Inishkea and Inishglora.

Inishkea and Inishglora.

Off the County Mayo coast, caressed by the waves of the Atlantic Ocean we have a number of beautiful Islands.  The little Island of Inishkea was named after a woman called Kea or Gedia who founded a small community of nuns on the Island.  On this Island there is an inhabitant that is of a different kind, a lonely crane.  From the beginning of time he has been there, perched high on a rock looking out over the sea, he ignores all of the other sea birds and is never visited by any of his own kind.  All life passes him by as if it is but a shadow and still he remains, standing there in solitude and there he will remain, keeping vigil until the end of time.  It was here after flying along the west coast that the Children of Lír met the lonely crane and he asked them “What sort of birds are you that speak with human voices?”, and they told him of the long sad story regarding their enchantment and exile by the wicked witch.  The local people cannot explain the legend, they just accept it.

Nearby is the small Island of Inishglora, it is steeped in legend and superstition.  Folklore suggests that it is upon this Island that the Children of Lír are buried It is said that the end of their enchantment coincided with the arrival of Saint Brendan on Inishglora.  St Brendan had a church built on the Island and every Sunday the swans attended Mass there, sitting on the roof of Teampall na bhFear (Church of the men) and every time the communion host was raised the swans drooped their wings and bent their necks.  It was said that Saint Brendan rewarded their devotion by baptising them whereupon they immediately regained their human form, but only for a few moments before they were to crumble into dust (they were over 900 years old). However, before they turned to dust one of the Children of Lír called Fionnuala gave instructions for their burial.  She asked for a wide grave to be dug near the little church; and the Children of Lír were buried together, as Fionnuala had directed-Conn at her right hand, Ficra at her left, and Aed standing before her face. Saint Brendan raised a grave-mound over them, placing a tombstone on it, with their names engraved in Ogham; after which he uttered a lament for them, and their funeral rites were performed.  Tradition tells us that while the Gaughan family lived on the Island they kept the grave covered with white stones, it is still tended to this day by one of the locals who travels across from the mainland.

There is another great legend that concerns the Island of Inishglora which states that bodies buried there do not corrupt because it is believed that its air and soil had a special power, it preserved the bodies of the dead from decay.  Instead of being buried, the corpses were brought to the island, where they were left lying above ground in the open air. They retained their ordinary looks unchanged, and their nails and hair grew quite naturally; so that a person was able to recognise not only his father and grandfather, but even his ancestors. This is mentioned in the Book of Ballymote as one of the wonders of Ireland and O'Flaherty says of it in his Ogyia ;-

"At Inisglóire in view of lrrus shore,
Should we the bodies of our sires explore,
We'd find them blooming, both nails and hair,
No human-flesh can fade or perish there."¹³

Gerald of Wales, writing in 1146, went even further :-

"ln this island human corpses are not buried and do not putrefy, but are placed in the open and remain without corruption. Here men see with some wonder and recognise their grandfathers, great grandfathers, and great great grandfathers and a long line of ancestors''.

Of course if you visited the Island today you will not see piles of unburied bodies littering up the place. May be their descendents returned to the Island and buried them but this could have been a missed tourist opportunity (no offence intended).  However, local people claim that the story was true until the monks left the island.

It is also claimed that rats or mice cannot live there and that sand or clay from the island would banish these pests even on the mainland. Gerald of Wales had no doubt about it. He wrote :-

''There is another remarkable thing about this island.While the whole of Ireland is infested with mice, there is not a single mouse here. For no mouse is bred here, nor does one live if it be brought in. if by any chance it is brought in, it makes straight for the nearest point of the sea and throws itself in; if it be prevented, it dies on the spot. ''

There is a less well-known tradition that infertile couples who did a station there were blessed with a family. Having done the station they repaired to a special bed on the island - Leaba na h-Athchuinge. One of the earliest fertility clinics! We are also told that Inishglora is frequented by a curious blackbird, whose only other habitation in Ireland is Sceilg Mhicíl.

No one lives on the Island today but there you will find the ruins of old buildings, there are fragments of two churches Teampall na bhFear (Church of the men) and Teampall na mBan (Church of the women). There are some beehive huts where the monks would have lived although these may predate Christianity and may just have been recycled by the monks?  There is a well,, known as Saint Brendan’s well with steps leading down to it.  This well has its own superstition, it states that if a woman takes water from the well it will turn to blood and it will be full of worms, this has been put to the test and has been found to be untrue.  Could this superstition be based on some practical reasons?  It may have something to do with lonely monks going down the steps into a lonely dark place and meeting a lonely nun fetching water, of course we all know what can happen then don’t we, IT WAS THE WATERS FAULT. So there you have it, the women had to be kept away from the well. You will still find garden herbs introduced by the monks and nuns hundreds of years ago growing wild all over the Island, locals say that the herbs will grow until the end of time. May be they will, who can say.

One last interesting point, it is claimed that in the past all ships sailing by the Island lowered their top-sails to honour Saint Brendan the Navigator who founded the settlement there. So next time you see one of the local boats lowering their sails or sounding their horns you’ll know why.

The Arney Woman.

The Arney Woman.

Here in Ireland we have an old saying-“A man who dies owing money or a woman who leaves a newborn baby will never lie quiet in the grave” Talk about making people feel guilty when they are at their most vulnerable?

