Puff the magic dragon. Music to accompany Eru the Dragon.

Music Play List 18th August 2013.

 

Music play list for 18th August 2013.

Fly Away by Gary Stadler and Wendy Rule.

Crossroads by Eric Clapton.

Sarah by Thin Lizzy. 

It’s the same old shillelagh by Bing Crosby.

Puff the magic dragon by The Seekers.

Who let the dogs out by BaHa Men.

The Leannán sidhe.

Last week I spoke about Bram Stoker and the suggestion that he may have been influenced more by his own Irish heritage and folklore than that of European folklore when writing his famous novel Dracula. This week I thought I would add to the story of Abhartach the stories of the Leannán sidhe and the Dearg-due.

 

The Leannán sidhe.

Pronounced as Lan-awn shee.

She is known throughout the Celtic world.  The name Leannán sidhe means Fairy of Inspiration or Love Fairy and legend tells us that the Leannán sidhe lives under the Irish Sea.

She is a fairy mistress of dreadful power for she seeks the love of mortal men.  She is said to be evil and dangerous radiating an incredible beauty, under her spell they become her slaves.  Most men cannot refuse her for life without her will seem dull and lifeless and no other woman will ever replace her.

I refer to the Leannán sidhe as her but only because I’m male because she can appear as a male figure of great beauty to a female. The Leannán sidhe is whatever you wish to see.

It appears to take some joy from playing with the emotions of mortals and once you become one with her she is all that matters.  It is often depicted as a vampiric type of spirit that sucks the life force out of its lovers.  All who love her live only for her and they will desire no other frequently destroying themselves or becoming insane as they strive to please her.

In Irish folklore the Leannán sidhe is a muse, a source of artistic beauty, poetry, or music and it’s said that those who devote themselves to it will live a short but glorious life.  It has been suggested that she will give the gift of creativity in exchange for the artist’s life or some would say soul.  To be fair though, it may be the destructive nature of the artist’s life that causes their death. Musicians, artists, writers, and poets often tend to burn the candle at both ends.  Sometimes they may burn brightly but they will also expire quickly. As they say, “Live fast, burn bright, die young”.  However, you’ll be pleased to know that Storytellers are exempt as we realise what she is.

Some artists fall into deep depression when the Leannán sidhe withdraws her love and this usually results in great heartbreak and sorrow. This is the price that must be paid for her inspiration.  She is an impatient mistress who creates such a desire in her lovers that they will overcome all obstacles to embrace her; even life itself is not too high a price to pay.

The more you desire her, the more she will elude you however, you are chained to her and you will never be free. She will never give herself to you in a mortal land and she will insist that she will only meet you in Tir na nOg, so you must pass through death to be with her.

No one knows what she truly is; the translation of her name may hold a clue. The words refer to a fairy muse; Leannán means the love of my soul or spirit...my inspiration if you like.  Sidhe refers to the mounds; it is often used by some people to describe the people of the mounds or the fairies.  In Irish poetic tradition she was the muse who appeared to the bard as the Aishling or Vision.  In his vision he meets her on a hillside and she inspires him to write music and poetry that has an otherworldly sadness and regret for the glories of Irelands past.  A tradition that is carried on and reflected in many of the songs sung by Irish people the world over.

Whatever you think of the Leannán sidhe, whether you regard it as something to be feared or something to be embraced.  Once captured you live only to please.  Like the members of what’s called ‘The 27 Club’ your own passion will lead you to your eventual destruction, usually before you reach the age of thirty, hence the name ‘The 27 Club’.  You become caught within the arms of a dominatrix.  The more you suffer, the more you crave.  The more you feed the craving the more you will hunger and that hunger will never be satisfied.  You will sacrifice everything and become consumed by your own passion.

Extract from the Song of the Leannán sidhe.

You shall be known by other men

For your great works of voice and pen

Yet inspiration has a cost

For with me know your soul is lost

I’ll take your passion and your skill

I’ll take your young life quicker still

Brenna Gwyn of The Children of Twilight.

