by Joshua Gryniewicz

Aes Sidhe, Ohm Stones and the Emerald Isle
copyright (c) 2003 by Josh Gryniewicz

Hiking and hitching our way across the southern coast of Ireland there were two indispensable travel books that my friend Jeff and I used. The first was an off-the-beaten path guide touted as the adventurer’s handbook to the Emerald Isle. It was filled with insightful tips to enhance your cultural experience (Hint: drink at a local pub rather then a tourist bar) and, more importantly, advice on traveling with meager means (Hint: eat bread and cheese for every meal, it's both filling and cheap).

                The second book was a collection of stories and fairy folklore, and it was equally filled with helpful tips on the Aes Sidhe, the world of the fairies that borders our own mortal realm. It was a quite thorough exploration of the lore, differentiating the Cluricaun from the Leprechaun, the Banshee from the plain Shee and the truth about that baby-snatching rep. It also gave advice on how to find the Faye (Hint: play music under a Hawthorne tree), and tried to resolve the old debate, “which came first the Aes Sidhe or the Sidhe?”  Apparently, there is much controversy over whether a particular kind of mound is named for the fairies that live there or if the fairies that live there are credit to the name of the mound.

                 Jeff’s expectations for the trip were somewhat higher than my own – he had hoped to cross the threshold and be invited to a feast at a fairy palace or at the very least to see one of the Faye. I, on the other hand, just wanted to see an Ohm stone – prayer altars that were used by the Druids in tribal Celtic times – outside of a textbook picture. Though with the introduction of Christianity to the Isle, one wondered which would really be the harder find.

                We spent the night camping in a farmer’s field just outside of Cork and made our way to market to grab breakfast – tea, coffee, bread, and cheese – while waiting for the tourist bureau to open.  At the suggestion of the first book, we were seeking out a “highly recommended” comprehensive archeological map done by a local historian of the sites concentrated in the southern most tip of the Isle a couple hundred miles from where we were. 

                Jeff sat nursing his tea and planning our bus route to the next town, a tiny tourist spot that catered mostly to French and German visitors, while I headed down to the bureau. I practiced the cocky, patented Harrison Ford half-smile as I entertained the unconscious connection between a child hood hero and archeology. The grin paid off, however, because they had sold out of the book the previous day and the woman managing the counter made Xeroxes of several sections of the map from an in-house copy on the sly. 

                We hitched and hiked a considerable number of miles across the countryside leaving the tourist town for a small fishing village that was centered among numerous archeological sites. The village was on a tiny hamlet with a narrow finger of the Atlantic poking into the land to separate the main town from the outlying farms. It was fog laden, dreamy and amazingly picturesque as we hiked out of the town limits to pitch our camp. We chose a hillock across the waterway from the post card little village and climbed through thorn and thicket to find a space were our tent would be concealed from the road. 

                After wrestling brambles and an awkward climb with all our gear, we found a clearing that seemed ideally designed for our purposes. It had a breathtaking view of the sea, and the grass was matted down to form a small hallowed nook which dipped below a massive rock structure that would shield us from view. We set up for the night, ate our bread and cheese and started a several mile hike to a sacred Celtic site that we wouldn’t reach till midnight.

The site was as magnificent as I had hoped, a stonehenge in miniature that was truly amazing. Though notably absent, it said so on the historical plaque, was an Ohm stone. It began to rain while we were at the site, and by the time we returned to our camp we were thoroughly soaked. We changed and dried off as best we could in the tent and then passed out from sheer exhaustion.

That night it stormed, the run off flooded the nook that housed our tent and saturated everything. Even the bottom of our sleeping bags pooled the frigid water so that our feet were frozen as if in blocks of ice. In the morning, we were literally soaked to the bone – our teeth chattering in unison, our skin burning with cold, and everything drenched. Our bodies seemed torn by the restless night and battering of the relentless storm – we were feverish, achy, sore and sick. Needless to say, we woke up bitching, bickering and generally pissed off.

                We gathered up our supplies and unzipped the mouth of the tent where we found ourselves face to face with a cow that poked his head into the opened lining. We laughed hysterically - Jeff, the cow, and I, and despite our disgruntled dispositions the scene lightened our spirits. Outside the tent an entire herd assembled grazing around the hillside in a blissful, bovine ignorance to our presence.

 We stretched out, broke down the camp, and hobbled into town to dry out and round up some breakfast. We found a quaint bookstore/coffeehouse to order up a meal and some hot coffee. While serving our breakfast the shop keep took pity on our bedraggled wet-dog looks and offered to throw our spare clothes in the dryer and hang up our tent.

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