Caiseal Oengus, prehistoric henge site at Brugh na Bóinne, captured in the early morning spring sunlight

This large henge (embanked enclosure) located beside the River Boyne at Brugh na Bóinne, known on archaeological maps simply as Site P, has been identified tentatively by archaeologist Geraldine Stout as the site referred to in ancient lore as Caisel nOengussa, the Cashel of Oengus.

Aerial photo showing Caiseal Oengus (Site P), the double pond feature and Mound B all along the Boyne.

A description of sixteen sites at the Brug na Bóinne complex is described in the Dindshenchas, a collection of middle Irish legends from around AD900-1200 that poetically describe the "lore of the landmarks". 

It is not known why Oengus/Anghus had a site attributed to him separately to Newgrange (called Tech Mic ind Óc and Sid i mBruig Míc ind Óc in the Dindshenchas poem Brug na Bóinde). It is just one of a number of such embanked enclosures in the area. Perhaps the most famous in the Bend of the Boyne is the Dowth Henge (Site Q) which is one of the largest in Ireland.

Because of its somewhat denuded nature, Site P is best seen when the sun is low in the sky, as demonstrated by this photo taken at 7am this morning on a beautiful spring dawn. Behind the henge to the upper left is a double pond, often described as a figure-of-eight pond, which is thought might be a manmade feature. Caiseal Oengusa and the double pond attract whooper swans, which spend some of their time at these locations when they come to the Boyne Valley from Iceland to spend the winter here. Further off in the distance, behind the double pond, is Mound B, on the flood plain of the Boyne.

All the dead kings came to me - Francis Ledwidge and the legend of the sleeping horsemen of Rosnaree

There's a poem by Francis Ledwidge that I really love. Ledwidge was born at Slane and died in the Great War in 1917 at the age of 29. He loved the Boyne Valley, and shortly before he died he wrote of his great longing for home in a letter to fellow poet Katherine Tynan:

Francis Ledwidge

"I want to see again my wonderful mother, and to walk by the Boyne to Crewbawn and up through the brown and grey rocks of Crocknaharna. You have no idea of how I suffer with this longing for the swish of the reeds at Slane and the voices I used to hear coming over the low hills of Currabwee. Say a prayer that I may get this leave, and give us a condition my punctual return and sojourn till the war is over."

Unfortunately, he never came home. He and five others were killed when a shell exploded beside them at the Battle of Ypres.

The Boyne Canal and River at Staleen at dusk, looking upstream towards Rossnaree (on the left).

One of his poems, The Dead Kings, interests me greatly.

All the dead kings came to me

At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming,

A few stars glimmered through the morn,

And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a story

Of ancient glory, sweetly told.

It was too early for the lark,

But the starry dark had tints of gold.

I listened to the sorrows three

Of that Eire passed into song.

A cock crowed near a hazel croft,

And up aloft dim larks winged strong.

And I, too, told the kings a story

Of later glory, her fourth sorrow:

There was a sound like moving shields

In high green fields and the lowland furrow.

And one said: ‘We who yet are kings

Have heard these things lamenting inly.’

Sweet music flowed from many a bill

And on the hill the morn stood queenly.

And one said: ‘Over is the singing,

And bell bough ringing, whence we come;

With heavy hearts we’ll tread the shadows,

In honey meadows birds are dumb.’

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 grey.’

And one said: ‘A loud tramp of men

We’ll hear again at Rosnaree.’

A bomb burst near me where I lay.

I woke, ’twas day in Picardy.



Rosnaree (more often spelt Rossnaree these days) is on the southern bank of the Bend of the Boyne, overlooking the famous Fiacc's Pool, where Fionn Mac Cumhaill is said to have caught the Salmon of Knowledge. It is close to the river ford (áth) which would have been the main crossing point over the Boyne in ancient times. It is the place where the Boyne river swelled up so that Cormac Mac Art's body could not be brought to be buried at Brug na Bóinne.

I wonder, when reading some of the lines of Ledwidge's poem, whether it is perhaps infused with elements of a familiar legend from Rosnaree, one that might involve dead kings and the spectre of a loud tramp of men returning to haunt its woods. Being a native of the area, Ledwidge would have undoubtedly been familiar with some of its stories.

There is a legend about Rosnaree which tells of sleeping soldiers. It is a familiar story, being similar to that told about Garrett's Fort(1) at Hacklim, outside Ardee in Co. Louth.

Rossnaree and the River Boyne from Bing Maps.