The 27 Club.

In the story about the Leannán sidhe I made reference to an urban legend, that of The 27 Club but for those of you who may not know of it or may have never heard of it here is my take on it.  I won’t name all those who may be eligible for membership as the list could be endless.

The 27 Club.

History is full of those talented artists who have died young.  There is an urban legend today that is called The 27 Club. I might even suggest there may be a link with The Leannán sidhe.

Some people consider the first member of this club to have been the great bluesman Robert Johnson of Crossroads fame (I mean the song not the TV soap). Other members of this club are said to include Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobbain, and recently Ami Winehouse.  To that list you could add many other names such as Phil Lynott who died at the young age of 37 and James Dean.

However, there have been many artists from the past who predate the beginnings of this so called club by hundreds of years.  Names from literature that I might propose for membership could include John Keats (25), Percy Shelley (20), Thomas Chatterton (17), Christopher Marlowe (29), George Gordon Byron (37) and Robert Burns (37).

Their deaths may have been caused by tragic accidents, deliberate acts of self-destruction, or even natural causes. They all have certain things in common; they were all brilliant, all young, and all inspirational. Through them we are taught the beauty and power of emotion. It is through emotion that there are those who are able to create works that inspire imagination and magic in others.

So there you have it, The 27 Club is a group of artists that have died young, most before or by the age of 27, a couple were older but nevertheless they were equally inspirational.  Maybe you have your own suggestions. They were some of the most talented minds of their generation and in their short lives each made an enormous impact.  Sadly many led hard partying lifestyles abusing drugs and alcohol but maybe that’s the nature of the beast.

One other name I will add to my personal list is that of another young man that I believe inspired a generation.  He was to die at the young age of 27 and entered the hallowed halls of Irish History and Folklore, becoming a legend to many. His name was Bobby Sands.

The Dearg-due

You’ve heard the old saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”   One of the most tragic and frightening cases of a woman scorned became the stuff of legend and is still whispered within the shadows of old graveyards.

Rocks or stones are still placed upon new graves and this has its roots in the fear of the undead. Stories told around the fireside of those who returned from the dead to seek revenge upon those that failed them in this life. Could these stories have been woven into the fabric of vampire myth? Perhaps the stories of Abhartach, The Leannáne sidhe, The Dearg due and others have merged together to form the most legendary vampires of all, those of the great Irish Gothic writers Sheridan Le Fanu who wrote Carmilla in 1872 and Bram Stoker who wrote Dracula in 1897.

Bram Stoker was well aware of the tales of vampiric creatures within Irish folklore and had studied and researched European folklore for many years prior to writing his most famous novel in 1897.  He was raised by his mother on a diet of fairy tales and folklore and she was to tell him of the horrors of cholera, famine, and possibly stories of those thought to be dead and buried alive.

Dearg-due means ‘Red blood sucker’. It wasn’t the name that was given at birth to the subject of my tale but it certainly came to be the name she was to be known by after her death. When she rose to exact her revenge upon those who had wronged her in this life.  What follows is the tragic story of a lost love, greed, vengeance, and death.

 

 

 

 

The Dearg-due

Pronounce dah rag du ah.

Once upon a time long, long ago there lived a fair maiden.

She was truly beautiful with blood red lips and bright yellow hair.  Her name is now lost in the mist of time and has now become overshadowed by what she became and the name she now carries.  Men travelled from far and wide to look upon her beauty and hope to win her hand.  Her outer beauty was said to be but a shadow compared to her inner beauty for she was generous of spirit and had a kind heart. She was also said to be a blessing to all who knew her.

It was said that she fell in love with a local peasant boy whose name has also become lost in time but he matched her in all things. He was as handsome as she was beautiful, generous, kind, good humoured and loved by all who knew him.  Unfortunately he lacked one thing, the one thing her cruel ambitious father prized above all things, even his daughters happiness. Money.

