Monday, 29 July 2013

Ghostriders in the sky (courtesy of youtube).

 
 
The Sluagh.
 
The Sluagh (see post on this page), form part of the legends and stories of the dark fairies.  Known throuout Europe as The Fairy Hoarde they are also known in some countries as The Wild Hunt. Made up of those who have sinned against humanity they could be murderers, or those accused of the most evil crimes against others. Some suggest that amongst their flock are the spirits of landlords who treated their tenents badly and carried out evictions during the famine years that were a constant threat in Ireland. These landlords would ride with The Wild Hunt and became known as Ghost Riders.


The Storyteller.


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Join me on Sunday at 3-00pm until 4-00pm, pull up a chair and sit awhile.  You are never too old for a story.


 
The Storyteller.
There’s turf on the fire
There’s tea in the pot
Sunday’s here again
It’s been a good week
And now is the time
To hear the tale’s again
So pull up a chair and sit awhile
The clock is striking three
Tune in to WRFM
And join the Seanachái.

Music play list 28th July 2013.



The Storyteller 28th July 2013.

Music play list.
Whiskey in the Jar. Thin Lizzy.
Thriller. Michael Jackson.
Can't get enough of your love baby. Barry White.
Ghost Riders in the sky. Spiderbait.
Crossroads. Eric Clapton.
 

The Irish Rapparee/Highwaymen.




The Irish Rapparee/Highwaymen.

The Irish Highwaymen were really at the height of their powers around the seventeenth and into the late eighteenth century and were very busy on the main roads leading in and out of the cities in Kerry, Cork, Dublin and Galway.  They had a romantic air about them, a little bit like the Irish version of those famous English outlaws Robin Hood and Dick Turpin.  It was said that like their English counterparts they only robbed the rich (Usually English or Anglo-Irish Landlords) and left the poor peasants alone and for this reason they were generally aided by the peasants who offered them aid and shelter or a place to stable their horse. 

However, this in itself carried a severe risk for if you were caught harbouring a highwayman the penalty was death by hanging.  It was even said that you would be denied a decent burial in consecrated ground; instead you would be buried at the crossroads or in the local Cillin.

The term Rapparee comes from an Old Irish word meaning a pike wielding person.  The pike was a long thrusting spear used in close combat. Rapparees were usually footpads (common robbers).  The footpads had no scruples, they formed small gangs and would just as soon rob the priest of his collection money as thrust a pike into an English gentleman for the gold in his purse.

 The Highwaymen however came from a higher class of criminal. It was said they were disposed Irish gentlemen, robbed of their land by the English invaders during Cromwell’s infamous time in Ireland. These dispossessed Irish gentlemen usually had some military training, they could afford a horse, a gun, and sometimes a short sword rather than a pike and they usually didn’t murder their victims. 

There are many stories told concerning the exploits of the Highwaymen, some are told in song. The Wild Rover, Brennan on the moor, and one of my favourites, Whiskey in the Jar, a song of betrayal which is said to refer to Patrick Fleming who was hanged in 1650. 

In County Mayo we had our own notorious Highwayman, his name was Captain Gallagher.  He was born in Bonniconlon but reared in Derryonane near Swinford by his aunt. In many ways he was Irelands answer to Dick Turpin.  A folk hero and a champion of the peasant classes who suffered injustice and oppression at the hands of the rich and ruling classes.

He led a small band of men armed with blunderbusses and they operated over quite a wide area stretching from Bonniconlon to Swinford and including Attymass, Lough Talt and Foxford.  They were known to be utterly fearless and had no problem carrying out robberies in broad daylight.  They also had no qualms about robbing the houses of the rich almost on a nightly basis, it was said that nowhere was beyond Gallagher’s reach.

Captain Gallagher has become part of the folklore of County Mayo and his generosity to the poor and his ability to escape the clutches of the Redcoats and retreating to the Ox Mountains is legendary. The people of Swinford will recall that one of Gallagher’s hiding places was Ballylyra Woods which is close to the present day Knock Airport and it has been suggested that he even had a house on Glass Island near Pontoon.

Some of the stories told about Gallagher’s exploits include one that is told concerning a shop in Foxford. Apparently it was robbed on a regular basis and the owner was at his wits end. You see he had hired a night watchman but it did no good, his shop was still robbed and the culprit seemed to fade away. Captain Gallagher offered his services and hid in a large chest in a dark corner of the shop. The night watch man arrived shortly afterwards and proceeded to rob the place.  Gallagher jumped out of the box and held him captive until the shopkeeper had him tied up. It turned out it was the night watchman who was the thief all along.

