In Search of the Fairies

If you chance to pick up a book of Irish fairy tales, you’ll likely find a story about Lusmore, who was, according to W.B Yeats’ version “a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains” and who had a great hump on his back.

Knockgraffon Motte

Legend has it that one evening Lusmore came upon “the old moat of Knockgraffon, which stood on the right-hand side of his road”. Sitting under the moat (or “motte” which is a large man-made mound of earth) he presently heard a “wild strain of unearthly melody… like the sound of many voices, each mingling and blending with the others so strangely that they seemed to be one, though they were all singing different strains” (not unlike the unearthly ruckus at the Monk’s pub on a Wednesday, some would say).

Now Lusmore soon realized that the music was coming from within the moat, and it was indeed fairy music. The story goes on to describe how Lusmore enhanced the lyrics of the fairy song with his own impromptu offering, and the fairies were pleased and relieved him of his hump.

 A short, steep climb to the top

But the story doesn’t end there, of course, because you know fairies are generally unscrupulous and every good tale must disclose their darker side. Another young fellow (with an even larger hump) who got wind of Lusmore’s good fortune, tried to get his cut of cure from Knockgraffon. But not having Lusmore’s pure heart and kind intentions, he unwittingly insulted the fairies and thus wound up with two big humps for his trouble.

It’s a great tale, with a universal theme and appeal, and it’s from right here in Tipperary. So when I read it I wondered if Knockgraffon might be a real place and I might find it and encounter the fairies. I knew Dixie would look at me funny if I told him this, but I told him anyway. 

Well it was right there on Google, Knockgraffon Motte, not 20 minutes from our house. So off we went on another adventure. And it did not disappoint. Rising up from the road, among the rolling hills of the Golden Vale, was the motte in all its ethereal glory. We parked on the side of the road (the same road Lusmore had wandered down) and climbed the 60 feet or so to the top. It was spectacular… with panoramic views of shimmering farmland dotted with ancient church remnants and even the ruins of a Norman castle.

We took a few photos then relaxed in the sunshine and imagined the activity on this hill centuries ago. According to online sources (which I’m sure were the fairies themselves), the Motte of Knockgraffon was “an Anglo-Norman settlement in the 12th and 13th centuries and would have included a wooden structure on the summit. It is said that, in earlier times, this may have been the location of the coronation of the Kings of Munster…” That makes it an historic goldmine! Wow!

When my friend, Deirdre, came to visit this week, the Motte of Knockgraffon was at the top of the list of sites I wanted to share with her. Like me, she was instantly enchanted. The soft mossy grass was littered with tiny wildflowers and clouds cast misty shadows on the landscape below. Apparently the fairies were forgiving of our intrusion, as we felt every bit as favored as Lusmore.  

What's In A Name?

Much has been written over the years about the significance of names. I hated my name when I was growing up. I was the only Kim in town and I desperately wanted to be a Debbie. The only other Kim people had heard of was an actress named Kim Novak… unless, of course, they had been to Korea where I might have been a royal… (maybe murdered by now).

In my church in the ‘70s there was a 10 year old boy who had been recently adopted from Korea. He spoke little English but was told my name was Kim. He seemed to find that just as puzzling as the fact we didn’t eat kimchi every day. But he smiled at me a lot.

Apparently, here in Ireland, there is a relatively small pool of given names and surnames. I’ve noticed that there is a glut of Paddys, Michaels, Seans, and Seamuses (pronounced shame-us). As for the women, if I forget a name, it’s pretty safe to take a chance on Mary, Anne, Margaret or Bridgett (in my generation anyway).

And there are, of course ,variations on each name: Patrick, Pat, Paddy, Padraig, Paraic, Paudy and Michael, Mick, Mícheál (pronounced mee-haul), for instance. I’m getting comfortable with the Irish versions which seemed so foreign to me a couple of years ago.

For surnames, there seems to be a Ryan, Maher, Dwyer, or Butler lurking around every corner.  But it goes by region. I can only speak for Tipperary.

So if you want to talk about what a great goal Sean Ryan scored in the hurling match or how sad it is that Paddy Maher’s cow was lost in the bog, how do you specify WHICH Sean Ryan or Paddy Maher you’re talking about... because there will be several?

The answer is nicknames! They're as common as Guinness. I mean, who knew that a woman from the deep south would wind up with a mad Irishman named Dixie? (His mother named him Michael but that just didn’t stick).

