Post Samhain Musings

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Samhain has become increasingly important to me as the years go by. And although my celebrations are still far from over, for nowadays the festival seems to spill over into days rather than hours, to fit around complex working patterns and the need to co-ordinate many people, I still hold Samhain night as the most sacred.

Last night I chose to spend time with a lovely group of people honouring the ancestors in a way that couldn’t have been more perfect for me if I tried. For mere miles from the town where my father and grandfather grew up we performed a Despatcho ceremony. A ritual quite literally from the land of my paternal ancestors.

A Despatcho is in essence a living prayer bundle, used in a number of ways. It can be for healing, emotional or physical, gratitude, honouring or even celebrating such as blessings for births, deaths and marriages.

A mandala is built up slowly over time, with each item representing something the participants wish to pray for, or honour. Last night we gave thanks for the land we live in, all the peoples of this world, human, animal, vegetable and mineral. We gave praise and thanks to our ancestors and offered up Kintus sets of 3 leaves which we infused with our intent. I chose my leaves very carefully. One Sycamore, one Bay, one Ivy. Make of that what you will 😉

We also honoured our ancestors with sound, participating in drumming in the winds and spirits of the directions, the spirits of those above and below, the spirits of place and Mother Earth. Followed by a Gong bath that allowed us to fall into trance and if the ancestors wished it, receive messages and guidance. It was terribly moving. And I truly felt a weight lifted and a child like delight return to me after the Despatcho was passed over me.

However, I would dearly love to know who Michelle is, for whilst in trance a young boy came to my side, knelt down and told me to say to Michelle that she will not find the stone for her ring. Not very mystic I know, but hey we don’t get to dictate what the spirit world offers us. Obviously its very important to somebody somewhere or they wouldn’t have bothered breaking through into my reverie. If this relates to you, please, please tell me, my curiosity is eating me up.

 

By the Great Pumpkin.

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I’m going to have to have a little rant. Because to be frank it’s been bugging me. I love Halloween as much as the next person, but please by all that is orange and pumpkin like don’t confuse the modern holiday of Halloween with the festival of Samhain, or Nos Calan Gaeaf for that matter.

Please don’t go round running rituals where everyone dresses up as the Worst Witch, or a reject from Twilight or Potter world. It actually cheapens many peoples beliefs and practises. By all means have a party, invite me along I love a bloody good knees up. But don’t pretend that what you are doing is pagan. Particularly if you then plaster pictures of yourself all over Facebook. It totally misses the point of guising, which was to be unrecognisable.

If you want to combine reverence and mirth, how about a dumb supper eaten in silence, food brought to share, an empty space laid out for those that have gone before. Each person lighting a tea light for their ancestors. After the solemn meal songs and laughter may ensue, and when the last tealight burns out then the last ancestor has departed and the party is over. Another excellent practise is a vigil, take time to process to your local cemetery. Find the oldest graves there, for quite truthfully they represent the ancestors of the community. Take time to clear their graves, light a votive candle and thank them, sit vigil for a while before departing silently, not looking back.

If you aren’t squeamish about mixing a bit of ancient Christian lore you could even make soul cakes. A medieval tradition. Sweet biscuit like cakes made with cinnamon and nutmeg, which would have been almost prohibitively expensive and therefore a true sacrifice of time and resources. They were set out on All Hallows’ Eve, sometime with an alcohol libation as well. Very reminiscent of the Hekate’s suppers practised on New Moons. You can find a nice recipe for souls cakes here it’s a recipe from the Welsh borders so quite authentic.

I love Samhain, it’s possibly one of the most important festivals of the year for me. I genuinely feel the Magick in the air. The light has an eerie quality. Your skin prickles. You can almost smell the feral musk of the creatures of the hunt slowly waking from their summer slumber. Leaves skitter along the paths leaving you feeling like something is just a few steps behind. Whispered voices travel on the wind and you can almost hear small scampering feet. Waiting for the moment when the final shift happens. When, for another cycle Gwyn ap Nudd gains the upper hand in his eternal battle with Gwythyr ap Greidawl. The hounds of Annwfn bray and the hunt rides forth. Ready to sweep the unsuspecting human with eyes to see along, helter skelter into the night.

A sight both fearsome and truly wondrous to behold. A feeling that brings you to tears of awe and fear and love. And worth far more respect than some parody in black lipstick and a nylon costume bought from a superstore.

In the search of the Mabon.

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It’s that time of year when the whole, “Why is the Equinox called Mabon?” debate rears it’s ugly head. Like many Gardnerians I’m fairly unimpressed by the name thanks to a whole bunch politics. There are other names for the festival, however, my personal preference is Equinox. It’s a good sturdy name that even those who do not follow my path understand. But On the whole I’m pretty happy to state that it’s each to their own.

I thought about writing a nice long academic post about the historical evidence and the modern justifications for calling this festival by certain names. But it’s been done to death by many very eloquent people. So if you are looking for that kind of article may I suggest you start HERE with Jason Mankey’s blog on the subject.

For the last few years I’ve been very much about the experiential being balanced with the academic. And that wondrous synergy that can occur when the historical and factual meets the new imaginings of dedicated practitioners of the craft. So this year I thought I’d approach the whole event in a different and innovative manner.

