Eschewing the little people, one archaeologist dismissed folklore about Newgrange, folklore that later proved true

The earliest antiquarians who visited, documented, sketched and spoke about Newgrange sometimes get a hard time from the modern academic establishment. The writings of Lhwyd and Molyneux and Pownall and Vallancey are all criticised for one reason or another (poor Charles Vallancey is largely ridiculed, perhaps because he referred to Newgrange as a Mithraic temple). All of the early antiquarian accounts of the monument are valuable for one reason or another. Some of them have captured aspects of the monument that have disappeared since they wrote. Without the tools and techniques of modern archaeology, all of them were poking around in the dark, so to speak. They couldn't have known the true age of Newgrange,  nor could they have appreciated the skills of the artists and builders who created it, those whom they all too often referred to as barbarous.

Newgrange in its pre-excavation days.

The New Grange book.

However, Dr. Glyn Daniel, lecturer in archaeology at Cambridge University and editor of the academic journal Antiquity, perhaps should have known better. In 1964, Daniel's book 'New Grange and the Bend of the Boyne' was published by Thames & Hudson. It had been a collaborative effort with University College Cork professor of archaeology, Sean P. Ó Ríordáin. Sadly, Ó Ríordáin had passed away in 1957 in his early fifties, when the pair were only half way through completion of the book. Daniel was the General Editor of the 'Ancient Peoples and Places' series of books, under which the New Grange title was published. It was to become the largest single study of the Newgrange monument since George Coffey's 1912 book, and would be the last before Professor Michael J. O'Kelly's excavations at Newgrange revealed so many of its secrets.

One of the shortcomings of the Daniel/Ó Ríordáin book is that it fails to deal in any substantial terms with the mythical history of the Newgrange monument or indeed its counterparts in the Bend of the Boyne. Except for one passage in which he relates that New Grange might be an English corruption of An Uamh Greine (the cave of Grainne), Daniel does not discuss the ancient names of Newgrange, or its import in the early texts, as O'Kelly later did in his own work on Newgrange. Failing to acknowledge the earlier Irish names of Newgrange, and its mythology and associated stories, Daniel falls into a trap – he assumes the folklore about the site to be utter fantasy, and dismisses it as such:

"It is natural that impressive monuments like New Grange and Stonehenge should be visited a great deal by the general public and should themselves have attracted a folklore based on imagination, half-forgotten history, unappreciated archaeology and the sort of nonsense that luxuriates in the lunatic fringes of serious archaeology."(1)

And in that foregoing paragraph, Daniel was just setting himself up for a fall.

"The visitor to New Grange and Dowth will not be surprised to be told that these monuments were built by and were the homes of 'the little people' or to be asked their connection with the Druids."

One should always be careful about dismissing the fairy folk – even if one is a leading archaeologist and "expert" of the times!

But the following is perhaps indicative of the perhaps excessively arrogant attitude of Daniel in dealing with a monument such as Newgrange and in his rush to dismiss the folklore, he dismissed also notions about the site that would later transpire to be based in truth:

The entrance kerb stone at Newgrange (K1).

"A coloured calendar current in Ireland in 1960 had in it a good photograph of the decorated stone at the entrance to New Grange; this was accompanied by an account which needs quoting almost in toto as an example of the jumble of nonsense and wishful thinking indulged in by those who prefer the pleasures of the irrational and the joys of unreason to the hard thinking that archaeology demands.'The entrance in the east was originally triangular,' says this description, 'but is now changed for easy entrance, formerly it was necessary to crawl in and progress was retarded by interference, stones compelling the neophyte to stoop and stumble. The rays of the rising sun at certain times of the year penetrate the opening and rest on a remarkable triple spiral carving in the central chamber. Like the Great Pyramid of Gizeh in Egypt the New Grange Temple was originally covered with a layer of white quartz and was a brilliant object of Light for a considerable distance. Nuda, first king of Tuatha de Danann in Ireland, and his Master Magician, are said to have officiated here in the very, very old days. Artemidoros the Ephesian stated: "To Sacred Ierne of the Hibernians men go to learn more of the Mysteries of Samothrace."'

Two very important statements in this 1960 calendar demonstrate that there were enduring traditions about Newgrange that were fascinating and even compelling (and certainly worthy of at least some investigation) – one that the sun shone into the chamber during the year and the other that it was once covered with white quartz. Understandably, Daniel could not have known about the existence of quartz, given that the O'Kelly excavations at Newgrange had just begun when the Daniel/Ó Ríordáin book was published, but there was at least one possible reference to this feature in mythology – the "white-topped brugh" was said to have been "brilliant to approach".(2) If he had been a bit more familiar with some of the mythology of Newgrange, he might not have been so quick to shrug it off.

