Going back to my roots in order to grow

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The early days of June feel like summer is just beginning. It is only now in Ireland that the days are filled more with blue sky than cloud, and the air takes on some warmth. Light lingers in the sky way past my bedtime and almost until midnight.

I really love the long warm clear evenings of Irish summer, and the hard brightness of the stars that glitter in the clear black vastness until the orb of the sun resurfaces in the morning. It is hard to believe that in just a few weeks we will begin the slow, almost indiscernable descent into the cold and dark of winter.

Over the last two years, as I have taken to walking my local landscape, I have come to know its rythms and more-than-human inhabitants. Never a gardener, I have watched the life cycles of my local wild plant neighbours with wonder and joy. The reappearance of each one after a long winter absence feels like greeting an old friend. And every year, there are new friends to make.

This journey with the Cailleach has made me part of this multi-faceted landscape in ways I had never imagined, and is taking me in new directions that I will continue to share here with you.

But also, it fosters yearnings to reconnect with my roots. When I began writing for others back in 2012, it was to share Irish mythology, archaeology and history; these are the three roots that anchored me to Irish soil, that reached into my heart, occupied my mind, and wove patterns through my writing.

I have wandered far from those roots on this new path. The lichened, crumbling stones placed by humankind over the aeons, the stories and legends attatched to them and to the plants and animals of the wild, ourselves and our place within it, are all equal participants in this greater picture we call landscape. But although we all move across this earth leaving our marks in the mud, we are not all grounded. I believe this disconnect to be the source of much human discontent.

Some of us find our way back. I am impressed and humbled by the wave of older women in particular who reweave themselves back into the fabric of the land. Is it that we are not done mothering? Is it the transference of care from our own young to something else we instinctively feel is most in need of nurture? There is no doubt that our world is currently under attack by the actions of humankind, and that those who have the power to disrupt these destructive behaviours prefer to sit back and let it happen.

Human civilisations come and go. Dominant species give way to the ascendance of the new. Mountains rise and crumble. The sea licks the land clean. The Cailleach herself said, “When the ocean was a forest full of trees, I was then but a young girl.” 1 What goes around, comes around. Existence and time are circular. In the meantime, we do what we can. The land shows me happiness and hope.

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I have written a lot about wild Irish plants lately, but I haven’t shared much of their mythology. In going back to my roots, so to speak, I will attempt to share the folklore of the plants going forward.

And right now, the fields and hedgerows of Ireland are engaged in a scrambling frenzy of green growth, high on summer plenty, and awash with the blaze of wildflowers. And one of the most impressive is this:

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It’s called Rosebay Willowherb. It grows up to a height of 2m, in great stretches of vibrant eye-popping purple-pink, and it’s everywhere – roadsides, embankments, railway sidings, bogland, woodland, building sites, and anywhere the ground has been recently disturbed. It brightens up all the abandoned, un-loved forgotten places, and I have fallen deeply under its spell.

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In ancient times, it was the first plant to grow on the hillsides after the gorse had been burnt back, which is why it was named Lus na Tine in Irish, meaning ‘fireweed’. According to Niall Mac Coitir, historically fireweed was a rare plant. It is only in recent centuries following the upheaval of the earth in order to lay railways, fell whole swathes of forest and create industrial waste lands, that this stunning wild plant has been enabled to thrive and proliferate. 2

As such, Lus na Tine demonstrates perfectly the power of nature to adapt and reassert itself, despite what we do to it, and that gives me hope.

The Challenge of Now | Fanning the Flames while Fighting Fire

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Medicinally, its root was powdered and thought to stop internal bleeding, whilst an infusion brewed of its leaves was used to treat asthma. However, ongoing research suggests it may contain properties that could be useful in treating cancer. 3

Despite its proliferation and beauty, however, it is a disappointment to me that I could find no trace of this plant in Ireland’s myths, even though it is a native plant. Perhaps this is due to the fact that until recent times, as Mac Coitir claims, it was indeed such an uncommon plant.

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In Irish mythology, Cuchulainn suffered from alternating bouts of malaise and rage. It was quite possibly drug-induced, perhaps through use of Amanita, but according to the stories, he was treated by being bathed in infusions of Meadowsweet.

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Its Irish name is Airgead Luachra, which means ‘silver rush’, perhaps because the underside of its leaves are quite silvery in colour, but it is also known as Crios Conchulainn, which I believe is translated as ‘Cuchulainn’s Belt’. Maybe he carried the herb in a little pouch or amulet attached to his belt, in case it was required to soothe his fits and rages.

It was believed that meadowsweet could aid in falling asleep, but in folklore, there was danger in that, for it was a sleep from which one might not awake. And according to legend, Cuchulainn once fell into a sleep that lasted a whole year, during which time he appeared to leave his body and go into the Otherworld, embarking on a dangerous affair with Fand, the wife of sea-God, Manannán.

Interestingly, it is from this plant that aspirin is derived; meadowsweet contains salicylic acid, which is a disinfectant, pain-killer and anti-inflammatory.

Beginning in late June, the hedges and verges are a-froth with its downy creamy flowers, and insects adore its heady scent, a lovely gentle milky-honey-almond sweetness. On a warm day, that scent hovers in invisible clouds in the air. I feel like I wait impatiently all year for its subtle arrival.