Last Winter Solstice I took part in an excellent read along on Twitter #thedarkisreading. In which participants read the enchanting Susan Cooper book “The Dark is rising”. Not only was it lovely to have a reason to sit and read for a short while each evening. It really made me focus on certain seasonal themes. Which gave me an idea.

One of the primary sources for the existence of Mabon ap Modron (Great Son, son of the Mother) is the Welsh Medieval tale “How Culhwch won Olwen”. The story is included in the misnamed collection of tales known by most as the Mabinogion. On the surface it’s a rip roaring tale of adventure, knights and valiant kings, brave young men and giants. This epic quest for true love sees the erstwhile hero and his amazing companions travel from the very South of Wales all the way to Cumbria. Performing seemingly impossible feats. Meeting the oldest animals and battling formidable creatures using all the powers and Magick sat their command.

It can of course be read just as that, an amazing tale of daring-do, but its a tale of layers. Embedded within are mysteries for those who care to look. Initiations of the body and mind, for those who would immerse themselves ritually into the very tale itself. So this year I resolved to take time reading it to see what wisdom it could impart for me during this season. A touch of meditative bibliomancy if you will.

I’ve studied this story many times, as an Awenydd of the The Anglesey Druid Order it comes up a fair amount in the orders amazing annual training course. So I wasn’t really sure what I might get from this exercise being so familiar with the text. But the gods of Land, Sea and Sky never fail me.

The first thing that struck me was the sheer quantity of shape shifting that occurs during the tale. Culhwch’s mother Goleuddydd (quite literally daylight) losing her mind in an echo of Rhiannon’s story and seemingly reverting to a zoomorphic state to give birth. Poor Pryderi is linked with a stable in the first branch, Culhwch a pig sty. Perhaps his mother is the very same sow that led Gwydion to the Ash tree from which the young Sun God Lleu Llaw Gyffes hangs between the worlds.

In fact pigs feature very heavily in many of the tales, from the very first branch it is the swine of Arawn slipping into this world that starts the whole story arch moving. Not a mare of sovereignty at all. Is this then an indicator of an older or parallel belief/initiatory system hidden within all the tales? Certainly food for deep thought. And now undoubtedly the focus of experiential ritual in my future.

I find this idea particularly poignant as the whole tale hangs on the hero’s relationship to sovereignty. In his case his relationship with Arthur. The kings willingness to trim the youths hair in recognition of kinship is echoed in the demands of the Giant Ysbaddaden. Reading between the lines his only real desire is to ensure an appropriate wedding feast for his Goddess like daughter and to have his hair trimmed using the comb and scissors held between the ears of the great Boar Twrch Trwyth (another pig). Thus effectively regaining his own sovereignty. Interesting huh?

Secondly the textual notes to the tale (if you get a good translation) reveals that one of the companions Teyrnon Twrf Liant ( Great Lord, Roar of the flood tide) whose kingdom in Gwent is often associated with the Severn bore. Now I’ve known this for a while, but I’ve never really put much consideration into it. My ritual landscape is primarily that of North Wales. But the Mabon of whom we seek it is claimed was held somewhere along the Severn estuary. He was discovered by the Salmon of Lyn Lliw who travelled the bore every flood tide. So here we have our divine child of the season, in his prison in Caerloyw (Gloucester) but held apparently by the bore. Just as Pryderi was kept by Teyrnon in his youth. And when is the bore at his strongest. At the equinoxes.

Perhaps it’s not such a bad name for the festival after all. I rather like it in-fact especially if we were to pair the autumnal equinox of Mabon with a vernal equinox of Modron…..oooo now there’s a thought?

The Nine Sacred Woods of the Need Fire

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This year has been very much about me challenging my beliefs and why I do certain things. Ive been trying simultaneously to pare down my practise cutting out the unnecessary whilst also *upping my game* magically with a deeper understanding of things that I have just previously taken as the ‘truth’. Partly this is because I am teaching a lot more than I have done previously and there is nothing like new eyes to make you challenge how you understand and practise things. Partly because I feel that people should periodically examine their beliefs, practises, habits etc. It is in my opinion necessary for strong, well adjusted personal growth.

So I am sitting here on a glorious spring morning. The birds are singing and I am contemplating. This evening is May Eve or Walpurgisnacht. The beginning of Summer. Tomorrow is Beltane or Calan Mai. Quite an important festival for me but maybe not for the reasons that most people would assume. For the kindling of the Bel fire is to me representative of the kindling of the fire beneath the Cauldron of Inspiration. And it is the time when my work with Ceridwen begins. Beltane through to Samhain after all would have been the prime times for collecting herbs for a magickal brew.

This time would also coincide with the battle between Gywn Ap Nudd and Gwythyr Ap Greidol for the hand of Creiddylad. A battle that is to be fought “every May day forever from that day forth until Judgement Day”.1 This battle is one that within my ritual landscape persists until Samhain where the balance tips back into Gwyn Ap Nudd’s favour. This tipping of the balance is the tipping/cracking of the Cauldron, the time of the ‘chase’. For within my personal and geographical ritual landscape it is easy to see the Goddess during the darker months in her many zoomorphic forms. Rushing helter skelter along with the wild hunt across the wind swept peaks of the Berwyns at the very tip of the Clwydian range, down into the Dee Valley, and onto the White Kingdom and Llyn Tegid as she runs down the boy Gwion Bach.