But Daniel certainly should not have been so dismissive in relation to the solar alignment – especially as it had been previously suggested by the likes of Solar Physics Observatory director Sir Norman Lockyer in 1909, and W.Y. Evans-Wentz in The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries in 1911.(3)

Within three years or so of the publication of the Daniel/Ó Ríordáin book, Professor Michael O'Kelly would stand in the chamber of Newgrange and become the first person in the modern era (and perhaps since the Bronze Age) to witness the winter solstice sunlight streaming into its inner chamber, illuminating (by reflected light) the triskele or triple spiral in the chamber. During his excavations at the famous monument, O'Kelly would uncover a significant layer of quartz beneath the cairn spill material – quartz that he would later demonstrate through repeated experiment that actually fronted the monument. In other words, at the very least Newgrange had a white quartz facade, and it is not such a huge leap of imagination to envision the possibility that the cairn was once covered with this bright stone.

The Newgrange triple spiral (triskele) in the chamber

One wonders what Daniel made of O'Kelly's revelations, and how it might have altered his thinking in relation to folklore. Folk memory is a very powerful thing. This might have been demonstrated in the case of the story in the locality of Newgrange suggesting that the Morning Star (Venus) shone into the chamber of the monument once every eight years, as recorded by Joseph Campbell in his 1959 book 'The Masks of God: Primitive Mythology"(4) Then there was the folklore collected in 1938 that suggested the Tuatha Dé Danann had built Newgrange using stones brought from the Mourne Mountains, another apparently wild and imaginative claim that had some basis in reality.

Even in the claim that "Nuda" officiated at Newgrange, the calendar was not too far off the mark. In the early texts, Newgrange is associated in particular with Elcmar, Dagda and Oengus. Dagda was chief of the gods, a kind of Tuatha Dé king, so to speak, and Elcmar was described as a "magician" and "original master of Brug na Bóinne".(5)

Unfortunately, I can only challenge Mr. Daniel posthumously, and as he is not here to defend himself, I must not take undue licence in criticising him for these shortcomings. I am glad that this diminution of folklore is not ubiquitous among modern archaeologists. As mentioned above, Michael O'Kelly outlined the mythical importance of Newgrange, and seemed to hold great reverence for the possibility that it was "a house of the dead and as an abode of spirits" which, he said, was a concept not contradicted by the findings of the excavation. O'Kelly felt that a connection between the archaeological evidence and the early literature was to be found in the older and "more genuine tradition".(6)

Daniel allowed only one statement in the 1960 calendar to stand: "It is at least true in this strange wild-cat account we have just quoted, that New Grange might well be described as belonging to 'the very, very old days'."

"It is our object in this book," he continued, "not only to describe the great tombs in the Bend of the Boyne but to set them in what appears to us their true prehistoric context, as far as the limitations of archaeology allow, eschewing the little people and Artemidoros".

One eschews the daoine sídhe at one's peril! Never dismiss the folklore...

References:
(1) Ó Ríordáin, Sean P., and Daniel, Glyn (1964), New Grange and the Bend of the Boyne, Thames and Hudson, p.19.
(2) Murphy, Anthony (2012), Newgrange – Monument to Immortality, Liffey Press, p.114.
(3) Ibid, p.170.
(4) Campbell (1991) [1959], pp.430-1.
(5) MacKillop, James (1998), Oxford Dictionary of Celtic Mythology, Oxford University Press, p.177.
(6) O'Kelly, Michael J. (1998) [1982], Newgrange: Archaeology, Art & Legend, Thames and Hudson, p.47.

Aislinge Oengusso - the Dream of Oengus - a retelling of the ancient love story of Newgrange by Anthony Murphy

THE DREAM OF OENGUS

D Eduard Muller’s translation updated for modern readers by Anthony Murphy

The story known as ‘Aislinge Oengusso’ (the vision or dream of Oengus) was first mentioned as a remscéla (introductory tale) to the Táin bó Cuailgne in the 12^th century Book of Leinster, but is not recounted there. The story is contained in full in a British Library Egerton manuscript (1782, folio 70b) dating from AD1517. A translation by Eduard Müller was published in Revue Celtique in the 1870s. This translation uses somewhat archaic English, so I decided to update it for a more modern audience. (Note: It is not always implicit from the dialogue who is speaking, so I have had to use some judgement in a couple of instances. Any errors are, of course, mine). 

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Oengus was sleeping one night when he saw something like a maiden near him at the top of his bed. She was the most beautiful woman in Ireland. Oengus tried to take her by the hands to bring her into his bed, but she suddenly vanished. His mind was uneasy until the morning. 

The episode brought an illness upon him – this vision of a figure he had seen but with whom he hadn’t spoken. He did not eat any food. The next night, he saw her again, this time with a cymbal in her hand. She played a song to him so that he fell asleep. He was there until morning. When he woke, he did not have any breakfast.

A whole year passed by and she continued to visit him in his bed so that he fell in love. He didn’t tell anybody about this mysterious maiden. He fell ill and nobody knew what was wrong with him.

The physicians of Erinn assembled. They did not know what was wrong. One went to Fergne, the physician of Conn. He came to Oengus. He knew from looking at Oengus’s face what was wrong with him. He had an illness of the mind.

Fergne spoke with Oengus and told him that an “accidental love has fallen on you”. 

“My illness has judged me,” said Oengus. “I loved in heartlessness. And nobody dared say it to the other.”

