There was once an old woman named Maggie Malone, who lived around Ballycar long ago. She had one leg shorter than the other, and an arm that was wasted and shrunken due to a childhood illness. When she was young, Maggie was what they used to call ‘delicate’. Because of her condition, her parents kept Maggie in a cradle for her first seven years. At times she could neither talk nor walk and was hardly conscious, but seemed to move in and out of a comatose state. The neighbours said the child was ‘with the fairies’ at these times, because whenever she recovered she would tell them strange tales of her experiences.
According to her stories, Maggie spent her times away riding on a grey horse. She said that she had spent the night riding in the company of many other horsemen and women with a pack of hounds in pursuit of a stray horse over the fields and forests around the whole parish. When they came to ditches, the splendid horses leapt them with ease. It was the same with hedges and rivers: no hedge was too tall, no river too broad. It seemed that nothing could prevent the party from their pursuit. The chase continued all through the night until the dawn. When the sun rose in the sky, the hounds and horses disappeared at once, and Maggie found herself back in her cradle, gazing at the ceiling with a dribble of spit at her lips. Every night it was the same: riding with the hunt all night, back in the cradle at daybreak.
Maggie could describe in detail the features of the members of the hunt who accompanied her each night of the chase. From her descriptions of the faces – a distinctively large nose, twisted mouth, or grey bushy eyebrows – and how they dressed, or carried themselves, her neighbours were able to recognise local people they had known, who were now long dead.
One night, as Maggie rode with the hunt, they came upon a party of men who carried a small coffin on their shoulders. Maggie and the hunt joined the funeral procession, and rode in a quiet and serious manner until they came to a farmer’s house.
Outside the house the men laid the small coffin on the ground and removed the lid. Inside was a skinny, pale and delicate child. One man lifted the delicate child from the coffin and brought her to the window of the house. As Maggie watched, the window opened, seemingly of its own accord, as they drew near. Hands reached out towards them from the window, bearing the body of a beautiful child. The men gently took the beautiful child and handed over in exchange the delicate child. The exchange complete, the beautiful child was placed in the coffin, the lid replaced, and the funeral march began.
Now Maggie could see that there were only three men carrying the coffin, and they seemed to stumble under its weight. As the procession made its way towards Rinn na bFear Cross they came across a man fast asleep by the roadside, no doubt sleeping off his evening’s visit to his neighbour. The men shook him awake and commanded him to help them. The man, white with fear, shook as he did as they said, and took up the fourth corner of the coffin. The procession continued along its way, until suddenly in a moment, the whole funeral party disappeared. The awakened sleeper found himself carrying the coffin alone.
He struggled on with it until he came to the very next house along the road. Here he tried to bring the coffin into the house, but the occupants would not let him in, saying, ‘We have grief enough in this house!’ Nonetheless he put down the coffin outside in their yard, and asked their help to open it up. None of them knew what they would find inside, and curiosity got the better of them, so they agreed. Prising off the coffin lid, they found inside their own young daughter, who had died a few days previously and been buried just the day before. Here she was, safe and well, rubbing her eyes as if she had just awoken from a long sleep.
Maggie claimed that the other child remained in a cradle for twenty-one years, and was always delicate and thin. Eventually she wasted away and died, but as long as she lived, the people of that house knew only good fortune, their animals prospered and no ill luck came near them.
Between the villages of Feakle and Tulla sits the lovely glen known as Glandree. Some would tell you that the name means ‘valley of the druids’, others say it is ‘valley of enchantment’. But yet again, it may be named for the fairy folk who lived there, and some would say that dwell there still.
I lived there myself for a short while, when my son was just a toddler. Staying in a house without running water, we each day collected water from the stream that ran past the house for the washing, and brought drinking water from a spring in the field across the road. We hung the washing on the hedge or the bars of the gate to dry in the sunshine of that Indian summer. The bohereens were bordered with rough stone walls, framed by the bright fiery oranges and reds of montbretia and fuchsia and the creamy lace of meadowsweet. My few months in Glandree were a magical time in my life: a time of in-betweens. The end of summer, the beginning of a new way of living. I was there to take respite, to lick my wounds and prepare for life as a single parent. Life with a young child was simple, and it was magical, as I have found it always is, in those strange gaps in life when the everyday and the otherworld seem closer than usual. Fairies seemed to be there in abundance, and they are never far away when I visit friends who live there now.