To her father this was the most important thing for he was a cruel and heartless man. Selfish and cruel he believed that money would give him standing in the community. He would have security for his old age and the status that being a man of wealth would give him.  Without money there would be no love match, no marriage, and no future for the two young lovers. The father swore this would never be allowed.

Instead the father gave his daughter to a cruel, old man who was rich and had a title.  His future was now secure, he had a fortune, a name in the community and the status he believed was due to him.  He revelled in his new position and never gave a single thought to his child’s happiness.

She suffered terrible mental and physical abuse at the hands of her new husband.  His particular pleasure was to be found in drawing blood from her and watching as it flowed upon her pure white skin. He kept her locked in a cell in the tower of his castle where only he could see her. Here she waited day after day in vain for her former lover, the kind peasant boy to come to her rescue. It was this hope that kept her alive month after month.  Eventually she realised that there would be no rescue, there would be no hope of escape.

 In utter despair she took the only way out that was left to her. She committed suicide. It was said that she secretly disposed of the meagre scraps of food left for her each day; it would have been a slow, painful death. Others believe she died of a broken heart. She was buried in a small churchyard near Strongbows Tree in County Wexford.

Some people say that the abuse she suffered at the hands of her monstrous husband while locked in the tower for months on end had broken and twisted her spirit and that just before she died she renounced her god and with her last breath she swore vengeance on those who had caused her misery.  It was once believed that the spirit of a person who committed suicide would be doomed to wander the earth for all time, never to gain rest and to be forever in torment.

Long before this sad story, folklore in Ireland dictated that you should pile stones on the graves of the newly dead to prevent them from rising again. Maybe it was out of guilt or sadness but the local people decided not to do this as they wanted to remember her as the kind and beautiful soul she was. They believed that she had suffered enough persecution and had been degraded by those who should have protected her. Or maybe it was because they all knew of her torment and what kind of a monster her father had condemned her to and yet they did nothing to help her. Whatever the reason it was felt that the piling on of rocks could wait a little while longer, they would remember her for what she was and in this way give her a little respect. They may have remembered her for what she was but it wasn’t going to be long until they began to learn of what she had become.

There are various stories concerning what happened next.

One story tells of her undead corpse rising from its grave on the very night she was buried. Driven by a half remembered vision of her own blood flowing upon her pure white skin she thirsted for revenge. That night she rose as the Dearg-due, the blood sucker and a legend was born.

She was said to steal blood from the innocent, especially children. She calls young men with a strange, haunting siren song that invades their sleep. She lures them out into the night tempting them to follow her to the grave. Punishing them as she was punished, keeping them with her as she was kept. Stories are told of those who have gone missing, those who have been taken ill unexpectedly with no apparent reason or those who have died unexpectedly. All are blamed on the Dearg-due all are cursed to wander the earth as minions of the blood sucker.

Another version of the story suggests that she died of a broken heart and that the only one to mourn her passing was her peasant boy. He is said to have visited her simple grave and spoke to her of his love, his desire to see her again and how he was heard praying for her to come back to him. She rose from her grave the following year on the anniversary of her death and burial. She began to visit those she had sworn vengeance upon.

She visited her father’s house, he who had sold her into a life of cruelty in return for his own comfort. She found him sleeping; leaning over him she placed her lips upon his and sucked every breath of life out of him, leaving him as a withered dried out husk. Next she was to visit her husband; he had remarried even before she had been laid in the cold damp earth.  He was drunk and didn’t notice her enter his rooms. She attacked him with such force she not only drew his life force from him but also his blood. This surge of blood coursing through her veins gave her dead body a feeling of new life. She now had a taste for life, she needed more. The blood sucker was born.

So if you are ever in Waterford and happen to walk near Strongbows Tree you may see a grave. Put another stone on top of the grave; don’t forget for you never know she may rise again. Is this a true story, well as any storyteller will tell you, “Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story”?