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In Irish, the Bluebell is known as Coinnle Corra. Of course, these delicate spring-blossoming wild flowers are long gone by the time mid-summer comes around, although some still linger in damp, shady spots in my local area just now. Regardless, they have their place in Irish mythology.

On her wedding night to Fionn mac Cumhall, Gráinne was said to have mixed bluebell with tormentil and secreted the mixture into the wedding guests’ wine, thus sending them all to sleep so she could elope with her beloved Diarmuid.

In The Destruction of Da Derga’s Hostel, Étain was described as having eyes of “hyacinth blue” (botanists originally identified Irish bluebells as related to the hyacinth). In another tale, The Colloquy of the Ancients, Saint Patrick is given a lift in a chariot by a young man with “cheeks as red as a bullfinch and eyes as blue as hyacinth”. 4 Clearly, the bluebell is thus associated with physical beauty.

Although it was traditionally used to stop bleeding, and also as a diuretic, I can’t find any reference to the bluebell’s sleep-inducing properties. Apparently, though, the bluebell’s sticky sap was used as a glue to bind books, and to stick feathers to the ends of arrows. Who knew?

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Tormentil, or Néalfartach in Irish, is a little yellow flower that looks similar to a buttercup, and which commonly grows all over Ireland between May and September. It was used for pain relief and to treat digestive problems. It was also traditionally mixed with St John’s Wort to create a sleeping draught. 5

So perhaps there is some truth in the use of tormentil to send all Gráinne’s wedding guests to sleep.

Its Irish name, Néalfartach, comes from the word néal meaning ‘depression/ gloom, or sleep’, and fartach meaning ‘hurt/ injury’. In Co Cork, it was known as Lus an Chodlata, meaning ‘herb for sleep’, suggesting that it may well have been used for promoting sleep.

A few days ago, I was walking one of my usual routes musing about writing this post, and how I didn’t have a photo of tormentil to show you. Immediately, I came across a clump growing on the roadside. It is the only patch I know of in my local area. So now I have an image for you… thanks, spirit guides!

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According to mythology, the warrior Nera disappeared into the Otherworld at Samhain, the beginning of winter, yet returned bearing summer flowers: wild garlic, golden fern and primroses, Sabhaircín in Irish.

This is a strange and convoluted story in which Nera receives a violent vision from the Sidhe showing the awful fate of his people if they don’t destroy the Hill of Cruachan. He warns Queen Medb and convinces her that he speaks the truth by giving her the summer flowers he brought back from Tír na nÓg.

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Honeysuckle, known as Féithleann in Irish, is associated with the tragic love story of Baile and Aillinn. These two lovers both died unnecessarily from grief, believing the other already dead. An apple tree grew from Aillinn’s grave mound, and a yew from Baile’s. These were eventually cut down, and tablets made from them, engraved with their stories. When these tablets were brought to King Cormac’s house in Tara, they sprang together and cleaved to each other as tightly as honeysuckle around a branch and could not be parted.

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Finally, the foxglove, known as Lus Mór in Irish, meaning the ‘great herb’, is used to describe the beautiful blush of the pure cheeks of Étain, Deirdre, and warrior Conall Cernach, another plant associated with physical beauty and purity in Irish legend.

The spots guide bees right up inside the bell of the flower to get to the pollen, apparently. Its fascinating to watch. It’s hard to equate such beauty and glory with danger, yet the foxglove is extremely toxic, so handle with care.

Stretching out new branches while roots burrow deeper.

I mentioned earlier in this post about going back to my roots in order to grow. I mean my literary roots. I initially started blogging back in 2012 about Irish mythology, because I had loved Greek myth as a child, and Arthurian legend as a young adult, but I had never come across Irish myth until I moved to Ireland. I wanted other people to learn and love it as much as I do… and believe me, Irish myth is WILD!

What I love to do is visit a place, perhaps a burial mound, an old castle, or a ring fort, and then tell the stories associated with it, particularly the female story, if I can unearth one. I’m going to do a bit more of this going forward. I hope you’ll stick around!

Grá Mór,

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Finally, I’d like to say a few words in honour of John Willmott, also known as the Woodland Bard, who passed away recently. I know that some people who subscribe to H A G came here from John’s Substack, Nature Folklore, and you may not yet have heard of his passing, or were wondering why he hasn’t sent out any newsletters lately.

Although I only met John once, I’d known him for many years via our online presences. We were interested in, and always supported each other’s work. He had so much knowledge stored away in his mind, and was always so generous in sharing it with others. I learned a lot from him, and will miss his comments and his wise insights popping up on my newsletters.

John was laid to rest in a beautiful wild woodland grave on a sunny day in the dappled shade beneath tall, swaying trees where birds were singing, and butterflies were fluttering. It was the perfect spot for him. Rest well, John.

Somehow, rather than resting, I think he is more likely to be having poetry duels with the Sidhe in the Otherworld!

His Substack, Nature Folklore, is still online, and you can still subscribe.

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We give flowers to tell someone we love them. Well, there are plenty of wild flowers here today, so why not spread the love and share this post? And don’t forget to like and subscribe! Le grá,