Here is a story about two lads who lived in Glandree long ago:
There lived in Glandree two boys, John Maher and Tim Clune. In their early days going to school, they were fast friends. As they grew to become young men they learned to sing and dance and play music. They were known as the sport of the place and were invited to all the big dances.
After a while, Tim got married to Mary, a lovely handsome girl, and the young couple settled down in a little house in Glandree. Sadly, Tim’s young wife died just one year later, which brought a cloud of sorrow and gloom on the place. Now there was no more fun or dances for poor Tim. His good friend John called round often and tried to bring him some cheer, but to no avail. Tim no longer had interest in cards, or music or sporting. By the time another year had passed John got sick himself and before long he died. Now poor Tim was all alone, without his wife and his closest friend. He was a broken man, and wandered about the roads and fields aimlessly. No one could reach him, he kept his own company and had time for nobody, just lived alone in that fine little house.
Those were dark days for Tim, but there finally came a day when Tim took a strange notion, and went to Tulla to meet his old friends. They were happy to see him out and about and spending his time in company. They fetched out a bottle of poitín, and Tim drowned his grief for that one day with a glass or two.
Later, as he was coming home, just as the night was growing dark, Tim took a short cut home, by what was known as Helly’s Fort. Just as he was about to climb over the stile, there he met his old friend John, standing as if he’d been waiting for Tim. Tim was afraid to see what must be the ghost of his old friend, and thought to run away.
But John called out to him ‘Tim, I never did you any harm in life, nor will I now I am dead. If you come with me now I tell you, you will enjoy the best night you ever had in your life! Don’t you remember the many good nights we had together?
Tim paused a while and pinched himself. If this was a ghost, it seemed friendly enough. He said, ‘John, old friend, or spirit, or whatever you are, what do you plan to do with me?’
‘I plan to cheer you up!’ said John. ‘Come with me tonight, and I swear I will leave you safe and sound in this same spot in the morning. Now Tim, you must agree to pass no remarks, nor ask any questions of anybody but me. You can ask me for anything you want, and I will give it to you.’
John took Tim by the hand, and together they walked a few steps from where they stood. The next he knew, Tim found himself in a beautiful building. It seemed like a fine big house, grander than any he had seen before. John brought him to a dining hall where the tables were laid out with fine damask cloths, and the plates and dishes were all of gold and silver. The tables were laden with all kinds of eating and drinking, and handsome young ladies dressed in the latest of fashions served around the table. Tim ate and drank whatever he fancied from the platters then sat back in his velvet chair, with his belly full and a warm sense of satisfaction.
John came to him then and led him through tall double doors into a dance hall, full of dancing couples. The whole room was moving together, leaping and bounding in grand style. John handed Tim a violin and took one up himself. They both played together for the next set in splendid style. As Tim’s spirits rose higher he forgot his grief and sadness. ‘Begor John,’ said he, ‘we will dance the next set!’
Next thing four lovely girls stepped out onto the floor. Two of them advanced towards Tim and John. One of them whispered to Tim and asked him to dance with her. Tim smiled, nodded and took her hand.
When the set was over, the fine young lady brought Tim back through to the dining hall, where he helped himself to more refreshments.
When he came back again to the ballroom Tim heard a small little man announcing another dance. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the polka’. Now all the young folk in the hall got up and began to dance together, passing each other hand to hand in a weaving line. As they were exchanging partners, who should jump into Tim’s arms but his own dead wife, Mary. She looked as handsome as she ever had, in a lovely cream dress with green ribbons, and with fine pink roses in her cheeks from the dancing.
‘Oh my sweet holy God! Mary, is it really you?’ Tim asked her, forgetting that his friend had warned him to speak to no one but himself.
Just as he spoke the words, the music and the dancing stopped dead. He heard the small man say, ‘Tim, you must let her go now.’
