PUT THE KETTLE ON

The Proverbs of Ireland

2012-02-13T08:45:00.003-05:00

"Yuh sleep wid daag, yuh ketch him flea.” Most of us know this venerable Jamaican adage as “He who lies down with dogs rises with fleas.” Proverbs provide insight into human nature that transcend nationality, yet their individual versions offer a taste of a nation’s soul—and none are more delicious than the proverbs of Ireland.

Irish warnings against misbehaving abound, such as “The road to Heaven is well signposted, but it’s badly lit at night.” Sweet sayings for lovers include “He who stares into the middle of a fire does be heavily in love” and “Where there is love, it’s easy to halve the potato.”

And when the glow of love wears off? “A woman’s tongue is a thing that does not rust” is well met by “Men are like bagpipes—they make no sound until they're full.”

The Irish word for proverbs is seanfhocail (SHAN-uck-will), which literally means "old words.” I read through several volumes of these witty gems in my quest to make the characters in my alternate Irish history tales sound more Irish. Glancing Through the Glimmer featured a few. They shine in my forthcoming "Band of Roses" trilogy.

A Band of Roses, Fiery Roses, and Salty Roses, are a rollicking blend of historical fantasy, bittersweet romance, a little sci-fi, and a lot of suspense. They star the indomitable Princess Talty Boru, her devoted champion Neil, and a lovable cast of dauntless heroes and devious villains.

The stories suppose what Ireland would be like today if High King Brian Boru hadn’t perished at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 A.D. His descendant, modern day Princess Talty, wishes she were anyone but the heir to her father’s throne. An arranged marriage offers an escape from her royal duties, but she quickly learns to be careful what she wishes for.

To properly flavor the stories, I added a dollop of Dublin slang to the characters’ speech. A generous sprinkling of Irish proverbs added a complexity not only unique to the Emerald Isle, but also fun to read.

Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it from a thornbush.

Don’t show your teeth until you can bite.

Leave a little room for the fairies to dance.

In A Band of Roses, one of Talty’s kinsmen describes her by saying, “A lion isn’t a fitting companion for all men,” and “It takes a woman to beat the devil.” The Boru family motto is “The Strong Hand Rules.” King Brian constantly reminds his family “There is No Strength Without Unity,” but Talty learns the hard way that “Adversity is the Source of Strength.”

I barely tapped the wealth of Irish proverbs to enhance A Band of Roses. More than enough of these jewels remained to enrich Fiery Roses and Salty Roses:

The new broom sweeps the house best, but the old broom knows where the dirt is.

Don’t be banging your shin on a stool that’s not in your way.

The finest shoe makes a sorry hat.

Hunger makes a good sauce.

The climate, culture, and landscape of Ireland helped coin these magical phrases. I hope the few I’ve mentioned here leave your mouth watering for more.

The world is quiet and the pig is in the sty.

Puzzling It Out

2012-02-03T14:51:00.005-05:00

Writer’s block. I have several cures. One of my favorites ways of working out problems with a writing project is to do a jigsaw puzzle. Sorting the colors and shapes helps sort my thoughts, allowing characters to grow and plots to progress. Whether I’m writing or not, I love doing jigsaw puzzles.

My daughter, who lives in Taos, New Mexico, recently sent me a gem of a puzzle depicting the annual Taos Balloon Rally. This vibrant puzzle was made from a photo taken by Taos-based photographer Lenny Foster. She said she received two copies of the puzzle as gifts, and she graciously sent one to me.

Liberty Puzzles, the company that crafted the puzzle from Mr. Foster’s photograph, specializes in classic wooden jigsaw puzzles. No two of the intricate, laser-cut pieces in any puzzle are the same. Some of the shapes in this one were so charming, I hated to join them to other pieces!

When the puzzle arrived, I set it out on the dining room table and got to "work." After two days, I realized that some of the pieces were missing. I searched the carpet repeatedly for dropped pieces but found none. Even my cats couldn’t have filched so many pieces!

I checked the info on the box. Beneath the picture on the cover, it said "Box 1 of 2." When I told my daughter, she checked her "copy" of the puzzle. Sure enough, it said "Box 2 of 2." While Box 2 was en route to New Hampshire, I continued working as best I could on my half of the puzzle. The second half arrived at last, and I knew right away where some of the pieces went, but it still took another few days to fit the rest of the 881 pieces together. A labor of love, and well worth the effort.

Bravo, Lenny Foster and Liberty Puzzles!

Imbolc & St. Brigid's Day

2012-02-01T08:55:00.000-05:00

Newgrange

Ireland abounds with stone monuments built by prehistoric tribes to help them divide the year into seasons: Samhain, November 1, the start of winter; Beltane, May 1, the first day of summer; Lughnasa, August 1, the beginning of autumn; and, Imbolc, February 1, the glorious arrival of spring.

Carrowkeel

The Newgrange passage tomb is famous for its roof box, which allows sunlight to penetrate its interior chamber during the winter solstice. A Neolithic mound in County Sligo’s Carrowkeel cemetery has a similar box that lets light in during the summer solstice. On the Hill of Tara, sunshine illuminates the chamber inside the Mound of the Hostages on both Samhain and Imbolc.

In ancient times, spring arrived somewhere during the first week of February. Imbolc (from i mbolg, old Irish for "in the belly") refers to the impending birth of lambs and calves, a time of renewal, the start of the agricultural season. The celebration belonged to the Celtic goddess Brigid, daughter of Dagda, the Irish equivalent of Jupiter, Zeus, or Odin.

Brigid was a triple deity, a benevolent mother goddess of healing, fertility, and fire, as well as the patron of poets and smiths. When Christianity arrived in Ireland, the church superimposed its saints and holy days over many pagan deities and festivals. Brigid became St. Brigid (Bridget, Brigit, Brighid, Bride, Brid), the female patron saint of Ireland, guardian of hearth and home. Born in the 5th century, she became a leader of the early Celtic Christian church. Her feast day, February 1, is the first day of spring in modern Ireland.

Brigid, said to be the daughter of a druid, supposedly fed on the milk of Otherworld cows, a rumor that gave her dual authority over both Christian and pagan ways. A generous woman, she fed the poor and tended both cattle and land, and is often portrayed with a cow at her feet. She became a nun and founded convents and monasteries. Of the many legends associated with her, my favorite is her acquisition of the land on which she built her most famous monastery.

In 470, Brigid petitioned the King of Leinster for some prime property. Thinking himself clever, the king said he would give her as much land as her shawl could cover. Brigid took off her shawl to measure the land, giving each of the four nuns with her a corner of the cloak. The women ran north, south, east, and west, and the shawl stretched to cover acres of land. Her monastery, built near a huge oak tree, became known as Cill Dara, the Church of the Oak. Cill Dara is now the Town of Kildare.

St. Brigid’s Cross, one of the best-known symbols of Ireland, is still made from rushes on St. Brigid’s Day to ensure health and prosperity in the coming year. The practice hearkens back to Brigid’s attendance at the deathbed of a pagan chieftain, who was curious about the new Christian religion. She drew rushes from the floor and wove them into a cross, and when she told him of its origins, he converted to Christianity.

Whether goddess or saint, Brigid symbolizes the renewal of life and the hope of abundance, and Christians and pagans alike still honor her on her day.

Action!

2012-01-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

The debut of the book trailer for Glancing Through the Glimmer has me positively airborne! Starting with the few rough ideas I offered, my ingenious web designer, Rick Shagoury, has brought the story to life in a way I never imagined possible. Treat yourself to a peek!

Thanks, Rick!

Finding a Nook for Glancing Through the Glimmer

2012-01-25T09:21:00.003-05:00

Just found out that

Glancing Through the Glimmer

is at long last

available on Nook!

The Balm of Fantasy

2012-01-14T09:37:00.000-05:00

Aren’t there enough troubling issues to write about for teenage readers without making stuff up?

Sure. That’s one reason why I write fantasy. Not only did I used to be a teenager, I also had two in the house for thirteen years or so. Their experiences gave me some knife-edged refreshers on what it’s like to be a teen. As if I could forget.

I recall my own teenage years well because I disliked them so much. Many teens do, for reasons ranging from embarrassing skin to curfews and cliques, STDs and mental health, body image, peer pressure, bullying, depression, drug abuse, and worse. Being a teenager is, and always has been, hard work.

Some teens find comfort reading about characters plagued by problems akin to theirs. Others prefer to bury themselves in rousing adventures that help relieve stress for a while. Those looming final exams don’t seem so desperate when vampires, werewolves, dragons, and aliens threaten the world.

During my teens, I often sought refuge in tales like Treasure Island, Great Expectations, the Hardy Boys mysteries, Peter Pan, and all sorts of fairy tales. Even better, I started creating my own escapes. I love to write and have three adventures coming soon from MuseItUp: the "Band of Roses" stories, alternate histories set in an Ireland that might have been. Glancing Through the Glimmer is the "prequel" to that trilogy.

Glimmer’s hero and heroine, Liam Boru and Janet Gleason, struggle to deal with their own teenage issues. Their problems fall by the wayside when the King of the Fairies decides he’d like to dance with Janet—for the next few centuries. Danger and magic shadow her and hinder her budding romance with Liam. What would you do if you were Janet? Or if you were Liam, could you fight fairy enchantment to save her? Can Janet save Liam when the Fairy King turns on him? (I sure hope so. I need them both for the sequel.)

Whether readers identify with a character, or whether they simply enjoy going along for the ride, fantasy offers a respite from the world’s afflictions, and not just for teens. I love all genres of YA—but I still like the fantasy best.

* * * * *

(Adapted from a post on the MuseItUp Publishing Blog)
(Photo of Teen Reading Courtesy of Photobucket)

Rattling the Imagination

2012-01-06T12:10:00.007-05:00

During my last visit to Dublin, I bought so many books I had to mail them home. That wasn’t bad enough, but I wasn’t sure if I already owned some of the titles. I thought I should make a list of what I already have and bring it with me next time. And so, a major undertaking looms before me: cataloging all my books.

Fiction and poetry, legends and history, Books for Dummies, where to begin? Submarines and helicopters vie for space with portal tombs and ancient Celts, cookbooks crowd the writing how-to’s, mysteries share space with travel guides, Native Americans with Banshees.

I think I’ll take time out to tell you about one of my recent Dublin acquisitions, An Old Woman’s Reflections, an account of the life of Blasket Island storyteller Peig Sayers (1873-1958), the "Queen of the Gaelic Storytellers." I like to think I’m a pretty good storyteller, but this lady leaves me in the dust. Her son documented these recollections of her life and times on the now uninhabited Great Blasket Island in County Kerry. Reading the turns of phrases translated from Gaelic to English is wonderful exercise for anyone’s imagination.

Peig talked a lot about ears. She would say "I was old-wise enough to give a listening ear to the tailor." Or if she thought she had misheard a phrase, "I don’t know did my ears take it with them correctly."

She didn’t neglect the eyes, mouths, or hands, either. "You wouldn’t lay an eye on anyone who had his own natural color," she said of a group of frightened people. "Take the string off your mouth and let’s have them," the command to a reticent speaker. Her account of the man who gave her and her friend directions on the mainland: "While you’d be clapping your two hands together, he had swept us on the road north."

The language kept me shaking my head in delight. A stingy man "hadn’t the heart of a mouse." And one of my favorites, "You’d think nobody ever died, there were so many people there."

Peig’s book is all too short, probably why I opted to read it first. Yet I was reminded that good things come in small packages—and they come in big ones too. Right now I’m plowing my way through a mighty one, The Rattle Bag, a wonderful collection of poems from all over the world, first published in 1982 and put together by poets Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes.

Poetry baffles me. I read it to find new ways of describing things, but I don’t understand a lot of it. This anthology, however, offers plenty to entertain, from poets I’ve never read before (Norman MacCaig - Aunt Julia) to beloved poems I recall well (Birches by Robert Frost).

Despite my good intentions, I doubt I’ll ever succeed in finishing (or even starting) my inventory of books. I stop too much to read the darn things.

A Primer of Irish Slang

2011-12-04T11:19:00.000-05:00

According to Dictionary.com, slang is "the jargon of a particular class, profession, etc." Several dictionaries suggest that the word "slang" originated from the Norwegian phrase "slengja kjeften" (literally, to sling the jaw). Whether it did or not, "sling the jaw" is a great phrase—and no one "slings the jaw" better than the Irish.

In my quest to make the characters in my stories sound more Irish, I tried writing dialogue by chopping words and adding apostrophes. That did little to get the wonderfully lilting accent I heard in my head onto a page so a reader could hear it the same way I did. What could I do?

My first trip to Ireland helped solve the dilemma. The tour guide handed out a list of Irish-English vs. American-English words to help us Yanks fit in with the locals (right.)

We learned that in Ireland a cookie is a biscuit. French fries are chips, and potato chips are crisps. Very nice, but irrelevant to my story. And then I found Slanguage.

I enjoyed reading the fanciful phrases in this wonderful book by Bernard Share. Drisheens, shinogues, and sheilamaids filled the pages, but such words weren’t useful if I’d need a glossary at the end of my book. Thankfully I found a treasure trove of terms that wouldn’t flummox a reader at all. The context in which I used them would easily define them, and a few key phrases would help round out my characters. With more than enough ammunition for several books, I got to work.

Revising my stories caused no botheration at all. In fact, it was easy cakes. The boat that had simply sunk was now gone for its tea. The fella merely in love developed a soft eye for his lady. And that idiot who’s always foostering about? What an eejit!

Should I chance my arm and bare a few of the naughtier terms? Come here and I’ll tell yez. A state of chastitution is sure to leave a fella’s privities banjaxed. To remedy the situation, he might give his girl a ride on his crossbar. But they should invite Rubber Johnny along or she’ll be up the flue.