There is another twist to the story of vampiric spirits. In County Kerry there is a place that guards the pass to MaGillycuddy reeks. That place is called Dun Dreach-Fhoula or the Castle of The Blood Visage.  It is supposed to be a fortress inhabited by blood drinking fairies and although it is mentioned in folklore it’s never been found and even the locals don’t know its location and even if they do they’re not talking. So maybe there is some truth in the old stories and legends of Ireland’s vampire type fairies, I’ll let you decide. Just keep the wooden stake handy and remember to look over your shoulder.

 

Bata. Irish Stick Fighting.

Now for something completely different. A little bit of folklore about an Irish custom that is fast dying out. Once upon a time all young boys were taught to defend themselves as part of their passage into manhood. Some may think it barbaric but it was just the way of the warrior in times gone by. Nowadays we have martial arts styles being taught that usually have their origins in the Far East Japan, China, Korea, Thailand or the Philippines. I wonder do people realize that we have our own home grown martial art.

Walk softly and carry a big stick.

Bata. Irish Stick Fighting.

Bata is our native Irish martial art and since a cane or walking stick can be carried easily in modern society a bata (which means stick) can be used as an extremely effective weapon. Irish stick fighting as it is also known, is a traditional form of Irish martial art using a stick. The most common types of wood used were oak, ash, hazel and of course blackthorn. Down through the centuries we have used various sticks or cudgels and the one that most people would be aware of is the shillelagh.

 Irish stick fighting came into its own sometime around the 17^th century when we were banned from owning formal weapons. At that time the innocent walking stick called a bata or shillelagh came into use as a serious weapon and stick fighting became an integral part of our fighting style. In the 19^th century bata became associated with gang or “faction” fighting. Some evidence exists which indicates that prior to the 19^th century the term had been used to refer to a form of stick fighting used to train Irish soldiers in broadsword and sabre techniques.  Although stick fighting is a free style form of combat there are certain patterns and family styles in existence.

Fights with the bata were not always of the faction variety; some were sporting events, while others were provoked just for fun. One tradition at a fair was for a man to drag his coat on the ground behind him and throw down the challenge,

"Who'll tread on the tail of my coat?",

or to ask a crowd, "Who'll say black is the white of my eye?"

Often these were friendly, if somewhat rough contests.

The basic idea behind the use of the bata is to charge, strike and disarm your opponent aiming for the vulnerable points such as joints, shoulders, knees and temple or for areas where nerves could be struck. You can use the bata one handed which was the traditional method but some will use the bata with both hands, a two handed grip which is a little awkward. Some fighters specialized in the use of two sticks. This was called the Troid de bata or two-stick fight. The stick held in the offhand was used as a shield.

Many young Irishmen practiced with the stick regularly because constant sparring was needed to improve their skills. However, while a young man would have been taught by his father to always hold the bata tightly to his chest, so as never to be taken unawares, the finer points of its use would have been learned from the visiting fencing master.

The bata was held somewhat towards the lower middle of the stick and was snapped out with the wrist rather than swung like a cudgel. A simple art in terms of technique, it still took years of practice to master. In his 1790 book, Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Sir John Barrington wrote that the stick fights were exhibitions of skill; he said they were like sword exercises and did not appear savage. “Nobody was disfigured, or in great need of a doctor. I never saw a bone broken or a dangerous contusion from what was called 'whacks' of a shillelagh (which was never too heavy)." He was obviously never hit with one.

As with a lot of the various martial arts bata has become tainted by its depiction in such films as The Gangs of New York and it has been made out to be a brutish form of fighting instead of the very precise and extremely well executed defence system it becomes in the hands of a well trained and disciplined practitioner.

No known textbooks for the use of a bata exists but its use has been reconstructed using sources that include introducing various forms from other stick fighting styles such as Escrima, a Filipino stick fighting system, or Hanbo, which is a Japanese stick fighting system. There is still an Irish style that has been passed down by the name of Rince An Bata Uisce Bheatha meaning whisky stick dance where the stick is held with a two handed grip. Cumann Bata is an organisation teaching a one handed version which they have reconstructed where the hand is approximately a third of the way from the end of the stick and the stick is held just above the head.