Tim, having just that moment found her again, got excited and shouted, ‘Mary I will hold you, come whatever will. Dead or alive, I will not let you go!’
Suddenly all the beautiful lights and colours faded to nothing, and the whole grand building seemed to crumble and fall away like dust. Poor Tim’s head was spinning and reeling as the stars seemed to dance around him in circles until he was dizzy and faint. His poor soul could bear the strain no longer.
The next thing he knew he found himself standing at the stile where he had met John. It was now mid-morning and the sun was high in the sky. When he reached home, Tim thought to take down his fiddle from the high shelf where it had sat for the past three years and began to rosin the bow. It might be time to remember and play a tune or two.
There was a man called Paddy Hegarty who lived in the townland of Glandree in East Clare about 100 years ago. Paddy was born with a deformed spine. It was all curved round itself and he ended up growing up with a hump on his back. When he was a child, his parents took him for cures and probably to Biddy Early herself, but all to no avail. He had to like it or lump it, and in this case, it was a big lump altogether.
Apart from his deformity, Paddy was a fine looking man, and smart with it. He had married an awfully nice woman and they had two lovely daughters, who were his pride and joy. He couldn’t be happier with his lot. The only thing he would have wished was different, if he had a wish, was that the hump be gone from his back and he be able to stand up tall and proud.
Paddy lived in a nice house and owned a few acres of good land, divided up into small fields by rough stone walls. Paddy kept the place tidy and looked after his stock well. One of his fields edged onto an old fort, a circle of earthen bank with hawthorn bushes growing on it. Paddy remarked often that he heard music when he passed that fort, especially if he passed that way around midday, he was sure there was music in there, though he could not say for certain if it was pipes or fiddles or singing he was hearing.
One night, he was taking a stroll around the fields and just as he was passing the old fort he met a small man wearing a green cap. Paddy introduced himself and asked the little man what his name was, and the little fellow said, ‘Monday.’
‘That’s a grand name,’ said Paddy, ‘and who is your father?’
The little man said, ‘Tuesday.’
‘And your mother’s name?’ asked Paddy.
‘Wednesday,’ said the little man.
When Paddy asked if he had any brothers and sisters, the small fellow nodded, saying he had a brother called Thursday. All of a sudden, the little man disappeared, and Paddy walked on home.
Paddy had just got back into his house when a splendid lady walked in. She was a lovely looking woman, dressed in a fine satin gown, and wearing gold in her ears and shining ruby and emerald jewels around her neck. Her yellow hair was piled up on top of her head, with little golden curls falling softly around her face. Paddy bowed before the grand lady and stretched out his hand to shake hers. All this time Paddy’s wife and daughters had just got on with their usual tasks in the home, as if no grand lady had stepped in their door.
‘Come here now,’ said Paddy to his wife, ‘and greet our honourable guest.’ But though his wife wanted to please him, she could see no guest, grand or otherwise, and she could not pretend to see someone who was not there! She was wondering then, had Paddy lost his senses.
The grand lady asked Paddy, ‘Do you know who I am?’
Paddy nodded, ‘I do. You are Wednesday.’
The grand lady smiled at Paddy and laid a green jewelled purse on the table. Then she disappeared, just as suddenly as she had come. When he opened the purse, Paddy found a note saying the contents were to be divided between his wife and his daughters.
Well, they might not have seen the lady herself, but the purse was there on the table and was real enough. When Paddy emptied it onto the table, it was jewels that sparkled and shone. His wife and daughters were afraid to touch the jewels, thinking this was some fairy magic and best left alone. Paddy tried to persuade them that all would be well, but they would have nothing to do with the jewels. In the end Paddy put them in a little carved ivory box that he kept his treasures in, and locked it away in the dresser drawer.
That evening, when he had all the stock seen to and all his day’s jobs done, Paddy went for a stroll around the fields, as was his habit. As he was passing by the old fort he could hear the music again. He sat down on a mossy root where he liked to take his ease of an evening and smoke his pipe. Now it sounded as if there were hundreds of voices all singing together, and the words of the song were clear to him. The words of the song were: ‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.’