“It is true,” said Oengus. “I met a beautiful woman, the most beautiful that is in Erinn, with a distinguished appearance; she had a cymbal in her hand on which she used to play to me every night.”

Fergne knew that love sickness had seized Oengus, so he went to fetch the young man’s mother, Boann, to come and speak with him.

“I was trying to cure this man,” said Fergne, “who has been seized by an uncertain illness.”

Fergne asked Boann to search the whole of Ireland for a maiden like that which her son had seen at night. And so Boann searched Ireland for a year, but nothing was found.

Fergne was called for again. “We have not found any help in this matter,” said Boann.

Fergne said: “Send for the Dagda, so that he may come and speak with his son.”

Brug Mac ind Oicc (Newgrange), where Oengus had his dream of the maiden Caer.

Dagda came. “Why have I been called here?” he asked. “To help your son,” said Boann.  “Your help is better for him. It would be a pity for him to die. He has an illness. He has fallen in an accidental love and there is no help for him.”

“What use is it to him to speak with me?” said the Dagda. “My knowledge is no better than yours.”

Fergne said to the Dagda that he was the “fairy king of Erinn” and he implored Dagda to send to the fairy king of Munster, Bodb, whose knowledge was known far and wide. 

So they went to Bodb, who asked why they had come. “Oengus the son of the Dagda is in love this past two years,” said Fergne. “What for?” said Bodb. “He saw a maiden in his dreams. We don’t know anywhere in Ireland that this maiden can be found.” Bodb was asked to search Ireland for a woman of this form and appearance. Bodb agreed and said it would take him a year until he could answer with certainty.

Fergne went at the end of a year back to the house of Bodb, at Síd fer Femoin. 

“I have investigated all Erinn,” said Bodb, “until I found the maiden at Loch bel Draccon at the harp of Cliach.”

The two went to Dagda with the good news. “The maiden has been found,” said Fergne. “Now Bodb insists that Oengus is to come with us in order to ascertain whether he recognises her as the maiden he saw in his dreams.”

Oengus was brought in a chariot to Síd fer Feimin. A great feast was held with king Bodb for three days and nights. Afterwards, Bodb beckoned Oengus outside, to see if he recognised the woman.

They travelled until they were at the sea, where they saw 150 young women and the maiden was among them. A silvery chain linked every two of the women, a silvery necklace around the neck and a chain of burnished gold.

Caer took the form of a swan for a year and a human the next year.

“Do you recognise the maiden?” Bodb asked.

“Of course I recognise her,” replied Oengus.

“This is not your greatest power,” said Bodb.

“Not so,” replied Oengus. “For I will not be able to take her with me this time.”

“Who is this maiden, o Bodb?” asked Oengus.

“I know who she is. She is Caer ib Ormaith, daughter of Ethal Anbual from Sid Uaman in the province of Connacht.”

Oengus returned with Bodb to Brug mac ind Oicc (Newgrange) to visit the Dagda and Boann. They related how they had seen the maiden, and had heard the name of her father and grandfather. Bodb suggested to the Dagda that he should go to Ailell and Medb in their territory in the land of Connacht, where the maiden was located.

The Dagda travelled with 60 chariots to Connacht. The king and queen welcomed him. They had a feast and drank beer for a whole week. The king asked Dagda what was the reason for his journey.

“There is a maiden in your land,” said the Dagda,” and my son is in love with her and an illness has seized him. I came to ask if you could give her to my son.”

“Which woman is she?” asked Ailell.

“The daughter of Ethal Anbual.”

“We have no power over her,” said Ailill and Medb, “that we could give her to him.”

“Let the king be called here,” said the Dagda.

The stuart of Ailell went to Ethal Anbual and told him he was to go and speak with Ailell and Medb.

“I will not go,” he said. “I will not give my daughter to the son of the Dagda.”

Ethel Anbual’s answer was related to Ailell. “He will not come. He knows the reason for which he is called.”

“Not so,” said Ailell. “I will go and my soldiers will be taken to him.”

Then the household of Ailell and the army of the Dagda rose up towards the fairies. They destroyed the whole síd. They went to the king who was in the caves of anxiety.

Ailell said to Ethal Anbual: “Give your daughter to the son of the Dagda.”

“I cannot,” he said. “There is a greater power in them.”

“What greater power?” asked Ailell.

“Not difficult to say,” replied Ethal Anbual. “To be in the shape of a bird every day of a year; and the other year to be in human shape.”

“Which year will she be in the shape of a bird?” said Ailell.

“I don’t know,” said Caer’s father.

 

Ailell threatened to cut his head off if he did not explain. So he did.

“She will be in the shape of a bird the next summer at Loch bel Draccon and beautiful birds will be seen with her and there will be 150 swans about her.”

Afterwards, Ailell, Ethal and the Dagda became good friends and Ethal was set free.

The Dagda went to his house and told the news to his son.

“Next summer, you must go to Loch bel Draccon and call her to you at the lake.”

Mac Og went to Loch bel Draccon when he saw the 150 white birds at the lake with their silvery chains and golden caps around their heads. Oengus was in human shape at the edge of the lake. He called the maiden to him.