The dead were considered to be very possessive and would return from the grave to claim what was rightfully theirs.  This was especially true regarding a mother and her child and it was widely believed within rural areas that if a mother died during childbirth she would return to care for the baby.  However there was a more macabre side to this belief for sometimes the dead mother missed the child so much that she would return to carry the baby back to her grave. One way to prevent this was to lay the clothes of the father across the foot of the baby’s cot/cradle, this would act as a protection against the fairies and the dead until the child could be baptised. If a child were to be taken before baptism it would be lost to the world of the living forever.  Isn’t it wonderful what stories the church made up in order to control the populace?

The story that follows concerns one of these poor unfortunate women, once well known it is a tale that is rich in folklore. However, like so many of the old stories it is becoming little more than a fading memory.  It is our job to make sure that the stories that make up such a rich tapestry are retold and in this way they will continue to be passed down to the next generation.

The Arney Woman.

Roughly three miles from Gilleese’s public house at the Arney crossroads a man called Peter Maguire and his wife set up home. Peter was a local carpenter, known by everyone as a kind decent man, quiet but friendly and always ready to help his neighbours. He never had a bad word to say about anyone and could always be relied upon; his wife however was a horse of a different colour.  Mrs Maguire was described by the locals as surly, sullen, miserable, and bad tempered; of course it may have had something to do with the fact that she wasn’t a local girl?

Peter’s wife was from the far side of Bellanaleck which was the next village up the road; no one knew anything about her or her people.  The locals considered her to be unfriendly and it was even said that she would sooner issue a curse than a blessing.  As a ‘Blow in’ she had strange ways about her, she had vibrant red hair, very pale skin, and a physical deformity as one of her legs was shorter than the other resulting in a very pronounced limp. Around the Arney area these attributes marked her out to be a witch; she never attended mass in the local church so the locals decided that she was in league with the faeries, the devil and any number of evil demons. Well what do you expect from a blow in?

Despite all of this, Peter Maguire was very happy and totally unaware of what his good neighbours were saying behind his back. His wife was a good cook, she kept a neat house, she was a quiet woman, at least when she appeared in public with him, The locals however believed that this was all an act and that she must have led Peter a dog’s life with her controlling ways and her foreign habits (blow in), they decided she had put Peter under an evil spell. People began to avoid looking at her and local farmers kept their animals away from her during market day as it was feared that she would put the evil eye on them.

A year after they were married some of the local women began to notice that Mrs Maguire was putting on a little weight around the middle and soon Peter announced the good news, he was going to be a father, of course his wife said nothing and she was as bad tempered as usual.  Some of the local women attempted to make friends with her, they called to the Maguire’s cottage to wish her well and offer advice but they found Peter’s wife to be very cold and unfriendly and they soon left.  However, the women noticed that the pregnancy was taking an awful toll on her, they said she seemed to be wasting away and soon the rumours began to spread for it was well known that those who had fairy connections have great trouble carrying and delivering their children.  Soon the time arrived for the baby to be born but even then Peter’s wife wanted nothing to do with the local women, even though many of them were ‘wise women’ experienced in the ways of the midwife. 

On the night of the birth Peter ran to a neighbour’s cottage and battered on the door, the baby was coming but his wife was very ill, if she didn’t get help he feared she may not survive.  The neighbours ran to Peter’s cottage, they managed to save the baby, a little boy, but they could do nothing for her and by morning she was dead. Of course some said it was no more than she deserved and that it was no bad thing that she had died.  There was no funeral in Arney graveyard, Peter was struggling to look after his baby and trying to come to terms with his grief so the locals took it upon themselves to send the body back to Bellanaleck where she came from, let them bury her because she wasn’t an Arney woman.

Time passed and the baby was in good health, Peter employed a young local woman to act as a wet nurse and to look after his son during the day and at night the baby slept at the foot of Peter’s bed in a cot that he had made for him and here the story should have ended. However, it was not to be.

One dark night, a few weeks after his wife’s death, Peter was woken from his sleep by the sound of scratching from outside his bedroom window, he got out of bed and looked out into the darkness but saw nothing, he checked on his son who was sleeping peacefully and went back to his bed. No sooner had he got under the blankets than he heard scratching again, he got out of bed once more muttering under his breath and once again looked out of the window into the darkness.  He staggered backwards, his heart clutched by the ice cold fingers of fear for standing there looking in was his dead wife.  Her face as deathly pale, her eyes lifeless and her once vibrant red hair hung matted and listless.  Peter felt a chill so cold that it felt as though his blood was freezing in his veins, it was her eyes that chilled him most of all for they appeared to be looking right past him and into the room.

 He turned to see what it was that she was looking at, her eyes were fixed upon the cot where Peter’s son lay sleeping and in that awful moment he knew why she had returned, she’d come for the baby.  He stared at her in terror, suddenly she vanished and he heard rattling at the door cottage, his heart missed a beat but then he remembered that he had bolted the door before going to bed, he sighed in relief.  His relief was short lived for suddenly he heard the sound of wood splintering and the outside door creaked open, she was in the cottage.