At first I felt pig-ignorant exploring such a power of words, but now I think I can pass myself. Still, I’m only trotting after the true jaw-slingers. Mr. Share did me an obligement by writing his book, and I found several others packed with phrases that not only twisted hay with my imagination, they left me gobsmacked.

A Glossary of Irish Slang by Diarmaid Ó Muirithe, Dictionary of Cork Slang by Seán Beecher, and A Dictionary of Hiberno-English by Terence Patrick Dolan are only a few of the wonderful books out there. Then there are the web sites. Googling "Irish Slang" produces some entertaining results.

One of my favorite slang-related sites is http://www.overheardindublin.com/, a fabulous compilation of e-mails sent in by ordinary folks from their earwigging of real conversations in Dublin. The site has generated three (so far) delightful paperbacks: Overheard in Dublin, Overheard in Dublin Again, and More Overheard in Dublin. These books by siblings Gerard Kelly and Sinéad Kelly offer hilarious snippets of Irish life that will delight every dog and devil.

There. All done and dusted.

Enya the Bride

2011-11-07T07:16:00.010-05:00

When the ancestors of the modern Irish arrived in Ireland 1700 years before Christ, they defeated the Tuatha de Danann, the magical Tribe of the Goddess Danu. The leader of the Dananns, a womanizing rascal named Finvarra, negotiated a truce with the Irish that gave them half of Ireland—the bottom half. And so, the Dananns became known as the Daoine Sídhe (Deena Shee), the People of the Mounds.

Finvarra supposedly lives in a palace beneath a hill in Galway. During a recent trip to the Emerald Isle, I stopped by this hill, called Knock Ma (See my post, Knock Moo). I wanted to see Finvarra's home, as he costars in Glancing Through the Glimmer, my young adult adventure coming soon from MuseItUp Publishing. I didn't meet him that day, but the local postman assured me that he and his fairy troop were there.

Here is a wonderful old Irish tale starring Finvarra, the King of the Connaught Fairies.

ENYA the BRIDE

Retold by Pat McDermott

As everyone knows, the beauty of mortal women attracts the fairies. Finvarra, the King of the Connaught Fairies, enlisted his minions to find and abduct the prettiest ladies in Ireland. The fairies bewitched the loveliest women and brought them to Finvarra’s crystal palace beneath Knock Ma in Galway. The women heard only fairy music, which lulled them into a trance. They remained enchanted, forgetting about mortal life and living as if in a dream.

Long ago, in that part of the country, a great lord had a comely wife called Enya. He held feasts in her honor and filled his castle from dawn till dusk with music. Lords and ladies danced with great pleasure in Enya’s honor.

At the merriest part of the feast one evening, Enya entered the dance. She wore silver gossamer bound with jewels that outshone the stars in heaven. Suddenly, she released the hand of her partner and fell to the floor in a swoon.

The servants carried her to her chamber, where she lay insensible all night. At dawn, she awoke and told them she’d spent the night in a beautiful palace. "Oh, how I long to go back to sleep and return there in my dreams!"

The servants watched her all day, and she fared well enough, but when evening fell, they heard music at her window. She fell again into a trance from which no one could rouse her.

The young lord set Enya’s old nurse to sit with her, but the silence enticed the woman to sleep until dawn. When she looked at the bed, she saw to her horror that Enya had vanished.

The household searched the castle and gardens but found no trace of Enya. The young lord sent riders into the wind, but no one had seen her. He saddled his chestnut steed and galloped away to Knock Ma to speak to Finvarra, the King of the Fairies, for he and Finvarra were friends. Many a keg of good wine did the young lord leave outside his castle to quench the thirst of the fairies. Finvarra would surely have tidings of Enya.
But little did the young lord know that Finvarra himself was the traitor.

When the young lord stopped by the fairy rath, he heard voices in the air: "Finvarra is happy now, for in his palace he has the bride who will never more see her husband’s face."

"Aye," spoke another. "Finvarra is more powerful than any mortal man, though if the husband dug down through the hill, he would find his bride."

The young lord swore that devil nor fairy nor even Finvarra himself would stand between him and his bride. He sent word to every able-bodied man in the county to come with their spades and pickaxes, and they dug to find the fairy palace.

They made a deep trench, and at sunset they quit for the night. But the very next morning they found that the clay was back in the trench, as if the hill had never been dug.

The brave young lord asked the men to continue their digging, and they dug the trench again. For three days they dug with the same result: the clay was put back each night, and they were no nearer to Finvarra’s palace.

The young lord prepared to die of grief, then he heard a whisper in the air: "Sprinkle the soil you have dug with salt, and the salt will preserve your work."

He scoured the countryside for salt. That night, his men salted the soil they had dug that day. At dawn, they awakened to find the trench safe and the earth untouched around it.
The young lord knew he had beaten Finvarra. He bade the men dig, and by the next day, they’d cut a glen right through the hill. When they put their ears to the ground, they heard fairy music, and voices floated on the air.

"Now," said one, "Finvarra is sad, for if those men strike a blow on his palace, it will crumble and fade away."

"Then let him surrender the bride," said another, "and we shall all be safe."

Then Finvarra himself spoke clear as a silver bugle: "Stop!" he said. "Lay down your spades, mortal men, and at sunset the bride shall return to her husband. I, Finvarra, have spoken."

The young lord commanded his men to stop digging. At sunset he mounted his chestnut steed and rode to the top of the glen, and just as the sun turned the sky blood-red, Enya appeared on the path. He lifted her to the saddle, and they rode to the castle like storm wind.

But Enya spoke not a word. Days passed, then months, and she lay on her bed in a trance.

Sorrow fell over the castle. The young lord and his people feared the enchantment could not be broken. But late one night, when he rode in the dark, he heard voices in the air.

"It is now a year and a day since the young lord reclaimed his bride, but she is no use to him. Though her form is beside him, her spirit is still with the fairies."

Another said, "She will be so until he breaks the spell. He must loosen the pin from the girdle she wears at her waist, and then he must burn the girdle. He must throw the ashes before the door and bury the pin in the earth. Only then will she speak and know true life."

The young lord spurred his horse and hastened to Enya’s chamber, where she lay like a lovely wax figure. He loosened her girdle and found the pin in its folds. He burned the girdle and scattered the ashes before the door, and he buried the pin in the earth, beneath a fairy thorn, that no hand would disturb it.

When he returned to his young wife, she looked up at him smiling and held out her hand.

Knock Ma

Joyfully he raised her to him and kissed her, and she stood as if no time had passed between them, as if the year she had spent with the fairies was only a dream.

The cut in the hill remains to this day and is called "The Fairy’s Glen."

("Enya the Bride" originally appeared on The Celtic Rose)

Tam Lin, the Stolen Knight

2011-11-01T09:05:00.000-04:00

Magical transformation legends abound in the lore of many cultures, yet the tale of the elfin knight Tam Lin is uniquely, deliciously Scottish. The rendition below is based on several versions of this renowned folk ballad, one of 305 collected by Harvard Professor Francis James Child during his nineteenth century tour of the British Isles. Scottish the tale may be, but Tam Lin loosely inspired my soon-to-be-released young adult novel, Glancing Through the Glimmer, uniquely, deliciously Irish.

TAM LIN

Retold by Pat McDermott

Long ago, in the Scottish Borders, the people whispered of harm befalling young women who passed through the wood called Carterhaugh. This land belonged to Janet, the daughter of the Earl of March. The rumors of violence in her beloved forest enraged her—especially when her father forbade her and the maidens of his court to venture near Carterhaugh.

Undaunted, Janet called for her horse. She braided her yellow hair, tucked up her green petticoat, and galloped off to Carterhaugh to gather flowers for her gowns. She had cut only two red roses when an angry young man appeared before her.

“I am Tam Lin,” he said in a dusky voice. “Who gave you leave to pluck my roses?”

Janet raised her chin. “Your roses? These lands were part of my mother’s dowry. They are mine now. I’ll come and go as I please and ask leave of no one.”

Tam Lin seized Janet and had his will of her. He vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving her deflowered and bewildered. She returned home hoping no one would learn of her folly, but as summer turned to autumn, her waist began to swell.

One of her father’s elderly knights offered to marry her, saying her father wished to keep her from shame. “I’ll marry no old man,” she said, “nor name any among you the father of my child.”

Yet Janet wondered what she would do. On a fine autumn morning, she returned to Carterhaugh seeking her fairy lover. The roses were nearly gone, and so, it seemed, was Tam Lin. When she knelt to pick the last pink rose, she caught a whiff of mint. Lurking nearby were the small round leaves of pennyroyal, a herb women used to dispense with unwanted babes. Janet sadly forsook the pink rose and bent to pluck the herb.

“Would you kill the babe we got between us, Janet?”

Both relieved and afraid, she rose and confronted Tam Lin. ”What sort of child would I bear, and his father of the fairy ilk?”

“I was sired by a mortal knight and born of a mortal lady, as were you, Janet. Some years ago, as I hunted nearby, an unearthly drowsiness came over me. The Queen of Fairies caught me when I fell from my horse. She keeps me under her spell, and though I want for nothing, I long to return to the home and lands that are rightfully mine.”

“You can never leave?”

He shook his head. “Worse is to come, I fear. Every seven years, the fairies must pay a tithe to hell. The tithe is due tonight, and I suspect it will be me.”

Janet’s heart beat in her throat. The child within her leapt. “Can nothing save you?”

“Mayhap. Tonight is Halloween, and the fairy folk ride. They will pass Miles Cross at the murk of midnight. If you bide there, you can win me from them.”

“I will come,” she said, “but how will I know you among them? What am I to do?”

“Wait by the stream and watch. The knights on black steeds will pass first, then the ladies and the Queen of Fairies on their brown mares. I will ride the milk-white steed that follows. They give me that honor, for I was an earthly knight. You must pull me from my steed. Can you do that, and you with child?”

Janet swallowed hard and looked him in the eye. “I can if it will deliver you from them.”

His fleeting smile turned to a worried frown. “You will hear them shout that Tam Lin is away. They will wield great magic to recapture me. Be brave and remember: I am your baby’s father.”

“You will say so to more than me, Tam Lin. What kind of magic?”

Again, he smiled, this time with a gleam of hope. “They will turn me in your arms to many fearsome creatures, but for the love of our child, hold me fast and fear me not. When at last they turn me to a burning coal, throw me into the stream at once. I will come to you a naked knight. Hide me in your mantle, and all will be well.”

Tam Lin melted into the air.

That night, when the moon rose, Janet stole from her father’s hall and rode to Miles Cross as fast as she dared. Clouds rolled in and covered the moon and stars, and she waited alone in the darkness. Hours passed. She nearly lost hope.

Then the tinkle of bridles rang in the distance, and the moon broke free of the clouds. Casting a terrible light of their own, the fairy folk rode toward her.

Fearsome knights pranced by on black steeds that breathed fire. Ladies on brown mares with jewels on their reins came next. When the milk-white steed appeared, Janet grabbed the rider’s leg and wrenched him from the horse.

“He’s away!” cried the fairies. “Tam Lin is away!”

The man in Janet’s arms became a fierce wolf. She screamed, but she held him fast. He changed to a hissing snake, and she thought she would faint. A lion came next, but she never let go. When Tam Lin turned to a burning coal, she flung him into the stream.

He came to her, as he said he would, a naked knight. She cloaked him in her mantle.

The Queen of Fairies cursed the woman who’d stolen her earthly knight. “Had I known you would leave us, Tam Lin,” she cried, “I would have put out your eyes long ago, that you never could tell what you saw in my realm.”

The fairies vanished. Tam Lin kissed Janet, and she brought him to her father’s hall.

("Tam Lin" originally appeared on Celtic Queens)

"Band of Roses" Trilogy Under Contract!

2011-08-23T15:07:00.000-04:00

I'm delighted to announce that my complete "Band of Roses" trilogy, A Band of Roses, Fiery Roses, and Salty Roses, are now under contract with MuseItUp Publishing. Release dates are tentatively set for May, August, and November 2012. Excerpts are available on my web site's Writing Page.

Alaska - The Celtic Connection

2011-08-06T17:06:00.008-04:00

Baby Polar Bear Courtesy of Photobucket

Nearly everywhere I’ve traveled, I’ve found something Celtic to weave into the stories I write. Last month's Alaskan cruise proved a challenge in this respect. A recent Trinity College Dublin study states that ancient hanky-panky between Irish brown bears and prehistoric polar bears produced the modern polar bear. Would that do? Probably not. It wasn’t until the end of the trip that I found the Alaskan/Celtic connection I needed to enhance my work-in-progress.

Despite all the shore excursions and cruise activities, I got some work done. Stealing a block of writing time (and a Kir Royale or two) in one of the ship’s secluded spots proved no hardship. By the end of the voyage, I’d managed to draft three chapters of Autumn Glimmer, a young adult adventure set in Ireland, and the sequel to Glancing Through the Glimmer, scheduled for release this November. I’ve spent months reading mythology and archaeology books to spruce up my knowledge of water fairies, lake monsters, and crannogs, man-made islands built in lakes and rivers by prehistoric and medieval people. Fairies and monsters make sense to me. The crannogs do not.

Ten months have passed since I blogged about my visit to the Connemara Heritage and History Centre to view a reconstructed crannog. Archaeologists have dated these lake dwellings to prehistoric times. Written history tells us the Irish still inhabited them during the Elizabethan period, when they served as forts, arsenals, and hideouts. Who first built these strange abodes? And for all the toil it took to construct them, why did they bother?

