At The Ford
Photo - actress Rachel O'Byrne. https://dublintheatrefestival.com/Online/At_The_Ford
Not someone you’d want to meet, the Washer at the Ford. The Bean Nighe. Certainly not someone you’d want in charge of your laundry. For if she sets to washing for you, it is your burial garb she’s fretting over. It is said that the Bean Nighe are the spirits of women who died in childbirth, cursed to this work until the time when they would have died naturally.
Playwright Gavin Kostick uses themes drawn from Celtic Mythology to bring forward a story that takes place in contemporary Irish society. A brilliant, raw, visceral portrayal of a family both brought together by tragedy and torn apart tragically.
“A dead man’s room overlooking the sea. With bruised hearts and shredded reputations, three siblings sift through the rubble of their crumbling family empire, each attempting to steer their own course to survival. Putting fortunes at stake and with no one to trust, family bonds are pushed to their limits. Do we shape our own destiny, or are the sins of previous generations – and their repercussions – an inescapable fate for those left behind?”
I am no stranger to live theatre, having seen everything from small local shows to expensive, full scale productions. “At The Ford” takes its place among some of the best performances I’ve seen. Even those unfamiliar with the mythology will identify with the underlying themes, brought to life by Aonghus Óg McAnally, Rachel O’Byrne, and Ian Toner.
The New Theatre is located in the old Temple Bar area of Dublin. You access it by walking through Connolly Books, an amazing bookshop that I wish I’d taken the time to return to. I am sure if I had, I would have made some marvelous discoveries.
A collection of thoughts, lasting impressions, a gift to Ireland
Trad night at Clancy's Bar.
One night, as we gathered for supper, Thorn asked us to choose a line from something we'd written that we felt best represented our personal journey to Ireland. Something that spoke to us and that we would carry with us.
Each of us wrote our chosen line on a sheet of paper. Thorn took the sheet back to her cabin and in the quiet hours of the night, combined those lines into a shared poem.
A stream at St. Brigid's Well.
I keep trying to photograph things that can’t be photographed.
I came in search of lush green land and found instead Fae Magic’s hand
This is a basilica of life
This is a place of truth, fierceness and hard edges
The trees talk louder here
Rocks have stories, ancient and bold
They sing to those who listen
Silent, resting, awaiting resurrection
The stones are a witness across time
storing memories
The thistle calls out to me
The poet’s voice interlaced with threads of Ireland’s troubles
On the hills and in the caves, gnosis lies hidden, but we know truth
The sun winked through the clouds at Loughcrew Cairn
red as an Asian poppy in the equinox sky
I thought I couldn’t be happier
then Tiffany danced
Scones, lovingly made by Claire.
Path to St. Brigid's Well.
I am the land, the land is me
These rocks, these stones
this wind and loam,
this sky
These rocks, these stones
this wind and loam,
this sky
I am the land
the land is me
(land is me)
Every forest
and every sea
(every sea)
We are vast and shining
filled with light
Life is flowing
Life is moving
Life is rising now
Life is flowing
Life is moving
Life is rising now
Written by T. Thorn Coyle
Sunset at Riverhaven.
The song was written by Thorn, who taught it to us as we sat on the bus. Soon, it became our anthem, with Thorn both leading the song and keeping time on her Bodhran as we travelled along.
Sheep, watching the Pilgrims ascend the slopes of Carrowkeel.
Cottage down the road from the Hill of Tara.
The entrance to the Tree Labyrinth at Carrowcrory Cottage.
At Heapstown Cairn
A Promise at the Well
We stood
calling to Brigid
Asking nothing
for ourselves
But rather
offering to leave
something behind
A soothing balm
Not to replace
But to bring balance
We were told the story
of the sacred stone
now part of
some posh foreigner’s
art collection
To be ripped from the ground
and transported
so far from home
to be possessed
instead of appreciated
honored
shared
Thousands of stories
such as this
Thousands of
bits and pieces
taken
for no other reason
than the assumption
they won’t be missed
So we stood
calling to Brigid
Making an offering
from our hearts
To sooth the pain
To heal the wounds
An attempt to bring balance
For far too much has already
been taken
Carrowcrory Cottage Part 2 - Scones and Harps
The cottage was warm and filled with the scent of freshly baked scones. Claire stood at the table, her hands covered in dough, dressed in flowing green velvet.
"Oh, I hope you like it.", she said, over and over.
They ate plate after plate of scones with butter, jam and cream. She was happy to chat with Claire, while helping her prepare the feast. She even went so far as to joke,
"Look! I'm jammin' with Claire."
When she rose from the table, she was so full she wondered how she would ever make the journey back down the hill to the bus.
They made their way to the adjoining room. There, they found her harps patiently waiting.
"I hope you like my music.", she said.
In the midst
of that deep night
I was awoken by
the screeching fox
and the night
was so fragrant and silent
said I couldn’t bear
to let it pass in slumber
So I walked by the fields
and through the misty night
My way was made clear
through the dark depths of the wood
where the shadows mingle
in a thousand ways
and the light of the moon
sheltering me from the dark night
I see him standing
waiting there for me
and his frame is so cold and far away
I wish he’d take me tender by my hand
and through this misty night
we’d walk together
The horses raise their heads
in question
but there is no pain here
here
And as I stare upon his perfect face
and see the fathoms deep within his eyes
the sadness, the human loneliness
he says with a sigh
things are not right
and he goes from me
And the dawn
slowly chasing away the moon
and it stares at the rising sun for a while
like my lover
fades with the dawning
fades with the dawning
fades with the dawn
"Symbolic" by Claire Roche
http://www.clairerochemusic.com/
Claire's music brought many of the Pilgrims to tears. She sat there, unable to do much else. This magical creature was so talented, yet so humble.
She chose two CD's from the pile, paid John, then stood in line to have Claire sign one for her.
"Thank you for jammin' with me."
Carrowcrory Cottage Part 1 - the Tree Labyrinth
"Welcome! Welcome!", he said. His arms open wide, he gestured toward the cottage. "Go on up. I'll be right there."
The Pilgrims gathered outside, taking photos and chatting quietly. Soon, they were taken though and out to the back garden, where the tree labyrinth was waiting.
The Woodland Bard shared stories, looking over his shoulder from time to time in order to show them where these tales took place. In the distance stood a Hawthorn tree in the middle of a field.
"Even those who don't believe in Faeries wouldn't dare bring harm to a Hawthorn."
The time had come to make their way down the path and to the entrance of the labyrinth. There, he told them to choose an apple. They would dip it in the water and coat it with ash, carrying it with them. When the path led them back to this point, they would wash the apple and continue on. It was symbolic of transformation. Leaving all that no longer serves behind and allowing yourself to emerge fresh and ready to move forward.
The labyrinth was beautiful and peaceful. She went in, open to whatever might happen and emerged serene, with a sense of purpose.
The Faeries are calling.