Peter was shocked into action; he placed himself between the bedroom door and his son’s cot.  There was a crack in one of the panels of the bedroom door and he saw her looking through it, a shaft of moonlight shone onto her hard stare but instead of coming into the room she moved away and into the kitchen area.  Peter held his breath, suddenly he heard the sound of movement and cupboards opening and closing, he peered through the crack of the door. The moonlight lit up the kitchen and he saw his dead wife devouring some cheese he had left in one of the cupboards, having satisfied her hunger she turned, went through the broken door and disappeared into the darkness.  Peter collapsed onto his knees, shocked, confused, and shivering in fright he began to imagine what could have happened. He prayed to god that his dead wife return to her grave and leave him and his son in peace.  Peter then remembered the old story about the walking dead and how to protect his child; he placed his clothes on the end of the cot and hoped that his god would answer his prayers.  If only it were that simple.

This sequence of events happened night after night, Peter’s wife returning only to search for food and leave.  Every night Peter cowered in his room, terrified of confronting the thing that used to be his wife, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work and spending his waking daytime hours in terror. It couldn’t go on; if she came again he would have to seek outside help, but what of his neighbours?

One night just as darkness fell, one of Maguire’s neighbours, a man called William Nixon was walking to Gilleese’s public house when to his horror he saw Peter’s dead wife walking the road between the pub and Maguire’s cottage.  She was dragging her bad leg behind her and keeping close to the hedge, her matted red hair had grown longer and was covered in lice and graveyard dirt; her filthy fingernails had grown and looked like the claws of a wild animal.  William ran to the pub and it was to take several shots of whiskey before he stopped shaking and was able to talk about what he had seen.

Back at Maguire’s cottage, Peter heard scratching at the window, he had brought his son into bed with him in order to protect him and he pulled the blankets over their heads.  He began to say his prayers, begging god for help, but it was to no avail.  The baby started crying and the sound of scratching began to intensify, becoming more frantic, then all went quiet.  Peter lowered the blankets and peeked out, he heard the bolts on the cottage door rattle but he had strengthened them and the corpse found the door barred against her. To Peter’s horror the baby started crying again and the sound seemed to incense the corpse, with a loud tearing noise the bolts gave way and she came crashing into the kitchen.

Peter shouted “In the Name of God go back to your grave and leave us in peace” It did no good, not even the name of god made any difference for as he held his son tight to his chest he saw his bedroom door slowly creak open.  Peter’s heart nearly stopped, she was in the room, standing at the foot of his bed looking into the empty cot she drew her dirt encrusted fingernails across the little white pillow where the baby had left an imprint of his head. Peter heard a low growl coming from her throat as she moved back through the door and back into the kitchen, from there she went out through the cottage door into the darkness. If something wasn’t done now then next time it may be too late.

Later that day Peter went to see his parish priest. The priest was from a rural background and was scared stiff when he heard Peter’s story, he had already heard his parishioners whispering about the strange things happening up at the Maguire cottage and even though Peter begged him in the name of god to help him he refused.  He did however offer to pray for him and he sent Peter away with a crucifix blessed by the bishop saying this would solve all his problems and don’t forget to put a few bob in the collection box.  Peter sadly walked away, disappointed and feeling abandoned, needless to say he kept his money in his pocket.

That night as dusk began to fall Peter took up a position by the window looking towards Arney crossroads; it was from this direction that his dead wife would come. Once again he threw his clothes over his son’s cot in order to protect him from evil and harm then he waited. As the sun slowly sank in the sky and twilight settled in Peter saw his dead wife walking slowly up the road, she was dragging her leg and keeping well in to the hedge. Peter gripped his crucifix tightly and as she dragged her finger nails across the glass of the window he thrust the cross against the pane but it only seemed to annoy her.  Her face was a mask of hatred, her mouth working as if cursing him although there was no sound. She turned and was gone from the window only to once more throw herself against the cottage door. Peter heard the door splinter and she was into the cottage again.

Peter raised the crucifix, keeping one hand on the coat that lay protectively across the foot of the cot where his son was sleeping, “Get back to your grave, you’ll never have my child, leave us alone”, the corpse turned and left the way she had come and Peter watched her limp away knowing that she would return, only now Peter had a plan forming in his mind.

Near the Bars of Boho lived Ellen Mohan, she was known locally as Grey Ellen and it was widely believed that her lonely and isolated cottage was frequented by ‘The Gentry’ (the faerie folk).  She was aid to be very wise in the ‘old ways’ and had been given special powers by the fairies, it was Grey Ellen that Peter went to for advice.  He left his son with his sister and was anxious to return home before nightfall so even though he was scared he approached Grey Ellen’s cottage, knocked on the door and entered.  Peter told her his tale and it was only then that she spoke. “The walking dead is it? And ye’ve been to the priest, for all the good that will do ye for it’s well known that for all their big books and fancy learning the church knows nothing about the old ways”. Leaning towards Peter she gripped his arm with her bony hand, “The church is only any good if its backed up by the older powers of the earth and the land, now tell me does your wife wear any boots when she visits you?”, Peter thought for a moment, “No” he said, “She always comes barefoot and dressed for the grave”.  Grey Ellen asked him if he knew why this was and Peter shook his head, “It’s because of the iron nails in them” said Ellen, “Iron was always a magic metal from the old times, more powerful than the cross the priest gave you. Faeries and the walking dead can’t stand it anywhere near them”

Grey Ellen went to a small box and took out a handful of iron nails, handing them to Peter she told him to wear one on a string around his neck and to place another around his son’s neck.  When the corpse comes again she told him to throw a handful at her and that this would drive her away.  Peter took the nails, thanked her and left.  When he arrived at his sister’s cottage he took the cross from around his son’s neck and replaced it with a nail much to his sister’s amazement and set off for home.