Theories abound; I’ll note a few here. In Mesolithic times, impenetrable forests covered Ireland. Lakes and rivers served as the people’s highways, and they might have built crannogs as clan gathering places during seasonal festivals. Still, I can’t help wondering why the people didn’t simply fell a few trees and build houses. The idea that they venerated trees and refused to cut them down doesn’t work. They set plenty of tree trunks into the lake beds as foundations for their crannogs.

Did they live on the water because they felt the woodlands belonged to the forest gods they very likely worshiped? Or did they fear the wild boars, wolves, bears, and gigantic, lethally antlered deer who lived in the woods? Perhaps the ancients revered a sun god and had to go out on the lake to commune with him because the dense forest canopy blocked the sky. Then there’s the idea that if clearing land for cattle and crops proved more labor intensive than building crannogs, the people would consider their precious arable and pasture too valuable to waste on human habitation.

Crannogs clearly housed a wide range of social classes over the ages. In addition to weapons, sewing needles, and tradesmen’s tools, archaeologists have unearthed precious objects only the privileged classes could have afforded. The discovery of manacles suggests some crannogs served as prisons. Most experts believe pre-Celtic peoples used crannogs as storage facilities, for shelter and defense, and for platforms from which they tossed votive offerings to assuage lake gods. Some crannogs stood as single structures. Temples or shrines? Others formed entire "water towns." Why?

In my recent post describing the end of my Alaskan cruise, I mentioned a catamaran trip to Misty Fjords, a glacially carved wilderness accessible only by boat or plane. In a small inlet called God’s Pocket, the naturalist on board narrated the Native American history of the area. She also described how the mountains teemed with bald eagles, brown and black bears, moose, wolverines, river otters, black-tailed deer, mountain goats, mink, beavers, and foxes. She pointed out a rocky ledge frequently crossed by wolf packs. Spruce, hemlock, and cedar covered the steep slopes right down to the shore. No hiking trails pierced the trees, and hikers who dared to explore the region often lost their way.

Gazing out at the fiercely beautiful scenery, I sensed an odd kinship with the first crannog builders. I felt eerily safe on the tour boat, and I was only visiting the area for a few short hours. For superstitious peoples living their entire lives in such a ruggedly primitive world, a crannog must have imparted an otherworldly sense of security, a mystical, life-giving refuge whose protective waters provided food and simplified travel.

I already have my lake monster and a troop of mischievous water fairies. I think I’m good to go.

Juneau and Ketchikan

2011-07-29T09:15:00.005-04:00

Juneau From the Ship

Alaska’s Gastineau Channel, a prized fishing ground for the native Alaskan Tlingit people for thousands of years, provides the scenic setting for Juneau. The capital of Alaska since 1906, this former mining town came into being shortly after two prospectors, Joe Juneau and Richard Harris, arrived in 1880 and learned from Chief Kowee of the presence of gold in a nearby creek. By the mid 1940s, gold mining had declined, leaving the government as the basis of Juneau’s economy. Alaska became a state in 1959, and plans to move the capital to a larger city fell through. Today the lucrative trades of fishing and tourism augment the business of governing the state.

We began our tour with a stroll along the city’s main street and visited lots of gift shops, some touristy, most exhibiting lovely works of locally produced art. At a row of tour stalls on the pier, we booked a bus tour to see both the city and the famous Mendenhall Glacier, a dazzling frozen river that sprouts from the Juneau Icefield.

The Mendenhall Glacier

The Ice Up Close - So Blue!

The Crystal Symphony Docked in Juneau

The next day, the Symphony docked at Ketchikan, the "Salmon Capital of the World." The busy harbor teemed with seaplanes and boats, and though the frontier streets beckoned, we wouldn’t have time for a stroll through the town, much of which perched on pilings over the water. We had booked a 5-hour catamaran cruise to Misty Fjords National Monument.

Ketchikan also bears the dubious distinction of the "Rain Capital of Alaska." We began our tour in the covered top deck wondering if the drizzly gray skies would be with us all day. Soon, we were out on deck, for the weather cleared as we made our way through a lush green wilderness carved out by glaciers. Using an entertaining storytelling style, a knowledgeable naturalist told us of the geology, ecology, and history of the areas we visited. For me, Misty Fjords, which provides a breathtakingly beautiful habitat for bald eagles, wolves, bears, deer, moose, fox, and goats, and other sea and animal life, was the highlight of the cruise.

Misty Fjords

New Eddystone Rock (Volcanic Formation)

One of Misty Fjord's Many Waterfalls

Water Deep Green from the Trees
and the Minerals on the Lake Bed

We spent two relaxing days at sea returning to San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, enjoying the Captain’s Formal Farewell dinner along the way. We’d had a wonderful time, seen lots of gorgeous scenery, eaten some great food, met new friends, even played a game of Mexican Train Dominoes with my aunt and uncle. I hope to enjoy another Crystal cruise one day and hear Louie Armstrong warbling "What a Wonderful World" as the ship departs each port.

♪ Oh, yeah! ♫

Skagway

2011-07-15T14:56:00.003-04:00

We woke to find the sea filled with good-sized chunks of ice, some with seals aboard. The captain announced that the icy conditions ruled out our scheduled trip to the Hubbard Glacier. Though disappointed, the passengers made no complaint. We sailed out to sea and on to Skagway.

At the height of the Klondike Gold Rush, prospectors entered the goldfields through Skagway. Surrounded by snow-capped mountains, this frontier town sits at the head of the Taiya Inlet on the northern end of the Lynn Canal, a fjord on Alaska’s Inside Passage. Skagway derives its name from Schkagua, a native Alaskan Tlingit word meaning "Home of the North Wind." The wind blew nonstop as we strolled along the old-fashioned boardwalks, and the locals told us it does so every day of the year.

A Quick Walk into Town

Statue of Gold Rush Prospectors

Skagway's Main Street

The restored buildings look as they did in the late 1890s, when Skagway was the largest town in Alaska. A few saloons remain, but most of the businesses are geared toward tourism now. We visited several jewelry and souvenir stores and the museums tucked between them.

Wax Figures in a Saloon Museum

Nothing special in the jewelry stores, I thought. Then I spotted a display of ivory jewelry carved from woolly mammoth tusks. I had to ask about it, as I thought such relics would be in a museum. The store owner told me that mastodon and mammoth tusks still turn up everywhere in Alaska, most notably in river beds, where they pop out as the soil washes down. Depending on whether the tusks are found on private, public, or federal land, forms are filled out, the paleontologists have a look, and if they don’t want it, the finder of the tusk is free to dispose of it as he or she wishes.

A Mammoth Tusk

Next up: Juneau

Sitka, Alaska

2011-07-09T11:05:00.002-04:00

A day at sea gave the Crystal Symphony’s talented chefs a chance to present their Grand Gala Buffet, a fantasy of culinary delights. From the ice sculptures to the vibrant displays of delicious food, they put on a fabulous show.

Early the next sunny morning, the Symphony stopped at Sitka, the former capital of Russian America. Nestled in a jewel of a harbor surrounded by snow-capped mountains thick with spruce trees, Sitka is reputedly one of the prettiest towns in Alaska.

Russian explorer Alexander Baranof arrived in the area in 1799. After defeating the native Alaskan Tlingits in a series of bloody battles, he established a colony/trading post, which he called New Archangel. The Russians sold Alaska to the United States in 1867, and the town received its current name. Sitka is derived from Sheet’ká, a native phrase meaning People on the Outside of Shee, "Shee" being the Tlingit name for Baranof Island.

The ship anchored out in the harbor, and we took the tender in to explore. We toured St. Michael’s Cathedral, a Russian Orthodox church built in the mid-nineteenth century that houses an array of religious treasures and artwork.

St. Michael's Cathedral, Sitka

A stroll along the scenic waterfront brought us to the Sitka National Historical Park, where we watched a documentary on the history of Sitka from three different perspectives: the Tlingit view, the Russian view, and the American view.

We only had a few hours in Sitka. I would have liked another day! The tender brought us back to the Symphony for a hurried lunch, after which we boated back into town for an afternoon excursion aboard the Sea Life Discovery. From this ingenious semi-submersible vessel, we viewed several fascinating underwater habitats, including an eel grass bed and a giant kelp forest. A diver went down with a video camera to show us some fantastic sea life. We enjoyed a cruise through Sitka’s scenic harbor, and at the end of our tour, our Tlingit guide told us that his language has no word for good-bye, only "Until we meet again."

Victoria and Vancouver

2011-06-30T11:03:00.003-04:00

Himalayan Blue Poppy / Butchart Gardens

Frequent rain showers keep things green in the Pacific Northwest. No worries. We’ve visited Ireland too often to let weather interfere with a trip. Along with our rain gear, we packed sunscreen and visored hats (my husband's Red Sox baseball cap generated some interesting conversations with Vancouver hockey fans). For our first stop, we were glad we did.

We spent our first full day on the Crystal Symphony at sea, a relaxing cruise that ended in the lavish Captain’s Welcome Dinner. The next morning, we docked at Vancouver Island’s Ogden Point Pier in Victoria, the capital of Vancouver, British Columbia.

Captain James Cook discovered the island in the late 1700's. The British traders who settled there named the sparsely settled island after Queen Victoria. In 1858, the gold rush brought a population boom. Victoria, now a popular destination for tourists, is nicknamed the "City of Gardens," and with good reason.

Delighted to have a sunny day, we visited the renowned Butchart Gardens. Our tour began with high tea in the house that cement mogul Robert Butchart built around the turn of the twentieth century for Jennie, his dynamic bride. When Robert’s cement business tapped out the property’s limestone quarry, Jennie transformed the place into a spectacular sunken garden. The Butchart family still supervises the estate and have added hundreds of exotic plantings over the years. Now a 55-acre paradise, it includes Japanese, Italian, and Rose gardens. Our June 4th visit was too early for the roses, but the rhododendrons were in full bloom and surrounded us with rainbows of color.

We sailed off that evening and docked the next day in Vancouver City. Sunshine graced us again as we headed to the waterfront for a stroll through the historic Gastown district, Vancouver's first downtown section. Gastown was named after steamboat captain and saloon keeper "Gassy" Jack Deighton, who arrived in 1867 and opened the area's first saloon. His rough, tough customers hailed from the ranks of loggers, sailors, trappers, and fishermen.

"Gassy" Jack Deighton

Gastown’s most famous landmark, the Gastown Steam Clock, covers a steam grate that is part of Vancouver's steam-heat system. The clock not only works by harnessing the steam beneath it, it prevents vagrants from sleeping on the spot in cold weather.

The sun still shone when we returned to the ship, and we relaxed in the top deck’s open air hot tub. Vancouver surrounded us, as did other cruise ships. Seaplanes, a common sight in the area, buzzed in and out of the water.

Vancouver

The Crystal Symphony spent another day at sea on her way to Alaska, and the crew had plans to keep us busy.

North to Alaska

2011-06-25T13:18:00.004-04:00

My husband and I have always wanted to visit Alaska. We decided we'd cruise to The Last Frontier to celebrate a major wedding anniversary. Two years ago, we thoroughly enjoyed sailing around the British Isles with Crystal Cruises (see Cruising Into History), and we didn't hesitate to book our Alaskan adventure with them.

Before we departed from San Francisco, we enjoyed a brief visit with my intrepid aunt and uncle, who live in northern California’s idyllic Sonoma County. John and Diane would be cruising with us, and though they were busy packing, they found time for a daytrip to the Alexander Valley.

We visited Geyserville, where, set in the midst of acres of vineyards, Francis Ford Coppola added a park and Movie Gallery to his outstanding winery. Displays of props and memorabilia that include Don Corleone's desk from "The Godfather" and costumes from "Dracula" delighted us. Mr. Coppola’s countless awards had a showcase of their own. After touring the sunny grounds, which included a swimming pool and bocce ball court, we enjoyed a delicious lunch in Rustic, the winery’s restaurant, whose menu ranged from burgers and fries to classic Italian cuisine. And delicious wine, of course.

A Few of Francis Ford Coppola's Awards

Godfather Don Corleone's Desk

Various Movie Costumes

Mike, Me, Diane, and John Outside the
Francis Ford Coppola Winery Guest Reception Area

Our departure date arrived. My husband and uncle did a stellar job of fitting luggage for four into Diane’s car. We drove to San Francisco and boarded the gorgeous Crystal Symphony, which had taken the four of us around the British Isles.

The Crystal Symphony

The crew led us to the main dining room for a pre-departure lunch that included complimentary champagne. It all came back to me: the waiter holds my chair, and after he seats me, he unfolds the napkin and sets it in my lap. Oh, yes. We’re going to have a wonderful time, and I'm going to get lots of writing done!

The Golden Gate Bridge

Once we’d settled into our small but well-appointed staterooms, we made our way to the top deck to watch the Symphony sail from San Francisco Bay. We glided under the Golden Gate Bridge to Crystal’s signature departure song, a recording of Louie Armstrong warbling "What a Wonderful World." Our Alaskan adventure had begun.

♪ Oh, yeah! ♫

Ireland's Lake Monsters

2011-03-29T16:26:00.006-04:00

Péist, Péiste, Payshta. However you spell it or say it, Ireland’s legendary water monsters are horrible things. Early Irish legend is rife with these gigantic, jaw-snapping brutes, and according to local legends, they still swallow cattle and sheep and lure unfortunate humans into the lakes of Ireland to drown.

The word péist is Irish for worm. It often connotes a reptilian creature akin to Nessie of Loch Ness fame. In Irish folklore, these beasts terrorized Ireland until a few brave saints subdued them with prayers, or great warrior heroes slew them with swords, often having to cut their way out of the Péiste's stomach after becoming lunch.