The Bata used to be our weapon of choice before the gun arrived, It was cheap and readily available and the walking stick or long staff could be carried anywhere and so was always by your side if you needed to defend yourself. Women could carry it just as well and this would have been quite normal in Irish society. The word Shillelagh was actually coined by an Englishman (or so the story goes). The original stick of that name came from the Shillelagh forest in County Wicklow, where the forest was once famous for its stands of fine oak trees.

Sometimes the knob on the end was hollowed out and filled with molten lead, which was known as a 'loaded stick'. However, in shillelaghs made of blackthorn, the knob was actually the root, and it would not have been necessary to load it as it could pack a significant wallop. The bark is left on for added strength and a metal end is attached to the bottom. During the curing and drying process, sticks would be buried in a manure pile or smeared with fat and placed in the chimney. The bata was taken up by Irish boys when they became of age, it was seen by some as representing their passage into manhood and they would practice their fighting techniques as a way of demonstrating their right to be a warrior.

Irishmen would take their shillelagh just about everywhere they went; however, it was at a fair, a wake or a feast day celebration that it was most needed. Up until the great famine of the 1840's, faction fighting was always present at most social gatherings. The factions were mostly members of certain families, political groups or territorial gangs. Sometimes the fights would consist of hundreds of men; women would participate by wielding a stocking filled with stones. After the 1840's, the faction fights gradually died off and the last recorded one was held at a fair in Co. Tipperary in 1887.

Shillelagh fights were not always of the faction variety. Some were sporting events, while others were provoked just for fun. These were friendly fights sometimes ending up somewhat rough, although it was rare for a participant to need the aid of a doctor.

If you have a shillelagh made of oak, ash, holly or blackthorn, you do indeed have an authentic shillelagh. The short, stubby ones sold in souvenir shops are not real shillelaghs.

So there you have it, a little folklore on Irish martial arts.

By the way, did you know that that great Irish writer Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, alright some may argue that he was born in Edinburgh but a horse is a horse it doesn’t matter where the stable he was born in is located. Anyway, he made his famous character Sherlock Holmes a master of single stick fighting.  I will leave stick fighting with a short poem.

Oh an Irishman’s heart is as stout as a shillelagh

It beats with delight to chase sorrow and woe

When the piper plays up, then it dances gaily

And thumps with a whack to leather a foe.

Eru the Dragon (2).

Last week I told a story about a little dragon called Eru who couldn’t find her fire. This week I have written a follow up story which I’ve called.

Eru the friendly dragon.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, high on a mountain there lived a dragon. Her name was Eru. Eru was a very lonely and sad dragon because she had no friends.  Everyone in the local village was afraid of her but this was only because no one had ever tried to talk to her. Eru would love to make friends and if people would only try to get to know her they would soon find out that she was the loveliest, friendliest dragon you could ever hope to meet.

Over the years many knights in shiny armour would climb the mountain and try to kill Eru, but they never managed it. By the time they got to the top they were far too tired and their armour made so much noise that Eru heard them coming long before they got to the top so she would just fly away and hide somewhere else until they went home.

One night when all the people in the village were sleeping a very bad dragon called Shadow flew down on the village and stole some sheep. In the morning the people woke up to find some of their sheep gone and they became very angry. Guess who they blamed.... Yes you’re right....Poor old Eru.

That night, the people of the village laid in wait so they could catch the dragon if it came back. Of course what they didn’t know was that Eru was a vegetarian and that she would never eat or harm any of their sheep.  That night Shadow the bad dragon flew down onto the village and started to attack the sheep but the people of the village came running out of their houses and started firing arrows at him.  Of course Shadow got very annoyed and he started to attack the villagers.  Many of them ran away and hid but some couldn’t run that fast and Shadow caught them.

The villagers were screaming and they made so much noise that they woke up Eru who was fast asleep on top of her mountain. She flew down to see what all the noise was about.  When she saw Shadow she got frightened for she knew how bad he was, she was just about to fly away and hide when she saw that Shadow had caught some of the villagers.  Eru became angry, even though the villagers were always trying to hurt her or kill her she knew she couldn’t let Shadow hurt the villagers or destroy their homes.