By the time he arrived back at the cottage it was getting dark, Peter lit a lamp and put his son into his cot, placed his coat over him for protection and decided to go to bed and wait to see what the night would bring. As he turned he saw his reflection in a little mirror hanging on a nail by his bed, he looked old and weary, a lot older than his years.  As he stood gazing at himself he saw reflected in the glass the old wardrobe containing his wife’s clothes, suddenly he froze and his mouth went dry, the wardrobe door was opening slowly, long dirt encrusted fingernails curled around the edge of the door. Peter watched in horror as his dead wife’s head appeared, her eyes full of hatred, her long red hair dropping graveyard dirt and crawling insects onto the bedroom floor.  She sprang towards the cot with hands outstretched, Peter tried to stop her but she moved with supernatural speed. Suddenly she stopped and let out a terrible scream; she raised her head and looked at Peter, her eyes ablaze with hatred for she had seen the nail around the child’s neck. She spat and hissed making desperate snatching motions over the cot.

Peter cowered in terror but he realised it was the power of the iron nails that had prevented her from taking his son. Suddenly he remembered the nails he carried in his pocket and he flung a handful at her, she screamed and jumped back in fear, “Get back to your grave ye old witch” he roared. Seeing a single nail that had fallen to the side of the cot he picked it up and threw it at her, it caught her on her pale waxy cheek and the dead skin began to sizzle and burn. Once again she let out a blood curdling scream and ran out the cottage door into the darkness.  That horrific night was to be the last time Peter Maguire was to see his dead wife. Peter’s son eventually grew into a strong and sturdy young man who looked after his father in his old age, he married a local girl and his descendents still live in the area.

If ever you’re in the Arney area and fancy a quiet pint in Gilleese’s pub you may have to walk past the crossroads where Peter Maguire’s cottage used to stand my advice is walk fast and don’t stop, for the walking dead cast a long shadow.

Keep smiling.

The Radiant Boy.

The Radiant Boy.

Within Irish folklore the ghosts of children are a common phenomenon that can be found in every part of the country.  The ghosts known as ‘Radiant Children’ have a supernatural appearance and are surrounded by a brilliant flickering glow.  They are considered warning ghosts (similar to the Banshee) and if you see one of them it means you may not have long to live.  The following story concerns one of these unusual phantoms.

In the mid 1700s Captain Robert Stewart, a British army officer stationed in Belfast was enjoying a few days hunting in County Derry.  It was a lovely day that had started off sunny but without warning the weather turned ugly and a fierce storm began.  Captain Stewart saw a light in the distance and needing shelter he rode towards it.  As he got nearer there appeared out of the gloom an old mansion, the light he had seen came from one of the windows and from within he heard the sound of merriment and laughter.

Captain Stewart dismounted and called for help, several man servants came to his assistance, they informed him that there was a party in progress and the house was full of guests.  However, the Captain was made very welcome by the master and mistress of the house who also invited him to attend the party.  After the party many of the guests went to their beds, outside the weather had worsened, by now the rain and wind was battering the walls of the old house so Stewart’s hosts insisted that he stay the night, have a good breakfast in the morning by which time the storm should have died out.  The master of the house called one of the old servants who was standing nearby and said to Captain Stewart

“Hamilton here will show you to your room”

Gratefully Captain Stewart accepted the offer, the room he was shown was sparsely furnished but the servants had set a large peat fire in the grate that threw out  both a great deal of heat and a sweet smell yet despite this the room had a distinct chill. Stewart lay on the bed and was soon asleep.  He had only been asleep a short time when he was woken by the sound of a child crying in the darkness, he lit the bedside candle and looked around the room but saw nothing and the sound slowly faded away.  Thinking that it must have been a trick of the wind he blew out his candle and was soon fast asleep.  However it wasn’t long before his sleep was disturbed once more, this time it was not the sound of crying but a grey light that flooded the room.  Half asleep Stewart jumped from his bed believing the house to be on fire, looking across the room he gasped at what he saw.  Crouched in a far corner was a naked boy, he was crying bitterly although the sounds he made seemed to come from far away.  Stewart approached the boy and asked him why he was weeping but the boy made no reply, he reached out to touch the boy on the shoulder and as he did so the boy vanished and the room was plunged into darkness.

The following morning Captain Stewart confronted his host complaining that he was the victim of some practical joke that was in extremely bad taste.  However, none of the guests knew anything about it and the whole thing seemed to be a mystery.  Summoning the old servant the master of the house asked him which room he had given to Captain Stewart, the servant replied. “Well, sir, the house was so full with all the other guests so I had a fire made up in one of the back rooms that we never use”.

The master’s face went pale, “You don’t mean the Boy’s Room?”

