The Glen (An Gleann)

A Song of Enchantment I sang me there,
  In a green —green wood, by waters fair,
  Just as the words came up to me
  I sang it under the wildwood tree.

~ Walter de la Mer

Gilled mushrooms growing on a fallen tree.

I went back to the glen, the fairy glen, the secret glen. One more time I went back. It is easier to find directions these days, but it is still a somewhat secret place. It is one of those places I pray will survive.

Come with me - come with me one more time.

As you walk down the path it takes no time at all to realize you are going to a "different" place.

The path is narrow.

It runs along a forested ridge. Every now and again you glimpse a view of Ballisodare Bay (the Ballisodare River flows into the bay, an arm of the Atlantic).

Sometimes it seems about to stop, but it continues on.

In spite of the unusual summer drought, recent rains have refreshed everything.

Keep going

I remembered this spot from two years ago. A tree had fallen over and saplings had sprouted up, creating a thin wall of growth. I knew we were almost there.

One path was blocked - intentionally? - who knows.

And we were there...

I think of these trees as "the wise ones." They watch as wanderer after wanderer discovers this hidden valley.

Shhh! These mushrooms are called "Bleeding Fairy Helmets."

This is at the far side of the glen. We attempted to continue, but turned back as the trail was far too muddy.

Looking back from the far side of the glen

A path up? We did not take it.

I embraced each of the "wise ones"...walking around and among them...and it seemed they whispered, "time to go."  I looked back only once...

We climbed through the attempt to block the trail. It was a little less damp than the open path.

As we traced our steps out to the main road we could hear a family heading our way. They were loud and a baby was crying. We were glad to be moving along...almost.

The fuchsia bloomed along the path...

...as did Herb Robert - a wild geranium.

It is a pink variety of cranesbill, but photographed white in the dim light.

Brambles are everywhere.

Back up the path...

Water dripped from the rock wall lining part of the path. It is usually green with ferns and mosses. The drought showed in many places.

We saw the bay, now at our left.

Spindles

Buttercup

Meadowsweet

Food for our bodies, food for our souls.

Ferns and mosses at the old well.

"But did you see the faeries?" you ask.

I did not see them, but they found my camera and left their mark.

A friend (JM) told me to check my camera after the trip.  "They are not like you hear in the fairy tales. And they leave their mark on your photos," he said. I laughed until I saw this.

NOTES:

For an idea of the depth of this micro-valley, I submit this photo:

VM standing a distance from one rock "side" of the glen.

Here is my post of the visit in 2014 with DH and YC, FYI: http://walkinthepark-padimus.blogspot.com/2014/09/where-faeries-be.html  Four years ago the directions were not "all over the internet" as they are today. I hope people will continue to be respectful of the place.

This September friend VM and I were on an adventure - or perhaps more a spiritual pilgrimage. I have always found Ireland to be a place of healing. So we sought out some of my favorite places including the glen.


I found nother story of the glen and the fairies by accident - researching quotes and poetry from my youth:

In Music their skill exceeds that of men, while their dancing is perfect, the only drawback being the fact that it blights the grass, “fairy-rings” of dead grass, apparently caused by a peculiar fungous growth, being common in Ireland. Although their musical instruments are few, the fairies use these few with wonderful skill. Near Colooney, in Sligo, there is a “knowlageable woman,” whose grandmother’s aunt once witnessed a fairy ball, the music for which was furnished by an orchestra which the management had no doubt been at great pains and expense to secure and instruct.

“It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim to shtand on, an’ a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud slape in it, that was played by a monsthrous frog, an’ two little fiddles, that two kittens fiddled on, an’ two big drums, baten becats, an’ two trumpets, played be fat pigs. All round the fairies were dancin’ like angels, the fireflies givin’ thim light to see by, an’ the moonbames shinin’ on the lake, for it was be the shore it was, an’ if ye don’t belave it, the glen’s still there, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day."

From Irish Wonders, the Ghosts, Giants, Pookas, Demons, Leprechawns, Banshees, Fairies, Witches, Widows, Old Maids, And  Other Marvels of the Emerald Isle, by David Rice McAnally, Jr. (1888)

Many have written about The Glen including William Butler Yeats (Man and The Echo) and as quoted below, William Bulfin (1903):

Soon after coming to the slope of the hill you meet one of the queerest, wildest, and most beautiful of glens. It is a wondrously romantic freak of nature planted there in a cleft in the rock and walled off from the world, as if the Great Mother meant to lock it up and hide it away for her own use. It is thickly wooded, narrow and deep. The trees meet over the path in places, and the ferns touch you as you pass. The spirits of Knocknarea must love it. One can fancy how they made it their own centuries ago. A mystic poet might dream his life away in it, holding communication with the hero-dead of Connacht.

FINALLY -- a poem I love about walking and imagination (for my sister):

  

One Day When We Went Walking

 

One day when we went walking,
I found a dragon's tooth,
A dreadful dragon's tooth.
"A locust thorn," said Ruth.

One day when we went walking,
I found a brownie's shoe,
A brownie's button shoe.
"A dry pea pod," said Sue.

One day when we went walking,
I found a mermaid's fan,
A merry mermaid's fan.
"A scallop shell," said Dan.

One day when we went walking,
I found a fairy's dress,
A fairy's flannel dress.
"A mullein leaf," said Bess.

Next time that I go walking--
Unless I meet an elf,
A funny, friendly elf--
I'm going by myself!

-- This poem is by Valine Hobbs. A poet, Ms. Hobbes was a long-time schoolteacher from Cooper, Texas. She died in 1985, just shy of her 87th birthday. This is her most-remembered poem.