Despite its name, Rotten Mountain has an austere beauty. As I drove to this townland (a small geographical area) last Friday, the sunset was turning the winter-faded moorland to a pale gold, and rushes growing in the boggy meadows were tipped with bronze.
I was headed to Danny Gormley’s home for the traditional céilí of 31 January. The Irish word céilí is often taken to mean an evening of song and dance and storytelling. However, in the old days, it simply meant a social visit. Danny is devoted to the local traditions of this area, including “céilí-ing” as that word was understood for much of his lifetime.
Storm Éowyn had wreaked havoc only a week before and many people – though thankfully not Danny – were still without power. Yet, as they would have in previous generations, people just showed up. The fire was lit. Sacks of rushes had been cut, and sheaves of them were piled on the table.
We were gathering to make St Brigid’s crosses, woven from rushes for the start of the Celtic spring (1 February). This year, after Éowyn, it seemed especially important to mark the night before the season’s turn. Yellowed crosses of last year were still arrayed on Danny’s kitchen dresser. We began the work of renewal.
As we plaited the fresh stalks, people spoke of their experiences of the storm; of who couldn’t make it tonight; who was staying with relatives; who hadn’t been in touch. A child leaned on a parent’s knee to watch a cross grow; the adult slowed down to demonstrate; and the child “helped” so that the ends could be tied and trimmed. Another child pulled out a tin whistle and his cousins danced to the traditional air. An older man sang a ballad.
Through it all, the crosses piled up. Tea and sandwiches appeared. We stopped to admire our handiwork. The austere beauty of the crosses lay not only in their greenness and symmetry, it lay also in the making of them: we too had been woven together by the gathering and the remembering; and in that place, once again, a future had been braided out of the past.
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