The Péiste makes a cameo appearance in Autumn Glimmer, my Young Adult Work-in-Progress. In the scene below, Ireland’s Prince Liam Boru, a seventeen-year-old storyteller, or shanachie, is walking with his American girlfriend, Janet Gleason, through the woods of his family’s County Wicklow estate. He tells her about the Péiste.

He returned the bottles to the backpack, and they left the bridge for an unpaved path still damp from last night’s rain. The leaf-strewn trail wound through a tunnel of golden ferns, ivy-tangled shrubs, and low hanging branches of beech and oak. Spider webs clung to the crooks of the trees; rainbows of oddly shaped fungi rose from rotting logs. Coaxed by gentle breezes, butterscotch leaves breathed their last and floated to earth in flickering sunbeams. In harmony with Glensheelin’s birds, a constant rustle, the rustle of autumn, filled the woodsy air.

Janet hopped over a puddle and hooked her arm through his. “You were saying about the Péiste?”

“The what? Oh. Right.” He knew the look well: she’d caught him dreaming. He pressed her arm against his ribs. “The word means worm, or dragon. In Irish folklore, the Péiste is a serpenty beast with a horselike mane down its back. They live in lakes and rivers and guard ancient treasures or the doorways to the Otherworld.”

“Ireland has lots of lakes.”

“And almost every one has a Péiste legend. Most of the stories are put down to eels or otters that grew larger than normal, or even wild horses off for a swim. The rest were undoubtedly made up by landowners trying to scare off trespassers, or by parents trying to keep their kids away from the water.”

“Makes sense. In Fintan’s tale, the monster ate fairies. Have you ever heard of that?”

“No. Fintan outdid himself last night. One of the first things he taught me was, don’t be afraid to embellish a tale when an audience sits in the palm of your hands. I suspect he went for terror, it being Halloween and all. Tonight should be even better.”

Janet made a shivering noise. “He sure got me.” She jumped at the sudden crackle of twigs to their left.

Liam peered into the gloom. A familiar form bustled off through the woods. “It’s only a deer. Not a monster.”

“I know. There are no monsters. Davin and the others have nothing to worry about when they go diving in the lake, right?”
Right.

Riding the Fairy Wind

2011-02-20T10:33:00.005-05:00

As many of you know, the fairies of Ireland star in my forthcoming young adult novel, Glancing Through the Glimmer. I couldn’t have written the book without learning more about the Good Folk and their ways, and, as usual, my research has led to bursting bookshelves. Most of these volumes are my own acquisitions, though some are on loan from my aunts’ incredible library of Irish lore and history, books so old the pages are falling apart. Among my favorites are the authoritative A History of Irish Fairies by Carolyn White, and Meeting the Other Crowd, a fabulous collection of eyewitness accounts of “Them” from Irish oral tradition.

I learned lots, enough for a sequel. Autumn Glimmer, my current work-in-progress, features the Fairy Wind, a supernatural phenomenon known in Irish as the Sí-gaoith (Shee-Gwee-ha). According to those who understand such things, the Fairy Wind usually signals the passage of a fairy troop. In its more sinister forms, the wind delivers a grave warning to mortals trespassing on or interfering with fairy property—and it inflicts dire vengeance upon those who foolishly ignore the warning.

The Good Folk aren’t all bad, however. Sometimes the Fairy Wind serves as a gift to those who require assistance. A farmer struggling to harvest his hay might find it suddenly blown into a tidy pile, thank you very much.

Mortals have, of course, provided every account I’ve seen of the Sí-gaoith. In this brief excerpt from Autumn Glimmer, I offer the Good People’s take on the Fairy Wind. As “They” have clearly allowed me to do so, who knows? Perhaps this is how it really happens.

Blinn clapped her hands twice and summoned the Fairy Wind: “Sí-gaoith!” A breeze arose in Crooked Wood, a gently whistling gust that rapidly grew loud and powerful. She shouted over the racket: “Line up, boys. We’re going for a ride!”

Lewy scooted behind her; Mell took up the rear. Eddies of fallen foliage whirled like small tornadoes, gaining in speed and number. As if they had a life of their own—Lewy supposed they did, thanks to Blinn—they converged on the trio of foraging fairies, surrounding them in a wall of buzzing, spinning leaves.

“Whoa ho!” cried Mell as they rose in the air.

He grabbed Lewy’s waist, and Lewy grabbed Blinn’s. A sudden upward tilt forced them to sit on the firm bed the swirling leaves had formed. The wind took off, soaring like a magic carpet, whisking them up and over the trees.

Away With the Fairies

2011-02-11T07:37:00.013-05:00

“In a shady nook one moonlit night a leprechaun I spied . . .”

Thanks to my family’s love of music, I learned the poem/song, The Leprechaun, when I was knee-high to a fairy. ‘Twas on an Irish record, of course, one of many recorded by the great Irish tenor, John McCormack.

I knew about the teensy Tinker Bell types of fairies from stories like Peter Pan and Sleeping Beauty, but the fairies of Irish folklore were always leprechauns to me. Not so, I learned while delving into the wealth of literature depicting these elusive beings. Leprechauns belong to the class of “Solitary Fairies,” which includes cluricauns, dullahans, pookas, merrows, silkies, and banshees.

Then we have the “Trooping Fairies” who party in crystal palaces beneath the hills and lakes of Ireland. During my last trip to the Emerald Isle, my husband and I visited Knock Ma (See Knock Moo), the hill in County Galway said to house the palace of Finvarra, the King of the Connaught Fairies. Finvarra costars in my forthcoming Young Adult novel, Glancing Through the Glimmer. We didn't meet him that day, but the local postman assured us that he and his troop were there.

It’s no surprise that these beings and the lore surrounding them have inspired many tales over the years. Glancing Through the Glimmer incorporates alternate Irish history with the magic of the Other Crowd, and it has been a joy to research. More than once, I’ve felt inexplicable tugs toward wonderfully inspiring articles and books.

I’ve found countless web sites devoted to fairies, faeries, fae, fay, etc. During my latest visit to Ireland, I added several volumes on the Good Folk to my personal library. The public library helped my research too, but my most successful foray was into the incredible collection of Irish books my aunts have compiled over the years (See Seeking Irish Heroines.)

Every culture has fairies, whole hierarchies of them. In Ireland they aren’t the cute little Walt Disney squeakers we all know and love. Many are human-size, and all can be downright mean if one crosses them. Hair, eyes, teeth, and toenails can all fall out if we mortals distress them. (I'm in high hopes they’ve willingly joined the cast of Glimmer.)

My grandmother once said that when she was a child in County Sligo (circa 1910), her father would set out a line of stones before he erected an outbuilding on their farm. If in the morning the stones were still where he’d placed them, he knew he was good to go. If not, then the fairies had disapproved of his choice, and he had to try again. Superstitious nonsense?

I’ve visited Ireland too many times to be sure, to be sure. What do you think?

The Leprechaun

(Attributed to Robert Dwyer Joyce)

In a shady nook one moonlit night,
A leprechaun I spied

In a scarlet cap and a coat of green,
A cruiskeen* by his side.

'Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went
Upon a tiny shoe,

And I laughed to think of a purse of gold,
But the fairy was laughing too.

With tiptoe step and beating heart,
Quite softly I drew nigh.

There was mischief in his merry face,
A twinkle in his eye.

He hammered and sang with tiny voice
And drank his mountain dew.

And I laughed to think he was caught at last,
But the fairy was laughing too.

As quick as thought I seized the elf.
"You're fairy purse!" I cried.

"The purse," he said, "is in her hand,
The lady by your side."

I turned to look, the elf was off,
And what was I to do?

Oh, I laughed to think what a fool I'd been,
And the fairy was laughing too.

* jug

Fuel Efficiency

2010-11-22T09:33:00.002-05:00

My developing young adult story jerks like a crotchety old car that doesn’t want to go for a ride on a cold New Hampshire morning. Stop and start, rev and stall. What will I call it? Why am I writing a sequel when the first book hasn’t found a home yet? Will I have a page or two ready for my writing partners in time for our next meeting?

I don’t worry too much, as I’ve done it all before. The story will soon leave rubber. Yet so many ideas churn in my mind, I don’t know what to write. My muddled thoughts confuse and distract me. It’s a familiar feeling. It makes me crazy.

I love it.

Treasure

I am running on high test. Not only have I visited several web sites (some of which will surely have me on the “radical watch” list of those who track such things), I have read a variety of books obtained both in Ireland and in my aunts’ amazing library. But did all that reading about bardic poems, magical herbs, fairies and archaeology start this quandary in the first place?

No. As one of my favorite old Irish sayings goes, “Seeking one thing often finds another.” Research inspires. I doubt I'll ever write about dendrochronological data or the River Lagan’s Water Monster. These interesting tidbits might clog the fuel line, but they swirl with the fairy wind and the leg irons found beneath old forts. Fine, but how do I sort all these tidbits for better fuel combustion?

I procrastinate by insisting I must finish other writing projects. Between loads of laundry, grocery runs, and social visits, I wonder if I should escape to a writing retreat. I launch a new cooking blog and begin reading L.A. Meyer's wonderfully addictive Bloody Jack books. Creating a new Windows Media playlist inspires me. I zoom in the left lane for a bit, then stop to clean bird droppings from the windshield. I manage to write the first chapter.

The pit crew is ready. Soon, the story will rip down the track like a well-tuned sports racer. I might be driving the vehicle, but I will have no power to stop it.

I can’t wait.

Creative Chaos, Celtic Style

2010-11-07T14:03:00.009-05:00

French artist Paul Cézanne once said, “We live in a rainbow of chaos.” German scholar Friedrich Nietzsche agreed: “You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” If they’re right, I'm well on my way to creative bliss.

One look at the disaster that passes for my office would tell anyone that I've plunged into a new story. Photos of woodland fungi sit atop books about mythology, pirates, and stage lighting. Magazines depicting luxury real estate hide beneath piles of recipes for Monday night writers’ group supper. Homework for Tuesday night writing class litters shelves usually reserved for statues and knickknacks. Dust has invaded said shelves, statues and knickknacks, and beside my printer is a stack of bills I paid days ago but haven’t filed.

This is good. The best artists in my grammar school classes always had the messiest paintboxes. My “paintbox” is messy with books, most of which I obtained during my recent visit to Ireland. I bought so many, the check-in people at Dublin Airport put a “Heavy” tag on my suitcase.

I’ve almost finished reading them and am particularly enjoying a jewel called “Tales of the West of Ireland.” This collection of vignettes, written by County Mayo native James Berry (1842-1914), has it all: murder and smuggling, rebellion and famine, love and betrayal, all drawn from the oral tradition of the people of Mayo and Galway. Berry's stories first appeared in a local newspaper in the 19th century. In the mid 1960s, the late Gertrude Horgan unearthed and published this work in a well-organized and entertaining anthology.

The book begins with an unusual means of winning a local election: kidnap the opposing voters and lock them up overnight with a supply of good whiskey to keep them happy. The whiskey flowed, and the detainees turned their chaotic abduction into a creative evening of storytelling.

I won’t name the book I read right before that. I’ll only say that it, too, is an anthology, newly published and riddled with typographical errors, misinformation, and annoying author intrusion.

Not so the older fella. James Berry’s writing style might be out of vogue, but his stories are charming snapshots of life in a rural Ireland of yore. I get the sense that the storytellers of Berry’s day were not only well-trained in their craft, but also more interested in relaying a story purely for the story's sake rather than in taking personal credit for doing the job. And the language! I’ll be “borrowing” a phrase or two, as this fine old book has “put the come-hither" on me for sure.

Now if I could only find my keyboard . . .

Heavenly Howth

2010-10-19T15:18:00.008-04:00

View of Howth Head
from the East Pier

Ten miles north of the City of Dublin, the fishing village of Howth occupies a neck of land that juts into the Irish Sea. The rugged southern side of this peninsula overlooks Dublin Bay. On the gentler northern side, Howth Harbor provides shelter for fishing trawlers and private yachts. Beyond the small lighthouse on the East Pier, Ireland’s Eye and Lambay Island loom in the distance like sleeping sea monsters. Fancy boutiques and trendy restaurants line Howth’s main street. Splendid homes dot the rolling hillsides right to the top of Howth Head. Foremost among these grand abodes is Garrymuir, a majestic estate that had been in the Boru family for generations.*

View of Howth Harbor
from Howth Head

Okay, I made up that last sentence. Garrymuir only exists in my novels. Still, Howth is the right place for a majestic estate. I blogged about our hurried visit to this charming fishing village late last summer, but this time we stayed longer and had better weather: we did the glorious cliff walk again.

View of the Irish Sea

The Irish name for Howth is Binn Éadair, the "Hill of Edar." Edar, a chieftain of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, is supposedly buried on Howth Hill. The modern name of Howth emerged during the medieval influx of Vikings to the Dublin area. It comes from höfuth, the Norse word for headland.

Part of the Cliff Walk

As well as providing a well-set stage for my recently completed YA fantasy, Glancing Through the Glimmer, Howth has served as a venue for many events in Irish myth and history. Finn MacCool and his Fianna (the watchers of the coast, the guardians of the shore) reportedly had one of their many outposts up on the cliffs. Sixteenth century Pirate Queen Grace O’Malley paid Howth an outrageous and memorable visit in 1576 (see my previous post, Howth Therapy). And in 1914, author and Irish patriot Robert Erskine Childers smuggled rifles and ammunition for the Irish Volunteers into Howth Harbor aboard his famous yacht, the Asgard.