Paddy stood up, the melody still in his head. Without thinking at all, he sang out, ‘Friday, Saturday, Sunday.’
Next thing he knew, there was the little man with the green cap, standing before him. The little man took the hump from off of Paddy’s back, and then disappeared. Paddy stood there, tall and proud, just as he might have wished, if he’d had a wish. Just to be sure, he patted at his back, but it was definitely gone.
When he arrived home his wife looked at him strangely, and said, ‘What did you do? What happened that the hump is gone?’
Paddy told her that the little man had taken the hump off his back. He said, ‘If this is fairy magic, then there is no harm in it, and nothing but good for us. Go to the dresser, my dear, and get the jewels the good lady brought you. Put them on, you and the girls. Let us be glad for all they given us!’
So Paddy’s wife and daughters put on the jewels and did they not look magnificent. When he was out and about, people noticed that Paddy had lost his hump and was now a fine figure of a man. Stories were spread about what had befallen him, and when people asked him outright, Paddy had no qualms telling them exactly as it had happened. That was how it was, and didn’t he have the jewels to show, and the hump gone to prove it?
There was a Protestant bishop who had a hump every bit as large as Paddy’s had been. He came to hear from Paddy how he had lost his hump. Paddy brought him to his house and his wife served the bishop tea and cake. Then Paddy told the bishop the truth of how it had happened.
The bishop said, ‘I will go and sit in that same spot, and we will see will your fairies take my hump from me too.’
So out went the bishop that evening, and he sat on the mossy root where Paddy liked to take his ease after his day’s work was done. He’d been sitting there deep in his thoughts for half an hour when he heard the chorus of a hundred voices coming from the old fort.
He heard the voices singing, ‘Friday, Saturday, Sunday,’ and before he could think, he sang out, ‘Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday!’
Suddenly he heard a voice in the fort calling, ‘Take out Paddy’s hump and add it to the one on the bishop’s back.’
The next thing the bishop knew, he was almost bent over double under the weight of the two humps on his back. He went home to his wife and told his sad story. She called him a stupid man, and what a public disgrace he was now. The unfortunate bishop was that way for the rest of his life.
There was once a house by an enchanted lake near Tulla. It was an isolated spot and there were no other houses anywhere near it. One day, there was a wake in that house, and one of the boys was sent to an outhouse to get hay for a visitor’s horse. When he got there it seemed to him that all the hay was on fire. It looked like fire, but it wasn’t at all hot when he got near to it, so he reached in and pulled out some hay for the horse, and he did not get burned. He couldn’t understand it, but he just got on with it and fed the horse.
A month later that boy went to his bed one night and next morning he couldn’t get up. He hadn’t the strength to rise, and he lay there and just refused to move. He stayed in his bed for seven years, which is the term of a fairy term. When that time was over, he stayed in his bed another seven years. That made it fourteen years, or two fairy terms of spell.
During that time he found that he was able to mend any broken farm implement in just a few seconds. Whatever the people brought to him, no matter how badly bent, twisted or broken, he could fix it quicker than they could look at him. As well as this remarkable gift, he suddenly gained a huge appetite. He would eat as much as five men and still be hungry for more. So there was a good and a bad side to the fairy spell.
At midnight each night, the ‘coach a bower’ used to come into the yard. This was a ghostly coach, with no horses pulling it, that would scare the living daylights out of any strong man that saw it. As soon as he heard it coming, his strength returned and the boy would try to get up out of the bed, wanting to leave with the coach. It took four strong men of his family to hold him down, otherwise he’d have been out the window after it. As soon as the coach was gone, however, the boy’s strength went from him again and he fell back into the bed, exhausted and pale.
During the night, every night for those fourteen years, fairies dressed in white used to come and cry and moan outside the house. It was awful the noise of it, and it is a miracle the family got any sleep in all those years, with the coach a bower and the crying fairies. When fourteen years were passed, the fairies came that night, still dressed in white, but this time they were singing and dancing and laughing. The very next day, that boy got up out of his bed as well as ever he had been before the spell was on him. He went on to live to a good old age, and he could still mend any farm implement that was given him, even after he was back to himself again. That was the gift the fairies left him.