So Beltane and Samhain are intrinsically linked. Points in my ritual year where the veil thins, and time and reality warps. Our Gods and Goddesses change shape, events happen perpetually and simultaneously. And both points are triggered with with the kindling of a fire. This fire is often called the Bel or Need fire and it is often said that it must be kindled by Nine sacred woods. I realised I didn’t know where these nine woods came from or why it was important to use them so I thought I would have a good look around and try and uncover some sources.

The first and easiest source is of course the neo-pagan poem entitled rather erroneously as ‘The Rede of the Wiccae’. Without getting into a whole debate as to why this isn’t actually the same as the Wiccan Rede lets just take it as red that this delightful piece of popular culture has little to do with initiatory craft and move swiftly onwards. Within this poem is the following line:

“Nine woods in the Cauldron go, 
Burn them fast and burn them slow.”

After which nine of the Ogham woods are listed. But as this poem dates probably no earlier than the 1970’s I thought I would try and find other provenance for the nine sacred woods. The Cad Goddeu (or Battle of the Trees) which in its written form  dates from somewhere around the 9th-10th century does mention nine trees, or forms related to the creation of the flower maiden Blodeuedd by Math and Gwydion. 2 But it also lists many more than nine during the actual battle part of the poem. So whilst the imagery of the flower maiden is a very fitting ritual motif for the folk practise of bringing in the May, it doesn’t really enlighten us any further as to the origins of the sacred woods.

The following poem attributed to Ossian a legendary Irish bard provides us with many woods, some of which have explicit instructions not to burn. The remaining woods either come with warnings, an explanation of their qualities or an explicit instruction to burn. This curiously leaves us with Nine woods. Being Rowan, Briar, Alder, Whitethorn, Birch, Aspen, Ash, Holly & Yew.  Not all of these choices are ones that automatically spring to mind as part of a Bel or Need fire.

O Man that for Fergus of the feasts dost kindle fire,
Whether afloat or ashore burn not the king of woods.

Monarch of Innisfail’s forests the woodbine is, whom none may hold captive;
No feeble sovereign’s effort is it to hug all tough trees in his embrace.

i>The pliant woodbine if thou burn, wailings for mis-fortune will abound,
Dire extremity at weapons’ points or drowning in great waves will follow.

Burn not the precious apple-tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough ;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns not ;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems ;
Within his bloom bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard’s tree, the rowan, burn;
But spare the limber tree ; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of the ash ; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen’s hands, his form turns battle into flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so keen and green ;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him none may escape unhurt ;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the fight
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green ; holly, burn it dry ;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the sidh burn so that he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune ;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stalks that bear the constant pods.

Suffer, if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come head-long down ;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew, sacred to feasts, as is well-known ;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

Ferdedh, thou faithful one, wouldst thou but do my behest :
To thy soul as to thy body, O man, ‘twould work advantage. 3

A Scottish poem which can be found in the Carmina Gadelica 4 provides eight woods under the title “Choice of timber”. This list only has a few commonalities with the earlier list however, which isn’t very helpful. However the ‘feel’ of the poem certainly feels more magical.

Choose the Willow of the streams
Choose the hazel of the rocks
Choose the Alder of the marshes
Choose the birch of the waterfalls

Choose the Ash of the Shade
Choose the Yew of resilience
Choose the Elm of the brae
Choose the Oak of the Sun

Academia is ominously quiet about the components of the Need or Bel fire. However Professor Ronald Hutton mentions it in Stations of the Sun calling it the tein-eigin and goes to some length as to how various methods were used to kindle the fire. He also provides an excellent description from Marie Trevelyan in Glamorgan in the 1830s who stated that:

“Nine men would turn their pockets inside out, and see that every piece of money and all metals were off their persons. Then the men went into the nearest wood and collected sticks of nine different trees. These were carried to the spot where the fire had to be built. There a circle was cut in the sod and the sticks were set crosswise. All around the circle the people stood and watched the proceedings. One of the men would then take two bits of oak, and rub them together until a flame was kindled.” 5

Professor Hutton is however dubious about the ancient provenance of the practise and provides no further evidence as to the composition of the fire itself other than it was “ of nine different trees”.  Which to be frank is a little frustrating as it leads me to believe that this may be somewhat of a modern practise. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it is bad or that we should discard it. I have spoken at length about the worth of modern festivals before (you can read it here). But what it does mean is that perhaps we do not necessarily need to enslave ourselves to the commonly accepted ideas either.

Therefore as I rather like the Seven of the Eight woods described in the “Choice of timber poem” I will happily include them in my Bel fire, however with the scarcity now of Elm I would probably exclude that wood in favour of Holly and as my Bel fire is just that, a Beltane fire, I would of course include Hawthorn.