Heather Blooming
During a Previous Visit

Our latest visit to Howth took place on an early autumn weekday, and so we nearly had the cliff walk to ourselves. The glorious mounds of purple heather and yellow gorse we recalled from our first visit had faded by late September, though the lack of color hardly spoiled our enjoyment of the sweeping scenery. We trekked to the Bailey Lighthouse, climbed the summit to a wind-whipped stand of palm trees, and finished our hike with a stroll to the harbor to visit the seals.

*From Glancing Through the Glimmer by Pat McDermott

But So Pretty!

Enjoying the View

The Connemara Heritage and History Centre

2010-10-11T16:06:00.014-04:00

Roundhouse in the Ring Fort

Research for a new story lured me to the Connemara Heritage & History Centre. I wanted to see their reconstructions of a crannóg (a prehistoric island dwelling) and a ring fort. The Centre listed its GPS coordinates on its web site. My husband punched them in, and Gertrude, our trusty GPS, guided us south from Westport through Connemara's haunting hills and boglands.

Neatly tucked at the foot of a small mountain, the Heritage Centre provided a wonderful audiovisual history of the region, ranging from the first Neolithic settlers to modern times. We learned that the Galway-to-Clifden railway, which ran from 1895 to 1935, opened up the remote Connemara region to the outside world. In 1907, Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi, who married an O’Brien, established the first commercial transatlantic wireless telegraph station on Derrygimla Bog, three miles south of Clifden, the “Capital of Connemara.” The station maintained a twenty-four-hour communication service between Ireland and Nova Scotia until 1922, when it was destroyed during the Irish Civil War.

View of the Crannóg

After browsing the center’s modest but fascinating museum, we explored the huts in the ring fort and visited the crannóg.

Crannógs are man-made islands built in lakes and rivers by prehistoric and medieval people. Six hundred or so have been found in Scotland, but they are more common in Ireland, where the remains of about 2,000 crannógs have been uncovered in the lakes of the midlands, the north, and northwest.

Posing Before the Crannóg

The classic image of these island settlements is of a platform on stilts topped by a roundhouse and surrounded by a protective plank or wattle palisade. We may never know their true purpose, but archaeological findings suggest they might have been defensive retreats, or ceremonial sites, or entire communities that included royal residences. The dwellings could be reached by boat or on foot by traversing slightly submerged causeways of stone or wood.

A Connemara Pony

View of Dan O'Hara's Homestead

The O'Hara Cottage

Next, we ventured up the side of the mountain to visit a small herd of Connemara ponies and the restored homestead of 19th century tenant farmer Dan O’Hara. This unfortunate man was evicted from his farm after putting glass in his windows, a home improvement that caused the landlord to raise his rent. Dan couldn’t pay, and he and his wife and seven children were shipped off to New York. His wife and three of the children didn’t survive the voyage.

Interior of the O'Hara Cottage

The Heritage Centre staff keeps a peat fire burning in the cottage hearth, as if Dan would be along for his tea any minute. Chickens had the run of the yard, and we met a pair of docile donkeys and their adorable baby. All in all, a fascinating snapshot of life in pre-famine Ireland.

Mom and Baby

Me and Dad

Foghorn O'Leghorn

A Most Feminine Sea Captain

2010-10-05T16:18:00.004-04:00

Statue of Grace O'Malley at Westport House

The Town of Westport (Cathair na Mart in Irish: the City of the Beeves) is nestled on the Atlantic coast of western County Mayo, the heart of Pirate Queen Grace O'Malley's territory. Westport is one of Ireland’s few planned towns. In the eighteenth century, the Browne family, owners of the magnificent Westport House, commissioned James Wyatt to design the town to accommodate their workers and tenants. The Brownes are direct descendants of Grace O’Malley, and Westport House stands atop the remains of one of her many castles. Her dungeons are still beneath the house, and we viewed them as part of the self-guided tour we recently enjoyed for the second time.

Dungeons of Westport House

Entrance to Westport House

Before visiting Westport House, we spent a pleasant morning strolling the flower decorated stone bridges crossing the Carrowbeg River, the lovely tree-lined Mall, and the town’s inviting streets. We reacquainted ourselves with favorite shops and pubs before stopping into the Tourist Office for a schedule of the ferries that ran to our destination for the next day: Clare Island, the onetime headquarters of Grace “Granuaile” O’Malley. That evening, we attended a Sean-nós dance presentation called Granuaile, loosely based on the life of—you guessed it—Grace O’Malley.

Clare Island Harbor

The next morning, we drove to Roonagh Quay and caught the ferry for a twenty minute ride across Clew Bay. A rainbow shot over the sea as we approached the hills and cliffs of Clare Island, whose most famous resident was sixteenth century chieftain Grace O’Malley. We went ashore and headed straight to the remains of her castle. The square tower wasn’t as big as I expected, but it was still spectacular to see.

View from Clare Island

Grace O'Malley's Castle
Clare Island

Born around 1530, Grace O'Malley was the only child of Dudara “Black Oak” and Margaret O'Malley. The O'Malley clan had ruled over the Clew Bay area for centuries, making their living as seafaring merchants. Even as a young girl, Grace wanted to follow her father to sea. Her parents tried to dissuade her, stating as one of their arguments that her hair would become ensnared in the ship’s rigging. Undaunted, Grace cut off her hair, earning her the nickname Grainne Mhaol, or Grace the Bald, later shortened to Granuaile. She sailed with her father, and legend has it that on one voyage, pirates boarded their ship. Grace saved her father’s life by jumping on the back of a pirate who threatened him. Her refusal to accept English rule eventually landed her at the court of Queen Elizabeth I, where she was received as a queen in her own right. Grace and Elizabeth died in the same year, 1603.

Ruins of Cottage on Clare Island

Clare Island Abbey

Soaking up the history around us, we hiked along roads bordered by buzzing hedges of brilliant red fuchsia, coming at last to the Clare Island Abbey, which houses a canopied tomb in which Granuaile is supposedly interred. The ancient church was locked, but we explored the grounds and hiked some more before returning to the harbor. Too late for the early ferry and much too early for the last ferry, we thought to find a pub or restaurant, but tourist season was past and the restaurants were closed. We met a couple from Dublin in the same proverbial boat, and together we prevailed upon a local hotelier to open up for us. Drinks in hand, we shortened the rest of the afternoon by exchanging delightful tales with our new friends.

Another rainbow arched across the sky when we returned to Westport, a good omen for the next day’s jaunt to Connemara.

Knock Moo

2010-10-01T14:28:00.004-04:00

Bridge in Westport Town

The Town of Westport, County Mayo, served as our base of operations during our recent visit to Ireland. As Westport is only 80 miles north of Shannon Airport, we drove up the day we flew in. 80 Irish miles are a lot longer than 80 New Hampshire miles, and we were jet-lagged and driving on the “wrong” side of the road, but we had Gertrude, our trusty GPS, and we planned to stop in Tuam to visit the King of the Connaught Fairies.

Tuam, a small town in the Province of Connaught, lies about 20 miles northeast of Galway City. The name is derived from the Latin word tumulus, which means burial mound. Back in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages, the inhabitants used the area as a burial ground.

St. Jarlath's Wheel

According to legend, St. Jarlath founded a monastic settlement there in the early 6th century after his abbot told him to "Go, and wherever your chariot wheel breaks, there shall be the site of your new monastery.” Jarlath's wheel broke at Tuam, and to this day the town has a broken chariot wheel as its heraldic symbol.

In the 11th century, the O’Connor kings of East Connaught built a castle in the town. They wasted no time defeating the O'Flaherty chieftains of West Connaught and became the Kings of All Connaught—at least above the ground.

The Annals of the Four Masters states that the Milesians, the ancestors of the modern Irish, arrived in Ireland 1700 years before Christ. They defeated the Tuatha de Danann, the magical Tribe of the Goddess Danu. Most of the Dananns left the Emerald Isle, though some opted to stay. They became known as the Daoine Sídhe (Deena Shee), the People of the Mounds. Their leader, a womanizing rascal named Finvarra, negotiated a truce with the Milesians that gave half of Ireland to the sídhe—the bottom half. The sídhe could stay as long as they remained underground. For the most part, they complied, living in great subterranean palaces. Eventually, they became known as the fairy folk, and for all we know, they’re still there.

Finvarra, the King of the Connaught Fairies, allegedly lived near Tuam in a palace beneath a hill called Knock Ma. Recent archaeological evidence has uncovered many ancient tombs on the hill. Tradition holds that among them are the tombs of Ceasair, the granddaughter of Noah of Noah’s Ark fame, and Maeve, the Iron Age Queen of Connaught. (Maeve is supposedly buried in Sligo too, but hey.) I wanted to stop and see Knock Ma, as I included both the hill and King Finvarra in Glancing Through the Glimmer, the young adult novel I recently completed.

Finding Knock Ma proved difficult for two tired Yanks, however. We spotted a mailman beside a green An Post truck and stopped to ask for directions.

“Do you know a place called Knock Ma?”

“I do indeed,” sez the red-haired postman. “Are yez thinkin’ of takin’ a hike?”

“No,” sez I, “we’re looking for fairies.”

“Ah, they’re all over the place,” sez he, and happily gives us directions.

Views of Knock Ma

We turned down a side street and found an agitated woman in the middle of the road brandishing a closed umbrella, as if telling us to move on quickly. An odd sight, but we are still jet-lagged and starting to remember we are now in Ireland, on Irish time, and approaching a fairy fort. We waved at the woman and passed by her, stopping up the road to take a few pictures of Knock Ma. The hill was vast, much bigger than I expected, green, lovely, and dotted with neat little houses and lazy cattle. We turned around and pulled over for one last picture. The woman with the umbrella ran up to the car, and we rolled down the window.

“Are yez in a hurry?” sez she.

“No,” sez I, thinking she might want to chat. Wrong answer.

“Well the cows are coming!” sez she. “Pull over! Pull over now!”

We looked up and saw a herd of brown cows galloping straight at us. Apparently the woman and her umbrella had been trying to clear the road to make way for this bovine charge. My husband edged the car as close to the fence as he could, and we stared in horror, expecting to die in the stampede, our rental car damaged beyond hope, poor Gertrude devoured in a single chomp. But the cows stumbled by and gave us an entertaining show.

Laughing but tired, we followed the mailman’s directions and found the start of the Knock Ma walking trail. The weather was clear, so we parked and thought we’d stroll for a bit. We didn’t get far before a sign warning hikers to leave nothing valuable visible in their cars made us turn back. Our luggage was blatantly conspicuous in the rear of the hatchback rental car, Gertrude was on the windshield, and we really were too exhausted for an extended hike. We’d just have to come back some day. Happy that we got to see Knock Ma at all, we enjoyed a late breakfast in Tuam town and drove on to Westport.

What If?

2010-08-28T12:21:00.006-04:00

Some argue that “Alternative History” is more grammatically correct, but “Alternate History” has emerged as the common name for an interesting sub-genre of fantasy fiction. The “what if” asked by so many authors has produced a wealth of thought-provoking tales.

What if the Roman Empire hadn’t fallen? What if the American Revolution had failed? What if Germany had won World War II, or if Russia had reached the moon first?

In The Story of Ireland, published in 1894, historian Standish O’Grady wrote:

The kings of all our European nations came up as the result of an immense amount of fighting between small kings and between powerful families, each of which thought it had the best right to be the Royal Family . . . If Ireland had been left to herself a King of Ireland and a Royal Family of Ireland would have come up in the long run out of those wars, just as out of the wars of the Saxon nations of England the King of the English at last appeared.

What if Ireland had been left to herself?

I wondered about that long before I found Mr. O’Grady’s work in my aunts’ amazing library of Irish books. As a second generation Irish American, I will never know what it is to be truly Irish. My childhood vision of Ireland was one of magical legends and ancient kings, banshees and leprechauns, rebels and outlaw heroes. The first time I saw the real Emerald Isle, the palm trees astonished me—and that wasn’t the only jolt to my flawed concept of modern Ireland.

I longed for the Ireland I knew through song and story. My aunts had assured me our family had descended from Irish royalty, kings and queens long gone but hardly forgotten. How could such great men and women simply vanish?

What if they were still around?

In 1002 A.D., the chieftain of an obscure Irish clan rose to claim the High Kingship of Ireland. Brian Boru united Ireland’s warring tribes under one leader for the first and only time in Irish history. A scholar as well as a warrior, King Brian rebuilt churches, encouraged education, repaired roads and bridges, and roused the country to rise against the Norse invaders who had ravaged Ireland for centuries.

On Good Friday in 1014 A.D., Brian’s army challenged a host of Vikings and their allies on the plains of Clontarf. Though his troops were victorious, Brian’s son and grandson perished in the battle. Brian himself died as he prayed in his tent, murdered by fleeing Vikings who stumbled upon his camp.

Many historians have speculated that Ireland would be a different place today if Brian Boru and his heirs had survived the Battle of Clontarf. A Band of Roses presents one possible scenario.

So begins the preface of A Band of Roses, Fiery Roses, the forthcoming third book, Salty Roses, and my recently completed young adult novel, Glancing Through the Glimmer. In each of these stories, King Brian Boru survived the Battle of Clontarf and founded a dynasty that still rules modern Ireland. Along with a lovable cast of heroes and villains, the Boru clan encounters a blend of adventure, intrigue, and romance one reviewer called “a well-written and fascinating package that will appeal to a wide range of readers.”

Check them out. What if you like them?

Back in Business

2010-06-01T20:51:00.003-04:00

Newgrange

So "Put the Kettle On" is finally ready for its long awaited comeback. For weeks I've tinkered with different templates. I spent days customizing one I thought would do, sadly accepting that the lovely Celtic theme created by Rick Shagoury would be a fond but distant memory. The revamped blog was good to go when Rick astonished me with the news that he’d created a new design similar to the old. And, it has all the bells and whistles of a standardized blog. Stand up and take a bow, Rick!

