Honeysuckle

September's Writing Down the Weeds

Mid-September, in Ireland. Autumn in full swing, almost hallway through. Already the nights fall earlier, dark by the time I am tucking my boy into his bed. And the trees have begun to shed their leaves, they swirl past the windows as the autumn winds move in. Season of mists, of harvests, apples, and honeyed light, so thick you could spoon it straight into your tea. The farmers rushed another cut from the fields during a short spell of clear days at the start of the month and we pass apples fallen to the footpath on our short walk to school, red and ripe and smashed open for the birds. Last week the sea heaved so heavily onto the shore I could hear it all through the house, a lullaby for the wee hours on a troubled, sleepless night. This week we dodged thunder and hail, drenched through by the time we made it to school. But we have our coats and so we walk the beach in rain or sun, my boy practices his bouldering whilst I absently gather up stray pieces of plastic and hunt for witchstones, gifts from the sea.

On our first night in this rented accommodation, after an incredibly stressful week of deep cleaning the place to make it safe for my son to play as he does, rolling like a puppy around the floors, or lying on his belly, concentrating for hours building worlds with his toys, and moving our essentials in, all of which would not fit in my car, I was exhausted beyond belief. But my boy refused to go to bed until he had said goodnight to the sea. So, I made a cup of tea in my favourite mug, got him rugged up in his coat and boots and off we went on foot to the beach at dusk. When we got there, my feet in the sea, my tea was still too hot to drink. And with that, all came into sharp focus. This is the life we moved for. This alone makes all the stress and upheaval worthwhile.

We have already been so welcomed by community here, my boy instantly settled at school, running in with such excitement he doesn’t notice when I leave. Chattering like the crows all the way home. There is an ease and a rightness here I can’t yet articulate. I can’t quite believe. This was the wish, when he was a minnow in my belly, here, a walk to school so short the soup would still be warm on the stove when we clambered in from a sodden day. I hold my breath. I catch glimpses of some vision, some sense of a home at twilight, cosy and safe and it feels so close I could reach out and touch it. We’re almost there.

From this rented accommodation, right next door to our house, so close I could actually touch the scaffolding from the windows, I can see the honeysuckle twined trough our garden hedge, it tumbles beside the garden gate into the street, and I have here on the table a sample of honeysuckle wallpaper I cannot seem to tidy away. One of my favourites, going to seed now, bright red berries amongst the yellowing green leaves, and todays Writing Down the Weeds. The near full moon is tucked in behind the clouds, a deep gold on this Sunday night, so it is too long past due. But first a little on Witchstones since I have now found four of these rare and renowned magical objects.

Witchstone is the colloquial name for a stone bearing a hole formed by the sea. In other places these are known as hagsones, holeystones or holestones, although the uses are largely the same; they are objects of magical protection. The holes are sometimes so perfect they seem worked by modern tools, but they are instead formed over many years by the movement of water on the stone. Here in Ulster, where it is likely their use was imported with the English settlers and then mixed with the local Fairy belief, Witchstones were used to protect against Butter Witches or the Other Crowd stealing the goodness from the milk. They were threaded with rope or string and hung in byres, on milk pails or even tied to the animals themselves.

The general theory behind their working seems to be that no ill intent (or sometimes spirit) can pass through the hole, because the hole was made by moving water which no magic can be worked on. Therefore, they work a little like a thorn hedge or the festive holly wreaths on our doors, wards against malevolent forces. I gave one to my mother and have the other three set up by the door, the chimney and one in the kitchen, to hand when I can find a brief moment or two to write amongst the chaos of the renovation and school runs.

Below is the honeysuckle lore, my beloved wild woodbine, and the fiction will follow with that full moon midweek. I’m still playing catch up, being on site and still mid-move means I have much less time than I had anticipated and so owe you a great many posts, thank you to everyone who has stuck with me in this space through this season of intense upheaval and unintentionally sparse posting, thank you for your kind comments and messages, I appreciate it more than I can say.

Honeysuckle Wallpaper by William Morris

Honeysuckle

Féithleann

Lonicera periclymenum

Irish Common names: Irish Vine, Woodbine, Bainne Ganhna, Lus na Meala