  1. How Culhwch Won Olwen – The Mabinogion Oxford University Press ↩
  2. Kat Goddeu – Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin CMCS Aberystwyth ↩
  3. Song of the Forest Trees – The Poem Book of Gael ↩
  4. Carmina Gadelica – A compendium of folklore and prayers and poetry from the late 19th & early 20th century. ↩
  5. Hutton, Ronald. Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain (p. 221). OUP Oxford. Kindle Edition. ↩

Manawydan – A Pilgrimage

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It must be close to a decade now since I made my first conscious pilgrimage. A journey to the Norfolk village of Walsingham. At that point I didn’t even know that pilgrimage was still a ‘thing’. I had read Chaucer’s The Wife of Bath at college. And we had debated the purpose for people making pilgrimages in the middle ages. But by the time I took those tentative steps. Barefoot towards the Slipper Chapel. I was about as far removed from mainstream religion as you could get. So, I was unaware of any modern practise and was surprised to find a thriving tradition.

In fact the purpose for that entire journey was about as far away from Christianity as you could get. So the destination raised more than a few eyebrows. It was the culmination of a prolonged and often confusing contact with a particular spirit. I am not entirely sure what her motivations were in asking me to light very specific numbers of candles in each of the shrines I came across. Other than perhaps to bankrupt me, because votive candles aren’t cheap. But in my heart I suspect it was to install into me what now appears to be a life long fascination with ‘the journey’. And how it is both an act of magick and of devotion that transcends religion.

Artists house on the Camino, a stop for pilgrims

Since then I have marvelled at the very beginnings of humanity. At the Cradle of Humankind in the Sterkfontein caves in South Africa I took time to honour my ancestors. I have fallen in love with Lugo a wonderful ancient city on the Camino Primitivo (the original way) heading towards Santiago. There I felt the power of the Great Mother Isis. I have travelled alone from the very Northern tip of France to the Sierra Nevadas in Spain in a personal journey of enlightenment. Left offerings to the Goddess Minerva in an ancient thermal spring. Performed rites to Hekate, Asteria and Perses under a meteor filled sky by a crystal mountain lake. I have followed my nose and communed with the spirits of place in Carnac. Rested on the nearby tumulus St Michel. Stretching my mind far out to sense Glastonbury Tor and St Michael’s Mount far away along the serpentine line.

In recent years the focus of my pilgrimages has been almost singular. The Isle of Yns Môn. I travel along the North Wales costal route, and key points along that journey have become like a mantra. The droning of my engine. The sound of my car tyres on the Tarmac beneath me. Acting like the Buddhist prayer wheels. Rumbling out to the universe my devotion to the landscape around me. And an Island that always feels like home.

So this weekend saw me rise early on a cold and positively wintry morning. With parts of the country caught in the grip of the ‘Beast from the East’ I was uncertain how many would join us in a Pilgrimage to meet the God Manawydan. An event which I helped to organise for members of The Anglesey Druid Order as one of their “Deity Days”. Manawydan is particularly close to my heart as he was the first male deity I ever felt a true connection with.  He reminds me of my own foibles, fragilities and sometimes downright bloody mindedness. He also ensure that I never forget to claim my sovereignty. Nor does he fail me when I have a need for certain types of Magic. But that is another post for another day.

We live in a results based world, where everybody talks in terms of where they went. What they achieved. What they hope to achieve. Always aiming for the final destination. Impatient to be anywhere but where they are right now. Of course I am not perfect and there are many ways in which I still live a thoroughly modern life. But when it comes to my Magick, my Spirituality, I try very hard to take time to enjoy the process. Therefore, my purpose of this day was not to ask him for anything for myself. Just to honour him with each step I took. To facilitate others coming to know him. And hopefully kindle a deeper connection with him.

His location in the Anglesey landscape is without dispute. His story, as we know it, starts with the marriage of Branwen in the 2nd Branch of the Mabinogi. The festivities taking place in the village of Aberffraw. Situated on the south western coastline of the Island. So it was pretty much a no brainer then to walk part of the famous costal path.

View on the Coast Path

We started from Llyn Coron (Crown Lake), through the village and along the costal path to the ancient city on the headland at the mouth of the estuary. Along the route we contemplated his nature and how it might inform our own actions. We left offerings to him and to the house of Llŷr. And we ritualistically left behind us, in small cairns, representations of that which we felt stopped us embracing Manawydan’s qualities of Humility, Justice and Magic. Particularly in relation to claiming our own sovereignty.

My offering in the humility cairn was a handful of pure white dog whelk and cowrie shells which I always covet when I walk along the sea shore. I had been systematically ferreting them away as we walked. For that stretch of coast line is particularly rich. Treasures to bring home and add to my collection. It pained me greatly when I realised that I couldn’t get more humble than to give away a thing I prized in honour and recognition .

The Scallop, A Symbol of Pilgrimage

So imagine my joy later as we were clearing the beach of plastic when I was rewarded with the most beautiful, almost perfect Queen Scallop shell. A symbol which has become almost universally associated with the act of Pilgrimage thanks to the Camino de Santiago. In my mind a clear sign that Manawydan was pleased with our endeavours.

If you would like to know more about The Anglesey Druid Order and what they do you can find them here and here.

The Eternal Flame of Bride

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The weather has been quite literally foul today, I drove through snow, thunder and lightning all at the same time. Whilst walking between buildings I stopped to enjoy the sunshine whilst being pelted with hail. Much to the amusement of my work colleagues. Truly a day of change. And according to some folk lore, if Brides Eve is fair then the Callieach will venture out for some time to come. But if the weather is foul, the. spring is just round the corner. So if my day was anything to judge, I’m hoping for a balmy Saint David’s day.