Rolling with the Blogs

2010-04-22T15:03:00.001-04:00

Hi, it's Pat. Things have been quiet here on "Put the Kettle On" as my trusty web designer Rick Shagoury and I have been collaborating over new blog formats. Sadly, Blogger will no longer support the lovely Celtic-themed blog Rick designed for me, so we're in the process of migrating everything over. Please excuse the "Under Construction" look of the place. We'll have everything all done and dusted as soon as we can. Until then, be good!

This blog has moved

2010-04-21T18:50:00.001-04:00

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A Visit to the Beara Peninsula and Killarney

2010-03-09T13:48:00.036-05:00

A problem with our rental car delayed our next outing. We had to drive to Kerry Airport to exchange vehicles, and it took so long we knew we wouldn’t see the entire Beara Peninsula as we'd planned. We’d see what we could, however. I’d visited Beara before, though my husband never had. I wanted to show him the village of Eyeries and the writing retreat whose hospitality I'd enjoyed, and I wanted to see parts of the area I'd never seen. With the rental car business squared away, we headed back to Kenmare and entered the gloriously rugged West Cork region.

Gertrude, our gallant GPS, did a commendable job with her new Irish maps until we reached Beara. The place completely baffled the poor thing. What should have been a simple drive around a modest peninsula quickly deteriorated into "direct routes" through obscure trails and elusive villages that were on the map but probably only appeared every seven years.

Eventually we unwound ourselves from the maze and found Healy Pass, a high winding road that runs from Lauragh in County Kerry to Adrigole in County Cork, cutting through the Caha Mountains. Perhaps it was because my husband was driving and I had no sense of control, but I couldn’t help imagining the car slipping over the edge of the road and plunging down the cliffs.

We stopped at a lofty overlook. Once I was out of the car, I felt safe enough to enjoy the spectacular scenery—but we had to get back down. What would happen if we met a car coming the other way? One of us would have to back up for miles. One of us would surely plunge. My bet would be on the Yanks driving backwards on the "wrong" side of the bicycle path road.

But we reached Adrigole at last having met only two other cars in spots where we could pull over and let them pass. We continued on to Castletownbere and stopped for lunch, assured by the owner we’d never find fresher haddock anywhere. He was right.

After lunch, we drove to Eyeries. Sadly, Sue Booth-Forbes, owner, director, and all around wizard of the Anam Cara Writer’s and Artist’s Retreat, was away on a family matter, but we viewed the house, Coolagh Bay, and the town. Only the occasional mooing of cows disturbed the peace. I wished we could linger and walk on the bogs, but the afternoon was fading fast. Perhaps we'd see the rest of the peninsula another time.

The next day we stayed in town for a walk in Killarney National Park. Fine blue skies and warmer temperatures graced our stroll to Ross Castle. The last time we’d seen the castle, scaffolding covered most of it. The renovations are complete, and though the old fort was closed for the winter, we had a wonderful tour of the grounds and a walk through the park.

That evening, we attended the traditional Irish music festival that had been our excuse to visit Ireland this time. After three great concerts, we returned to our hotel room to pack.

Gertrude got us safely back to Limerick the next afternoon. We strolled into town, and I picked up a few books for writing research. I nearly shrieked when I saw The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance, the new anthology containing a story I wrote, in one of the bookstores!

Our hotel room overlooked the Shannon River, beautiful at night. Our flight to Boston wouldn’t leave until the following afternoon, but I was already wondering how soon I could return.

A Winter Visit to Kerry

2010-03-05T10:38:00.007-05:00

My husband and I have visited Killarney in February several times. I love the smell of burning peat (called turf in Ireland) in the air, and though the trees are bare, the grass is green, and tropical plants blessed by the warming Gulf Stream flourish outdoors. We’d always seen pots of pansies hanging on the poles throughout the town.

Not this year. One pub owner told us the snow on the mountains was only designer snow. Another said Ireland had endured its worst winter in sixty years. But the atypical chill in the air didn’t hinder our touring plans, and I’m happy to report that the rain-to-snow forecasts for each day of our visit were wrong.

We armed Gertrude, our trusty GPS, with Irish maps to help us explore. She did her best to navigate our first daytrip, which took us south through Killarney National Park. Fog and showers obscured the views, but we were still adjusting to the five-hour time change and didn’t mind. Our twisty, narrow-laned drive brought us to the town of Kenmare, a colorful 19th century market town. Its Irish name, Neidin, means “little nest, ” as the town is nestled between the mountains of Kerry and Cork. We spent an enjoyable few hours browsing through shops, and I acquired several new CDs to feed my addiction to traditional Irish music. The weather had improved by the time we caught an Irish highway back to Killarney, seeing more than one rainbow along the way.

Above and Below - Scenery Along the Dingle Peninsula

Gertrude received a more vigorous workout the next day. A pleasant mix of clouds and sunny skies shone over our first visit to the Dingle Peninsula, the northernmost arm of Kerry stretching out into the Atlantic. I’d been researching ring forts for a writing project and didn’t realize I was about to see the prehistoric remains of more than one. The famous Beehive Huts and ancient Dunbeg Fort overlooking Dingle Bay would set anyone’s imagination awhirl. We drove out to the breathtakingly beautiful Slea Head, viewed the Blasket Islands, and drove on to see the Gallarus Oratory. On our way back to Killarney, we stopped in hilly D ingle Town for a stroll and a pub lunch.

Above - Ring Forts and Beehive Huts

Below - The Gallarus Oratory and the View From Its Door

Part two of our winter break will feature the Beara Peninsula and Killarney Town. Stay tuned!

Fiery Roses is a Recommended Read

2010-01-18T06:11:00.003-05:00

My thanks to fellow Red Rose Publishing author Nancy O'Berry for her generous mention of Fiery Roses as a Recommended Read for January in her January Newsletter. Nancy writes both historical and contemporary romance, and is the author of the Sweetbriar Academy series.

Fiery Roses - The Story Behind the Story

2009-12-23T11:00:00.004-05:00

(Pat's Note: A Band of Roses and Fiery Roses are currently unavailable. The books are scheduled for re-release in May, 2012 and August, 2012 from MuseItUp Publishing.)

Fiery Roses didn’t start as a sequel. Having brought A Band of Roses to a happily-ever-after conclusion, I envisioned my second book as something different, a story based on the horrors of raging, out of control flames. When I was eight, such an inferno nearly destroyed my family’s new house, ruining our Christmas, injuring firefighters, and leaving me waking in the middle of the night smelling smoke for years. And so, knowing I had what it takes to complete a novel, I set about channeling all those nightmares into one heck of a scary story.

Early in 2005, I started researching arsonists (a very young firebug started the fire in my family’s home) and brought a preliminary character sketch of a fire-setting villain to my writing class. Meanwhile, I was monitoring the Irish news online, vicariously living in Ireland, the country with which I’d fallen hopelessly in love during my first visit in 2004. I noted rumblings concerning plans to harvest the natural gas discovered in the Corrib Gas Field, a section of the sea fifty miles off the northwest coast of County Mayo, in October 1996.

The arsonist I'd created began to merge with the characters in A Band of Roses. With my imaginary Irish royal family still fresh in my mind, I couldn't help wondering how the indomitable descendants of High King Brian Boru would deal with the political tangle the Corrib gas find had become.

The main problem seemed to stem from the objection of certain Mayo residents to the planned installation of pipelines that would run raw gas from sea to land and across unstable bogs. These people also objected, and still do, to the construction of a refinery to treat the gas ashore rather than at sea. Both sides of the argument have voiced concerns, and the tangle has spun into a snarling web far too complex for the scope of this blog. (For anyone interested in learning more, Shell to Sea has posted a timeline of events on their website, and a history of the Corrib project is available on the website of Ireland's Petroleum Affairs Division.)

My husband and I had planned a trip to Ireland in the summer of 2005, and we decided to visit County Mayo. We spent a week in Cork with friends, and after seeing them off at Shannon Airport, we continued north (by bus - we weren’t brave enough to drive on the opposite side of the road back then). Late on Sunday afternoon, June 26, we checked into our hotel in the lovely west Mayo town of Westport, three-time winner of Ireland’s Tidy Town award.

The Corrib protests appeared to be centered in Rossport, a remote village on the north Mayo coast. The hotel receptionist said we could reach it by bus, "but you can’t get back the same day." Disappointed but undaunted, we hired a driver named Simon and headed for the bogs.

Early on the morning of Tuesday, June 29, Simon drove us north through the village of Newport, then west through Mulranny. Rain showers had his windshield wipers clicking now and then. Soon after passing the old hotel overlooking Mulranny Bay, we turned north again. We entered some exquisitely scenic country, the ocean to our left, the Nephin Mountains to our right.

Just past Castlehill, we reached the bogs, which resembled rolling meadows at first glance. Gullies interspersed the expanses of green scraw, the layer of tough fibrous sod that covered the peat, or turf, as it’s called in Ireland. Cows, sheep, and flocks of blackbirds roamed everywhere, the sheep marked with different colors on their wool to show who owned them. Rows of shrubbery rather than stone walls divided the bumpy land into square patches. Masses of white bog cotton and yellow buttercups painted the scraw. New homes and crumbling old cottages dotted the landscape. We passed tree farms and quarries and soon saw black squares of turf set in rows to dry. Some of the dark blocks stood in tepee-shaped stooks to let the air at them.

Black swaths throughout the bogs marked the sections from which turf had been cut over the years, by hand with a tool called a slean, Simon told us, pronouncing the word shlane. The cuts were obvious, neat vertical banks that looked like tiny dark cliffs topped with the omnipresent scraw. In many places, water filled the bottoms of the cuts.

Simon parked so we could see the turf up close. We stepped over a low barbed wire fence. The ground was spongy, and in some places quite soaked. I lost my balance and tore my jeans on the barbed wire, not one of my most graceful moments.

On we went, continuing north, passing southbound trucks transporting goods from local businesses. Turf cutting machines were busy at a commercial turf harvesting company in Bangor Erris, where we also passed a limestone quarry. We took a break in Belmullet, a bustling market town situated on a narrow neck of land between Broadhaven Bay and Blacksod Bay. Ancient black cauldrons filled with colorful flowers sat along the sidewalks. In true Irish fashion, Simon struck up a conversation with the ladies who ran the tea shop. They asked where we were going, and when he answered "Rossport," they said we’d better keep our heads down.
From Belmullet we drove east and soon saw a sign for the Corrib Gas Terminal. Men in hard hats were hard at work behind a chain link fence. Down the road, large sections of blue pipe awaited installation.
We turned north at Glenamoy. Sheep and cows wandered everywhere. At one point, we had to stop when a small herd of cows blocked the road. Simon eased through them like a pro.

Before we reached Rossport, we turned onto a road leading to another Shell construction site. Protestors sat in cars along the road. They had pitched a tent and set out hand-painted signs that said things like, "We are Irish citizens, not Shell subjects." We viewed the construction site—trucks, men, and small buildings surrounded by a chain link security fence—and turned around.
The tiny Ga eltacht village of Rossport ran down to the water, presenting a very pretty picture. There wasn't much to the place. A cottage housed the post office. We didn’t see a church, or even a pub. Scattered mountains surrounded the stark but lovely area.

Mission accomplished, we left Rossport behind, passing bogs and goat-infested ruins, traveling east until we reached the steep coastal cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. We drove by the Céide Fields archaeological site and through the towns of Ballycastle and Killala, at last stopping for a late pub lunch in Ballina. Simon found a bookstore for me, and I picked up two books about the local bogs.

The next morning, Wednesday, June 29, we learned that Royal Dutch Shell had sought and obtained a court order for the arrest of five Rossport area men who refused the company access to their land. The men, who became internationally known as the Rossport Five, spent ninety-four days in prison.

As I worked on Fiery Roses, an imaginary story with fictitious villains and heroes, I followed the Irish news online, waiting for some resolution to the increasing hostility in the Rossport area. I finished writing the book a year ago, after spending more than three years tidying up all the fanciful plot twists with the help of make-believe characters. I filled my tale with action, adventure, and romance, and achieved another happily-ever-after ending. Sadly, the real situation in north Mayo remains unresolved, and I am truly sorry for the trouble in that quiet, spectacular land.

Guinness Beef Stew a la Pat

2009-10-22T14:35:00.010-04:00

Cold weather brings out cravings for heartier food. The warm weather quinoa, bulghur, and veggie salads that kept us cool in July simply won't do anymore. Last autumn I found myself at the Abbey Tavern in the chilly North Dublin Village of Howth, one of my favorite places to visit, which you know if you follow my blogs. (Pictured is Howth's East Pier with Ireland's Eye and Lambay Island in the distance.)

Sitting before a roaring peat fire with a glass of wine and a bowl of Guinness Beef Stew came close to topping nearly every heavenly experience I've ever known. But the cook wouldn't share the recipe! Undaunted, I strove to recreate the succulent dish after I returned to New Hampshire. Through trial and much error, I came up with a delectable stew on a par with the one I enjoyed in Howth, and I'm happy to share the recipe with you here. Sorry I can't offer a roaring peat fire!

PAT'S GUINNESS BEEF STEW

4-5 lbs. beef stew meat, well trimmed

4 Tbs. vegetable oil

A dollop of bacon fat

4 Tbs. flour

One big vidalia onion, chopped

2 lbs. sliced mushrooms, white, wild, or mixed to your taste

A few cloves of garlic, minced

1 can of beef broth

3 cans of Guinness Stout

2 tsps. Worcestershire sauce

2 tsps. dried thyme

A few bay leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a stew pot. Add bacon fat and brown the meat, sprinkling with flour as it cooks. Remove meat and set aside. Add chopped onions and cook for a few minutes until soft, then add the mushrooms and sauté until they release their moisture and start to brown, adding minced garlic and sprinkling on any remaining flour. Return meat to the mixture, add the beef broth, Guinness, and remaining ingredients. Stir well and simmer for about two hours, or until meat is tender. Serve with mashed potatoes. Serves six to eight hungry people and leftovers are great.

