, and all the gods are within us. This is the great realization of the Upanishads of India in the ninth Century B.C. All the gods, all the heavens, all the world, are within us. They are magnified dreams, and dreams are manifestations in image form of the energies of the body in conflict with each other. That is what myth is. Myth is a manifestation in symbolic images, in metaphorical images, of the energies of the organs of the body in conflict with each other."

In choosing to allow the Tuatha Dé Danann to manifest within us, we are saying yes to heaven and no to hell. We are inviting the metaphorical image of light to transform into a practical reality, a living embodiment of our own goodness, so that we might prevent the Fomorian forces of darkness from bringing us to the brink of destruction.

Newgrange, with its reconstructed portal, reminds us that the
light can and will return.

The prophecy of the re-emergence of the Tuatha Dé from the sídhe should come as no surprise. In a world where darkness often appears to get the upper hand, we need Newgrange to serve as a reminder that the light can and will return - gloriously - and that the darkness is not unending. Imagine that for centuries, and more likely millennia, the winter solstice light was unable to enter Newgrange, because its structural stones had slowly subsided under the weight of the cairn, and the light was cut off. And yet, 5,000 years after it was first constructed, a miracle happened - the light began to shine brilliantly in the cold interior of the monument once again. So too will a miracle happen with the Tuatha Dé Danann. Countless centuries after they retreated to the sídhe, they will re-emerge. This is a metaphorical miracle - our own good nature must re-emerge, and as a species we must find a way to get along with one another. What other choice do we have? In a world constantly under threat from the forces of darkness, should we just retreat to hidden realms and allow the darkness to abide without challenge?

With Newgrange reconstructed, the portal is now open. It is up to us to call the Tuatha Dé Danann from the sídhe, to make them manifest within us, to ensure that, as the prophecy states, they will be victorious.

(1) It should be said here that the mythology of the Tuatha Dé Danann is not all filled with goodness. There are battles, and murders, and there is retribution (for example, the Fate of the Sons of Tuireann). However, in a broad sense, the Tuatha Dé Danann are seen as beings of light, and because of the complexity of themes in their story, especially those involving retreat and hibernation for some future awakening, we judge them as the best representation of our hopes for the re-emergence of goodness within us.

(Note: This blog post is a development of some of the themes explored in this previous post).

Interesting solstice atmospherics at Newgrange

Tonight at Newgrange was very interesting. Having taken pictures of the sun setting behind Newgrange from Staleen, at the Boyne Canal, and then up on Red Mountain, I decided to head to the monument itself with my daughter Amy. We wanted to see if we could see the aurora borealis which had been forecast. On arrival at Newgrange, almost 45 minutes after sunset, we were greeted by the strange and wonderful sight above. There were huge beams being cast into the sky, as if the sun had just set. It might have resulted from some atmospheric scattering of sunlight related to the aurora. I don't remember ever seeing this effect so long after sunset. But it was magical. It only lasted a few minutes - but long enough for me to get some photos, of which the above is probably the best. I have brightened the photo up somewhat. You can see that the floodlight under the steps at the front of Newgrange is already on.

This being the third of the three "standstill" days of Summer Solstice, the sun is at its lowest beneath the horizon for the whole year. Perhaps that had something to do with the above effect.

I got some nice sunset photos from Staleen and Red Mountain, and then we stayed at Newgrange to watch Venus, Jupiter and the Moon and got some photos of those before heading home. I will post more photos tomorrow.

Ruins on the Hill of Slane

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The ruins on the Hill of Slane, illuminated by different types of lighting, in the evening glow after sunset. This is the place where, according to tradition, Saint Patrick lit the Paschal Fire in contravention of the laws of Ireland, and in direct view of the King, Laoghaire, who saw the fire from nearby Tara. In earlier tradition, the Fir Bolg king Sláine was said to have been buried in a mound behind these ruins. It is from this king that the modern village of Slane gets its name.