My Imbolc this year could not be any more different if it tried. 12 months ago found me in a quiet woodland grove in silent contemplation on a cold, crisp and very much still winters night. I contemplated the nature of The Goddess and the lessons (and gifts) she had for me. This year I find myself early to bed, a wondrous weekend of magic and transformation ahead of me, and a beautiful afternoon of snowdrops and cleansing ritual behind me. A time of new beginnings, I stand on the cusp of a time of change which like an enchantress tempts me forward.

It’s fair to say Bride has been a quiet but constant companion for me this year, she shares many of the same traits as other deities I work with such as Hekate and Ceridwen, so it’s not very surprising. She has province over flame, and Water, of healing and of transformation. She is a fierce protectress for those she names as her own. But isn’t above also teaching strict lessons to those who fail to heed her words and gifts. So to honour her I thought I would share this prayer of protection from the Carmina Gaedelica by Alexander Carmichael a folklorist from the 19th Century. Although the contents of this work often has much older providence. I have adapted it somewhat to make it slightly less Christian but believe it keeps its essence beautifully. A truly powerful prayer indeed.

Adapted from a Traditional Scottish Gaelic Supplication of Saint Brigit

Brigit of the mantles,

Brigit of the peat-heap,

Brigit of the twining hair,

Brigit of the augury.

Brigit of the white feet,

Brigit of the calmness,

Brigit of the white palms,

Brigit of the kine.

Brigit, woman-comrade,

Brigit of the peat-heap,

Brigit, woman-helper,

Brigit, woman mild.

Brigit, Goddess of the Well,

Brigit, Nurse of infant child,

Each day and each night

That I say the Descent of Brigit,

I shall not be slain,

I shall not be wounded

I shall not be gashed,

I shall not be torn asunder,

I shall not be despoiled

I shall not be down-trodden

I shall not be made naked,

I shall not be rent

Nor will the Goddess Brigit forsake me

Nor sun shall burn me,

Nor fire shall burn me,

Nor beam shall burn me,

Nor moon shall burn me.

Nor river shall drown me,

Nor brine shall drown me,

Nor flood shall drown me,

Nor water shall drown me.

Nightmare shall not lie on me,

Black sleep shall not lie on me

Spell sleep shall not lie on me,

Nor will the Goddess Brigit forsake me

For I am under the keeping of the Eternal Flame of Bride

Of Oak Ash and Thorn, with the focus on Thorn

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As I mentioned earlier this year, I am spending much of the next year studying the Ogham and by default the lore and uses of the trees in the Ogham sets. As May has come around it became very obvious as the sultry scent of Mayflower assaulted my nostrils each time I went walking that my tree for this month had to be The Hawthorn. It’s latin name is Crataegeus Monogyna and It is a member of the Rose family. It normally flowers between May and June. However, there are several different varieties including ones that flower twice a year (Summer and Winter) and one with pink flowers. Other names include the following:

  • Whitethorn
  • Mayflower
  • May Tree
  • Thorn Apple

Fruits are known as ‘Haws’ and are edible and make a reasonable fruit ‘leather’ and a great chutney, however care must be taken to de-seed them as they are quite toxic.

Medicinally the Haws are also considered good for the heart. Although caution should be taken to consult a medical practitioner. Strung as beads on a red thread the berries are considered to be a powerful protection amulet. The bark can be used to make a black dye. 1

Associated with Beltane and all May Day celebrations. It is sacred to both Pagans and Christians. Folklore says that the Glastonbury Thorn sprang from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea and in Staffordshire an old folk rhyme claims that “Under a thorn, Our saviour was born” as well as it being believed that the Crown of thorns worn by Jesus on the way to the Cross was made from Hawthorn.

In Ireland even to this day it is believed to be Fairy tree if stood alone. However if part of a hedgerow it is thought to ward off malicious fairies. The connection with the Fae seems to be very important during Beltane, Summer Solstice and Samhain. It is considered very bad luck to interfere with a ‘Fairy Thorn’.

These trees are considered very liminal in nature. And the locations in which they grow are thought not only to be great places of power but also spaces where the veil between this world and the other is the thinnest. Therefore performing divination, energy healing, communing with the Genius Loci are all great activities to carry out under the watchful presence of a Hawthorn tree. 2

Finally Hawthorn trees that stand guardian at ‘Holy Wells” are often hung with Clooties, these are strips of cloth either charged with a prayer or dipped in the sacred water and used to bathe the sick person before being hung out upon the tree. In Appleton in Cheshire there is a tradition of bawming (decorating) the tree. The following song known as “The Bawming song” has some interesting tree attributions which reinforces the commonly held belief that lone Hawthorn trees are places where both the Fae and Humans meet for lovers trysts.

The Bawming Song


The Maypole in spring merry maidens adorn,
Our midsummer May-Day means Bawming the Thorn.
On her garlanded throne sits the May Queen alone,
Here each Appleton lad has a Queen of his own

Chorus:

Up with fresh garlands this Midsummer morn,
Up with red ribbons on Appleton Thorn.
Come lasses and lads to the Thorn Tree today
To Bawm it and shout as ye Bawm it, Hooray!

The oak in its strength is the pride of the wood,
The birch bears a twig that made naughty boys good,
But there grows not a tree which in splendour can vie
With our thorn tree when Bawmed in the month of July.