Another story tells us of a woman who was coming home from the fair in Tubbercurry. She had been there to sell her house cow in order to pay her rent to her landlord. We all know how important that cow must have been to her family as it would have supplied milk, butter, cheese, and buttermilk. The poor woman must have been in a desperate situation in order to be forced to sell it.

Just as she was passing through the windy gap, nightfall was fast approaching and all of a sudden she saw a dark shadow coming towards her. A person spoke and asked her where she was going at this time of day and why did she seem to be in such a hurry.

“I’m trying to get home before dark sir. It’s on account of Captain Gallagher, I’m afraid he might rob me of what little I have sir”.

Captain Gallagher questioned her and upon finding out her reason for going to the fair he gave her the full price of the cow so she could buy a new one and he also gave her the money to pay her rent to the landlord.  He told her to go safely home and tell whoever she knew that Captain Gallagher was not as bad as he was painted.

Captain Gallagher reign was finally ended when his band of men were captured near Westport, Gallagher escaped but was finally captured near Foxford.  According to one story he was staying in a house where he was recovering from an illness. He was given a meal that had been laced with poteen and upon falling into a deep sleep the people of the house tied him up and sent word to the Redcoats in Foxford.  Another version blames a jealous neighbour and in order to save his host Gallagher surrendered. Whichever version you believe is not really relevant to the final outcome. The Redcoats alerted Ballina, Swinford, and Castlebar, a huge force turned up and Gallagher already bound was taken to Castlebar to be hanged after a hasty sham trial.

His execution is said to have been the last public hanging to take place on the hanging tree opposite Daly’s Hotel on the Mall in Castlebar in 1818.

Charles Gavan Duffy, the Young Irelander wrote a ballad called The Rapparees:

 “Now Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say, Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and day; For there’s a just and wrathful Judge that every action sees, And He’ll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees”.

A Druids Ghost.



A Druids Ghost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The family held a wake but very few people would spend the night with the corpse, they simply offered their sympathies and excused themselves.  He was buried within two days which was unusual at the time as a body would be waked for a week. As the body was lowered into the ground there was heard a sound of laughter but no one knew from where.  The family were unable to pay the rent as the head of the house was gone so as was the practice of the day the remaining family, mother and children were evicted.  The landlord could find no one willing to live in the cottage and so he ordered it to be razed to the ground and all sign that it had ever been there to be removed.

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

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

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

The Gift of Love.



The Gift of Love.

Once upon a time, A woman came out of her house and saw three old men with long white hair and long white beards sat on a bench she had in her garden. Who are they and what do they want, she thought.  Walking over to them she said,

“Hello, can I help you”

“Is the man of the house in?” one of the men asked her,

“No, he’s out at the moment”. She replied

Thinking that they must know her husband she invited them to wait in the house as it was a hot day and they looked thirsty and hungry.

“Come into the house and I’ll make you a cup of tea” she said,

“Sorry maam, we can’t come in until your husband is home” they replied.

She thought this strange but decided to leave them where they were. Going back into the house she asked her daughter who was sitting at the table to take a drink out to the three old men.  That evening when her husband arrived back home he saw the three men sat on the bench. Going into the house he asked his wife who were the shams in the garden. She told him what had happened.

“Go and tell them I’m home and invite them in for a bite to eat” he said to his wife,

She went outside and asked the men if they would come into the house as her husband was now home and may be they would like a bit of dinner.

 One of the men replied, “We can’t come in together”,

“Why not?” she asked,

One of the old men explained,

“His name is Wealth” he said pointing to one of the other men, “he is happiness” pointing to the other, “And I am love”.  He then said “You must think we are just three odd characters but go in and tell your husband what I have said and ask him to decide which of us you wish to invite into your home”

The woman went back into her house and told her husband what the man had said.  Her husband was sceptic but said,

“Tell wealth to come in. Let’s see if he can fill our house with money” he laughed,

His wife said “wait a minute, if that’s the case then invite in happiness, and then we’ll always be content”

Their daughter was sat listening to her parents and jumped up,

“Mammy, wouldn’t it be better to invite in Love. Then our house will be filled with love forever” she said.