Referring to families, there are the Ryan Buckets (as in… “Michael Ryan Bucket was in the pub last night”), Ryan Billabones, Ryan Agents, Ryan Fatteners, Ryan Dicks, Ryan Moons, Ryan Angels, Ryan Giants and many more. And that's just the Ryans around Thurles.

Some individual nicknames include Raz (Dixie’s brother), Puddy (rhymes with goody), Split the Sod, Drop o’ Blood, Shit in the Haggard, God in the Bottle, Willie Nod, Swags, Small Lemonade, Rubber Man, Dilly Dally, Fancy Johnny, Crock Dwyer, Mickey the Brute, Windy Britches, Sooty Carroll, Soup Keane, Nick the Scholar, John Joe the Grabber, Tom the Deal, Lead Eye, Sniper Bourke, Pony Bourke, Drippin' Arse, Paddy the Cruelty Man, Hookit, Tom Maher Pus, Paddy Maher Best, the Goat Maher, Danny the Web Maher, Timmy Ryan Good Boy, The Glamour Walsh, The Saint Walsh, Willie Shittyfoot, Ton of Soap, Hands Up, Miracle Man, Glassy Bags, Bluelugs, Sorry for Coming, Hole in the Wall, The Graveyard, Pinch o' Pepper and Slippery Tits.


There are the three Cummins brothers: Bun, Shift and Wax... as well as the three Bartleys who worked together:  Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

My source of local information

My primary source (but not the only one) for all this is an older gentleman named Tony Power who plays a very sweet button accordion every week in the pub. He is something of a legend in these parts, having played traditional music for decades and played with some of the best. According to Tony, these were not occasional nicknames but were the only names these folks were known by. He said in most cases, no one knows or remembers their given names. 

And yes, there are stories that go with each name. When you come visit me, we'll sit down with Tony and the lads and hear them over a few pints. But beware, you might not return home as yourself.

A Grand Irish Funeral

Sadly, Dixie’s dear younger brother, Chanel, passed away almost two weeks ago. He had been in poor health for some time, but it was unexpected nonetheless. While the family was fielding questions like, “Are ye alright?” and “What can we do to help?”, I was taken aside and, with a similar sympathy that was heartfelt yet ominous, I was asked, “Have you ever been to an Irish funeral?” I have to say it made me twitchy. 

But it wasn’t unlike many American memorial traditions. There were two nights of wake. The open casket was placed in the living room of the house. On the first night the priest was called and there was a brief rosary service called the Sorrowful Mysteries. My American Catholic friends will know about this. There was time afterwards for food and drink and catching up with friends and relatives who hadn’t been together in a while. But that wasn’t near enough merry making on Chanel’s behalf. Everyone then retired to the Monk’s pub until the wee hours for stories and reminiscing and pints of good Guinness.

The next night the family, including me, gathered around Chanel in a semicircle that formed a reception line. I remember similar lines at certain funeral services in America. For three hours or so there was a steady stream of sympathizers shaking hands and moving through. Dixie’s sister-in-law, Breda, stood faithfully by me and introduced me to the guests I didn’t know… “This is Dixie’s partner, Kim.”  

Cathedral of the Assumption

But when you do something over and over ad infinitum, you know how your mind gets dizzy. At one point Breda lost her focus and introduced me as Chanel’s partner. The woman being introduced turned white as Chanel, and I watched her jaw plummet to the floor, as Chanel’s widow was standing only a few feet away. Only as the woman walked away did Breda realize her gaffe. I’ll never let her forget it and, being Irish, she’ll be laughing at herself for weeks.

Then there was more food and more catching up and telling entertaining tales of Chanel. He was fondly described as a rogue and a character and I would say he was a real rascal who loved a good practical joke. He was gentle and kind, and I regret I didn’t get to know him longer and better. You might think the family was now ready for a good night’s sleep, but only after another regrouping at the Monk’s for more stories and laughter and frothy pints.   

The next day was the funeral mass. We were all gathering at the cathedral at 11:30 for yet another long reception line before the service began at noon. Now Dixie’s son Keenan had stayed with us that night. I went in the bathroom just before it was time to leave and, since we had a house guest, I did something I rarely do. I locked the bathroom door with the skeleton key.

I guess it hadn’t been used in a while because when I got ready to come out, it wouldn’t turn. I pushed and turned and jerked it in and out and jiggled and joggled but it was NOT going to budge. I shouted for Dixie but he couldn’t hear me downstairs. I started wondering what he could do even if he heard me. He’d have no time to track down a locksmith on a Sunday morning. He’d have to get to the mass. 