Novelspot Review for "A Band of Roses"

2009-10-12T16:53:00.008-04:00

What a delightful surprise to find this review today! The reviewer is Rob Shelsky, and he posted his review of "A Band of Roses" on Novelspot. Here's an excerpt:

"As with all alternate reality books, one must accept with a willing suspension of disbelief that such a universe can exist, and would be the way it is in the story. At accomplishing this, some authors are better than others, and Ms. McDermott is one of those better authors. She weaves a fast-paced tale in a believable setting, one filled with action, adventure, intrigue, and strange twists . . . A Band of Roses is a well-rounded, action-filled novel, one with a strong element of romance, and a book that will keep the reader on the edge of their seat. I highly recommend A Band of Roses by Pat McDermott. This story thoroughly deserves a 9 out of a possible 10 rating, for it is a nearly perfect read!"

Thank you, Mr. Shelsky, for brightening my day!

The Hill of Tara and Brú Na Bóinne

2009-09-23T21:11:00.031-04:00

Our brief stop in Liverpool surprised me. The lovely parks and blend of old and modern architecture we viewed "In the Footsteps of the Beatles" quickly dispelled our ideas of a sooty, industrial city. We had great fun seeing the haunts and homes of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, including a museum dedicated to their rise to stardom.
By the next morning, our ship had crossed the Irish Sea and berthed in Dublin Port. We set out early with my aunt and uncle for a day trip back in time, to the royal county of Meath. Our tour began with a visit to the Hill of Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland. Here we are with the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, said to roar when the rightful High King touched it, though it remained silent beneath our reverent touch. Our knowledgeable tour guide described the standing stones, King Cormac's House, and the Mound of the Hostages, pictured to the right behind Diane and me. Despite years of excavation, much remains unknown about this mystical site.

Our next stop was UNESCO World Heritage Site Brú Na Bóinne, Irish for the Palace of the Boyne, often referred to as the Bend in the Boyne, more commonly known as the Boyne Valley. This fertile area of County Meath contains the remains of forty or so neolithic passage tombs built around 3,000 B.C., which makes them over 5,000 years old, older than the pyramids of Egypt. The enormous megalithic tombs of Newgrange (pictured), Knowth, and Dowth dominate the landscape. Mike and I had visited Newgrange twice, but this was our first visit to Knowth, where the largest number of tombs to date have been excavated. The ancient people who built them constructed the famous facade of Newgrange from white quartz they quarried fifty miles south in the Wicklow Mountains.

Passage tombs are found throughout Atlantic Europe, particularly in France and Brittany. They are circular mounds containing a passage and at least one chamber. The mounds are encircled by kerb stones, many of which display mysterious designs and carvings.

The Knowth complex lies at the western end of Brú Na Bóinne. The massive passage grave is ringed by 127 large kerb stones decorated with neolithic artwork. Visitors are allowed partway inside for a glimpse into history. After we enjoyed the eerie sight, we climbed to the top of the mound and enjoyed a breathtaking view of the valley. Wondering how the area had looked 5,000 years ago and what the people who'd lived here were like, we wandered around the ancient mound and its eighteen satellite tombs until it was time to

return to the ship.

The Giant's Causeway

2009-09-17T16:33:00.037-04:00

The oldest theory concerning the origin of The Giant’s Causeway maintains that this amazing stretch of Ireland’s North Antrim coast is all that remains of a bridge formed long ago by the giant Finn MacCool to link Ireland and Scotland.

The main hero of the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology, Finn led the Fianna, a band of warriors who roamed around Ireland in the third century AD.

Finn shows up in many entertaining tales. The legend concerning the Causeway depicts him as a mighty giant seeking to do battle with his rival, the Scottish giant Benandonner. Being a hospitable sort, Finn set a series of huge stepping stones across the Irish Sea to allow Benandonner to come over to fight without wetting his feet. But when Finn saw the monstrous size of the approaching giant, he ran home and asked his wife to hide him. She dressed him as a baby and placed him in a giant cradle. When Benandonner saw what he thought was an infant, he concluded that the child’s father must be huge indeed. Terrified, Benandonner fled back to Scotland, tearing up the stepping stones as he ran so Finn couldn’t follow.

The geologists tell a less fanciful story. The Causeway is part of the Antrim Plateau, the largest lava plateau left in Europe. The massive cliffs projecting into the Atlantic Ocean are the result of volcanic activity that tranpsire 60 million years ago. Lava filled a riverbed and cooled slowly, cracking into polygonal columns and forming unusually shaped structures with intriguing names like the Giant’s Boot (pictured with me sitting in it) and the Giant’s Organ (nothing anatomical here - it seems Finn created a pipe organ for his son Oisin to play).

Our visit to the Causeway, a World Heritage site we’ve wanted to visit for years but couldn’t seem to fit into our travels, was a shore excursion offered by our cruise line. We visited Antrim during typical Irish weather: blue skies one minute, rain the next. Lots of folks got wet, but everyone was smiling. We saw several rainbows before returning to our tour bus for a drive down the lovely Antrim coast.

After a delicious lunch at a local hotel, we stopped briefly at the remains of historic Dunluce Castle and viewed the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge, which we did not cross. Back to the ship we went to prepare for the next day’s tour: Liverpool.

View the video of the Causeway's gorgeous sweep!

The Edinburgh Military Tattoo

2009-09-11T10:12:00.029-04:00

We stood in a long line leading up to Edinburgh Castle grateful for the hoods on our jackets. A round of Scottish showers dampened everything but our spirits. A rainbow burst across the roiling clouds as the line started moving, a good omen we hoped. The Tattoo would take place outdoors. As it turned out, the rain held off for the rest of the evening. We climbed the stands to seats facing the castle, the best seats in the house, courtesy of our pampering cruise line.

Scotland first presented The Edinburgh Military Tattoo in 1950. The Tattoo's current patron is Anne, Princess Royal. With an annual audience of over 200,000 and 100 million viewers watching on international television, this electrifying it’s generally considered the biggest and best Military Tattoo in the world.

"Tattoo" in the military sense has nothing to do with puncturing the skin to create indelible designs. The word comes from "Doe den tap toe," a Dutch phrase meaning "put the tap to" or "turn off the tap." In the Lowland Countries during the 17th and 18th centuries, the cry told tavern owners it was time to turn off their ale taps. The British Army, stationed in Flanders during the War of the Austrian Succession, adopted the phrase and transformed it into a ritual performed by their drummers and pipers each night to round up their troops. The "Tattoo" soon became the last duty call of the day and eventually came to mean an evening performance by military musicians.

And a performance is what we got. I expected the splendid show of hundreds of kilts, bagpipes and drums. I didn’t realize we’d see military bands from all over the world, including the South Sea Island of Tonga, Switzerland, China, South Africa, and Australia. A thrilling flyover by a Royal Air Force jet began the show. Marching bands then entered the esplanade with the torchlit castle providing a backdrop for ingenious light shows and an occasional display of fireworks. This year’s Tattoo coincided with the 250th anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, and members of the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama treated us to special presentations of his songs and stories.

After the big finale, the chilling sound of the Lone Piper playing from the top of the castle signaled the end of the pageant. The March Out had everyone in the stands cheering. In high spirits, we made our way back to the ship. We'd seen The Tattoo!

Check out this video of Switzerland's Top Secret Drum Corps!

Cruising Into History

2009-09-09T12:41:00.021-04:00

A brief but pleasant stopover in Dublin helped us acclimate ourselves to the five-hour time change between New Hampshire and the British Isles. For the better part of three days, we enjoyed our favorite restaurants and bookstores and revisited familiar spots. We also paid our first visit to Ireland’s National Botanic Gardens, established in 1795. We found this gorgeous urban retreat filled with flowers and plants from all over the world and set in a wide variety of themed gardens. Desert and tropical rainforest flora thrived in an array of greenhouses that are an adventure all their own. From the formal rose garden to the more casual marsh and woodland plantings, this Dublin paradise and its ponds were not only a joy to explore, but free of charge.

After a few sunny days in Ireland’s tourist-packed capital, we hopped an early morning shuttle to Heathrow Airport. Two Crystal Cruise reps brought us to a minivan, and we were quickly on our way to Dover with three other shipmates. When we arrived, the sight of those famous white cliffs astounded us. So beautiful, and Dover Castle atop them made it easy to visualize the area as it must have looked centuries ago, without all the modern commercialization.

The Crystal Symphony awaited us at the dock. After we completed the boarding process, a staff member escorted us to a lounge on Deck Eleven (Symphony has twelve in all). He apologized that our rooms weren’t ready. Not a problem. Several glasses of complimentary French champagne, a spectacular view of those white cliffs, and the realization that we’d traveled from Dover, New Hampshire to Dover, England in a few short days kept us very merry indeed.

Wobbling to our stateroom several glasses of champagne later, we met my aunt and uncle, the perpetrators of the whole cruise idea, bless them. We settled into our well-appointed rooms and went to the main dining room to sample the first of many outstanding dinners. Soon we were underway, sailing the North Sea through the night and all the next day, passing England’s eastern shores on our way to southeast Scotland. Our day at sea gave us a chance to explore the ship: The library, the movie and Broadway style theaters, shops, a gymnasium, a tennis court, specialty restaurants, even a casino. At last, Symphony berthed in Rosyth on the Firth of Forth. After a fortifying breakfast, we boarded a shuttle bus for the forty minute ride into the City of Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland.

Knowing our time was limited—we would only have two days in Edinburgh, hardly enough—we saw what little we could of a splendid medieval city oozing with history. We scurried to find the Royal Mile and found the traffic-free thoroughfare jammed with buskers and street musicians: The Edinburgh Festival was underway.
Omnipresent pipers in traditional dress filled the air with music distinctly Scottish.

An official guide stationed on a busy corner pointed us toward Edinburgh Castle. We climbed to the top of the steep cobblestone street packed with kilts and cashmere shops. When we reached the castle, we found stadium style stands set up on its esplanade. This was where we’d attend the Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

Opting to return the next day to see more of the castle and Holyrood Palace, along with as much as the Hop On/Hop Off tour bus allowed, we enjoyed lunch in a whisky (no "e" in Scottish whiskey) museum. Edinburgh had captured us. We decided we’d visit again one day on our own. We’d wander through the New and Old Towns, explore the underground vaults, and take our time visiting museums, shops, and the zoo. With that pleasant thought in mind, we took the shuttle back to the ship to prepare for the Tattoo.

Howth Therapy

2009-08-22T12:16:00.013-04:00

"Howth is Magic" says the current tourist brochure for Ireland's maritime gem on the northern fringe of Dublin Bay. I love visiting Howth, but we almost didn't make the nine-minute train ride this trip. We've been there so often, I thought perhaps we should try someplace different. But Mike said "Let's go," and after a late breakfast at Bewley's on Grafton Street, we caught the DART at Pearse Station. The decision was a good one. There's no better cure for jet lag than a walk out on the east pier followed by a visit to the venerable Abbey Tavern for classic Irish refreshment.

Howth is a picturesque village on the peninsula of Howth Head, which juts out over the northern part of Dublin Bay. Once a small fishing village, Howth has evolved greatly over the years. The boats still bring in the freshest seafood around, yet upscale restaurants and shops lure tourists from all over the world. The grounds of Howth Castle now include a luxury hotel and the largest golf course in Ireland. A marina filled with sailboats graces the harbor. And the scenery . . . oh, the scenery.

The cliff walks have lured many hikers, including me, to view sights that haven't changed in ages. When Mike and I trekked along those heathery cliffs a few years ago, I easily pictured Viking ships hurtling in to attack as they did in the ninth century. No need to do battle nowadays, however. Howth's property prices would knock the wind out of those Viking sails in a flash. In fact, I chose Howth as Prince Peadar Boru's fictitious home in A Band of Roses. Peadar's imaginary mansion would fit right in with the elegant homes overlooking Balscadden Bay from Howth Head.

One of my favorite stories about Howth concerns Pirate Queen Grace O'Malley. According to the legend, she was cruising home from England in 1576 and stopped to lodge at Howth Castle for the night. The Earl of Howth turned her away. Infuriated by the breach of hospitality, she kidnapped the earl's grandson and heir and sailed home to Mayo. She returned the boy once the earl met her unique ransom demand: he must never rebuff unexpected guests again. To this day, the gates of Deer Park, the earl's demesne, are always open, and an extra place is set each night at the castle's dinner table.

Our Dublin adventures continued today. Stay tuned.

Guest Blogging With Book Wenches!

2009-06-26T10:48:00.003-04:00

The fabulous Book Wenches have invited me to guest blog this week. Come on by! My list of witty Irish proverbs may make you smile.

http://www.bookwenches.com/gblogpatmcdermott.htm

Lost in a Fairy Mist

2009-06-17T19:30:00.040-04:00

You can’t see the fairies unless you were born in the evening, or so the saying goes. I was a dawn baby, so I doubted I’d see them, but I knew they were there in the fragrant Irish woods. The cascades and narrow paths behind the Anam Cara retreat tingled with magic that lingered long after I scraped the mud and grass from my shoes. I had no blackthorn or hazelwood sticks for protection, but I didn’t need them. The fairies, in this part of Ireland at least, seemed friendly enough.