Her parents looked at each other and smiled,

“She’s right you know, go out and invite Love to be our guest” said the husband,

His wife went out and asked the three old men,

“Which of you is Love? We would like him to come into our home and be our guest” Love stood up and began to walk towards the house.  The other two men stood and began to follow him.

“I thought you couldn’t all come in at once” the woman said in surprise.  Love turned to her and said,

“If you had invited wealth or happiness then the other two would have stayed here. However, you invited Love. Wherever Love goes, they go with him”. You see wherever there is Love there will always be wealth and happiness.

The Sluagh.



The Sluagh.

The Sluagh are dead sinners that return as evil spirits that hunt for souls.  They come from the west, flying in groups like flocks of crows and attempt to enter the dwelling of someone who is close to death in order to steal their soul. It is for this reason that west-facing windows are kept shut at all times. This allows the soul of the deceased to reach heaven before the Sluagh can intercept it. 

The Sluagh are well known in Ireland and Scotland and it was a name that brought terror to those who lay on their death beds.  Stories of who and what The Sluagh were date back through our folklore and these stories would be handed down from generation to generation. The stories may differ slightly but the bones of the story are always the same? Be wary of the shadow in the corner.

Once upon a time, long, long ago. In fact so long ago that only the storytellers remember it. Witches and Wizards walked among us and Fairies and Druids were not as rare as they are today.  Magic was in the air and the gods/goddesses were honoured and death was but another path upon the journey.  It was a time when the world was new and everything was possible.

Even then tales of The Sluagh were told. They were described as the souls of the darkest sinners, sinners so evil that not even the fires of the eternal flame would burn them. They were so evil that the underworld spat out their rotten souls and the earth rejected their very presence.  They were cursed to soar above the earth like a flock of birds welded together for eternity. Never to set foot or claw upon the ground.

The Sluagh is an Irish word meaning host, and they continued in their evil ways even after death.  Drifting on the westerly wind they would watch and wait until they felt a dying soul and if they found a door or window left slightly open, the evil souls would enter and linger in the shadows over the dying and wait. If you were sat nearby you may have even heard the eerie sound of whispers as The Sluagh sucked the soul from the weak and dying body.

  Once the stolen spirit was captured a terrified scream would echo from the shadows and continue through the night slowly becoming farther away before growing silent. The soul of the dying would now be joined to the unforgiving dead.  Now they too were cursed to roam forever through the dark night. Damned to an eternity of sorrow, innocent or evil, any soul would do, it did not matter to The Sluagh.

The Sluagh were said to be bird like with long thin fingers that were webbed with leathery skin (a bit like a bat). They had caped like wings that flapped in the night and long claws that protruded from deformed legs. They were said to smell like rotten meat and it was the sound of beating wings together with this smell that alerted you to their presence. If you then heard a knock on the door or a nail scratching at the window you would be wise to ignore it. When darkness fell it often brought death. It always brought shadows.

In modern day Ireland stories are just that, stories. To be laughed at or viewed as entertainment. Nothing more than superstition or bedtime reading. Stories told by the storyteller sending children to sleep before the Sandman sprinkles his magic dust or the bogeyman crawls out to get you. However, take a minute and answer me this. Have you ever lain in bed, watching shadows creep across the room, but there is no light to make shadows? Have you ever heard a far away shriek? Was it a cat, wait a minute. It didn’t sound like a cat, Oh I know, it must be an owl. Or was it?  What about the time you woke up from a deep sleep with that scary feeling that someone or something was watching you. Sometimes you wake up in the morning feeling more tired and drained than when you went to sleep, your head hurts, your limbs ache, you feel thirsty. You think you may be coming down with something for that’s what it feels like.

 Perhaps as you lay sleeping The Sluagh came for you. Remember the shadows on the ceiling or in the corner of your eye? When you looked again they weren’t there. Could it be that The Sluagh was feeding but hearing the sound of a weaker soul they left you sleeping? However, now they know where you are, they can hear you breathing, lock your doors and keep your windows shut. Look to the west at night, are they flocks of crows returning home to roost...or something else?


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore –
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door –
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –
Only this and nothing more."

Extract from The Raven (published 1845) Edgar Allan Poe 1809-1849.

Crossroads in Irish Folklore.



Crossroads in Irish folklore.