“Yes sir” the servant whispered, “I didn’t mean anything wrong, I mean it’s just an old story isn’t it?”

Captain Stewart asked “To what are you referring, are you saying that what I saw last night was more than just a child?”

His host nodded “Some things are beyond our understanding”

The Captain laughed for he was a military man and didn’t believe such nonsense, “You don’t mean a ghost, you can’t be serious?”

His host shook his head slowly, “Not exactly a ghost, more a vision. In our family there is an old tradition that the boy, we call him the Radiant Boy, appears only to those destined for great power. However, the person chosen is also destined to die a violent death”.

Captain Stewart laughed once more declaring that he had never heard the like, he then went on to spend the rest of the morning enjoying the hospitality of his hosts.  After lunch he made his farewells mounted his horse and headed back to Belfast.  He was never to see the old mansion again.

Years passed and Stewart rose did indeed rise to power eventually gaining a seat in the House of Lords with the title Lord Castlereagh. He was also a member of the British government under William Pitt serving first as Minister for War then as Foreign Secretary during the Napoleonic Wars.  He was extremely unpopular with the Irish people especially in regard to the part he played in the 1801 Act of Union.  He became ill and just one year after becoming the Marquis of Londonderry his mind collapsed.  At the age of 53 he committed suicide by slashing his own throat with a razor.  The prophecy had at last been fulfilled, he had risen to power, he had died a violent death filled with deep despair.


No one knows if the Radiant Boy ever existed as a real person so it is a matter of historical and folklore conjecture. The origin is lost in time although they seem to appear in the folklore of many different countries, is he a ghost, a spiritual remnant of a departed life, or is he a spirit emissary delivering a warning from the spirit world to those living that are destined to be touched by the far reaching hand of fate? It has even been suggested that the Radiant Boy is comparable to the Banshee in many ways and may only appear to certain families. Once again I will leave it to you the reader to decide.

Keep smiling.

The above image is of Captain Robert Stewart. 

A story by Mrs. Crow included in Yeats’s Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1888)

 

The Miserly Landlord.

The Miserly Landlord.

Once upon a time there was a very wealthy landlord that lived in the west of Ireland.  He was extremely miserable because he was always watching his money fearing that everyone was plotting ways to steal it from him.  He had hundreds of thousands of pounds although today he would county his money in euros, ask him to spend a pound and he would go into a rage.

Like most misers he had no friends for he believed that having friends cost money. However, those who knew him suggested that if he took himself a bride he would at least have someone to look after him and give him a bit of company in his old age.  He thought about this for all of ten seconds but quickly decided that a wife would expect housekeeping money and he began to shiver and shake all over in panic and fright.

He just as quickly decided that it would be a lot cheaper to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life. However, he did think that having someone to look after him and keep him company wasn’t such a bad idea so he found himself a poor orphan lad and offered him a corner to lie in and scraps off the table in exchange for housekeeping services.  The poor servant boy had to do all the cooking, cleaning, laundry and any other job the miserly landlord could think of.  This now allowed the landlord the free time to make unexpected visits on his tenants, squeezing every spare penny out of them and evicting those who couldn’t pay their rent on time.  It became obvious to all concerned that although he did not like spending money he was becoming more dependent upon his servant.

As the years passed the landlord grew older, eventually he became ill as he refused to spend money on fuel and the cold, damp winters we all know so well in the west of Ireland began to take their toll upon him.  He called his servant to him and said,

 “I’ve looked after you all your life and now you must look after me: I need you to answer a question, how sick do you think I am?”

The servant told the miserly landlord that he thought he was very sick indeed and that he should allow him to call for a doctor.  The miser thought about this for about ten seconds (for he was a quick thinker) then said to the servant,

“If I call for a doctor he will charge me a fee, but if I don’t call for him then people will say that I am a stupid man more worried about money when he could be dying”.

The servant told the landlord that by the look of him he could well be dying and he should call for the doctor straight away or it may be too late.

The landlord replied,

“If I’m that bad then I have a further suggestion to make. Go to the undertaker and ask him what his fee will be when I die, and then you must go to the doctor and ask him what his fee will be to make me better”.

The servant did as he was told, the undertaker told him that his lowest fee was €110; he then went to the doctor who told him that his lowest fee would be €150.  The servant returned to the landlord and told him what he had learned; the miserly landlord quickly made a decision and said to his servant.

“Well the best thing to do is to take me to the undertaker for the doctor’s cure is far too expensive”.

The old skinflint of a landlord refused to spend the extra forty euro on a cure and so shortly afterwards he died.  The servant paid the undertaker his €110 fee and as the landlord had no relatives, or none that came forward to claim his riches, all the rest of the landlords money went to his long suffering servant. 

The landlord’s attachment to his money was the thing that killed him in the end because he chose the undertaker over the doctor.  By choosing the cheaper option he hoped to save a few euros little realising that once he died he would lose all his money anyway for you cannot take it with you.  He would now be remembered for being a tight fisted old skinflint, hated by everyone.  A miser who thought of no one but himself, had he given just a little of what he had to charity or some good cause, had he thought of his tenants difficulties instead of grasping at pennies he would have been remembered fondly by all those he could have helped.