Eru flew straight at Shadow, he didn’t see Eru coming and when she hit him he crashed to the earth.  He hit the ground so hard his wings were damaged and the villagers rushed in and finished him off.  Eru landed on the ground,

“Are you alright?” she asked the villagers. 

The people of the village didn’t know what to do, they were shaking with fright.

“Don’t be scared, I won’t harm you” said Eru. 

One of the little girls of the village walked forward and said “Thank you for saving us. My name is Mary; you are very beautiful what’s your name?”

“My name is Eru and you are very welcome” said Eru.

All the other villagers introduced themselves and thanked Eru for her help.  Eru became good friends with them and even let them ride on her back.  She lived happily and protected the village from harm. She never felt lonely or sad ever again because now she had loads of friends who had got to know her and found out that she was the kindest dragon you could ever hope to meet.

So never judge a book by its cover and if ever you meet a dragon called Eru be kind to her, you never know she might even let you ride on her back

The Black Dog.

The Black Dog. Also known as Cu Sidhe.

The black dog is found in folklore all over the world and is essentially a spirit that comes out at night and is often associated with evil faeries or the Christian devil.  Usually it is believed to be a portent of death. Larger than an earthly dog it has large eyes that glow. Often associated with storms, ancient pathways, crossroads and places of execution such as a gallows tree.

Their origin is lost in time but throughout the folklore and mythology of Europe dogs have been associated with death and the underworld , often depicted as guardians of the gates. It may also be because of the scavenging habits of dogs often seen around graveyards or after a battle searching for fresh meat. It may be because of this that the legend of the black dog evolved.

In Irish and Scottish folklore, the Cu Sidhe (faerie hound), is a large and fearsome dog with supernatural powers. They are usually black but may also be green (the colour favoured by faeries) or even white with one red ear and one red eye. They are always large sometimes described as being as big as a calf or small horse.

The Cu Sidhe roam the land performing certain tasks for their faerie masters such as helping in the hunt and abducting human woman to take back to the faerie realm. It was believed that these women were used to nurse faerie babies. The Cu Sidhe are completely silent in the hunt but sometimes they would give three blood curdling howls that could be heard over a great distance. When men heard this sound they would lock up their women to prevent them from being carried off. They are said to have the power to appear and disappear at will and in much the same way the Grim Reaper appears at death to lead the soul to the afterlife, so the Cu Sidhe takes the soul to the underworld.  

There are numerous stories associated with the folklore of the black dog.

The Black Dog of Bungay.

One of the most frightening incidents ever reported took place in the quiet market town of Bungay, in Suffolk, England.  On the Sunday morning of the 4th of August, 1577, during the Morning Service at St. Mary’s Church a terrible and violent storm broke out.  

The sky darkened, thunder crashed and rain fell heavily from the skies.  Lightning flashed wildly as the storm broke upon the church.  Inside the congregation knelt to pray.

Suddenly to the horror of the congregation from out of a flash of lightning there appeared in the church a huge and monstrous Black Dog.  Howling wildly as the lightning flashed and thunder pealed the beast ran amok attacking the terrified parishioners and causing havoc. 

Two people at their prayers were killed and a third man was badly burned from being mauled by the beast but survived the ordeal.  There was great damage inflicted upon the church as the tower was struck by lightning and the clock destroyed before the Black Dog finally ran wildly from the church to the relief of the petrified congregation.

Around twelve miles away in the Holy Trinity Church at Blythburgh, at about the same time the Black Dog, or another beast like it, appeared and also attacked the frightened congregation at prayers killing three people.  There are scorched scratch marks on the church door that can still be seen to this day.

In many parts of Europe, including Ireland, early Christians are believed to have sacrificed animals when a new church was built.   A black dog would be buried alive on the north side of the land which would then become the guardian spirit keeping the church and grounds safe from the devil.  It was often regarded as a herald of doom bringing death to anyone who encountered it. It was once a superstition that the first person to be buried in a churchyard would have to guard any subsequent buried souls, so it was the custom to sacrifice a dog to serve as a substitute- specifically a completely black one without a single white hair - and bury it in the foundation of the church.