“Come to speak with me, o Chaer.”

“Who calls me?” said Caer.

“Oengus calls you. Come and yield to me.”

Swans at Newgrange...these birds may have inspired some of the old myths.

“I will come,” she said. She went over to him. He put his two hands on her. They slept in the shape of two swans until they surrounded the lake three times. They left the lake in the form of two white birds until they were at the Brug of the mic ind Oicc and they made sweet music so that the people fell asleep for three days and three nights.

The maiden Caer remained with Oengus at the Brug after that.

Afterwards, Oengus became good friends with Ailell and Medb and as a consequence Oengus went with three hundred others to Ailell and Medb for the Táin bo Cuailgne.

The prophecy of the ard-druid from 'The Coming of Cuculain' by Standish O'Grady - read by Anthony Murphy

Standish O'Grady was the son of a protestant clergyman who ironically became part of what has become known as the 'Gaelic Revival' literary movement. Despite his belief that Ireland was better off as part of the United Kingdom, O'Grady's writings as a scholar of Gaelic mythology, Irish history and his works of fiction, inspired those who thought otherwise.

'The Coming of Cuculain' is a historical novel, based around the story of Sétanta/Cúchulainn that we might be familiar with from the manuscripts, but obviously heavily embellished as a work of fiction. Nonetheless, it is very enjoyable. It was published by The Talbot Press in 1894. It features an introduction by A.E. (George William Russell), one of the leading figures of the Gaelic Revival.

In the video, I am reading from Chapter 1, The Red Branch, where the ard-druid, Cathvah, makes a prophecy concerning the coming of the wonder child. It is dramatic and poetic, and biblical in tone. Many mythologies around the world contain narratives concerning the prophesised coming of some sort of hero or warrior or saviour. In this case, the subject of the prophecy is Sétanta, the boy who will eventually kill the hound of Culainn to become the warrior Cúchulainn, who leads the Ulster warriors against Medb's Connacht army.

"Yea, he is coming. He draweth nigh.
Verily it is he whom I behold—
The predicted one—the child of many prophecies—
Chief flower of the Branch that is over all—
The mainstay of Emain Macha—the battle-prop of the Ultonians—
The torch of the valour and chivalry of the North—
The star that is to shine for ever upon the forehead of the Gael.
It is he who slumbers upon Slieve Fuad—
The child who is like a star—
Like a star upon Slieve Fuad.
There is a light around him never kindled at the hearth of Lu,
The Grey of Macha keeps watch and ward for him,
And the whole mountain is filled with the Tuatha de Danan."

'The Coming of Cuculain' read by Anthony Murphy.

The Milky Way in Irish mythology and folklore

The Milky Way has been known by several names and phrases in Irish mythology and folklore. Principal among its names seems to have been Bealach na Bó Finne, which means the Way of the White Cow. In this respect, it seems to have been regarded as a heavenly reflection of the River Boyne. A variant of this is Bóthar na Bó Finne, the Road of the White Cow. The goddess Bóinn's name is from Bó and Find, meaning White Cow. In the Dindshenchas, we are told that the Boyne river was formed when she approached Nechtain's Well and it overflowed, washing her along the river, mutilating her, and finally carrying her out to sea where she was drowned. There, we are told, her lapdog Dabilla was turned into the Rockabill Islands. This is undoubtedly a creation myth.

The Milky Way (Bealach na Bó Finne) over the River Boyne (Abhainn Bó Finne).

There are other names and phrases for the Milky Way. These include:

Ceann Síne - Síne is "chain", and ceann is "head" or "chief", perhaps even an "end point". (An end point would be interesting with regards to the movement of the sun, moon and planets along the ecliptic, which intersects the Milky Way at two points in the sky. Perhaps one of these points was considered the place where the heavenly cycles began and ended?)

Síog na Spéire - the streak or stripe of the sky.

Earball na Lárach Báine - the tail of the white mare. In folklore, Láir Bhán is also a phrase for the moon. The Láir Bhán is considered by some to be an ancient sovereignty goddess. One old Samhain custom in Ireland involved the procession of the Láir Bhán (White Mare) from house to house. People would blow on cows' horns and the party was headed by a person dressed in a white robe or sheet who was known as the "White Mare".(1)

Mór-Chuing Argait - A name given for the Boyne in the Dinshenchas meaning "Great Silver Yoke", which might also have been a description of the Milky Way.

Smir Find Fedlimthi - the White Marrow of Fedlimid, also from the Dindshenchas poem Boand I.

Claí Mór na Réaltaí - the Great Fence/Ditch of the Stars.

Sgríob Chlann Uisnich - Track of the children of Uisneach.

This last one is contained in a beautiful folk memory, recalled in Scotland and in Nova Scotia but relating to an Irish myth (Deidre and the Sons of Uisneach) which appears to be the recounting of an ancient creation myth about the Milky Way. In this story, the Milky Way is known as Sgríob Chlann Uisnich. 

From Deirdre and the Lay of the Children of Uisne.(2)

It is not surprising to see the Milky Way described in conjunction with the swan. The constellation we know today as Cygnus may have been important to Stone Age astronomers and it appears to fly along the heavenly river.

