Late May, in Ireland. The sky is light and rose tinted around the edges near eleven, the farmers still drawing in their grass, a racket on the roads deep into the night. A race against the weather which broke in the wee hours. The days have been cool and grey, I hear my great-grandmother in my ear Ne’er cast a clout till May be out, keep your woollens close until the relative safety and warmth of June. It’s been known to snow this late in these parts. I would have believed it mid-week, the swallows, that southern dust till on their wings, perched on the washing lines sodden and seemingly stunned at the turn in the weather. They’ve abandoned their first nest. We brace for the disaster that augurs. The last time this happened my fraternal Grandmother succumbed to cancer not two months later. We wait.
The full moon came too mid-week along with it the flowering of the Elders scattered through the hedges. May’s Moon, the Hare, Grass, Bright, Mother Moon. And my nights have been for mothering. The light a near constant now, less than a month from the summer solstice, this far north and that bright full moon shining through the wee hours. All of it conspiring to keep my boy up so late that I haven’t had a moment alone in a week. And yet I am never now not a mother, never not mothering. But when I catch sleep, too briefly, I am a hare, running for the earthworks by the river, rising like a pregnant belly from the fertile silt where they already have the fields sown for Autumn alongside the still green barley.
I ache for the forest at dusk. I used to wander there amongst the moss and bracken until gloaming at this time of year, but motherhood tethers me to the house now, the furthest I can go are the elders in the back hedge, beneath the pair of hooded crows, Badhbh, who are now near constantly in the garden. Badb comes to me in dreams. The Bean Sidhe in me is on the watch, my mouth already red raw with wailing grief for the world. But Badb, and her sisters are warriors and sovereignty goddesses of this land. The rage in me sharpens. Crow sharp and true.
We wait.
Today, I bring you the folklore for May’s Writing Down the Weeds. I have changed my mind on which weed to write so many times that this is the fifth incarnation of this post, and I did the research for all of them... Late last night hearing the farmers still at grass, more silage now than hay, I realised just how many tales I’ve written here of grass, befitting that moon just past. So below is a little of the folklore of Grass in Ireland and two tales, both published last summer and here pulled from behind the paywall for you all. Paid subscribers can read last year’s tale here and will receive additional seasonal, botanical folklore (as I’ve done all the research) in coming weeks alongside a return to our usual schedule of Writing Down the Weeds on June’s New Moon, and Na Scéalta, the stories with the Full. June’s will be a special set as both posts will weave together botanical folklore of a plant I’ve used to create artworks since I was a teenager, a national fairy tale I’ve been working with for almost twenty years and a world-renowned local tale.
Grasses
Féara
Ireland’s famous green is due to its fertile pastures of grass. Our temperate climate means the grass is green and abundant year-round, albeit slower growing in Winter. A welsh Cleric, writing in the twelfth century wrote of Ireland, “The island is… richer in pastures than in crops, and in grass than in grain… The plains are well clothed with grass, and the haggards are bursting with straw.” He also wrote of ‘Brigid’s pastures’ land so fertile they could continually feed the livestock left to graze on them.
It was believed that an abundance of grass was the blessing of a good king and his sacred marriage to the land.
Here in Ireland, we have always had many uses for grasses, from weaving baskets and seating to rope making and thatching. Much more on this June. However, we also had a widespread belief in Hungry Grass, Féar Gorta, which was believed to grow where those who had died in the Great Famine had fallen to the ground, or where a meal had been eaten with no offering made for the other crowd. Should a person step on such grass they were overcome with dizziness, exhaustion, and an extreme hunger. The only way to counteract its effects was to carry some food in one’s pockets.
writes powerfully of this piece of our folklore here.Below are two short, perhaps interconnected (you tell me) tales of grass.
Meadow
The grass is dead. The entire field of it. He’s not sure how but it’s definitely dead. Brown and curling. He should be cutting thick green swathes from it, but he can’t cut this. Except he’s going to have to, it needs cleared. He’ll have to start over.
Last night it was ready for cutting, he was here late in the day, just before the last of the light faded from the sky, bleeding red around the horizon. But now, a few hours later, the dawn dew still on it, and its dead. He can’t fathom it. It crunches in his hands, dry and lifeless. He rubs his face, exhaustion setting in.
He’s been busy with the light, from dawn to dusk, the sweat on his back. The days are hot, and long. His body aches for sleep. But that will come. This is the way of it. Winter is for rest; a good summer secures the year. Although this is anything but good.