The servant became a millionaire overnight, will he now believe that others will exploit him for his money or will he choose to use his new found wealth for good?  Some say that money is like manure; it can only do good if it is spread around helping things to grow.  In many ways this could have been the landlord’s legacy; it could have been his path to immortality.  Instead he will simply be remembered as the selfish, miserly little man that he was.

I wonder which path the servant will choose, I wonder which path you would choose?

(Adapted from an Indian story).

A Druids Ghost.

A Druids Ghost.

There is a passage tomb somewhere in the west of Ireland where druids buried their dead in stone containers, is it possible that one of their number protects their sleep?

There is a story told of a figure that looks human that has been seen at night.  It has been described by those who have seen it as “having a face that no human ever had”. It has terrified locals for generations; those who have attempted to speak to it only see it disappear.  Records tell us that it was first seen around the 15^th century when a hunting party came upon a strange creature outside the entrance to the passage tomb, as they fired at it with their bows it just vanished into thin air.  Within one month of seeing the creature each member of the hunting party met with a fatal accident.

The first records of people actually being attacked by the spirit concern the occupants of a cottage that had been built a short walk from the tomb.  It was around the beginning of the 19^th century.  The cottage was rented by Padraic MacLoughlainn and his family that worked for a local landlord.  They were an ordinary hard working family and well liked by their neighbours. It was shortly after they had moved in that they heard scratching and chewing noises from outside their cottage door, it sounded like some large animal trying to get in.  Padraic picked up his slash hook, opened the door slowly and looked outside; there was nothing there and not a mark on the door.  This happened each night and yet nothing was ever seen, after two weeks the noises ended without warning.

It remained quiet for a while and the MacLoughlainn’s thought that it may have been some of the young men of the area just trying to scare them a little, maybe playing a silly prank on the ‘blow ins’, the newcomers and having tired of their nightly game had now decided to go back to their normal business.  It wasn’t going to be that easy.  One night when the children were all fast asleep and Padraic and his wife were sat by the fire they heard whispering, checking to see if it was one of the children they found them fast sleep. Over the next couple of nights the whispering became more intense and was followed by groans. One night the blankets were pulled from the children’s bed and one of them screamed in terror, she had been slapped by an invisible hand and this was followed by strange laughing noises. Padraic went to the local priest and even though he feared retribution from the landlord he told the priest about the nightly visits and how one of the children had been attacked.  The priest agreed to go to the cottage and say a mass.  It was to go quiet once more.

However, as before it was not to last.  Padraic became ill, he had difficulty swallowing, he couldn’t talk or eat and he became very pale.  The local fairy doctor (herbalist) gave him a few herbs and he slowly recovered. A week later he was to develop other symptoms, this time he had severe stomach pains, he couldn’t sleep and he had difficulty working, this was a great worry for without work they would be evicted from their home.  It seemed as if the family was under some kind of curse. Padraic called for the priest once again but it seemed to make matters worse.  The attacks increased and even the priest began to avoid the family.

In desperation Padraic went to the landlord and begged him for help.  Surprisingly the landlord agreed to send his agent to the cottage with instructions to spend the night there. Padraic did not know that the landlord was fully aware of what had been happening and unlike Padraic who was unaware of the druids spirit the landlord knew the history only too well.  The agent arrived that evening and was given the use of the MacLoughlainn’s bed and whatever they could provide in hospitality.  He sat in the best seat by the fire and began to make light of the MacLoughlainn’s nightly visitor. This made things worse, for the first time the druid was heard to speak; it mimicked the voice of the agent and threw him from his seat.  The agent screamed out and fled from the cottage as if the devil himself was chasing him.

The whole parish began to talk about the druid’s spirit and the terrified family; people began to point at the MacLoughlainn’s and whisper.  No one wanted to visit the cottage anymore and if anyone had to pass by they were seen to make the sign of the cross and the sign of the evil eye.  The MacLoughlainn’s felt all alone, even the children were shunned.  It wasn’t to end there, the MacLoughlainn’s were accused of committing minor crimes in the area and although they were found to be innocent of all charges they felt more and more isolated and alone.

The parish had abandoned their neighbours hoping that by distancing themselves from the MacLoughlainn’s they would be protected from what had now become known as the druids curse.  It was not to be.  The whispering of the druid began in the streets of the parish, in the blacksmiths forge, in the local shop, even in the church.  What made it worse for the people of the parish was that their private thoughts concerning their neighbours were somehow revealed to each other even the landlord became aware of what people truly thought of him and his agent.

The curse was to eventually take a life, that of Padraic MacLoughlainn.  The sickness that he suffered from kept returning.  The priest and the local fairy doctor could do nothing and he began to sink lower and lower.  The priest was kneeling by his bedside one night when he heard a whisper, it was the voice he had heard before and he recognised it as belonging to the spirit.  It was to tell him that all the prayers to his new god would do him no good that MacLoughlainn would die as he had committed crimes against the sacred site of the druids. It transpired that Padraic had visited the passage tomb and found items that the druids had upon their person when they were interred within, thinking them to be of value he had removed them and sold them for a few penny’s to help with the rent.  One week later Padraic MacLoughlainn sat up in his bed and with a look of terror he was said to have pointed his finger at some invisible presence, fell back onto his pillow and died. A look of absolute despair upon his face.  The people present heard a strange sound like a low wind followed by whispering.