Chorus

Kissing under the rose is when nobody sees,
You may under the mistletoe kiss when you please;
But no kiss can be sweet as that stolen one be
Which is snatched from a sweetheart when Bawming the Tree.

Chorus

Ye Appleton Lads I can promise you this;
When her lips you have pressed with a true lover’s kiss,
Woo’ed her and won her and made her your bride
Thenceforth shall she ne’er be a thorn in your side.

Chorus

So long as this Thorn Tree o’ershadows the ground
May sweethearts to Bawm it in plenty be found.
And a thousand years hence when tis gone and is dead
May there stand here a Thorn to be Bawmed in its stead.

Chorus

Sung to the tune of “Bonnie Dundee” 3

 

  1. Discovering the Folklore of Plants by Margaret Baker ↩
  2. Celtic Tree Magic by Danu Forest ↩
  3.  http://www.appletonthorn.org.uk/ ↩

I think I could turn and live with animals

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Today I wrote the following statement:

One of humanity’s biggest problems is that we believe ourselves to be better than animals and less than the Gods

This is not a new thought for me. Probably one of the earliest realisations I had that my world view did not fit with most of civilised society was the revelation that most people do not believe that animals have souls. That there is no after life (heaven if you will) for animals. I knew then and there I wanted no part of any religion that placed me in an afterlife without animals. Despite my apparently outgoing and gregarious nature my natural state of being is introverted. At parties and gatherings you will find me with the pets and the children (those wonderful humans who have as yet not forgotten how it is to be animal). I am quite animalistic in my nature I trust slowly, love fiercely and have unwavering loyalty. And because of this I truly struggle with many aspects of civilised society, the delicate nuances we are supposed to perceive, the intricate games we are supposed to play.  

I am loathe to use certain vocabulary as it has been abused by the new age community and the cultural misappropriation of  such paths as the indigenous American population and their belief in totem and power animals make it even more difficult to express myself adequately. But I truly believe that connecting with the animal natures with yourself can make for a richer life both in the magickal and mundane realms. It is something our old Gods knew all about. Our Gods and Goddesses were often zoomorphic. Ceridwen knew how to change into a greyhound, an otter, a hawk and a hen. Dylan son of Aranrhod became a seal and returned to the waters. Rhiannon is made to take the form of a horse (or is it her natural form) as part of her punishment for the alleged murder of her son Pryderi. It is such a common phenomena that it might be argued that to be divine you have to access the animals within. Isn’t that an interesting thought, to become Godlike we must understand our animals. But how?

We can of course pay a small fortune to be taken on some Shamanistic journey to find our inner beasts. And I’m not going to decry that. It can work. But often our  journeys to find our “divine animal nature” can be far more mundane and internal. For example after a week long retreat many years ago I was informed that my “totem” was a frog, a liminal creature capable of existing between the worlds of earth and water, a psychopomp and wise one. The Druid animal Oracle has a wonderful image of a frog, the like of which you could find in any garden pond. It states that the frog brings medicine and can help develop “sensitivity to others, to healing and to sound through your skin and your whole body and aura”. To be frank I pretty much snorted at this description, the only thing I had in common with a frog was that when I sang I croaked. And yet I couldn’t shake a certain feeling of kinship. 

When it happened it wasn’t some fabulous realisation of some wonderful aspect of my being that made the connection. It was a realisation of a darker aspect of my nature, an understanding and acceptance of my shadow shelf that finally allowed me to make that bond. The animal Oracle also says about the frog that “There is a hidden beauty and a hidden power in all of nature”. And there as I was quite a few years later, meditating on the idea that a frog had a “hidden power” when ‘pop’ sat on a rock in my interior landscape was a South American red eyed tree frog. Although not poisonous this frog is brightly coloured to shock it’s predators into thinking twice about whether or not it is a tasty snack. Giving it a superlative glamour. And although small it is a fearsome predator in its own right. In addition many of its cousins are poisonous, you squeeze one of them too tight, or hurt them in any way and there is at best a good chance you’ll have hallucinations, paralysis and seizures and worse case, if you try and eat one of these little fellows, well if they are going down they’ll take you with them in the most excruciating way possible. Now that I could relate to. 

You see connecting with any animal aspect isn’t always about the nice things, let’s face it nature just isn’t nice and neither are we. I am very distrusting of anybody who comes across as too nice, too smiley, too spiritual, they are the ones who normally have the most to hide and so far Ive never been proved wrong. My lovely friend Kath told me over a decade ago that I had an instinct second to none. Something I used to dismiss. But it is a divine animal trait in its own right, for after all why is it that a perfectly placid dog can suddenly take umbrage at a specific human being? We’ve all seen it. They sense something that apparently we can’t. Or maybe we can, if we learn to embrace our divine animals. 

Sometimes the animals we are drawn to on the mundane are also teachers for us. My friends know of my passion for Otters. I call them my favourite water borne terrorists. Liminal like the frog existing between earth and water they are often associated with shape shifting and their almost immoral behaviour makes them tricksters of the highest order. They are mustelids meaning they belong to the same family as badgers, weasels, minks and Pole-cats. They are often social and playful, knowing the joy of play for the sake of play, expecting nothing more in life than what they have. Yet they can often kill for fun, not for hunger. They can be vicious and nip and bite, they can fight to the death. But all tricksters pretty much without exception are catalysts for change even if that is by viscous means.