The crossroads is a land that belongs to no one. It’s an area that seems to invite ghosts, spirits and creatures of the night, those that don’t belong in the natural world. Malevolent faeries are believed to haunt the crossroads looking for lost souls to lure into the half-lit world of the Unseelie. For this reason it was believed that the crossroads would confound or confuse restless spirits, stopping them from returning to haunt the living.

Crossroads have played a very important role in the folklore of many cultures. They were often used as burial places for unbaptised children, murderers, executed criminals, and suicides.  It was because this ground was unconsecrated and was seen as separate from the everyday world. Such outcasts were not intended for the forgiveness of heaven and so they were buried in a place that would condemn their spirits to wander for eternity.

It was suggested that this was because the crossroads form a Christian cross but this does not hold true as the belief in the power of crossroads predates Christianity and you will find similar superstitions regarding crossroads in many cultures which are not Christian.  Folklore tells us that suicide victims or self murderers as they used to be called were sometimes buried at the crossroads so their spirits would not return to search for those who had wronged them in life.

May be it was for this reason that crossroads have become associated with ghostly legends, magic, and paranormal activities.  They have long been of interest to those who gather information on the paranormal as events of this nature are said to occur on ancient highways and byways especially where they cross.  Whether or not these events are real or imagined does not matter as there are stories in every culture concerning devils, demons and deals done with the devil so I would suggest that, as in every legend, there may just be a grain of truth in their origins. 

Certain routes were used for funerals and called ‘the path of the corpse ’. There was also a tradition of putting wooden crosses on bushes by the roadside where the roads met at a crossroads and if a funeral procession passed by then the pall bearers would place the coffin down for a few minutes. 

Crowing hens, regarded as unlucky, were abandoned at the crossroads. If you had warts these could be cured by rubbing them with a stone and leaving it at the crossroads, if someone picked up the stone then they took over your warts. 

There are stories concerning deals done with the devil, in modern times Robert Johnson the famous blues musician claimed to have met the devil at the crossroads and signed over his soul to play the blues and gain mastery over the guitar. He died at the age of 27 and became one of those poor unfortunates that have become known as members of the 27 club. I will talk about the 27 club in a future show.

In Ireland the sweeping of crossroads was carried out, this was a practice associated with witches who would meet at crossroads to carry out certain rituals.  Traditionally the crossroads was looked upon as a no-man’s land belonging to no one. A place that was thought of as being neither here nor there, a place beyond the real world where normal rules did not apply.  It was here that people could make contact with the spirit world and shrines, crosses and standing stones are a common feature of crossroads throughout Europe. 

At Samhain spirits were thought to gather and walk in procession to visit the homes of their relatives and that if you were to stand at the crossroads at midnight you would see them passing.  Some legends even suggest that if you were to listen carefully you would hear the names of those about to die on the wind as it blew across the feet of the corpses on the way to the house of the one whose name was heard.

Gibbets were often placed at crossroads. A gibbet is an instrument of public execution; it is in this instance, a gallows-type structure from which the dead or dying bodies of executed criminals were hung on public display in order to deter others from following their way of life.  At one time live gibbeting took place; the condemned were placed in a cage like structure that hung from the arm of the gibbet. They were left to die of thirst.  This type of execution seemed to be reserved for those convicted of treason, murder, highwaymen, pirates and sheep stealers. 

It may be of interest to know that Oliver Cromwell was gibbeted after his death, when monarchists disinterred his body during the restoration of the British monarchy. 

The practice of burying suicides and criminals at crossroads was repealed by an Act of Parliament in 1823.  It has been suggested that this was at the request of George IV who had been delayed by a crowd gathered for a burial at the crossroads of Hobart Place and Grosvenor Place. The spectators were watching the burial of a suicide called Abel Griffiths, by this time suicide was regarded with greater sympathy and although frowned upon by the church the populace now didn’t consider it to be self-murder. However, following abolition suicides could only be buried in graveyards between 9-00pm and midnight and no ceremonies were allowed.

There is a sad story concerning a crossroads on the Icknield Way near the Cambridgeshire and Suffolk border in England I mention this only because Ireland was under British rule and so their laws were imposed upon us and this story is now part of the folklore of crossroads.  There is a neatly tended patch of ground where flowers are planted and looked after.  It is known locally as The Boy’s Grave.  The story goes that a young shepherd boy believed he had lost one of his master’s sheep, afraid of being accused of its theft and hanged or transported and the shame that may bring to his family he hanged himself. When the sheep were counted it was found that none were missing. Having taken his own life he was buried at the crossroads, people tend to his grave to this day.  His name is not known nor is his death mentioned in local records.  However, through archaeology and historical research the burial of criminals and suicides at rural crossroads illustrates the practice and there is now a great deal of evidence to support the theory. 

A more pleasant feature of Irish country life was the custom of holding dances at the crossroads. People dance on specially erected timber platforms and enjoy the open air, scenery, meeting friends and making new ones and enjoying the music provided. It was during the 16th and 17th centuries that crossroads dancing became popular. However, the clergy condemned it so the Gaelic League introduced the first Ceilli in 1697 and this let dancers dance indoors under supervision.  Interestingly the Ceilli was not held in Ireland but in London. 

Traditional Irish culture continued in secret until the 1700s. It was a time in Irish history when dancing was prohibited by the English so the Irish would meet on country roads, particularly where they crossed.  They would bring food, drink, and musical instruments and keeping an eye out for approaching soldiers they danced their country dances. It was around 1750 that attitudes began to become less strict and this allowed Irish dance to flourish. 

There used to be a tradition where dance was taught by the Dance Master, a Dance Master would travel around the country staying in villages in order to teach dance steps. To have a Dance Master staying in your village was a cause of immense pride and boasting by the community. 

However, we cannot blame the British for the Public Dance Hall Act of 1935.  This little piece of legislation enacted by the Irish Dáil had a severe and detrimental effect on the traditional music, dance, and storytelling of rural Ireland.  Before this legislation Irish culture was an important part of rural Ireland and centred on house dancing and dancing at the crossroads.  It was here that our art flourished, but along came the pressure to regulate.  This came from a number of different sources, most notable among them was the Catholic Church.

They had been campaigning for years claiming that house dancing led to sin and corruption, here now was a chance for the government to bring in legislation and tax the profits of regulated dance halls.  It now meant that all dance halls had to be licensed for public dances, however, house dances could not be regulated and so they were exempt.

The view of the Gardaí and the clergy was that such dances should be illegal this led to a great number of local people being prosecuted and the dancing in houses and at crossroads began to die out, and with them went our traditional way of life.  Even farmers stopped holding harvest dances as a way of thanking their farmhands for all their hard work gathering in the crops.

The house dances and crossroads dances were not the target of the legislation.  Nevertheless, the clergy and Gardaí continued to apply the act as if it did outlaw these activities, and although they were not the only factors in the demise of the country dances, they were at any rate the only agents of change who consciously and deliberately set out to do away with our traditions.  The Act was not to blame, but its agents, encouraged and assisted by the clergy, certainly were.

It is good to see that today the house dances and dancing at the crossroads are being revived. We no longer look for approaching soldiers, only motor cars.

Incidentally the phrase “Comely maidens dancing at the crossroads” was never in fact uttered by DeVelera as some would have you believe. 

Here I will leave you at the crossroads with the words of that great blues singer Robert Johnson.

I went down to the crossroad

Fell down on my knees

I went to the crossroad

Fell down on my knees

Asked the Lord above, “Have mercy now,

Save poor Bob, if you please”.

Crossroad Blues by Robert Johnson (1911-1938)


Monday, 22 July 2013

The Storyteller 21st July 2013.

 
21st July 2013.
 
 

Music play list.

You Keep Me Hanging On. The Supremes.

Love Makes You Cry. Billy D and the Hoo Doos.

The Voice. Celtic Women.

Love Me Tender. Elvis Presley.

The Rattlin Bog. The Wild Rovers.

Wonkey Donkey. Craig Smith.

The Cat Came Back. Fred Penner.
Also included are two videos:
Wonkey Donkey by Craig Smith. (The Old Donkey).
The Cat Came Back by Fred Penner. (The Black Cat).

The Storyteller.

 
The Storyteller.
There’s turf on the fire
There’s tea in the pot
Sunday’s here again
It’s been a good week
And now is the time
To hear the tale’s again
So pull up a chair and sit awhile
The clock is striking three
Tune in to WRFM
And join the Seanachái.

The Storyteller.

                                          
                                              Welcome to my blog.

If you have any comments or requests for stories please leave them on here and I'll see what I can do.
I really appreciate any feedback and will try to respond as quickly as possible.

On behalf of myself and WRFM 98-2 I would like to thank you for taking the time to listen to my show and hope you enjoy it.