The family held a wake but very few people would spend the night with the corpse, they simply offered their sympathies and excused themselves.  He was buried within two days which was unusual at the time as a body would be waked for a week. As the body was lowered into the ground there was heard a sound of laughter but no one knew from where.  The family were unable to pay the rent as the head of the house was gone so as was the practice of the day the remaining family, mother and children were evicted.  The landlord could find none willing to live in the cottage and so he ordered it to be razed to the ground and all sign that it had ever been there to be removed.

That should have been an end to it; the druid had been avenged so all should have returned to normal. However, the spirit was seen many times down through the years by people who ventured too near to the passage tomb.  It was said that a group of English soldiers that had camped nearby and had entered the tomb in order to spend the night out of the rain suffered injuries by an unseen assailant, one of their number was to die of his injuries and those that survived were never the same again refusing to talk of what they had seen that night.

Some say that the ghost of Padraic MacLoughlainn is seen searching the area as if he is looking for something.  He has a look of sadness upon his face.  Some have even reported seeing various men dressed in the clothes of soldiers, some in chain mail, some in early twentieth century uniform, they all look lost as if they are searching for something also.

The location of the passage tomb has remained a secret now for close on two hundred years.  It is by having a family connection that you hear some of the tales but if you are an outsider then you will never be included in the telling of those tales.  You can try to find the passage tomb on old maps but you won’t be successful and maybe that’s a good thing because those who have found it before have lived to regret it.  Or maybe not?  The passage tomb was closed by the present landlords ancestors in the 1920s, the entrance concealed under tons of earth.  The druids of old have returned to their sleep and as for their protector, well if at night you pass by a certain place in the west of Ireland and hear a whisper keep walking, if you hear the wind and the sound of low laughter walk a little faster.

©

Irish Lunatic Asylums.

‘I am monarch of all I survey,

I am lord of the fool and the brute,

From the centre all round to the sphere,

My rite there is none to dispute.’

“We're Lost and Everything is Dirty”.

During the early days of the Lunatic Asylums they were the scenes of terrible acts of cruelty, tragedy and death, sanctioned by the church and the state.  In many ways these buildings could be described as castles of despair and the history that surrounds them is enough to make the hair rise on the back of your neck.  It is no wonder that the poor desperate souls that were condemned to live out their lives in these institutions were surrounded by such a feeling of hopelessness and abandonment that their spirits were trapped within those terrifying walls.

In the mid nineteenth century, pauper lunatics were dealt with under the poor law, criminal law or vagrancy law.  They invariably ended up in the workhouse, prison or houses of correction.  In 1808, the County Asylums Act was passed by parliament and it encouraged local magistrates to build county lunatic asylums to house pauper lunatics in their county.  In 1845, this became compulsory.  The Lunacy Act of 1890 widened the role of the Asylums and patients with financial means began to be admitted to them.

However, what was the role of the lunatic asylums?  Before the advent of psychiatric drugs people that were deemed mentally ill were housed in asylums.  They often contained hundreds of patients ranging from people who may have disagreed with powerful members of a family, unmarried girls that had become pregnant (even through rape), disabled people, alcoholics, homeless people, people suffering from depression, full blown psychotics, attempted suicides, children and the elderly all thrown in together.  These places were often huge buildings with hundreds of wards and treatment rooms, some were humane and offered what treatments they thought appropriate, however, there were some that were places of indescribable cruelty with sinister reputations and ‘treatments’ that can only be described as barbaric.

In Clonmel Asylum for example, according to Department of Health files there were lines of naked people, faeces covering the floors, food served up with pitchforks, and people kept like animals.  Not exactly what you might expect to read from official files.  As late as 1958 Ireland led the world in locking up its citizens in mental institutions, at this time it was reported that more than 21,000 people were held behind the walls of these institutions, on a per capita basis it was even ahead of the old Soviet Union.  If you were to compare prison numbers, in the 1950s prisoner numbers rarely exceeded 600, in 1958 the number stood at 369.  However, in Clonmel Asylum alone, 900 patients were locked up, and unlike prisoners these poor unfortunates had no right to a trial, no legal representation, no appeal, and no end to a sentence for which they had committed no crime. Stripped of their rights, their dignity, and their hope they were condemned to suffer for years in conditions that were so bad that even the Department of Health officials were shocked by the abysmally low standards of Clonmel.  However, Clonmel was not unique; the same story was played out across the country.

In 1959 it was decided to send out a circular to the 20 or so institutions medical supervisors or chief psychiatrists to ask how they felt things could be improved.  Six did not bother to reply, and the rest were defensive.  All the more shocking when you consider that these doctors were charged with the well being and treatment of their patients.  According to one senior psychiatrist mental patients had no feelings, were oblivious to their surroundings and led little more that a vegetable existence.  Could it be that it was the environment that they were forced to endure that reduced them to this type of existence?

Some of the treatments were beyond belief, lobotomy and insulin coma therapy was common.  By injecting people with enough insulin to put them into a hypoglycaemic coma it was supposed to cure them of mental illness, and these types of treatments continued into the mid 1900s until they were discredited and eventually abandoned. As for the practice of lobotomy, this left people so damaged that they became incapable of normal independent living, or even using a toilet.