Yet they caused their share of mischief. The weather was hot and dry, and before I left Cork City for Eyeries, I had to shop for warm weather clothes, which I never bring to Ireland. During my first night at Anam Cara, youngsters partying across the stream lit a campfire that quickly spread and would have devoured those fragrant woods if a gallant neighbor hadn’t doused the flames with the retreat’s fire extinguishers. Worst of all, crows robbed the duck house of two precious ducklings.

The fairies’ antics couldn’t override the glory of the Beara Peninsula, however. Each day I cranked up my laptop and wrote while gazing out at Coolagh Bay and the Iveragh Peninsula beyond. I watched the waves roll in, and instead of wincing at the racket made by cars and trucks and planes, I savored the lowing of contented cows. When I needed a break, Anam Cara’s walking paths provided tranquility that let my thoughts make themselves known, and I thanked the fairies for allowing me into their domain.

I know I imagined them.

I know they weren’t really there . . .

Manic Readers Review

2009-06-03T14:29:00.004-04:00

Reviewer Dawn D. had some glowing words for A Band of Roses. Check out her review on the Manic Readers review site!

Sound the Retreat!

2009-05-28T07:37:00.049-04:00

Finding time to write without distractions is a challenge. My children, both young adults, are on their own, so parenting is no longer an issue. The culprits are those dinner plans that creep into an exciting rescue or tender love scene, or the grocery list that competes with my list of revisions. Telephone calls and bills requiring payment derail my search for those perfect phrases. Appointments, laundry, and cats demanding hugs all conspire to thwart the start of a brand-new chapter. What’s a writer to do?

Writing before the rest of the house is up and about usually works—unless I start by checking e-mail or posting "just one excerpt" so I’ll feel like I’ve done some marketing/promo. Another precious block of writing time gone. Combining my periodic hankerings to travel to Ireland with attending a wonderful writing retreat near the West Cork village of Eyeries works even better. I’ve taken refuge at Anam Cara Writer’s and Artist’s Retreat on the remote and beautiful Beara Peni nsula several times now. Each time I do, I get more than a month’s worth of writing done in a week, and I’ve found that having no internet access isn’t a bad thing. (Gracious retreat owner Sue Booth-Forbes reports that Anam Cara has gone wireless since my last visit, but I may pretend it hasn’t.)

What can a writing retreat do besides provide reasonably priced relief from mundane chores? That depends on what you want. Whether you’re interested in structured workshops or uninterrupted time to simply sit and think, most offer both. Anam Cara does, though the only structure in which I’m interested is the schedule for Sue’s fabulous meals. Simply leaving my normal environment provides a tremendous boost of creativity, and I know I’ll enjoy wonderful walking paths and vibrant conversations with other retreat residents.
Worried about sitting in that chair all day? Most writing retreats, Anam Cara included, offer fitness equipment, whirlpools, and massage. The Beara Peninsula’s spectacular scenery begs visitors to take a hike, or at least a pleasant walk. No need to recreate the historic march of Donal Cam O'Sullivan Bere (1561–1613), the last leader of the Sullivan clan.

This city girl walked right by a herd of cows (wondering if they’d attack) and happily soaked her shoes on a gorgeous bog dotted with sheep. On my first bog walk, I met a guardian angel border collie who guided me over barely visible paths I never would have found on my own.

I’m off for another working mini-vacation soon. A bus will take me from Shannon Airport to Cork City, where I’ll spend a day raiding my favorite bookstores and finding new music. The shuttle that will take me to Anam Cara will pass dramatic scenery and rustic villages that will bask in Ireland’s summer sunlight well after ten p.m.

And I’ll bask in the quiet.

Book Wenches Interview

2009-05-28T06:51:00.005-04:00

My interview with Bobby Whitney, the "Book Wench" who recently gave A Band of Roses such a stellar review, appeared on the BookWenches' site on May 27, 2009. My thanks to Bobby, and to everyone who stopped by!

http://www.bookwenches.com/iviewpatmcdermott.htm

New Reviews for A Band of Roses

2009-05-08T06:52:00.009-04:00

Popping in quickly to share excerpts from two 5-Star reviews A Band of Roses received this week.

BD Whitney of Book Wenches Reviews (5/3/09)
says: "A Band of Roses combines political intrigue, adventure, science fiction, and romance into a well-written and fascinating package that will appeal to a wide range of readers. . . the tension pulls so tight that it positively vibrates, and I found myself holding my breath and reading faster to keep pace with the action numerous times."

Denisse Alicea of The Pen and Muse (5/4/09) says: "Pat's work has become one of my favorites and sure fire book to recommend to others. This is an author to keep on your watch lists for more works to come."

Seeking Irish Heroines

2009-05-01T09:29:00.012-04:00

Every writer goes about the task of crafting stories in unique ways. For me, the first step is gathering research, a process a lot like setting out the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I link the straight edges together to form the outline, and little by little, pieces whose shapes and colors fit together just so begin to fill the empty space. I know that with dedication the whole picture will soon become visible.

But wait! Pieces are missing! For a jigsaw puzzle, I usually find them on the floor, or in the hall closet if the cats have been playful. A missing piece in a plot means I’ve hit a spot that requires research. Maybe I need more info on Breton mythology or how fast nuclear submarines travel. I try to find what I need online, or in those notebooks I filled with facts before I started my current WIP (work in progress). When that fails, it’s time to get off my duff and go to the library—unless what I need concerns Ireland.

If it does, I drive to Boston and visit The Aunts. Both have been avid collectors and readers of Irish books for as long as I can remember. Their frequent trips to Ireland over the years have filled their home with other treasures—Belleek pottery and Waterford crystal, copper sculptures and paintings of the Aran Islands—but it’s the books that draw me when I visit.

From Geraldine’s side of the shelves, my choices include poetry, literature, ancient laws and customs, or mythology. Kathleen’s side offers modern history, biographies, politics, and current events. The Aunts’ interests overlap, of course, which is great for me. I find all the puzzle pieces any author of Irish fiction could ever want, as I did while writing A Band of Roses and Fiery Roses.

The Aunts generously share the treasures in their magical library. My current "check out" (pictured) is The Romance of Irish Heroines, an antique whose thick yellowed pages overflow with wonderful old Gaelic names like Gormflaith, Meave, Macha, and Dervorgilla. Pirate Queen Grace "Grainne" O’Malley, the inspiration for my current WIP, is in there, but The Aunts, alas, were born too late for inclusion in this wonderful showcase of distinctive Irish ladies.

Retracing The Aunts' book-hunting footsteps in Ireland is difficult. Many of the bookstores they haunted are gone. Still, I enjoy browsing in Ireland’s bookstores knowing I’m seeing things I won't find in New Hampshire. In Dublin, I’ll make the rounds from Waterstone’s and Hodges Figgis near Trinity College to Eason’s on O’Connell Stree t, stopping somewhere along the way for tea and a chocolate muffin. I’ve found wonderful bookstores in Cork, Galway, Killarney, and Westport (pictured).

Book hunting isn’t the only reason I visit Ireland. It certainly isn’t the only reason I visit my guardian angel Aunts. It is a great adventure, though, and as they say in Ireland, "Seeking one thing often finds another."

Sing Me That Story

2009-04-20T11:30:00.001-04:00

Last October I had the pleasure of attending a storytelling in remote West Cork. The hostess, an accomplished storyteller, has an outbuilding on her property dedicated to these magical gatherings. As I entered the big sturdy shed, I easily imagined being in Ireland centuries ago. No electricity lit the room. Candlelight set the mood. A semicircle of chairs quickly filled with guests not only from the local area, but from France, Germany, and Australia. The rules were simple: whoever held the chunk of amethyst ore the hostess passed around had the floor. He or she could tell a story, sing a song, play a tune, or pass the stone and simply listen. The mystical atmosphere captivated everyone, and all participated.

This Boston native held her own. With that purple rock securely in my hands, I sang about a young man from County Clare who wooed and won the girl he loved. The song was a story, as were all the tunes performed that night, and I realized how much those old songs have inspired my own writing. Many ideas from the Irish lyrics I learned growing up have found their way into A Band of Roses.

Isn’t every song a story? Especially in the Celtic countries. Words spring from the Celtic soul like sparks from a roaring peat fire. Whoever first put those words to the tunes drawn from the bottomless well of traditional music spawned a wealth of musical tales that spans generations. Romance, rebellion, ghosts and magic, drinking, death and emigration are only the beginning.

The old troubadours who carried news far and wide used rhymes in their story/songs to help keep their facts straight. Little good that did. In the late nineteenth century, Harvard Professor Francis James Child toured the British Isles and collected 305 distinct ballads, each with so many variations, his collection filled ten volumes. Modern fiction has nothing on the Child Ballads. We find Scottish lords disguised as beggars, and abandoned ladies going to sea dressed as cabin boys. Stalwart patriots, lovesick soldiers, outlaws and enchanted animals abound in these sometimes gruesome but always entertaining narrative songs.

Periodically, new generations “discover” old folk songs. Modern folk singers like Jean Redpath and Andy M. Stewart have recorded many Child Ballads as well as the romantic and political poem/songs of Robert Burns. These talented Scottish singers are among many who round out the Irish "trad" repertoire of performers like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, Planxty, Dervish, and Altan, to name a very few. Do you have a favorite?

Any writer experiencing “writer’s block” would surely find a cure in the venerable musical tales so lovingly presented by these artists. Of course, you don’t have to be a writer to enjoy them. Whether you read them, hear them, or perform them, they’re sure to fire your imagination.

Visiting Imaginary Friends

2009-04-08T12:40:00.041-04:00

With all the information available these days, writing about places an author has never seen requires little more than clicking on real estate ads and vacation sites or opening one of the many geographical guides tailored for writers and armchair travelers. The Writer's Guide to Places is a good one. And did you know the CIA keeps a World Factbook online and updates it every two weeks? Country profiles, maps, flags, governments, and a wealth of other information are just waiting to inform and inspire.

With enough research, I can create the places my characters visit, even if I haven't been there myself. It isn't necessary to see the scene in person. Or is it?

During a recent visit to northern California, the Mendocino coast lured me to see if I'd done a good job describing the home temporarily occupied by the star of my alternate Irish history novels: Taillte Rosaleen Boru, the Crown Princess of Ireland. The house Talty shared with buddies Richard and Nick doesn't exist, of course, but the rugged coast of Mendocino certainly does.

Visiting John and Diane, my dynamic uncle and gracious aunt, is always a pleasure for Mike and me. Last week, they again installed us in the guestroom of their lovely Santa Rosa home. We spent a few days basking in their generous hospitality, touring Napa Valley and Bodega Bay before commandeering one of their cars and heading north. Vineyards and vineyards later, we hunkered down for the night in Fort Bragg and dined in Noyo Harbor watching seals frolic in the small sparkling inlet.

The next day, we invaded the town of Mendocino, an enchanting New Englandish array of houses, shops, and water towers situated on a scenic stretch overlooking the blue, blue Pacific. I pictured Talty strolling there, shopping for groceries, browsing in the bookstore. She might return from Ireland one day for a visit, I thought, and decided that seeing the setting for a story in the proverbial flesh is preferable to surfing the web for real estate ads "fer sure." Not long after, I found the site of Talty's house, cliffs, beach and all!

Well, not really. Only in A Band of Roses. I did imagine dropping in on Talty and the guys for tea, which was enough to make my visit to Mendocino more than worthwhile. That and the armies of redwood trees we passed on our way back to Santa Rosa and Diane's Chicken Osso Buco.

King Brian's Stats

2009-03-26T22:23:00.010-04:00

I’m lost in a storm of marketing my first book while trying to complete my third. The realization that I have a responsibility to promote A Band of Roses doesn’t diminish my enthusiasm for the third book in the "Roses" trilogy, but it definitely cuts into the time I’d like to devote to figuring out how Talty and company will thwart the bad guys. I can’t help wondering how the original Brian Boru would have dealt with such a dilemma. Marketing was all important to the ambitious King Brian, who dubbed himself "Imperator Scotorum," the Emperor of the Irish. I suspect he would have gloried in the internet.

I had great fun changing history in A Band of Roses by imagining that King Brian survived the Battle of Clontarf and established a dynasty that still rules Ireland. The fun continues, and I’ve heard from many fellow dreamers who wouldn’t mind if this scenario had actually occurred. While we High King proponents might enjoy a moment’s fantasy about how things might have been, I'm seeking ways to deal with how they are.

A Band of Roses first hit the proverbial streets in March 2008, released in paperback by a now defunct publisher. I got so far as to enjoy wonderful reviews and a book signing at the Barnes and Noble near Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but I lost my marketing momentum. Months passed before I found a new publisher. Red Rose Publishing released the story as an e-book in February 2009, and I’m hoping my baby will return in physical form soon. The sequel, Fiery Roses, is in the Red Rose editorial staff’s queue. My heartfelt desire now is to plow forward with Salty Roses, the third book in the trilogy. Yet marketing for A Band of Roses lurks in the background, compelling me to check my web site’s stats each day and making me wonder if I’ve done all I can do to "get it out there." The technology available to authors nowadays is intimidating, at least to me, and though I’ll continue to try, I suspect I’ll never have done enough.

The Cats Ate My Shamrocks

2009-03-22T14:52:00.012-04:00

Guinness Beef Stew, brown soda bread, Irish music, good friends, and a bowl of blooming shamrocks. All the makings of a wonderful St. Patrick's Day holiday. I figured that when the stew was eaten, the friends gone home, and the music hushed, I'd have the shamrocks for a remembrance.

I figured wrong.

Bite marks appeared on those shiny Irish leaves. Stripped stems and chewed up flowers soon followed.

From left to right, the felons are Milo, Jojo, and Neko. Good thing they're cute!