Join me on Sunday at 3-00pm until 4-00pm, pull up a chair and sit awhile.  You are never too old for a story.

The Cat Came Back.


Here are the lyrics for The Cat Came Back by Fred Penner. Enjoy.

Wonkey Donkey.

 
This is the video that I chose for the story about The Old Donkey. See if you can sing along.

The Black Cat.


This story has been adapted from a tale by Edgar Allen Poe and is a little gruesome in places so you have been warned. It tells us of the dangers of alcoholism.

The Black Cat.

This is a story about a man who has always loved animals. He and his wife have several pets including a large black cat called Pluto (remember that name). The cat and the man love each other and are great friends. However, this all changes as the man takes to the drink, eventually becoming an alcoholic.

One night, he comes home from the pub drunk as a lord and tries to stroke the cat; the cat however avoids him like the plague and delivers a bite to his hand in its attempt to free itself. In a fit of anger he pulls a pen-knife out of his pocket, and gouges out one of the cats eyes.

Well you can imagine, from that moment onwards the cat wants nothing to do with your man and runs away in terror whenever he hears him approaching.  At first, the man is extremely remorseful, regrets his cruelty and tries in vain to make it up with the cat. The cat however, refuses to have anything to do with him, is it any wonder?

Over time this begins to annoy him and he begins to feel really irritated with the cat until eventually this feeling of irritation turns into hatred.  One morning he grabs the cat, takes it out into the garden and hangs it from a tree and there it slowly dies. That same night, his house mysteriously catches fire and he, his wife and their servant are forced to flee.  The next day, the man returns to the ruined house and he finds imprinted on the only wall that had survived the fire, the figure of a gigantic cat, hanging by its neck from a rope.

At first, the image terrifies the man but he gradually convinces himself that someone seeing the fire had thrown the dead cat through a bedroom window in order to wake them up and in doing so saved their lives (well you would think that wouldn’t you).

The man begins to miss Pluto and sometime later while drinking in the pub he sees a cat that is the image of Pluto. It is the same size and colour and is even missing an eye. The only difference is a large white patch on the cat’s chest.  The man decides to take the cat home with him but his feelings of friendship for the cat slowly begin to change to feelings of hatred and fear. He watches as over time the white patch of fur begins to change shape; it begins to take the shape of a gallows.

One day the man and his wife are visiting the cellar of their new home, don’t ask me why for I’ve no idea, the cat gets under the man’s feet and nearly succeeds in tripping him down the stairs. In a fit of rage, he grabs an axe that lies nearby and tries to kill the cat but is prevented from doing so by his wife. Enraged at her interference he turns on her, striking her with the axe he kills her.

He now needs to hide her body; he decides to remove some bricks from a protruding wall and place her body within the wall and repairs the hole.  Eventually the wife is missed and the police arrive at the house to investigate her disappearance however they find nothing amiss and he is allowed to carry on with his life. He notices that the cat has gone missing but assumes it has just run off, well if I was the cat I’d have run off?

The police carry on with their investigation and as there are no other leads they return to the house, the last place the wife was seen. They carry out another search but still find nothing. Before they leave they decide to have one last look in the cellar, the husband goes with them, and still they find nothing. The husband now completely confident of his safety comments on how sturdy these old houses are and gives a rap on the wall with his walking stick, the wall behind which his wife’s body is interred. All of a sudden a wailing sound fills the room; it is the sound of a cat, coming from within the wall. The police begin to tear down the wall and discover the corpse of the missing wife, and on her head, to the absolute horror of the husband is the screeching black cat. He lets out a wail

“I wondered where you’d got to”.

He was to receive the same treatment he meted out to Pluto.

The hangman waits, rope in hand.

The Old Donkey.


The Old Donkey.

Once upon a time, not that long ago just outside of Westport in County Mayo there was an old farmer who owned an even older donkey.  One day the poor old donkey (who couldn’t see very well), fell into the farmer’s well.

The farmer heard the donkey braying and praying or whatever donkey’s do when they fall into a well.  He weighed up the situation, apologised to the donkey and informed him that as he was so old he wasn’t worth the bother of saving as it would cost too much to call out the fire brigade in order to winch him out.

Instead the farmer called his neighbours together and after deciding that he didn’t use the well anymore it would be far cheaper and easier just to fill in the well. So the farmer began to haul soil in his tractor and with the help of his neighbours they started to shovel the soil down the well.