Sightings and encounters with Black Dogs are still reported though they seem less horrific than those of the past and in some cases even benevolent with the beast acting as a guardian or guide ensuring travellers arrive at their destination safely.  Sometimes they have been reported by drivers who have seen them in their headlights in the road at night only to vanish when the vehicle is about to make contact.  There are also reports from many other parts of the world about similar ghostly encounters which suggest that the Black Dog is not just an Irish phenomenon.

Now you’ve heard of a shaggy dog story well how about a Black dog story.

                                                                  

Lord Norbury - the "Hanging Judge"

 

John Toler was born in Co. Tipperary in 1745.  He was admitted to the bar in 1770, and as a strong supporter of the Government, he attained many offices, including that of Lord Chief Justice, and was eventually ennobled as the Earl of Norbury. He was also the Solicitor General and a member of Grattan's Parliament. Later by bribery and deception he reached the Bench to become a corrupt and fearsome judge. He had poor legal skills and used his power to intimidate lawyers and defendants with his sarcastic wit and twisted sense of humour. His courts were like a wild theatre. His most famous trial was that of Robert Emmet (1803), in which Norbury continually interrupted and abused Emmet when he was making his speech from the dock, before sentencing him to death.

Daniel O'Connell despised him and initiated the investigation of his conduct during a trial in which he fell asleep. He was eventually removed from the bench in 1827 due to his absent-mindedness and his inclination to fall asleep during important trials. He died in his home, number 3 Great Denmark Street, Dublin, on July 27th 1831 at the age of 85 years and was buried at St. Mary's Church, Mary Street, Dublin.

But what has this to do with a black dog I hear you say, well the story goes that Norbury wrongfully convicted an innocent young man from Blanchardstown of the capital crime of sheep-stealing. The man was hanged and his distraught widow survived him by just a few months. On her deathbed she cursed Norbury, vowing to haunt him from beyond the grave until the end of time, promising that she would never let him have another night’s sleep. Norbury was said to have suffered from chronic insomnia after that, a deserving end to a brutal man. On his own death, aged 85, Norbury was reportedly changed  into a phantom black hound condemned to forever roam the streets of Cabra, dragging a hefty chain in his wake.

Even that literary giant James Joyce recalls the black dog, “with eyes like carriage lamps”, that patrolled the stairs of the Jesuit College in Kildare which Joyce attended

 Also known as the Hounds of Rage, these black dogs were the legendary hunting dogs of Crom Dubh also known as the ’Black Crooked One’.

The inspiration for the Dartmoor death-hound of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles was based on the folklore of a black dog.

 Moddey dhoo, Manx for Black Dog, was an Isle of Man black dog that roamed Peel Castle. Every night it warmed itself before the guard room fire, and at first the soldiers were afraid, but eventually they got used to it. Then one night, during the reign of Charles II, a drunken soldier boasted that he would patrol the castle alone, and dared the dog to accompany him on his rounds- he would find out whether it was a real animal or a demon. The ghastly dog arose from his place by the fire and followed the man. Fearful cries and screams issued from the corridor, but not a man dared venture from the room. The foolish soldier returned white and gibbering. He died three days later, never speaking of what he had seen. The black dog has not been seen since, but some say it still haunts the castle, unseen.

Finally I will finish with an old Irish folktale about the dog.

Once upon a time the cat and the dog had an argument about who should live inside the house with the humans. After many arguments in which they both put forward their various attributes they still could not decide so they agreed to a race. Whichever one reached the house first would be the winner. The dog was winning the race but stopped when he saw an old beggar, he didn’t recognise the beggar and the dog’s natural instinct was to attack anyone he didn’t know. The cat didn’t stop for as we all know cats are only interested in their own comforts and don’t really bother with strangers. The cat reached the house first and the rest is history.