There was once a young woman called Mary, who lived with her father in a house on the side of the mountain. She was a good-looking girl alright, and there were many young fellows from the slopes around who found her worth turning back to get a second look at. There was a young man from around Kilkishin, Pat O’Leary, who had his heart set on marrying the girl. Mary was fond of Pat, and the two often went walking together whenever there was the opportunity. Pat picked posies of wild flowers and memorised poems for her. He was besotted. He wanted nothing more than to see himself walking down the aisle with his darling Mountain Mary on his arm, and them setting up home together in the cottage he was already fixing up as a home for them.
One Sunday he cleaned himself up, put on a smart coat and went to speak to Mary’s father.
The father dismissed him, ‘I am afraid, Pat O’Leary, you have come too late with your proposal. My daughter is promised to another, an English gentleman who will keep her in fine style and comfort.’
The English gentleman had a big house and a stretch of good land below the mountain. He had seen the girl when he was conducting some business with Mary’s father. She was a fine-looking girl, sturdy and smart, and he was needing a wife, so had asked permission to marry her.
Although she would rather marry Pat than the Englishman, Mary did not want to displease her father. What could she do? She met Pat down by the river and they spoke about their troubles. ‘You know it is you I love, Pat O’Leary, but I must do as my father says. Oh, how I wish it were not so!’
As Mary sobbed, Pat dabbed away her tears with his handkerchief. When the crying subsided, they sat together in silence, with only the sound of the birds and the river’s babbling to disturb them. Suddenly, Pat had an inspiration. ‘There is a way! We can elope together. I will sell my cow at the fair in Tulla, and we can still be married.’
Mary was agreeable, and an assignation was made to meet by an old oak tree the night after the fair.
The day of the fair came soon enough. Mary gathered her few possessions into a shawl and wondered how she could possibly wait until the appointed hour.
Meanwhile, Pat was up early and driving his cow to the fair. The road he took to Tulla led him past Cullaun Lake. The cow, for no known reason, took a sudden notion to leap across a stone wall into the field that stretched down to the lake. Pat vaulted over the wall, calling, ‘Husha, husha, Come back, you mad creature!’ The cow leapt and bucked, kicking up her heels, as Pat ran to catch up with her, waving his stick and calling out pleas and curses as she headed in the direction of the lake. Pat followed the cow, still hoping to turn her back towards the road and continue on to the fair in Tulla.
Before he knew it, Pat found himself in a beautiful demense. Flat green fields of rich grasslands stretched before and behind him, with tidy ditches and tall stately trees. Pat looked around him and shook his head as if he was clearing water from his eyes and ears, or waking up from a too-deep sleep. His cow was nowhere to be seen, and where was he anyway? All thoughts of the cow, the fair in Tulla, Mountain Mary, just vanished, drifting away like soft clouds of thistledown. He stood quite still then, wondering, bewildered, not knowing who he was nor where he was going.
A tall man in a black tail coat strode towards him and raised his hat. ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the gentleman, bowing to Pat, ‘You are most welcome.’
‘Um and er, a good day to you, too, sir,’ said Pat uncertainly.
The tall gentleman indicated a smooth broad path and requested that Pat follow him. Pat felt no inclination to refuse, and set off behind the gentleman. His guide brought him across the smooth grassy lawns to a door into a walled garden. Behind the walls were fruit trees laden with rosy apples and swollen ripe plums and unknown fruits hung in heavy bunches from creepers and vines that clung to the masonry. Another door opened into a garden where flowers of gentle colours filled the air with sweet and subtle perfumes. The path continued on through corridors of box hedges clipped to beautiful curves. The guide brought Pat to the door of a stately mansion. The door was more than ten feet tall, flanked by marble pillars, topped by carvings of strange animals. The door was opened and Pat was led inside.
He cast his eyes around the enormous chamber. On couches draped with furs and silks were ancient Irish chiefs, all talking and making merry, drinking from gilded horns. They called to Pat to join them, and he did so, sinking into the soft cushions and drinking their sweet-sour drink. Poets came and proclaimed the heroic deeds of the chiefs to cheers and requests for more. Storytellers told tales that brought tears to the eyes of the strongest men, gladdened their hearts and shook their bellies with laughter. Musicians played upon the harp and pipes, melodies that caught up the heart and carried it as a bird is carried by the currents of the air.