“What about the donkey?” one of the neighbours shouted,

“Aah it’s kinder just to put him out of his misery” replied the farmer.

The old donkey was extremely annoyed when he heard this and began to get very worried, jumping up and down and saying things like

“Eee haw, eee haw, eee Haw”

This in donkey language meant,

“Aah come on now lads it’s not funny anymore, you’re going to get me all mucky if you don’t pack it in”

Unfortunately for the donkey no one understood donkey language and they just kept shovelling.

More and more soil came down upon the old donkey and he became increasingly agitated as no one seemed to be listening to his cries.

Suddenly an idea came to the donkey, every time he felt a load of soil land on his back he would just shake it off and stand onto it.  Every time he felt the load of soil on his back he shook it off and stepped up, shovel after shovel, load after load, shake it off and step up, shake it off and step up, shake it off and step up.  He began to repeat those words in his head as a way of encouraging himself.

 No matter how tired he became or how painful it became, no matter how distressing it appeared the old donkey just kept fighting back the pain and the panic and just kept repeating to himself Shake it off and step up, shake it off and step up.

It wasn’t long before the old donkey appeared at the top of the well. Battered and tired, he looked at the old farmer, smiled, and stepped over the wall of the well onto firm ground.

What at first seemed to be the cause of the old donkey’s problem actually turned out to be of help to him. What threatened to bury him instead helped him all because he gave it a bit of thought and refused to be beaten.

We can all learn a lesson from that old donkey.  In life we will often come up against problems but if we approach them in a positive way and refuse to give in to panic, bitterness, hopelessness, or self-pity. There will be an answer

The Ballybogs or Peat Faeries.


The Ballybogs or Peat Faeries.

Although at one time you might have found Ballybogs living in Wales, Scotland England, and Ireland. However, there were greater numbers of them here in Ireland. As one of their names (Peat Faeries) suggests, the Ballybogs are fond of peat, something we are lucky enough to still have.

These small creatures have very strange looking bodies. Their heads seem to sit directly on the top of a little fat body without any neck at all. They have spindly legs that don’t even look as though they could stand on their own, let alone hold up such a round shape. Its gaping mouth is full of blunt, needle-like teeth and its nose hangs down over its top lip, matched by pair of dog-like ears that sit up on their own.

For the most part, the body and head resemble that of a toad with mismatched ears and nose. Their arms mirror the legs in appearance, turning the Ballybog into a frightful looking thing. To top it all off, these little wrinkled creatures appear to have been dipped in mud so they look a bit like a chocolate covered cherry; only in this case, it’s a mud-covered Ballybog.

Ugly in both appearance and sound, the Ballybogs are creatures that prefer to keep to themselves. Obviously, as guardians of the bogs, they live in the bog and prefer the mud holes that are so numerous in that type of location.

Whether due to their solitary existence or some quirk of nature, the Ballybogs cannot speak and only grunt in place of verbal language. This adds to the common belief that the Ballybog is one of the dumbest faeries. Some might say their grunting and slobbering behaviour is reason enough to consider them somewhat less intelligent than humans and closer to the animal kingdom but be careful of what you say. Many people have lived to regret insulting the gentry.

Since their main purpose in life is to protect the bogs, they cause relatively little mischief or damage, certainly less than man as far as the bogs are concerned. However, whether they have a mischievous streak or simply get bored, the Ballybogs have been known to prey upon unsuspecting human travellers and lead them astray from the path. No real harm is ever done to these unwitting travellers other than a few hours of lost time and a bit of unexpected aggravation.

They have been known by many interesting names down through the ages, each with a clever little twist on their origin. They’ve been called Peat Faeries, Mudbogs, Bogles, Boggans, Bog-a-boos, and Boggies, However, don’t confuse them with the Boggie man, he’s a different kettle of fish altogether.

No matter what name they are called by, the Ballybogs have been the guardians of the bogs since the bogs were formed.

They are most typically encountered in Ireland, where people still use peat or turf as we call it as a source of fuel because Ireland lacks natural coal and oil deposits.

While the ballybog was merely unpleasant, it was said to possess a nasty temper. It focuses the majority of its ill will upon those who are lazy, incontinent, or guilty of crimes. Like many of the fairie folk it was widely believed that at one time, they were they guardian spirits of bogs. Some have suggested that the preserved human remains found in the peat bogs of northern Europe are evidence of ritual human sacrifices made to placate the fairies who dwelled within the bogs.