Maybe he left it too long, in the heat. Maybe there wasn’t enough rain. But the other fields are fine. For miles. Everything else is in a thousand shades of dazzling green. He’s half tempted to throw a match into the lot of it. Set the dead ablaze. The thought is somehow comforting. Fire always is. But he is not that reckless.
He is still there later when the sun lowers in the sky. The honeyed light pouring through the hedgerows. Those too still green, still foaming with white flowers, elderflower coming through.
He thinks he is dreaming at first. Dehydrated maybe. It’s been a long day. Sitting in the dirt counting his losses. A litany of pain longer than his arm. He hadn’t realised the time. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. Lingering low across the field. He sees her walking there. As he has a thousand times. Wandering through the fields to fetch him for his supper. A child balanced on her hip. The dusk tangled in her hair, her eyes are the colour of river silt; deep and fertile. Her feet are stubbornly bare despite all his warnings, his gentle teasing. All this he knows, a ritual as old as their love. But now, in this light, where she walks is greening, a trail of flowers in her wake. Buttercup and clover, daisy and cornflower, forget-me-not, lupin, wild woodbine, and roses blooming their heady heavy musk.
She seems oblivious to it, eyes fixed on him, her smile is soft, and he knows then he is already forgiven. For staying away all day, and for more, so very much more.
The field is filled with a gentle hum, it takes him longer than it should to realise there are bees following her to match the flowers. There is a blackbird singing somewhere in the hedge. The elderflower fizzes with its first bloom, dizzying in the twilight.
By the time she reaches him the field is a living, thriving mass of colour. The green an undercurrent to the rest. He doesn’t cut it. He never does. He builds a hive where they collect honey happily every summer, and he leaves the flowers to the bees.
Hay
The weather has already begun to turn and he’s running out of time. He should have had it in already, the hay. But not one person will lift a finger to help him. Not with this.
He’s been down the pub and he couldn’t shift them. A toast to his Da was the height of it. The wind is getting up and so is his temper now.
His fool of a father had left this field untouched for twenty odd years. God rest him. He’d let it go to seed every damn year. Left it for the bees. And his mother. She’d gathered in armfuls of flowers from it each summer. Barefoot until the last. And when she’d died, he’d left it still. Left the bloody beehive too. He said it was still for her. Sure, all the neighbours even called it by her name. Maggie’s field. So not one of them would make a move to help him now.
He's been working it alone, nonetheless. He’d cut it back before June. When the days were long and scorching. His fathers scythe still sharp but far too short for him. It had near broke his back. He’d cut slowly and carefully. He’d startled a hare nursing her leverets near the hedge. He’d scattered a blackbird with the dawn. Low and golden across the flowers just bloomed.
Just the cutting of it had taken him days. The old folks tried to talk him from it. Nonsense about thin places, the other crowd and his Ma’s healing honey. But he kept on cutting. He’d leave the hive for the winter and just work around it. He’d been stung enough already. He’d smoke them out when his livelihood wasn’t likely to go up in flames alongside them.
They’d had an unusual dry spell. It was the talk of the country. Weeks of blue skies and temperatures so high it made him dizzy. He’d taken it as a sign. Not that he believed in such things. Everyone else was at hay too. Young lads trailing the fields as he had done. Before he’d gone off. Plans bigger than these few acres. He still had them plans. But he’d need to sort the place out to sell it.
They’d all been out at cutting. Weeks of it across the neighbours. The whole long day. Men in rows, each one faster with the blade than he was. They’d helped with the other fields. He’d helped with theirs as best he could. But they’d left him on his own for this.
The grasses here were thick and matted. Too many years gone wild. It took him several long, hot days to cut it all down. Back and forth. On and on. Some old biddy took pity on him in passing and sent lunches down with a granddaughter. A giggling girl with a harvest knot braided into her hair. He was glad enough for the food, but more glad to be rid of her.
It took him longer still to spread and then turn the grasses once cut. Over and over. To dry it well. At least then the weather had been on his side. Now the sky is grey and mottled, growing darker by the hour. When it was dried, he’d piled it into the rucks. And left it again. He remembered this from his boyhood. They’d shown him again on each of the neighbouring farms. To shake it out and pile it up. And then they’d left them be. To cure in the field. So, he left his.
For weeks it sat in its small piles. All over the country. His field was no different now. Cut and neatly piled. Turning a golden green in the summer sunshine. The old folks tutted. Some women wept at the gate, looking in. He got on with other things.