Tricksters are highly intelligent, often seeing a bigger picture or path unavailable to others because they are blinded by dogma and social conventions. Hermes invented lying, and nearly all tricksters have an ability to be economical with the truth, as such the Otter is very good at letting you know when someone is lying to you, because if you’ve embraced that inner divine animal, you know a big whopper when you see one because you’ve considered telling the odd one yourself. Loki, another of the zoomorphic Gods plays a pivotal role in Ragnarok resulting in the death of the Gods. Again, if you’ve embraced that destructive side of your nature then it’s really easy to see when the walls are about to come toppling down. And of course sometimes you realise it’s necessary that you bring the walls down yourself. Anansi, Coyote, Kitsune, Gwydion, Efnysien, Reynard and Puck are all tricksters worth investigating, more than a few of them have a connection to an animal or a zoomorphic aspect. They can be the hero, the bad guy, the fool and the wise man all wrapped up into one. Yet you cannot deny their divinity, their connection to the sacred.

So here is a thought, perhaps the way to fix the world is to start behaving as if we are better than Gods and less than animals and work towards integrating those two aspects of our nature.

The Last Wolf of Albion

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I have to admit to feeling a little nervous about attending a Camp in Cumbria before March had even waved us goodbye. Reports of snow on higher ground by friends the previous week hadn’t helped that feeling. I may be a southerner by birth but my paternal family are all northerners and I’ll have lived under northern skies for fifteen years this September. I am a northerner at heart, and we are made of sterner stuff. So as Saturday dawned cool and clear I donned a thermal vest under my T-shirt and fleece and headed towards Grange-Over-Sands and the Humphrey Head Centre where The Druid Network were hosting a “Leap into Spring” event.

I love the Lakes with a deep abiding passion, many of my childhood holidays involved fishing at Arnside, woodland rambles near Kendal, minnow trapping at the Troutbeck, scrambling around at the feet of Shap. To name just a few activities. And it was during these holidays that my love of folklore and myth probably first took seed. Both my father and grandfather were excellent story tellers, and the raucous songs and tales they made up for my delight are memories that make me smile even on the greyest day. So it was great news to me that the location of my weekend adventures was purported to be the site where the last wolf was hunted down and killed and that a great story accompanied it. A story that has been brought to my attention, for no apparent reason a number of times over the last few months. So obviously it has some as yet unknown lesson to teach me. So as the start of my adventure through the landscape of the last wolf I thought I might share its sad tale.

The Last Wolf

Once upon a time, for after all it’s important for all good stories  to start like that don’t you think? There lived a very powerful family who resided in a beautiful tower near the village of  Allithwaite. In those days the landscape was different to the one we know now. It was a much wilder place. Inhabited by much wilder creatures. Possibly the most fearsome of which was a ferocious wolf. His howls could be heard all across Over-Sands and on moon lit nights the local peasants brought as many of their sheep inside as possible for the Wolf had a voracious appetite.

The beasts indiscriminate hunting went on for many years before the common folk could take no more and pleaded with their lord to help them. To rid them of this menace. Sir Edgar Harrington listened to his serfs and swore to rid them of the predator. He called to all the Lords and Knights across the region asking for aid. If they caught and killed the wolf then half his lands and the hand of his orphan niece Adela would be theirs as reward.

Now Adela was less than happy with this state of affairs, but as an Orphan ward there was little she could do. All she could hope for was that either that the wolf escaped to hunt another day, or that the man to which she would be wed was an honourable and decent man. She knew though that her heart would never belong to any other man than John. The son of Sir Edgar. As children they had played together and as they had grown so had their love. Once he came of age John had asked his father for her hand but had been refused for Sir Edgar saw great alliances that could be made with her marriage. John left in anger to travel to the Holy lands swearing never to return. Leaving a grieving Adela behind.

So as the appointed day arrived nobles across the land assembled. Forming the greatest hunt the land had seen since Arthur had valiantly pursued the elusive White Stag. Adela pleaded with her ward begging to accompany the men so that she may see the triumph of the man to whom she would be wed. Finally he agreed and as her horse was being saddled a mysterious knight arrived to join the hunt. Mounted upon the most magnificent glowing white Arabian stallion the knight refused to dismount or remove his visor whilst the final preparations were made. Instead he silently watched the fair maiden.

The horn sounded and the hunt began. The Wolf a wiley old beast led them a merry dance. The hunt zig zagged across the land, from Coniston to Windermere with many an erstwhile suitor falling by the wayside. Finally the chase led the remaining pack to Humphrey Head with the mysterious knight leading. He cornered the beast and speared him through his heart. Turning to Adela he lifted his visor to reveal to his prize that he was her long lost love. Sir Edgar seeing the truth of the situation summoned a learned Monk from Cartmel Priory who happened to be in the retinue. He instructed the Monk to marry the couple there and then. In front of the holy well that springs even to this day from the foot of the cliffs at Humphrey Head.

It is a truly wonderful tale, full of some very interesting motifs which could be remnants of long lost sovereignty stories. The maiden being married to a mysterious knight who is mounted upon an otherworldly white beast. But what is even more fascinating is that the myth has now become inextricably link to the geology of the land.

