On This Day: My Mother The Cow

On this day is remembered the Irish saint Máedóc of Ferns, born around 558. According to Irish legends, when a boat could not be found to take the infant Aedan (Máedóc’s original name), across the lake where St.Kilian waited to baptise him, the boy was floated to shore on a slab of stone.

The font at St Mogue’s in Bawnboy is said to be made from part of the stone. Will come in handy if ever the churchyard floods.

He studied at Clonard Abbey, the famed school of St.Finnian. When many people came to seek him out, desiring to be his disciples, he fled to Wales to study under none other than St.David. These saints do seem rather clicky, don’t they?

Along with St.Cadoc (another name drop there) Máedóc was said to have exterminated an army of Saxons or Irishmen in a narrow valley by rolling stones upon them.


The monastic site at Clonmore is in ruins. Here some cross fragments and carved stones have been collected together.

He was noted for his benevolence and hospitality (though perhaps not to Saxons or Irishmen). At one point, a man pushed him into a lake to see whether he would lose his temper, then, when he meekly got back out of the lake the tormentor confessed his guilt and apologised.

A humble, forgiving soul, eh? Don’t bet on it:

He was well known for his curses. Once, when he was grinding flour, a local man begged for some meal. After being given some, the man disguised himself as a blind man and returned to beg for more. Annoyed, Máedóc cursed him that the generations of his descendants would never lack for a blind member. Sins of the father and all that.

When a notable figure slew his own father-in-law, he attempted to accommodate the saint, only for him to curse that the man’s right hand would wither to a stump. When the man begged for a penance, Máedóc directed him to pray for forgiveness at the tomb of Brandubh in Ferns. The man did so, and a spectral voice from the crypt forgave him.

Miraculous. Marvellous. He still lost his hand though.

Many more stories abound concerning this seventh century figure. Once, fetching ale for his fellow monks, old butter fingers broke a jug. Making the sign of the cross over the broken shards, the jug repaired itself and he continued along the way. As a former teenage glass collector, I can tell you there is definitely a market for this kind of trick.


Stained glass window of the Saint in Enniscorthy Cathedral.

I like the story about the time wolves devoured one of the calves at the monastery, the mother cow being inconsolable. Máedóc blessed the head of his cook and told him to offer it to the heifer. The cow licked him with its great, rough tongue, and from that moment ‘loved him like a calf’. Oh, how that cook must have leapt for joy whenever he heard it lowing mournfully in the barn. Think I’d have preferred a withered stump.


One thing I love about the tales of these Celtic monks is their affinity with, and connection to, the natural world. Perhaps there is a moulding here of both the native pagan and early Christian faiths, back in the melting pot of these islands. There is a nice tale of  Máedóc reading one day in Connaught, and a hunted stag in desperation took refuge with him. By a miracle, the saint rendered the stag invisible, and so the pursuing hounds ran off.

In art the figure of a stag remains this saint’s emblem. A visible one, of course. An invisible emblem wouldn’t be much of an emblem, now, would it?

Aeddan, forever known as Máedóc, died on this day in 632, (or in an alternative account 626) and is buried on Lough Melvin’s shore in County Leitrim. Give him a thought before you turn out the light tonight.



The Tableaux Of Drunkeness

This is a photograph that was taken in Manchester on New Year’s Eve. It was posted on Twitter, a tableaux of drunkeness that was said to capture well the city on that particular evening. It truly is a visual feast: everywhere you look, there’s something going on.

Manchester, in all her glorious mayhem.


We later learned that all’s well that ends well: the guy being restrained by the police officers was not arrested, and left the scene after calming down.

And the reclining guy in blue, (upstaging all others in his model-like pose while  commendingly not spilling a drop of his drink in the process), was later traced and said, maybe not surprisingly, that he had no recollection whatsoever of being there.

He almost looks photoshopped. Perhaps he believes that he was.

Inspired by the artistic merits of this scene, Twitter users impressively stepped up to the plate:
















Hope you enjoyed this cultural feast.

Art for art’s sake, to quote a certain Mancunian group.

Welcome to Manchester, 2015. Just.

In The Wee Small Hours

It is the time of year for all kinds of bugs and nasties.  It is 4.30am, and the cough that has kept my son, James, awake all through the night has finally sent us both downstairs, resigned to begin the day at such an ungodly hour.

The house is so silent you can hear it.

Outside it is still impenetrably dark, yet the birds are beginning to sing to lighten its depth.

Is January the bleakest month? I don’t know, but the month is almost out. The world continues to turn, and so does the clock.

It’s going to be a long day.



Discharged of duty,
the cranes are extinct sauropods,
fossilising as they stand.
Smudges of smoke
and a clattering of rain 
on corrugated iron
fill the night.

Caulkers and other men
of toil,
circumscribed by whistle
and clock,
are gone,

having filed by
the oil-black water
a final time,

the women's 
failed crane bags
and grimoires
flung into the inky depths.

The tone 
is commensurate with the hour,
drifting, reconciled,
on a cat's-paw 

as the pub empties
on the moated hill,
wistful eyes
riding the inlet down
to the padlocked gates,
before turning and blurring
against the torrent,
—hard and warm
and cauterising.

 —from my book 
            Heading North (2015)

I Love Lucy

I love this photograph, taken by Dmitry Vasyanovich, of an encounter with Lucy, at Guadalupe, Mexico.

I will show this to my fifteen-year-old daughter, Courtney, for a bit of perspective. She won’t go in a room if there is a spider in it.


I hope the diver learns to be more careful, though, or the next time he goes down he will be able to wear fingerless gloves. Or a sleeveless suit.

Awake, My Muse

Things have been quiet, poetry wise. My book has now been realised, and I’ve been working on a final draft of a short story for a forthcoming anthology.

The first snow of winter came in last night, so I wrapped myself up warm and went for a walk to experience it. Along the way, the beginning of a new poem began to form in my mind. The land is slumbering, but creativity awakens.


In the hush of winter,

white lichen clings to trees,

life slumbers long 

into the early hours

of black glass.


It is a beginning.


A Review Of Heading North

The musician and writer Laura Bruno Lilly recently posted a great, incisive review of my poetry collection on her blog, in which she quotes some of the included poems.

It’s always good to be mentioned in the same breath as The Beatles!

My thanks to her for her ‘shoutout’ post.

Here is the link: