July, in Ireland. It is unseasonably cold. It is grey and raining. Torrential and mizzling in turn. I hope Friday’s midnight change in the moon brings a change in the weather.
All is still green, aside from the barley which deepens into its gold by the river. The early summer flowers are going to seed, the buttercups giving way to knapweed and clover, the roses making way for the honeysuckle, it’s sweet scent heady in the garden at dusk. The schools are already off here, an early start traditionally so that younger members of the family could help with hay and the harvest to come. The 29th of June, last weekend, was held as the day we could start cutting the meadows and today I bring you the folklore of one of my favourite meadow flowers which is now in full bloom.
It has been a strange week, wonderful and worrisome. I participated in five days of workshops with The Stinging Fly’s Summer School facilitated by the lovely and talented Maame Blue (You can read more on this and the story I submitted with the application, paywall free, here). Two years ago, this would have been unthinkable for me, but Maame and the other participants held such a beautifully safe and creative space all week that I am very sad it is over, but thankful for all the insights gained and lessons learned.
Politically, we went to the polls here in the north on Thursday. And in my area, we had a political earthquake of such magnitude that we do not yet know what the damage will be. My area, including the town we’re moving to, elected a far-right, creationist, unionist who is responsible for a local violent paramilitary organisation and who has incited a lot of violence during his political career, including the forced displacement of Irish families. I am glad to see the back of the bumbling moron he has usurped, but we do not yet know what this newly elected devil is capable of in office.
Anyone local will tell you that July in the north is a month full of tension, as some of the descendants of the settlers, within the unionist community, hold sectarian marches, often through nationalist/Irish areas, commemorating the defeat of a British Catholic King at a battle held on Irish soil (as supposed neutral ground) several hundred years ago. They also host huge bonfires, taller than church spires, where effigies of prominent Catholics, and often the pope himself, are sent up in flames. It is “culture” they say, but questions must be asked of any culture which celebrates by intimidation of another.
And so, we hold our breath waiting for the violence to spill over. This is a trauma response, but it is also pattern recognition. I remember the roadblocks, one at the bottom of our road, where anyone with an Irish name or who refused to speak to them were beaten and had their cars smashed. One young woman got past by accelerating in a panic and stopped outside our house, too shaken to drive further. My parents took her in, she was in shock, afraid for her life. I still cry thinking of her visceral fear, a stranger in our living room, clinging to my mother for safety. Much more recently, I remember the riots, the city on fire, power outages because it’s safer for the power company staff to disconnect hundreds of homes than ask them to move their bonfire away from the power lines. The police do not attend, even when called. Anyone up here will have variations on these tales. We remember, so we batten down the hatches, or leave in our droves, until the bonfires die down, until things go back to the level of tension we have normalised post “peace agreement” throughout the rest of the year. But this year, with the outcome of this election locally, “Parade season” feels like a tinderbox.
Today’s fiction uses this tension, and is, as always, inspired by the folklore of a local, seasonal plant. For July, that plant, is Yarrow.
Below you can find the lore and below that again is the fiction.
Grá agus Saoirse Siobhán Xx
Yarrow
Athair Thalún (Father of the Land)
Achillea Millefolium
Irish Folk names; Dog Daisy (Ulster), Herb-of-the-seven-cures, Staunchweed, Soldiers-wound-wort, Angel flower, Bloodwort, Milfoil, Nosebleed, Old Man’s Pepper, Lady’s Fingers (Dublin).
Gaeilge folk names: Lus na Fola (Blood Herb), Lus na gClues (Ear Herb)[1]
Notable English Folk names; Arrow-root (Suffolk), Staunch- weed (The West Country), Mother-Die, Fever-plant.[2]
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Of Asterisms and Allegory to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.