Firstly the Holy well which although somewhat sad and neglected still remains to this day. It is mineral rich and tastes a little like Alka Selzer with a slightly silky/slimey texture. And although the water is heavy with salts and minerals it is obviously unpolluted as small freshwater shrimps could be seen swimming in the small pools where the water collected as it trickled down to the marshes just a few meters below.

Secondly is the Haematite which can be gathered in the shingle at the foot of Humphrey Head. This is a black/reddish brown stone which is high in Ferric Oxide. It is sometimes known as Blood stone. A good way to identify the stone is to give it a quick lick and rub it against a rock, if it comes up red then you know you have the right rock. Of course if you have a magnet on your keyring you will also be able to test the stones as even if the Iron content is fairly low you will feel a slight draw to the stones. Might be a bit more sensible than licking them. But hey where is the fun in that! And if you do lick them, you can see how these stones have become linked to the story of the last wolf, their Magickal red stains are the drops of blood shed by the Wolf before he met his final demise on the cliffs above.

 

It is claimed that Haematite is great for protection, grounding and dispelling negativity. And I have used it for that purpose previously but the stones I gathered have now found themselves upon my Brigid altar, after all a Goddess of Smithcraft could definitely use some Iron ore.

It was a truly wonderful day full of myth and magick and a sense of sacred within the landscape. I cannot wait to go back to visit and explore more. Perhaps even discover other legends about the surrounding lands. The Woodspirit camp is being hosted there this year. That sounds like a promising adventure.

 

 

The Blessings of Brigid

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For a couple of years now I have been trying to make more of a conscious effort to really connect with the festivals on the wheel of the year. So at the end of January I found myself accepting an invitation to attend an hour’s silent vigil in the woods dedicated to the Goddess Brigid. I’ll be frank, whilst I love dark nights, woodland walks and candle-lit vigils I was rather perplexed as to my subconscious motivations. Brigid is not a deity Ive had a lot of connection with and nor did I really want to. To explain, I think how you interact with deities is a bit like how you interact
with people. There has to be a certain something about the person or nothing will never develop. They will remain just somebody you know in passing, might say “hi” to as you walk past in the street because you recognise them. But you wouldn’t necessarily stop and talk. And to be frank my previous interaction with Brigid had left me pretty much as cold as the Imbolc snow that so often scatters the ground at that time of year. So I think it goes without saying that I was more than a bit shocked when during the vigil a quiet internal voice instructed me to continue to light candles until Equinox.

Publicly Ive been wearing my Druid hat almost as much as I’ve been wearing my Wiccan hat of late so it occurred to me that this sudden tentative spark of connection may be related to that, Brigid is a goddess of poetry and often a patron to Bards. It also occurred to me that it was an aspect of Brigid I was feeling as a soul calling rather than an actual connection. At that early point of connection during the vigil it was close to seven weeks since I had set foot on Anglesey, the longest I have gone in well over 18 months. The author Kristoffer Hughes suggests that the Goddess of the river Braint which bisects the Isle of Anglesey is a localised version of the Goddess Briganti, whom many believe to also be Brigid 1. Therefore although admittedly in a reluctant manner I started lighting a candle whenever I sat down in my study and when away, I made an effort, if only for a fleeting moment, to think of Brigid and her sacred flame. After all Imbolc to Equinox was not a long time, right?

Of course Spring is now most definitely upon us and Equinox is looming fast and I find that the whole catalog of synchronicity which has followed is such that I am now left without a shadow of a doubt that the relationship now has some form of chemistry going on. A spark of interest which wasn’t there before. What that interest is I have no idea, and whether there is a longevity to the interaction is equally mystifying. However, the more I read about her, the more I can see the similarities she shares with the two other Goddesses that have at one point or another shared my life. And there are a couple of aspects which have me positively entranced. For example, How can a fairy Princess, the wife of Angus the Ever young, a Tuatha de Dannan also be patron of smith craft, an occupation which even into history is an Iron rich activity?
I think sometimes, when connections are made you have to go with your gut and follow your nose, and just enjoy the journey, no motivations, no ulterior motive, no “What’s in it for me?”. So I find myself with a small shrine to Brigid on my window, and not unsurprisingly everything I needed for it to feel right was either made available to me or I had in my possession already. Including some beautiful glass crystals that reminded me of the “Guiding Star of Bride”

 “Over her heart gleamed a star like crystal, pure as her thoughts and bright as the joy that Angus brought her.”

And with that I thought I would finish with an enchanting poem I found telling of the search of Angus the Ever young for his Princess.

Angus hath come — the young, the fair,
The blue-eyed god with golden hair,
The God who to the world doth bring
This morn the promise of the spring;
Who moves the bird to song ere yet
He hath awaked the violet,
Or the soft primrose on the steep
While buds are laid in lidded sleep,
And white snows wrap the hills serene,
Ere glows the larch’s vivid green
Through the brown woods bare. All Hail!
Angus, may thy will prevail
He comes, he goes, and far and wide
He searches for the Princess Bride2

  1. Hughes, K. The book of Celtic Magic, Llewellyn 2016 ↩
  2.  Mackenzie, D.A. Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend, Stokes 1917 ↩