In the Nova Scotia version of Deirdre and the Sons of Uisneach, the origin of the Milky Way galaxy is depicted as emerging from two trees as separated by a loch, as if to complete an arch between them.This episode is placed in the well-known Ulster tale if Deirdre, whose lover, Noíse, is one of the Children of Uisneach.

... the sons of Uisneach are killed in a great, unnamed battle, after which Deidire falls into the grave with the men. The bodies of the two lovers are exhumed and reburied on either side of the burial mound. Soon a tree grows from each grave and rises until the two join. This arouses a great deal of vengeful malice in an unnamed king, who orders that the trees be cut down. Soon another pair of trees grows and joins until the king has them cut down as well. This sequence of events recurs repeatedly until the king decides to have the bodies placed on either side of a loch, a distance too great for the trees to span. Between the trees a cluster of stars gathers in a light trail, Sgríob Chlann Uisnich [track of the Children of Uisneach].(3)

Sgríób Chlann Uisnich - the track of the Children of Uisneach - over the Dowth megalithc mound.

References:
(1) Paice MacLeod, Sharon (1960), Celtic Myth & Religion, p.175.
(2) Carmichael, Alexander (1914), Deirdre and the Lay of the Children of Uisne, Hodges, Figgis & Co., p.152.
(3) MacKillop, James (2006), Myths and Legends of the Celts, Penguin Books, p.292.

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."

Video: An explanation of some of the astronomical and mythological symbolism of the summer solstice and the sun's unique position above Orion on this day

In this video, I explain some of the fascinating astronomical and mythical symbolism of today's Summer Solstice, and in particular I point out the very unique occurrence of the sun passing above Orion's hand - in the Milky Way - on this auspicious day.

Today is Summer Solstice, the maximum northerly declination of the sun, which occurs precisely at 10:34pm GMT (11.34pm local time) this evening. The sun's rising and setting positions in the northeast and northwest have reached a standstill and over the course of the next few days these positions will begin to retreat southwards. These are the longest days of the year.

If we could somehow blot out the sun, as happens during a total solar eclipse, we would see that the sun is presently located above the constellation Orion, in his outstretched arm. This is unique to our time. The sun's solstice and equinox positions are slowly drifting westwards through the zodiac due to a wobble of the earth's axis. The effect of this wobble is that the solstice/equinox points complete a circuit of the zodiac just once very 25,920 years.

In a few decades' time, the sun will have drifted out of Orion's hand on the summer solstice, moving gradually into Taurus (the bull constellation). It will not return to Orion's hand on Summer Solstice for almost 26,000 years. Eventually the autumn equinox sun will be in the hand of Orion, but not for another 6,500 years! And then in around 13,000 years, the winter solstice sun will be in the hand of Orion. I know it might be hard to believe, but by that time Orion will no longer be visible from Ireland. He will be too far south and only the stars of his upraised arm will be visible here.

Orion/Lugh/Cúchulainn/Fionn/Nuadu carries the sun across the sky.

There is some fascinating mythological symbolism involved in today's occurrence which I have explored before, especially in my book Island of the Setting Sun. There are several candidates for this constellation in Irish mythology. These include Lugh Lamhfada (Lugh of the Long Arm, or Long Throw), who may have been seen to control the movement of the sun, moon and planets along the ecliptic from his arm. Similarly, Lugh's son Cúchulainn, the chief character of the epic Táin Bó Cuailnge, is said to have fired a sliothar (ball used in an Irish game called hurling) through the mouth of a hound/cú (Leo), and was said to have fought best in ford water. Indeed the point where the sun sits on Summer Solstice is that point where the ecliptic intersects with the Milky Way galaxy, the river of the sky. This was Bealach Bó Finne (the Way of the White Cow), and its earthly equivalent was Abhainn Bó Finne (Boyne River). Fionn Mac Cumhaill was said to have thrown standing stones into the landscape from places like Hill of Tara and Slieve Gullion. I wonder if this myth/folk tale perhaps connects Orion with the solstices - it's possible that many standing stones have alignments towards the sun's solstices or the lunar standstills. If Fionn threw the stones, perhaps this is a reference to the alignment with such astronomical events which are seen to be controlled by this illustrious man in the sky. Fionn's name translates as "Bright Son of the Hazel" or "Starry Son of the Hazel".

"I am a light for every road and journey" - Lugh Lamhfada.

An equally illustrious character from the early Irish myths is Nuadu of the Silver Arm, King of the Tuatha Dé Danann, whose arm was chopped off in the first battle of Moytura. He had a new silver arm made for him by the Tuatha Dé Danann healer, Dian Cecht. Thus he was able to take part in the second battle of Moytura (Mag Tuired) in which the Dananns were victorious against the Fomorians. This myth inspired the famous scene in the Star Wars movies where Luke Skywalker (Orion is perhaps seen to walk through the sky) confronts the evil Darth Vader, who chops off his arm with a light sabre. Towards the end of the movie, we see that Luke is given a metal, robotic prosthesis, similar perhaps to Nuadu's new "silver" arm.