Why did we have so many people in these places anyway? 

The reasons were often related to social conditions rather than medical reasons.  The personal possessions of patients long dead are now being examined by historians.  When these people died thay were buried in unmarked mass graves and their few modest belongings were stored in the attics or damp basements of many of these institutions.  Many of these have now been rescued and are in the process of cataloguing and it is hoped that they will provide a unique social record of a sad time in our history.

However, have attitudes changed regarding mental illness.  Are we still trapped within a system where doctors and psychiatrists are still all powerful?  Where managers control the budgets and the patients have neither any say or control over their lives or their treatment?  We should always remember that patients will remain vulnerable because they are powerless while under the control of the powerful.  It is up to each and every one of us to change our attitudes towards mental illness, depression and suicide.  Unless and until it stops being considered a taboo subject we are all in danger of becoming a fly trapped within a web for who knows when or if it will visit someone within our family or circle of friends.

 Some of the language used in this article was representative of the time and does not reflect modern terminology.

Top Image: I apologise to the person who painted this as I have forgotten their name.  However, if they get in touch with me I would be extremely grateful as I believe it perfectly represents depression, and I would be delighted to put their name to their painting.

Bottom Image: Castlebar District Lunatic Asylum County Mayo.  It is now the home of G.M.I.T. College.  I have just finished my degrees there.  However, I never came across anything unusual (not related to the otherworld anyway).  I'm not going to mention some of the oddities walking the corridors today.

The Lighthouse Keeper.

The Lighthouse Keeper.

Lighthouses are lonely places, places of desolation, solitude and danger.  Those who live or sometimes just exist within that environment are trapped by some of the harshest conditions on earth.  Some lighthouse keepers were allowed to be accompanied by their wife and children, sometimes with tragic results as children were swept from the rocks by an unexpected wave, to join other lost souls drowned at sea.  Some keepers were condemned to work with assistants they may not have liked or even grew to hate, for long periods of time. 

Can you imagine being trapped in such circumstances, slowly driven mad, the waves crashing up onto the rocks, no access to the mainland for extended periods of time?  None of the modern conveniences that we have today and in cramped dark conditions often damp and uncomfortable, is it any wonder that the spirit of the lighthouse keeper, their families and even those souls that were lost at sea remain behind to haunt the place that was responsible for their unhappiness. 

There are many stories that have been told over the years, of jealousy, tragedy and despair. Were they stories based on true events or were they just made up by lonely or bored keepers for their own amusement?  We will never really know.

            One such story concerns a lighthouse perched high upon a desolate piece of rock off the west coast of Ireland.  It was almost impossible to get to the island during the long winter months and once there it became your prison until the boat from the mainland arrived in the spring.  The story concerns Fergal O’Malley who was found guilty of poaching by the local magistrate who was also the local landowner.  He was given the option of transportation for life or the job of Keeper of the Lighthouse where he would remain for the rest of his days.  O’Malley chose the latter stupidly believing that it couldn’t be as bad as people made it out to be and as he had recently married he could take the wife with him so he’d have a bit of company.

The following day O’Malley and his young wife were taken by boat to the island, they were allowed to take with them only what they could carry, together with the supplies provide by the landlord.  O’Malley knew his wife would feel lonely on the island so he brought with him a tin whistle for her to play a bit of a tune.  He was unable to read music but his wife was better educated and she was able to read music so he presented her with the whistle and a sheet of music that had upon it just the one tune.  She was delighted and having settled in and lit a fire they began to feel quite happy with themselves and she played her tin whistle much to O’Malley’s delight. 

The late summer turned into autumn and the nights grew longer, the weather began to turn and stormy nights kept them imprisoned within the stone walls of the Lighthouse.  O’Malley’s young wife played her tin whistle, over and over again, the same grinding tune slowly driving him insane even when he suggested to her that she played something different she continued to play the same tune over and over again.

Eventually he could take no more, reaching for the axe he used to chop wood for the fire he tore the whistle from her hands and smashed it to pieces.  She screamed in protest and turned upon him in desperation trying to wrench the whistle from him, in a rage he hit her with the axe, again and again to the tune he could hear in his head he brought the axe down upon her.  As his rage began to leave him he realised what he had done but by then it was too late, she lay upon the stone floor her eyes staring up at him as though accusing him in death.  He went up to the lighthouse platform and taking down one of the ropes that hung upon the wall he fashioned a noose, placing it around his neck he stepped over the edge and hung himself. 

A couple of days passed and the people of the mainland noticed that the light had gone out and realising something was wrong they went to the local landlord, he ordered that on the first calm day a boat should be sent to the island to find out why O’Malley was failing to carry out his duties.  As they approached the island they saw his partly decomposed body swinging in the wind, inside they found his wife lay where he had killed her.  

The Lighthouse is no longer in use, it is now a bird sanctuary and tourists are taken over to the island by arrangement with tour guides on the mainland.  It is said that on quiet nights when the winds are silent if you listen carefully you can hear the sound of a tin whistle playing a soulful tune, or could it just be the sound of far off sea birds?  I’ll let you decide.

My exams are now complete and I await the results sometime around the 17th June.  Thank you for your good wishes.