Tales Of Eire

When we talk about Britain's long and often troubled history in Ireland, it is easy to use a single simple word, British. This term becomes a catch-all, a blanket thrown over a complex and multi-layered reality. But who were the British? Were they a monolithic force, a single entity acting with one mind and one will? Or was the reality far more complicated? The United Kingdom is, after all, a union of nations. It is made up of England, Scotland, Wales, and, of course, Northern Ireland. Each of these places has its own distinct history, its own culture, and its own relationship with Ireland. Understanding this is key to understanding the past. It forces us to look closer at the story we think we know so well. The story of British rule in Ireland is not just a story of Dublin and London. It is also a story that involves Edinburgh and Cardiff, albeit in very different ways. The soldiers who walked the streets of Belfast and Derry during the Troubles came from all corners of the UK. Th...

The bodhrán is an Irish frame drum ranging from 25 to 65 cm (10–26 in) in diameter, with most drums measuring 35–45 cm (14–18 in). The sides of the drum are 9–20 cm (3 1⁄2–8 in) deep. A goatskin head is tacked to one side (synthetic heads or other animal skins are sometimes used). The other side is open-ended for one hand to be placed against the inside of the drum head to control the pitch and timbre. Shop

In the quiet, rolling landscape of County Carlow, a grand estate once stood as a testament to a bygone era. This was Duckett's Grove, a place of towering turrets and sprawling gardens. Its story is not just one of stone and slate, but of the people who walked its paths and tended its soil. At the heart of this story, during the twilight years of the great Irish estates, was a man named John Sweeney. He was more than just an employee, he was the keeper of the Grove's soul. As head gardener and domain manager in the early 1900s, his world was one of manicured lawns, vibrant flowerbeds, and the orderly rhythm of a vast and complex agricultural enterprise. He held a position of immense responsibility, overseeing the very lifeblood of the estate. John Sweeney's duties were as varied as the seasons themselves. He was a master of horticulture, responsible for the famous walled gardens that supplied the great house with fruit, vegetables, and flowers. He managed the glasshouses, wh...

On the northern coast of Ireland, where the wild green land meets the cold grey sea, stand the ruins of an old building. This is Bonamargy Friary. It was built hundreds of years ago, a place for quiet prayer and reflection. The winds from the sea whistle through its broken stone walls. The rain has washed over its empty windows for centuries. It is a place filled with history and whispers of the past. Imagine walking through its crumbling archways with only the sound of the wind and the distant cry of seagulls for company. It feels like a place where secrets are kept, waiting for someone to uncover them. The friary sits near the town of Ballycastle, a silent witness to the passing of time. Long ago it was a busy place filled with the chants of friars, but as the years went by the friars left and the once grand building fell into silence and decay. The roof collapsed and nature began to reclaim the stone, with ivy crawling up the walls like green fingers. It became a place of solitude, ...

The Dingle Peninsula in 1931. It was a place apart, you see. A finger of land pointing out into the wild Atlantic where the old ways clung on like ivy to a stone wall. Life here moved at a different pace, dictated not by clocks but by the turning of the tides and the changing of the seasons. The air was thick with the smell of turf smoke and salt spray. The silence was broken only by the bleeding of sheep on the mountainsides and the cry of the gulls overhead. It was a place where everyone knew everyone else's business, or at least they thought they did. A world of small farms, tight-knit communities, and deep-rooted faith. In the townlands scattered across this rugged landscape like Goulane and Bale and Chotta, worries were of a practical sort. Would the fishing be good? Would the hay be saved before the rain came sweeping in from the west? Would there be enough turf cut and dry to see them through the long, dark winter? The troubles of the wider world, of Dublin and beyond, felt ...