Kilkenny and "A Sorta Fairytale"

Kilkenny is known as “Ireland’s Medieval Capitol”. It is situated about 60 miles southwest of Dublin. The River Nore meanders slowly towards the city before it flows through the town. The small city has impressive castle and cathedrals. Kilkenny Castle was built in the 12^th-century, and several of the cathedrals were built in the 13^th-century. The town bustles during the summer time… brightly colored artisan studios, shops, and pubs stand along narrow roads made of brick. This is an area of Ireland with a largely devout Catholic population, but also an area steeped in rich folklore. Another place where monotheistic and pagan beliefs often intermingle.

I am staying at a family-run inn called Ard Alainn. Ard Alainn is the Irish way of saying ‘beautiful view’, and it certainly has one. From the front door one can see miles, miles and more miles of rolling green fields and pastures dotted with cattle and farmhouses. The house is located about four kilometers outside of the Kilkenny. I find it interesting that the streets don’t seem to be labeled with signs, and that the houses don’t have addresses.

Anyhow, I’ve read many folktales as I’ve traveled from city to city. I am beginning to notice consistencies and inconsistencies between the tales since having visited the National Folklore Collection at University College Dublin. I’m noticing similar themes and characters, and different styles of writing. The voice in which the tale is written says a lot about both the story’s “collector” and author.

Moving on… I am pleased to say that I am fairly certain that I had my first run-in with one of the wee folk last night. I’ll try to recount the experience as best I can. Here it goes…

It all began when I arrived at Ard Alainn. I met the owner, Marie, her son, Paddy, and their small, scrappy dog Toby. Paddy is a redheaded man in his mid-thirties that was injured on the job. He is recovering from a back injury and, as he put it, it is, “good to have a back, back.” The tiny Toby looks to be a mutt of sorts with the traits of a beagle, corgie, and terrier. He seems to be a happy little guy. He trots merrily around the property, and well, he is always there! The dog’s ubiquitous. No matter where I am on the property, Toby is somewhere close by.

At one point in the late afternoon, Paddy and I sat down in the living room to talk. (Toby was somewhere close by.) Paddy told me about his experience growing up outside of Kilkenny City, hurling tournaments, schooling in Ireland and its mandatory courses in Irish, about learning Irish mythology in school, and his desire to go back to college and study literature and anthropology. (I asked him what was stopping him from going back to school and he said, “How could I find a job with that kind of degree?”)

I told Paddy about my trip; that I was learning about Irish folklore by traveling to different areas of the country.

“Ah!” he asked with understated excitement. “You’re studying fairies, are ya?”

“In a sense,” I answered.

Paddy told me many anecdotes about fairylore. For one, his grandmother believes in the ban-sídhe (banshee). Ban-sídhes are a member of the sídhe (fairy) family that are said to be harbingers of death. Intense, piercing screams can be heard as they approach. Paddy told me that I will believe in them should I ever walk up a hill when the wind blows fiercely. Paddy also told me that “educated men” will not build property on areas reputed to be fairy forts. (This is particularly interesting as I’ve read a number of stories in which humans that don’t respect the property of the fairies find themselves to be recipients of some very cruel trickery.)

Finally, Paddy told me that he could direct me to a small fairy fort. We went outside and looked out over the hills and hills of rolling green. He pointed towards three particular trees. Beyond the trees is land that belongs to a farmer named Mr. Nerry (spelling?). If I were to go around the trees and cross the pasture with the bulls in it, I would come upon a circular mound surrounded by a ditch. He advised that I take a large stick with me just in case a bull should try approaching. Sounded like great fun to me!

I asked if it was okay to trespass on the farmer’s land, but Paddy assured me that the farmer was very nice and that it would be no problem… as long as I had a large stick. (He also warned me to mind the wired fences in case the electricity was on.)

Perhaps street-smart people wouldn’t take on this kind of misadventure. But I only put my street-smart hat on when I’m in the city. So, I found a large stick and went for it. I climbed over a stone fence that surrounds the farmer’s property, and walked alongside the cows’ pasture. The bulls didn’t mind me at all; they just stared from a distance and chewed their cud.

I crossed over the hill, sidestepped down soft earth on another, and then came across a small area filled with dense trees and violet thistle. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything that resembled a fairy mound, so I went back to the house, stick in tow, and slightly disappointed.

Later in the evening, Marie and Paddy advised that I visit a local pub down the street called An Roc. It was an approximately ¼ mile walk down a countryside road overlooking the green hills and pastures. Along the way I passed a dilapidated, abandoned house. The front door was gone, and the windows had blown out. Of course the thing to do was to have a look inside. (Who wouldn’t?)

I made my way into the house. The roof had fallen in, in several places. The only things in the old living room were a small fireplace and pitchfork. The kitchen sink and counters had been toppled over as if a giant had had some sort of horrible temper tantrum. Green moss grew out of the sink, and a small lanky tree was growing out from the cracked tiles in the floor. Finally, the old bedroom had a few trinkets in it. A shadowbox was hanging on the wall. Inside was a plastic figurine of a once regal man wearing a crown in flowing garments. As I was leaving the house, I turned around and saw a dog peering out of the bedroom window at me. He didn’t bark. He was just there.

I walked away, haunted, and made my way to An Roc.

One thing that fairies are known for is playing tricks on those that have disturbed their property. After some fun at the pub, I left and began walking back “home” as the day turned to dusk. Thirty minutes later, nothing looked familiar. The houses, the cows, the pastures, nothing! The houses I was passing were not the same as those earlier in the day. I wondered how I could have possibly made a wrong turn; there were no turns to make!

It grew darker and darker until I could hardly tell where the road ended and the curb began. Along one side were pastures obscured by tall grasses and prickly weeds. The other side held deeper forest. I wondered what people living in this part of the country might have thought were lurking in the wooded areas hundreds of years ago. What might one think if they had been walking in the woods, gotten lost, and heard rustling in the leaves?

I’ll spare you the details of how I finally made it back to Ard Alainn. There’s enough in that part of the story for three more posts. I will say that it involves a damsel in distress, a carpenter, strange signage, and danger. However, what began as a simple walk to a pub turned into an absurd misadventure. Is it possible that I ventured too close to one or two fairy forts? Had I angered the fairies? Or, as I suspect, did Toby have something to do with the whole mishap? Is he a changeling that spends his time spying on humans in the form of different dogs?

All I know is that I feel that something played a dangerous trick on me, and I have no desire to go back to An Roc at dusk again.