The Rosnaree version of the story talks about a man who encountered a light at a fort near Rosnaree, close to the Boyne. He entered into the fort to find a lot of bags hanging on the walls and one of the bags had a sword stuck in it. This story was recounted to a collector from the National Folklore Collection in 1938 by Navan resident James Neill (aged 74), who in turn had heard the tale from an elderly gentleman called Johnny Murray:

He went over and he was lifting up the sword and according as he was lifting it there was a man's head lifted up from this big bag and a horse along with him, and he was riding the horse, and as according as he drew out the sword there were horsemen rising all around the wall. They were nearly clear out of where they were and he got afeerd and he let the sword drop back in, and as soon as he did he was told, 'Go home, you coward.'  I disremember the regiment he'd have lifted out of prison if he lifted up the sword altogether.(2)(3)

Legends of a sleeping army waiting for a hero to come and rouse them for some great battle are present in other parts of Ireland too (such as at The Curragh, Co. Kildare, and Lough Gur in Limerick). Gearóid Iarla (Earl Garrett, Gerald) is sometimes the one who is the chief of the chthonic army. At Hacklim, some versions say it is Fionn Mac Cumhaill. The messianic theme of the legend in its various forms is overtly political, the clear premise being that a great leader from the past will return, from a supernatural subterranean domain, leading a great army to restore glory to Ireland. In the context of a country under the sway of foreign rule and oppression, it is no wonder that such tales might have been commonplace in Ireland.

The rousing of the army will happen because a prophesied hero (those who tried and failed are invariably referred to in less than favourable terms, such as "coward") will pull a sword out of a wall or a stone or a bag. If the sword in the stone sounds familiar, think of King Arthur and Excalibur! The notion of a hero or king sleeping in a cave can be found all over Europe and even further afield. It is so familiar in folklore that it is referred to as the "king in the mountain" motif and has been classified in the Aarne-Thompson system of folktale motifs.(4)(5)

Ledwidge's opening lines, "All the dead kings came to me At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming" are suggestive that he is familiar with that location's mythic and perhaps even historic significance. Perhaps the dead High King Cormac Mac Airt was one of those of whom he writes.

"There was a sound like moving shields In high green fields and the lowland furrow." Was Ledwidge, perhaps, describing the sound of the enchanted army of Rosnaree being awakened?

"A loud tramp of men We'll hear again at Rosnaree." Granted, Ledwidge was in the battlefields of the Great War, and although he says he is dreaming at Rosnaree, the bomb wakes him to the reality that he is, in fact, in Picardy. Nevertheless, it's an interesting speculation that he was perhaps reflecting upon cultural aspects of his homeland. Rosnaree would have been visible just across the Boyne Valley from his home at Janeville, east of Slane. Interestingly, Rosnaree is a name that comes from the Irish Ros na Ríogh, meaning "wood of the kings".(6)

Had Francis Ledwidge heard the story of the sleeping army of Rosnaree, and did he incorporate it into The Dead Kings? One might never know.(7)

However, the final lines of his poem are sadly prescient. "A bomb burst near me where I lay." He was killed on July 31st, 1917.


References:
(1) http://www.mythicalireland.com/highman/garretts-fort.php
(2) Marsh, Richard (2013), Meath Folk Tales, The History Press Ireland, p.164.
(3) A similar version, from the same original source (Johnny Murray) can be found in the Schools' Collection here: http://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/5008912/4966251/5106184
(4) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_in_the_mountain
(5) http://www.counter-currents.com/2011/08/the-mountain-kings/
(6) https://www.logainm.ie/en/38699?s=Rossnaree
(7) It must be pointed out here that I am not well versed in the life of Ledwidge, and have not researched it in any scholarly way. If it should transpire that someone has written of  Ledwidge's inspiration for The Dead Kings and can answer my speculation either positively or negatively, I will be duly obliged/embarrassed (delete as appropriate!)

Video tour of the ancient monuments of the Boyne Valley region in Google Earth with Anthony Murphy

In this video, I take a look at the location of many of the major monuments of the Boyne Valley using Google Earth, a free program which is very useful to those researching the megalithic sites. Google Earth has high-resolution satellite imagery of Ireland and in this video, we take a look at the situation of Newgrange, Knowth, Dowth, Tara, Slane, Millmount, and some of the other prehistoric sites of the Boyne region.

Those of you who don't live in Ireland can explore the ancient sites using Google Earth, taking a look at how they are located in the landscape. This video will give you a good idea of just how many sites can be seen, and also their position in the landscape and proximity to each other. There's some history too - such as the fact that Drogheda was once two towns, built on either side of the Boyne, and there's even a quick look at the place where the Boyne River is said to have its source.