Pat was then brought through to another chamber, even more vast than the last. Here heroes enacted famous Irish battles of the past. He watched as Brian Boru and his sons fought the Danes at the Battle of Clontarf. The next scene played out the Siege of Athlone and then the Siege of Limerick. At this sight Pat himself was so enraged at the plight of the women, that he had to be restrained from attempting to assist them. When the scenes of battle faded and quiet was restored, Pat was led out of the chamber and down a series of curving staircases into a vault piled high with treasures. His eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of so many gold pieces. His guide smiled and told Pat he was welcome to take whatever he wanted. ‘Take as much as you can carry. Take whatever you may need.’
Pat picked up handfuls of gold coins and tossed them in the air, laughing. The coins fell with the clear tinkling ringing sound of bells. Pat filled his pockets and his hat. When Pat looked up, he saw fishes swimming overhead. At this strange sight Pat realised that he was underneath the lake!
The guide noticed this and smiled, ‘It is time to return to your own world, Pat O’Leary.’
He led Pat back to the stairs and climbed up with him to the top. There Pat walked out into the sunlit morning. The guide bowed low once more and bade Pat farewell, handing him a hazel stick, saying, ‘Speak well of us, Pat O’Leary.’
‘Farewell and thank you, sir. I have met nothing but kindness here, and have no fear to speak of it so,’ said Pat, bowing to the tall gentleman who faded into the morning light.
Pat looked around. He saw his cow calmly grazing in the rich green field. The demense had vanished and he was once more standing in the field by the lake. It was still early morning, and he’d best be getting on to the fair in Tulla.
When he reached the fair, the people came up to greet him. One man said, ‘Well now, stranger, where have ye been this past twelve months?’ Another took his hand saying, ‘Pat O’Leary, ’tis twelve months since we saw ye in Tulla. Where have ye been, man?’
A crowd gathered around him, all wanting to hear the news of his travels and adventures since he’d left a year ago. Pat thought he had only been gone the one night! Suddenly he thought of Mary, and he asked, ‘Is Mountain Mary here at the fair? Where can I find her?’
The people told Pat that Mary was going to be married that very day to the English gentleman. ‘Then I am not too late!’ cried Pat, as he used his stick to clear a path through the crowd towards where Mary was standing.
He reached for her hand and knelt before her. ‘Is it true? Are you marrying the Englishman?’ Pat asked.
Mary looked down at her beloved Pat, and with tears clouding her eyes she said, ‘Pat O’Leary! When you did not meet me by the tree that night one year past, I thought you had deserted me. I was mad with you then, but as time went on, I thought you must be dead! When my father wanted me to marry the Englishman, what else could I do? I swear I was so heartbroken, I could kill you now myself, if I was not so pleased to see you!’
‘Will you marry me now, Mountain Mary?’
Of course Mountain Mary agreed, and the two were married that day.
The English gentleman found another mountain girl to marry sometime after, I believe.
It was only when they reached the cottage that Pat had been fixing up that he told his Mary about his strange adventure under Cullaun Lake. And it was only when he showed her the gold coins in his pockets that she knew he was speaking the truth. They were never short of money, and always happy together, as far as I have heard.
Maggie Malone: SFS (1937-38) Maggie Malone, Quin, County Clare, Ballycar, p.216.
The Fairies Dance in Glandree: SFS (1937-38) Maire ni Maoloney, Glandree, Tulla. Drumcharley NS, p.176.
The Taking of Paddy’s Hump: SFS (1937-38) Ref: Maire Maloney, Glendree, Tulla. Drumcharley NS, p.112.
A Fairy Gift: SFS (1937-38) Pat MacGrath, Knockjames, Tulla told to Denis Halpin, Kiltanon, Tulla. Tulla School p.97.
Pat O’Leary and Mountain Mary: Patrick Benson, Kilkishin, Kilkishin School, p.322.