The full moon on summer solstice.

The symbolism of today's event is stark. A giant warrior/god/hunter/man carries the sun aloft across the sky, like an Olympic torch bearer, from dawn until dusk.

Tonight, as the sun sets, a full moon will rise in the southeast, in the other "crossing point" or "ford" of the sky where the ecliptic crosses the Milky Way. Full moons on the day of solstice are rare enough. The last one was in 1967. So today we are enjoying a special conjunction of astronomical events.

The moon will be accompanied in that region of the sky by the planet Mars, currently quite bright, and also the planet Saturn and the bright star of Scorpius, Antares.

See also an earlier post about Lugh carrying the sun on Summer Solstice.

The Boyne river, Carl Jung and the reconciliation of the masculine and feminine elements of life

I've been reading a book about the life and influence of Carl Jung. One of the things that has struck me since I recently began to earnestly probe the life and work of this hugely influential individual - only within the six or seven months - is how I have managed to live this long without encountering his writing, and the tremendous influence he has had, not least upon our understanding of mythology, but of the collective unconscious and the archetypes that emerge from some sincere yet imponderable depth within us.

A most exciting book

Marie-Louise Franz's biography, 'C.G. Jung - His Myth in Our Time', was one of the most exciting things I've ever read, and now I am following up with Laurens van der Post's 1976 biography, 'Jung and the Story of our Time', which I have to admit I find equally enthralling. I have read a limited amount of Jung's own writing, but in not untypical fashion I sometimes find that an account of a person of such greatness by a third party - in both these cases people who were lucky enough to know Jung while he was alive - provides a fuller insight into not just their work, but their whole being.

In a similar vein, my prejudice towards the biographer, if it hadn't been immediately obvious, was manifested in the case of Nietzsche when I found myself underlining and highlighting many more passages in a Janko Lavrin biography of him than I did in Nietzsche's own work, 'Beyond Good and Evil'.

In many respects, I had already met Carl Gustav Jung, through the work of someone who has often been described as a Jungian disciple, Joseph Campbell. Campbell's work crossed into fields of common interest with my own researches into the myths of the Boyne Valley and Ireland, and indeed became firmly focused in my crosshairs when his discussion of a myth about Venus shining into Newgrange once in eight years set the hairs on the back of my neck all tingling in one of many great and exciting revelations that occurred while I was researching for 'Island of the Setting Sun'.

Campbell was, I now realise, a stepping stone on the crossing of a great river, towards an even more fertile land, inhabited by the thoughts and works of a person of such great standing in the human story that it can be suggested, even though subjectively, that he deserved to stand alone from the human race, deified perhaps by those of us who can only tread gently in his shadow, so great and yet gentle is his presence in the great work of understanding the sacred, and the symbol, and the myths of mankind, and indeed his participation in the great mystery of his own existence.

And so I followed by bliss, and my bliss led me to Newgrange, and thereafter to the works of C.G. Jung.

Van der Post's biography of Jung.

In his biography, van der Post discusses Jung's association with the Rhine, and how Jung believed that no-one could truly live without being in the presence of water, whether lake or river. The biographer believes it was a portentous event that Jung, born on the shore of Lake Constance, should four years later move close to Basle, where he spent 21 years in the presence of the great Rhine, "so that ... the presence of this great river ... was in and around his senses". But here, van der Post makes a stark observation:

"The Rhine is one of the great mythological rivers of the world, not yielding place to the other immense mythological rivers representing the searching and inquiring spirits of men and their cultures, such as the Ganges, the Nile, the Yellow River of China and so on. But unlike those rivers which appear as rivers of light, resolution and are full of a natural, maternal solitude for life, the Rhine is a dark, angry and outraged masculine stream ... It was as if the Rhine had its source in the heart of the darkness of European history."

How can one say that a river, a restless body of water flowing ceaselessly from source to sea, has gender? I thought immediately of the Boyne, which has never been too far from me, either physically or consciously, and its very feminine name, Bóinn, she who is the illuminated bovine goddess of some antiquity. The following words from van der Post made me somewhat glad that my local river, the river of my youth and that is ever-present in my story upon this earth, should have such a stark feminine association:

"Like Heine, I could not understand why it should make me feel sad when the tops of the hills above the Rhine sparkled in a long evening sunlight of summer. I wondered why the story of Lorelei should trouble me? ... Perhaps it was because the imagery evoked by Heine of the feminine being of irresistible beauty and siren song, combing out her hair of gold with a comb of gold, represented all the feminine values which European man, particularly German man, had rejected. German culture, embedded as it was in a civilisation almost entirely man-made, was deliberately and wilfully masculine." In fact, van der Post wrote, "the infinitely renewing and renewable moon that swings the sea of change and symbolises all that is eternally feminine in the spirit of man, by some ominous perversity ... was rendered into a fixed and immutable masculinity."