I envisioned myself in my funeral finery, mourning alone on the toilet, missing out on Chanel’s memorial in the most embarrassing way (“Where’s Kim?” “Oh, she’s after locking herself in the loo!”). I was sweating like a first year undertaker, panicked and close to tears.

I made one last plea to God and gave that key a final chance to redeem itself before I condemned all skeleton keys to eternal damnation. It contritely turned and unlocked. And I calmly walked down the stairs as if nothing had happened… “Are ya’ll about ready?” 

We were seated at the front of the cathedral and another long stream of sympathizers coursed down the aisle like healing waters, swirling round the front, shaking hands with family and offering condolences. I kept looking over my shoulder hoping to see the line's end, but the flood waters continued to rise. The large cathedral was filling up.

As I sat there firmly planted in the very middle of the pew trying to seem inconspicuous as the greetings were happening on either side, I was taken by surprise by a bitter sensation that sneaks up on me now and then like a child playing tag. I felt the unsettling “you’re it!” and my mind came to a screeching halt as I welled up once again with that old familiar emotion: grief.

I guess this shouldn’t be a surprise since I was at a funeral, after all. But, to be honest, I wasn’t grieving for Chanel and his family at that moment. 

One of my favorite authors, Rachel Held Evans, was stricken with a sudden illness last week. They say it was complications involving flu and infection and brain swelling. She was gone within a few days. She was only 37 years old, same age as my Leah. 

Rachel was a beautiful, high spirited, zany, intellectual whose spiritual journey paralleled my own. We even went to the same little conservative Bible college in a small town in Tennessee. She was a pioneer thinker and able to express, with humor and optimism, all that was driving folks like me away from the church. She believed we could escape toxic dogma and corrupt systems that clash with our spiritual instincts, and we could reclaim faith in Christ alone. She embraced outcasts and doubters. Rachel, like Mr. Rogers, would have liked me just the way I am. I feel loss.

Dixie, Paul and me singing three part harmony

After mass and eulogies you might think we then walked out… family first in, first out like a wedding, right?  No… not until yet another consolatory tide rose and ebbed. We left last.  

Outside we followed the hearse on foot (a custom lost in America but very meaningful, I think) to the cemetery down the road and up the hill where there were a few words and a song or two by some nieces and nephews. Then… can you guess? Back to the Monk’s pub, this time for a catered lunch and then a good music session because, as Chanel’s widow informed us, Chanel would haunt her the rest of her life if we didn’t have music. Friends and family all joined in the songs Chanel loved… lots of good ole rock and roll.

We stayed in the pub nine hours that day, and Dixie and I were among the first to leave around midnight. I think Chanel would have approved his send off. His spirit was well tended. And mine was soothed as well.

Catching Up

When I was young I aspired to be a private person. In my mind, private people were beautiful and classy, like Jackie O and certain, but not all, vampires. They were trend setters without saying a word, effortlessly charismatic, disclosing just enough about themselves to make you curious. It felt like power.

But alas, here I am after all these years, still a giggly open book for anyone to page through and stain with coffee, dog ear or highlight, accept or reject or maybe just slam shut and dismiss. But I’ve discovered on my journey that those mysterious auras I’ve often admired are often just flimsy veils concealing either insecurity or depression or things worse. I feel pretty good about my place on the dusty library shelf.

So… we un-private people do like to blog, don’t we? I haven’t posted in over a year and I really miss sharing my experiences and impressions and feelings (and I'm developing some strong opinions as well!) I’m actually living in Ireland now full time. I have a visa that’s renewable, a car with an automatic transmission (which is rare here), and a plethora of Irish sayings and expressions that I daily integrate into casual conversation. That makes me Irish, right? Jaysus, ye can be shuruvit! 

I was watching a house hunting show the other day on the “telly” featuring a retired couple from England who were looking to start a new life in the south of France. I actually heard myself say out loud, “I can’t believe people just pick up and move to another country when they’re old.” I immediately realized the irony. What can I say?

I want to start posting again because I have so much to tell you. The visa process was extensive, and buying a house was a real adventure (My offer was accepted in October and we still haven't closed). I’m acquainted with the emergency room in Dublin and just the other day when I thought I was wading through some marsh grass, I fell in the River Suir (Yes I did and it was very cold)! 

I am privileged to be part of Dixie’s large extended family, and when his beloved brother, Chanel, passed away last week, I experienced my first full blown Irish Catholic funeral. I’ll walk you through that next week, if you’re up to it. I'll aim for Tuesdays. Ah, shuretwillbee grand!