Enjoy this short time lapse video of a beautiful summer dusk sky over Newgrange in the Boyne Valley

This is a short video made on Monday evening after sunset at Newgrange. It is a time lapse video, showing about six minutes of cloud movement compressed into about three. I hope you enjoy it. The sun has now passed its maximum northerly declination and so from here onward the days will be getting shorter again. However, for a couple of weeks there will still be a constant twilight glow on the northern horizon throughout the night. I love this time of year.

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.

Dunmoe Castle with dramatic sky

The wonderful thing about April is that it brings these glorious days that are a photographer's dream - a mix of strong sunshine and dramatic skies and towering clouds. In this case, a distant cumulonimbus cloud looms over the ruins of Dunmoe Castle in the Boyne Valley.

http://bit.ly/MI-gallery
from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/GxhmBW

Almost 1.9 million sunsets since Newgrange was built

Almost one million, nine hundred thousand sunsets. If we take the date of 3150BC for the construction of Newgrange (which is the date favoured by archaeologists), then tonight's sunset in the Boyne Valley (pictured) would be the 1,886,632nd sunset since this great monument was built in the distant New Stone Age. Also pictured, directly under the setting sun, is a satellite mound known only as Mound B.

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Tractor at work in the Nanny valley, Bellewstown, Co. Meath

A tractor in a field in the Nanny valley near Bellewstown, Co. Meath, rolling the soil after ploughing. The introduction of agriculture in the New Stone Age was arguably the biggest social and technological revolution of the ancient world, and set in motion the creation of today's civilisation. Mankind emerged from the forests, and left his hunter-gatherer lifestyle behind in favour of a seasonal farming life. It can't, however, have been easy to till the soil without the aid of metal tools, and although the new agricultural lifestyle did provide windows of "down time" - in which the great stone monuments were built - it didn't immediately create a sedentary and enchanted existence. Life was still harsh. The introduction of a lot of grains into the diet may also have contributed to shorter lifespans - not longer ones. Today, we can easily see why the biggest passage-tomb monuments are in this region. The Boyne valley area is abundant in rich, fertile brown soils. The Nanny river runs from Kentstown through Duleek and on through Julianstown towards the sea at Laytown. It is the next river to the south of the Boyne.

Boyne Valley Bridge with Taurus and Mercury

The Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge in the afterglow with the stars of Taurus/Pleiades and the planet Mercury.

from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/GrW9Ps
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Boyne bridge and walkway at sunset

Another photo from last night's sunset. This is taken from the boardwalk that connects Drogheda with the nearby Battle of the Boyne heritage site at Oldbridge. This is a fantastic local amenity, used by hundreds of people to enjoy views of the Boyne Valley as they walk, jog and cycle out to Oldbridge and beyond.

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Aonghus and Caer lover swans on the Boyne at sunset

Two swans on the river Boyne at sunset beneath the Boyne Valley Bridge.

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from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/G1bkRU

Boyne Valley Bridge with crescent moon

The Mary McAleese Boyne Valley Bridge with waxing crescent moon.

from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/FshxWj

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Brú na Bóinne visitor centre sign

The sign, carved into rock, at the entrance to the Brú na Bóinne visitor centre, serving Newgrange and Knowth.

from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/GdL2qs

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Sunset over the Boyne Valley, viewed from Ardmulchan

Friday's setting sun over the Boyne Valley viewed from Ardmulchan.

from Flickr http://flic.kr/p/Fq8z9Q

The River Boyne at Ardmulchan

I walked one day adown the Boyne,
From Domnach-Mor to Slaine;
How rich the fields on every side,
In Cattle, wood, or grain.

The river flowed in summer pride,
And on its banks of green,
How many a noble ancient home
Seemed sent'nelling the scene.

I marked the salmon springing free,
Beneath the glittering fall;
I heard the cuckoo in the glen
Repeat her welcome call.

Vigilantius, from the Irishman.

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The River Boyne at Ardmulchan, looking towards Dunmoe Castle

A bright spring day in the Boyne Valley at Ardmulchan.

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The synchronicity of the swans

Recently I've found that my senses have come into sharp focus around certain mythical imagery associated closely with the Boyne Valley area. In my spare time, I'm doing some study and research which has taken me towards examining the metaphor and symbolism of myth. This has yielded interesting results. I explained to a friend this week how I seemed to be engaged in an interesting process of following "hunches" and "leads" and that this process almost always bears fruit.