And I thought, upon reading all the above, that no-one who had lived by the shores of the Boyne river, having heard her gentle lappings or the incessant babbling of her salmon weirs, could ever go to war against another man, or tribe, or nation. Naively, perhaps, I thought that a feminine name and a feminine myth were enough to ensure that those of us who lived within hearing distance of the bright cow river had within our grasp some sense of the feminine aspect of ourselves, allowing it some balance with the masculine in order that some good human decency would prevail that would impel us not towards conflict with our brethern in the greater world, but towards some greater accord. The moon, I felt, was itself a bright wandering cow, and in my own work I had been satisfied that Bóinn represented more than just the river which has her name - she was river, but also moon and Milky Way.

The Boyne ... a river with a feminine identity and feminine mythology.

Ireland did not have a "father" identity (like Germany or Japan), rather being named Éire, after one of a triune of goddesses. We did not make war, but rather we suffered it, and often were the unnecessary victims or players in someone else's conflict, or someone else's incursions upon Éire's sovereignty. This is written indelibly into our mytho-historical story, exemplified in the Lebor Gabála, the Book of Invasions, which has been imprinted upon the very essence of our spirit as a people.

I thought of the poet Francis Ledwidge, who was born near Slane, high above the Boyne on its northern bank, and who died in the Great War at the age of 29. He wrote:

Francis Ledwidge

"All the dead kings came to me
At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming ...
And every dead king had a story
Of ancient glory, sweetly told...
I listened to the sorrows three
Of that Eire passed into song...
And one said: 'Since the poets perished
And all they cherished in the way,
Their thoughts unsung, like petal showers
Inflame the hours of blue and gray."

And when I stood by Bóinn's shore, beneath looming Rosnaree, the wood of the king, I watched in flame the grafted embers of that twilight vision, of cherished things that were no more than barely formed thoughts, flowing down in a stream from hills beyond sight. And there, glistening in a pool of Bóinn's tender making, the relinquished dreams of that Éire passed into song would be gloriously resuscitated by the ancient poet, a Ledwidge in the guise of Finegas the Wise, singing merrily by the shore in an Ireland that is more famous for song than sword.

And we could not make kings of Jung nor Ledwidge nor Finegas, for even as a king at Rosnaree, I was, in the words of Shirley, sceptered and crowned, yet I tumbled down, and in the dust I was equal made with the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Often have I stood by Bóinn's brooding waters in the blue hour of evening, after the sun's departure, and listened there for the sounds of those stories of ancient glory, sweetly told. I never realised how that unfathomable something within my deeper self could be so brilliantly exemplified in the symbolism and sound of water until I had spent many a lonely hour in her presence. 

And maybe from now on, lingering at Bóinn's border as I ponder incessantly at the edge of the unfathomable, I will tip my hat to the great C.G. Jung, whose whole work, in the words of van der Post, "was the rediscovery of the great feminine objective within the objective psyche of man, as to make possible as never before a reconciliation of the masculine and feminine elements in life."

Some old names for the town of Drogheda in Irish myths and place name lore

My home town is today called Drogheda. The common accepted nomenclature of Drogheda says that it is derived from the Irish Droichead Átha, meaning "Bridge on the Ford". I've always been curious about that, mainly because a ford or crossing point is something that obviously pre-dates a bridge, so that the name seems to refer to two distinct and different methods of crossing the river. Before bridges were built, rivers were crossed at shallow places called fords, or indeed at shallow places where the crossing was augmented by some sort of stone causeway built along the river bed.1

A view of Drogheda with its bridge over the Boyne from a mid-18th Century
painting by Gabriele Ricciardelli (Highlanes Gallery)

An ancient ford of the Boyne at Rosnaree, several miles upstream of Drogheda, is marked on early OS maps. It might have been one of the principal crossing places of the Boyne in prehistory, and was possibly the place where the great northern road from Tara, the Slíghe Midluachra, passed through the Boyne Valley adjacent to the great monuments of Brúg na Bóinne.

The ancient ford of the Boyne at Rosnaree. (Source)

In 'Island of the Setting Sun - In Search of Ireland's Ancient Astronomers', Richard Moore and I presented evidence that the name of the Boyne river might have been inspired by the Milky Way, the great "river of the sky" and that the Boyne might have been considered its earthly counterpart.

Some of Drogheda's numerous bridges.

So I have this pet theory, and it's only a theory, without much foundation, that perhaps the old name of Drogheda does not mean "Bridge on the Ford", but maybe something like "Ford of the Wheel" - droichead being related to the word droch, which means "wheel".2 I've also seen it written somewhere (although I cannot immediately recall the source) that suggested the word droichead stems from droch representing the wheel-shaped arches of a bridge. My theory is that the "ford of the wheel" is the crossing point of the earthly Milky Way, the river Boyne. Indeed, another great wheel of the sky - the Zodiac, through which the sun, moon and planets journey through the sky - was recognised in earlier times by the Irish phrase rael-draoch, the "circle or wheel of the stars".3

Anyway, I digress. Enough of the pet theories and deviations from the main topic at hand, which is the ancient name of the town we call Drogheda today.

