Celtic Craft Naas - Tales Of Eire

When you picture Ireland, rolling green hills, ancient stone circles, you're seeing echoes of a living history. Celtic rituals weren't just ceremonies, they were the heartbeat of life, connecting people to the land, the seasons and each other. These traditions mark the year's turning points, from Samhain's darkness to Beltane's light. They celebrated births, mourned deaths and blessed crops, woven into daily life. The Celts saw divinity in rivers, mountains and oak trees, honouring nature through ritual. There was no divide between the physical and spiritual. Both were intertwined, like Celtic knotwork. Today, many seek this lost connection to nature and community. These rituals are more than folklore. They're a living heritage, shaping Irish identity and offering wisdom for modern times. Lighting a bonfire or leaving an offering at a holy well links us to ancestors thousands of years past. These traditions have survived invasions and hardship, a testament to th...

 

  Now, let me tell you a thing or two about the Banshee. You might have heard whispers of her, this spirit woman from the other world, but the truth of her is something else entirely. She's not some Hollywood invention, not at all. She is as real to the people of this island as the stones in the fields. The name itself, Banshee, means Woman of the Fairy Mounds. She's a messenger, you see, a link between our world and that other place, the one that runs alongside our own, unseen by most. She is a solitary figure, deeply connected to the land and to the very soul of Ireland itself. a part of the ancient magic that still lingers in the quiet places. Her appearance, well, that's a tricky thing. She can show herself in different forms and what one person sees another might not. Sometimes she's a beautiful young woman with long flowing hair, maybe silver or pure white. that she combs with a silver comb. Her eyes are often said to be red from centuries of weeping for the dying...

Maamtrasna in 1882 was a place you'd imagine on a postcard from the past. It was a secluded valley tucked away on the border of Galway and Mayo. Life here was hard, certainly, but it moved at its own pace, dictated by the seasons and the land. People spoke Irish. They knew their neighbours. They lived in small, whitewashed cottages dotted across the rugged landscape. There was a sense of community, a rhythm to daily existence that had likely remained unchanged for generations. It was a world away from the hustle and bustle of Dublin or London, a quiet corner of Ireland where the biggest dramas were usually about livestock or the weather. It felt, from the outside, like a place where nothing truly terrible could ever happen. It was a quiet existence built on familiarity and the shared struggles of rural life. That sense of peace was utterly shattered on the night of 17th August 1882. The news spread like wildfire through the misty glens and bog lands. A family had been attacked in t...

In the heart of Old Island the land itself seemed to breathe stories. Every hill, every stream, and every ancient stone had a tale to tell, whispered from one generation to the next. These weren't just simple bedtime stories, they were the very fabric of life, a way of understanding a world that was often harsh and unpredictable. The belief in the good people, the fairies, was woven deep into the soul of the rural communities. They were powerful unseen neighbours who lived in forts and raths. and you'd do well to stay on their good side. To offend them was to invite all sorts of trouble into your home, from soured milk to sickness that no doctor could ever hope to cure. This world of folklore was a serious business, a set of unwritten rules for survival. People left offerings for the fairies, a little milk or a bit of bread, just to keep the peace. They knew which paths to avoid after dark, and which trees held a special otherworldly power. These beliefs provided explanations f...

Well now, if you find yourself wandering through the lovely town of Carrick-on-Shannon, nestled right by the river in County Leitrim, you're in for a real treat. Tucked away on a side street, just a stone's throw from the bustling main road, is a place that tells one of Ireland's most touching stories. We're talking about the Costello Memorial Chapel. At first glance, you might even miss it, thinking it's just a curious little doorway between two larger buildings. But this, my friends, is no ordinary doorway. It is, in fact, the smallest chapel in all of Europe, a testament to a love that was anything but small. Its story is as grand and moving as any you'd find in a great cathedral. The chapel is special for two big reasons. First, there's its size, which is astonishingly small. You could stretch your arms out and nearly touch both walls at the same time. It's a place that makes you whisper, not just out of reverence, but because it feels so intimate an...

In the early days of Ireland, a time steeped in faith and folklore, lived a man of God named Brendan. He was born in County Kerry, near the wild Atlantic coast, a place where the sea whispers ancient secrets to the shore. Brendan was a holy man, an abbot who founded many monasteries, but his heart was filled with a restless spirit. He was known far and wide as the navigator for his love of the sea. This wasn't just a casual fondness, it was a deep spiritual calling that pulled him towards the vast unknown waters that stretched out to the west, a mystery that few dared to ponder, let alone explore. The story goes that one evening, another holy man, a visitor named Berenthus, came to Brendan's monastery. He told a tale that set Brendan's soul alight. Berenthus spoke of a journey he had taken to a wondrous island in the ocean, a place he called the promised land of the saints. He described it as a paradise, a land of eternal spring, filled with sweet-smelling flowers, luscious...