But now it must be drawn in. He’s seen them at it. All up and down the roads. They’ve been piling it high on carts and taking it back to their yards. The young ones make wishes as they pass. The older ones too. They wish for riches, and they wish for love. All he wishes for is to get it in before the weather breaks. But they won’t give him help with that either. Not a single one. So, he’s out in the gathering dusk furiously piling it onto his fathers falling-down cart.
The hedgerow shudders in the growing wind and the light is ochre. The light before a storm. But he won’t get it all in before dark. The bees seem louder tonight. Their angry hum carried on the weather. He works as late as he can. Until he can barely see where he’s aiming the fork before he calls it a night. He’s half the field loaded on. Tomorrow will finish it. He eats standing in the kitchen and sleeps like the dead, still in his clothes.
He's back there at dawn. It comes up slowly, under laden grey skies. The gate to the field is still latched where he left it near midnight. Everything smells of hay and honey, even though the temperature has dropped with the cloud cover. He can’t believe what he is seeing until he is in the midst of it. In the centre of the field the cart stands still but all the hay he’s gathered, all the rucks left to load, are scattered on the cool ground.
He's livid by the time he finds the fork. His anger fuels him until long past lunchtime as he slams the hay back into the bed of the cart. He can’t think which one of them would have done it. Children maybe. Up to no good slinking through the hedgerows. Gone feral in that summer heat. He’ll have a word down the pub. Although it’ll be more than a word he’ll have if he catches them.
Anger makes fast work and he’s more than caught up by dusk. A deeper shade of grey. The bees seem louder too. And that wind is getting up. He hopes the weather holds another day. He hasn’t made it to the pub, but he made his annoyance known to every neighbour who passed. He manages to change his clothes and wash before bed. His muscles aching more with a tightly wound rage than the work of the day.
It's past dawn when he wakes. He hurries his breakfast and the other tasks the small farm needs. The oak beyond the yard has already started to turn for the year. Far too soon, but most likely brought on by thirst than an early autumn. He can hear the bees before he sets foot on the lane.
Again, the gate is latched. Again, everything smells of hot hay and honey. His mother’s buttered, honeyed toast. The bits of hay he’d pull her hair whilst curled in her lap. He hadn’t understood then. But now he’s had enough tumbles with the young women who have come his way to know how it got there, the blush on her cheek and why his father was all smiles about it.
Again, the hay has been tossed from the cart and discarded about the field. Again, the fork is buried under it. He almost breaks the damn thing in frustration. He works at gathering it in a ferocious temper. Again. He’s best not near any of the neighbours for fear of what he’d say. Or what he’d do if he got his hands on whichever of them did this.
He runs his mouth alone in the field. He swears at them ones that have twice done this. He damns them that wouldn’t help him. Them old ones tutting. And the women weeping at the gate. He damns his mother’s flowers and her honey and those god-forsaken-bees. Above all else he damns his father. For letting the field go to ruin. For leaving him alone with this land he doesn’t want. For dying.
His rage breaks into sobs. Hot, unbidden tears on his cheeks. He swipes them away, but he’s let loose the damn and he’s on his knees amongst the scattered hay shaking with the grief of it all.
He’s exhausted. He could sleep right here. He’s seriously considering it when he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Ach it’s as bad as all that is it lad?” His accent is local, but he’s never seen him before. His weather-beaten face is so deeply lined that it’s impossible to draw any kind of resemblance to any of his neighbours. He frantically rubs at his eyes and makes to stand. He towers over the old man, stooped with age. He’s as scrawny as a bird. He produces a bottle of Poitín from God-knows-where and starts to make his way across the field. Hare fast. It’s all he can do to keep up.
He stops when he gets to the beehive. This close the thrum of them feels as if it is coming from the ground. The old man pours a generous splash from his bottle onto the earth before taking a swig himself. He offers the bottle his way. Somehow, he feels drinking it is not up for discussion. He chokes a mouthful down.
“Ye did-ne tell the bees lad.” He says it matter of fact. “They’re missing him too. Yer Da.”
He’s dumbfounded. He’d found him down here. His father. The day of his mother’s funeral. He’d vanished from the house, and he’d found him here with a bottle of whiskey telling the damn bees that she was dead. Barely two words from him the whole time she was sick. He’d done little more than pat his back at the graveside, but he’d found it in him to tell the bees. It had been the last straw. He’d left the next day. Left him to it.
But now he’s back. In his childhood bed. In his father’s fields. At his mother’s beehive. He sits on the ground. On the scattered hay. And he begins to tell the bees.