In prehistoric times, the area where Drogheda is situated today was likely known as Inber Colpa (spelt different ways, including Inbher Colptha). There are a couple of different stories accounting for the origin of this name. One of these says that it is named after the shin-bone (Colptha) of the great monster the Mata, which was said to have been slain by the men of Éireann at a mysterious stone near Newgrange in Brug na Bóinne. Another story says the name is accounted for by the death of the Milesian brother Colpa during their battle with the Tuatha Dé Danann, who caused a fierce tempest to blow up as the Milesians attempted to land at the Boyne. You can read more about these stories in Island of the Setting Sun. Inber is an Irish word that means "the meeting of the waters", or a harbour or estuary.

Of particular interest to my little investigation here, though, are a couple of names for Drogheda which I had not previously encountered. Droichead Átha and Inber Colpa are well attested, but much less well known but equally interesting are some other names which were apparently given to the town, or features in its vicinity, in times long ago.

In their recounting of a famous story called 'The Colloquy of the Old Men', Cross and Slover in their 1936 book 'Ancient Irish Tales' refer to the separate journeys of  Oisín (son of the celebrated Finn McCool) and Cailte, son of Crunnchu mac Ronain. After visiting Finn's old nurse, Oisin and Cailte separate, one going north to seek Oisín's mother, who is one of the Tuatha De Danann; the other moving south toward Tara:

... Oisin went to the fairy-mound of Uch Cletigh, where was his mother, Blai daughter of Derc Dianscothach; while Cailte took his way to Inber Bic Loingsigh which at present is called Mainister Droichid Atha (the monastery of Drogheda) from Beg Loigsech son of Arist that was drowned in it, that is, the king of the Romans' son, who came to invade Ireland; but a tidal wave drowned him there in his inber (river-mouth). He went on to Linn Feic (Fiacc's Pool), on the bright-streaming Boyne; southwards over the Old Mag Breg, and to the rath (stronghold) of Drum Derg, where Patrick mac Calpuirn was.

Mellifont Abbey. 

There are a few things that are interesting in this passage. We know that Fiacc's Pool is likely situated on the bend of the Boyne beneath Ros na Rí (Rosnaree) and was the celebrated place where Finneces caught the Salmon of Knowledge, from which Finn gained all his wisdom. The 'Inber Bic Loingsigh' which was better known as the Monastery of Drogheda, is a curious one indeed. Bic of Beg is probably the Irish word for small. Loingsigh could be a variant of loingeasach, meaning "abounding in ships or in fleets".4 In his 1997 book Conversing with Angels and Ancients: Literary Myths of Medieval Ireland, Joseph Falaky Nagy asserts that the Mainistir Droichit Átha referred to in the text is Mellifont, the first Cistercian monastery founded in Ireland (in 1142). Not being a scholar in medieval Ireland, I cannot argue with him. However, the location of Mellifont a number of miles northwest of Drogheda, on a smaller tributary of the Boyne called the river Mattock, means it is some distance removed from the river mouth where Beg Loingsech was apparently drowned.

The story of the mysterious drowning of Beg Loingsech is interesting indeed. There are obvious parallels here between Inber Bic Loinsigh and Inber Colpa. Bic Loinsigh was the son of the king of the Romans, who "came to invade Ireland", but a tidal wave drowned him at the river mouth. Colpa was a son of Mil, the king of Spain, and he was drowned somewhere near the mouth of the Boyne by a storm whipped up by the Dé Dananns while trying to land for the purpose of taking Ireland from them. The Milesians could also have said to be "abounding in ships"; many of them were destroyed in the Dé Danann tempest. The parallels between these stories are so striking that one cannot but draw the tentative impression that they are two versions of a single old mythic narrative involving the naming of the Boyne estuary.

Another obscure ancient name from Drogheda is mentioned all too briefly in O'Donovan's Ordnance Survey letters, and it would be interesting to see if further research into this name - and its variants - yields information of interest. Here is what O'Donovan says, after writing briefly about the name Droichet Atha:

There are other ancient names of it still retained by some persons. Sarsfield, whom we have mentioned on our former letters, says the ancient name of it was Ath Dhunruaidhe, and Jones says the ancient name of it was Dun Dubhruaidhe . . . Others say it was called Treda prior to it having got the denomination of Drogheda - if it was so-called, Treda seems to have been the first Anglicized name of it. Droichet atha (Droichet Atha) occurs in several places in the Annals of the Four Masters . . .5

Literally translated, Ath Dhun Ruaidhe would mean "the ford of the red fort" or something similar and Dun Dubhruaidhe would mean "the fort of black-red" or something to that effect. O'Donovan puts a footnote in for the Sarsfield and Jones references which asks the question "Are these names preserved in any document?" Regrettably, the answer would appear to be no.

NOTES:

1. Drochet can also refer to a causeway as well as a bridge. See DIL.
2. See Vallancey (referenced in Newgrange: Monument to Immortality) and also for droch = coach-wheel, see the Shaw Gaelic Dictionary.
3. Newgrange: Monument to Immortality, Anthony Murphy, 2012, p.92.
4. Shaw Gaelic Dictionary, p.358.
5. Louth Ordnance Survey Letters, Co. Louth Archaeological Journal Vols. IV, V & VI, p.92.