Brigid is a goddess of poetry among her other trades, and every so often I wake with a line that doesn't feel like mine. Last night's: 'The well remembers what the bucket forgets.' I keep a pencil by the bed now, not a pen, because pens die at 3am and pencils don't. Wrote it on the back of the electric bill. No idea yet what the rest of the poem is. I'm in no rush. She's never once handed me the whole thing at once.
Out at first light after the last of the hen-of-the-woods (identified properly, triple-checked, field guide in pocket as always). The fog was so thick I could only see three oaks ahead. Then I heard breathing that wasn't mine. A stag, maybe twelve feet off the path, standing so still he looked carved. Neither of us moved for what felt like an hour and was probably forty seconds. Steam rising off his back. He didn't bolt. He just turned and walked into the white like he was going home. I left an apple on the stump where he'd stood and said thank you out loud, to him and to whatever else was keeping the woods that morning.
Before pumpkins took over, Irish children carved turnips for Samhain. Big knobbly swedes, hollowed out with a spoon and a great deal of muttering, a face cut in to frighten off anything wandering the roads that night. So this year I did it the old way. It took ninety minutes, two blisters and most of my patience. The result looks like a potato that has seen things. I adore him. He's on the stone step by the front door with a tealight in a little jar, nothing near him that can catch, and I'll blow him out before bed. The barmbrack is cooling in the kitchen with a ring baked in, so someone in this house is getting engaged this year, or at least a fright at the dentist.
Found my first hag stone on Saturday: a flint pebble with a hole worn clean through it by the water, sitting on a gravel bar like it had been waiting. Old folk wisdom says if you look through one you can see the hidden folk, or at least see things as they really are. I asked before I picked it up. I know how that sounds. But I have a rule about taking from the land: ask, wait, leave something. I left a few oat flakes and a promise to carry out the litter I'd passed on the way (two crisp packets and one very sad flip-flop). I'd rather have one stone from my own river than a bag of something shipped across the world. Local stones know the local weather.
One acorn from under the old oak on the ridge, now in my coat pocket, holding my patience for me until spring. The oak dropped about four thousand of them. I don't think it'll miss one.
The community orchard had its last picking day on Sunday. When everyone had gone home with their bags of apples, I stayed behind with the old Bramley in the corner, the one that leans like she's listening. Poured a cup of last year's cider around her roots and thanked her for the crop and for shading the picnic table all summer. Left the highest apples for the blackbirds, and for the fieldfares when they arrive. Then I sat with my back against her trunk for a while and watched the light go gold. Wassailing is in January, but I don't think trees mind being thanked off schedule.
Went down to Brigid's well in Kildare on a grey weekday, the kind where it's only you, the crows and a couple of pensioners doing the rounds. Tied a strip of old cotton to the tree (it rots away, as it should) for a friend who's struggling, said a few lines of my own to Brigid, and walked along the stream. An older woman I'd never seen before fell into step beside me. Didn't introduce herself. She said, 'She hears the ones who come in the rain best,' and pressed a little rush cross into my hand, the kind you make at Imbolc, a bit dusty like it had lived on a dashboard all year. I turned to thank her and she was already halfway up the lane. Probably just a lovely local woman. Probably. The cross is on my altar now, beside the candle and the fire extinguisher.
Drove out to Brigid's well at Kildare on Sunday in a soft grey drizzle, the best weather for it. Did the rounds the old way, walking sunwise and stopping at each of the stones, with a line of poetry at each one instead of the usual prayers, since that's how she and I talk. An older woman was praying her rosary rounds right behind me. We ended up sharing a flask of tea by the stream and agreeing that Brigid has room for the both of us. Her mother first brought her there in 1961. One small plea if you visit any holy well or rag tree: tie only strips of cotton or wool that will rot away, never ribbon or plastic. The wish is meant to fade as the cloth does.
In Ireland you're told never to pick blackberries after Samhain, because the púca goes round and spits on every last one. My gran put it a little more rudely than that. So the last weekend in September is cordial weekend in this house. Two big bowls of berries from the ditch at the end of the road (above dog height, always), a splash of water, simmered soft and mashed with a wooden spoon. Strained overnight through muslin, then sugar and the juice of a lemon, brought to the boil and bottled. A dash in sparkling water by the fire in January is a whole summer, saved. The first glass gets poured out under the hawthorn for the good people. Best to stay on their side.
You’ve reached the edge of the sky.