Tales Of Eire / Celtic Craft Naas

There’s an inner thing in every man, Do you know this thing my friend? It has withstood the blows of a million years, And will do so to the end. It was born when time did not exist, And it grew up out of life, It cut down evil’s strangling vines, Like a slashing searing knife. It lit fires when fires were not, And burnt the mind of man, Tempering leadened hearts to steel, From the time that time began. It wept by the waters of Babylon, And when all men were a loss, It screeched in writhing agony, And it hung bleeding from the Cross. It died in Rome by lion and sword, And in defiant cruel array, When the deathly word was ‘Spartacus’ Along the Appian Way. It marched with Wat the Tyler’s poor, And frightened lord and king, And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare, As e’er a living thing. It smiled in holy innocence, Before conquistadors of old, So meek and tame and unaware, Of the deathly power of gold. It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets, And stormed the old Bastille, And ma...

Alright, let's talk about things that go bump in the night. In Ireland, a land steeped in ancient myths and legends, some stories are more than just campfire tales. They're warnings. One of the most chilling of these is the Legend of the Sluagh. Now these aren't your typical ghosts or demons. They are something else entirely, a sinister flock of spirits that have terrified the Irish countryside for centuries. Imagine a dark, swirling cloud on the horizon, not of birds, but of restless souls. That's the sluagh. They represent a very specific and primal fear, the idea that even in death you might not find peace. The sluagh you see are said to be the spirits of the unforgiven dead. Think of sinners, people who were so wicked in life that neither heaven nor hell would accept them. Even the ancient pagan underworld of the Celts supposedly turned them away. Cast out and condemned to wander the earth for eternity, they are filled with bitterness and envy for the living. Their ...

Tucked away in the rugged heart of County Donegal, nestled deep within the rolling bluestack mountains, lies a place of profound mystery and enduring spiritual significance. This remote townland is called Disert. For countless generations people have been drawn to this quiet corner of Ireland, seeking solace, connection and something beyond the everyday. It isn't a grand cathedral or a famous monument. Instead, Disert's power lies in its simplicity, its wild beauty, and the layers of history that whisper on the wind. It's a place that feels ancient, as if the very stones hold the memories of thousands of years of human devotion and hope. The journey to Disert is part of its magic. As you travel from the bustling world the roads narrow and the landscape opens up into a vast expanse of heather and bog, the air grows stiller and the sounds of modern life fade away, replaced by the bleeding of sheep and the cry of a lone bird. This sense of removal from the ordinary world is cr...

Ireland's story is written all over its landscape, etched into the very soil beneath our feet. You can feel it when you walk the hills and the coastline. But some stories are quieter, hidden away in forgotten corners.  These are the stories of the Cillini. A Cillini, you see, is a type of burial ground. The name itself, Cillini, is the Irish for a little church or little graveyard.  But these weren't the hallowed grounds you'd find beside a grand parish church. No, these were something else entirely. They were the final resting places for those who for one reason or another were denied burial and consecrated ground.  They are places of immense sadness yet also of profound human connection. Imagine Ireland centuries ago. Life was hard, and faith was the bedrock of society.  The rules of the church were absolute, governing life from the cradle to the grave. To be buried in consecrated ground inside the walls of the churchyard was to be accepted by God and your communit...

Have you ever walked a lonely country lane in Ireland as twilight falls? Did you feel a sudden chill, a sense that you were not entirely alone? Many will tell you it is just the wind sighing through the hawthorn trees, but the old folk, those with wisdom in their eyes, know better. They know the veil between our world and the other world is at its thinnest in such moments. What if the tales of mythical creatures are not mere stories for children? What if they are echoes of a truth our modern world has forgotten how to see, a world that hums just beneath the surface of our own, waiting for us to listen? These are not the simple fairy tales you might find in a brightly coloured book. The creatures of Irish lore are far more complex, more ancient and more deeply woven into the very soul of the land. They are beings of immense power, sometimes benevolent, often mischievous, and occasionally downright terrifying. To dismiss them as simple superstition is to ignore the deep well of cultural ...