When dealing with the area of science versus mysticism, I can, by and large, only deal with my own direct experiences and how they have forged my thoughts and beliefs around the whole question of the rational versus the esoteric. Currently, I am agnostic. The best and simplest definition of my agnosticism I can offer is this - I neither have proof in the existence of a god or an afterlife, or of other worlds and other realms of spirit or consciousness; nor do I have proof that they don't exist. I remain very open-minded. I am grateful for this open-mindedness. It prevents me from blindly following a path of enquiry without considering the alternatives. Recently, my work has focused on the alternatives.

The sun setting above Rosnaree overlooking the Boyne river.

I have been experiencing synchronicities - strange and wonderful coincidences and happenings - since the very beginning of my researches into myths and monuments years ago. I initially thought them to be what Richard Moore and I called "spooky coincidences" but over the years I've come to see them less as something to be scared of and more something to be enthralled and inspired by. My own experience has been that when a synchronicity occurs, it's like an affirmation that I'm on the right track with something.

But is all this just some sort of mystical woo? Is this just me indulging in some new age wishy-washy nonsense? I don't think so. And I'm glad to quote Philip Freund, a novelist, poet, short-story writer, documentary film writer, television dramatist and playwright as well as essayist, literary critic and anthropologist. Freund was a man described in his obituary as a "true polymath". If ever there was somebody who embodied the persona of the Samildánach - the many-gifted - it was Freund. Here's what Freund has to say about science and intuition, which brings us back to the subject in hand:

The history of science is filled with instances of noted workers in all fields who testify in their memoirs that a "hunch," a perhaps inexplicable ray of light, suddenly led them to a major discovery. Is it Newton under the apple tree, or Galvani watching his wife cook frogs' legs? Some of these invaluable "finds" seem to have been pure accidents . . . But what inspires the author of a scientific hypothesis to choose one route, one direction of approach, rather than another, when many offer themselves with equal persuasiveness to him or confront him with an equal opacity? Whence comes the "hunch," what directs the "ray of light," the seemingly lucky chance that without warning illuminates the right dark path to be followed?  (Myths of Creation, Peter Owen Publishers, [1964] (2003), p.280.

I was walking the dog on Friday night, going to collect my sons from football. As I walked along on a very cold, icy night (the first of this winter), I thought about all the research I've been doing lately and how it all seems to have produced fascinating insights. A great deal of this research work has surrounded stories about animals and mythic creatures. A great deal of it involved following hunches and intuition. And a great deal of it yielded interesting results. A thought came into my head, along these lines:

"You've really hit on something here, Anthony. This is the sweet spot".

Just as I thought that, I heard what might have been children's voices in the distance. I looked along the road, half expecting to see my sons and their friends coming towards me. But the road was deserted. There were no cars and no people at all, which is unusual because it's normally a very busy road.

Again I thought I heard a voice or two, but this time they were above me, so I looked up instinctively, and caught sight of a formation of eight whooper swans flying southwards, directly over my head.

The significance of this beautiful creature (for those of you unfamiliar with the myths of Newgrange) is that the whooper swan has been wintering at Newgrange for a long time - quite probably since before the monuments were built there 5,000 years ago. Some of the predominant myths about Newgrange, and the supernatural characters associated with it, involve swans. The most famous of these is the Aislinge Óenguso, the Dream of Angus Óg. See the Cygnus Enigma for more about the swan.

Were these eight swans among the first to arrive into the Boyne Valley for the winter of 2015? Every winter, thousands of whooper swans come to Ireland from Iceland, landing en masse in Donegal and then diverging into smaller groups to winter at various sites on the island. The area around Newgrange is an important wintering ground. It regularly sees more than 50 swans in winter, making it one of the predominant sites for the whoopers.

Just this afternoon I received an SMS text message from a friend of mine who keeps a close eye on things out in the valley. Over the past few winters he has been keeping me informed about the arrival and departure of the whooper swans. This is what I received from him today:

Whoopers at Knowth Anthony. About 8. Just arrived.

I smiled when I received it. And of course the first thing to come into my mind was the thought that perhaps these were the same eight that had flown over my head on Friday night . . .

So I feel inclined to continue following these lines of mythic research that are opening up before me. There is something in the mythology of the Boyne monuments that begs to be explored, deeply and extensively, and open-mindedly, because they are more than just stories. I believe they contain an essence of what the monuments were all about, and an insight into the mind of distant ancestors. Are these stories at all relevant today? Absolutely. They are a revelation - a vista into the soul itself, and I don't believe it's at all coincidental that this mythology has survived from time immemorial to tell a story to the people of today.

The process of mythic investigation has been an epiphany for me, a process of recondite introspection that has been at times both intimidating and riveting. It's brought me right into the centre of my own story on this planet . . . the reason I am here.