Smidiríní: A Connecticut Yankee in Queen Maeve's Connacht
Sometimes you just need a big dose of the matriarchy to shake off—shake it off, shake it off, hey hey—self doubt and other psychic marauders that would steal your joy.
I see a high cairn kissed by holy wind…
—from ‘Strange Waters’ by Bruce Cockburn
‘Yahwright?’ the tall, slender, older man who was heading down the trail in Knocknarea as I was heading up it greeted me one morning earlier this month.
To the untrained American ear, it might have sounded as if he were asking me, a complete stranger pausing to catch her breath on a steep, rocky incline, if I was, in fact “alright.” And in the millisecond it took for his words to reach my brain and be processed, that’s initially what I thought he meant. But then I remembered that in other places, such as this man’s native Scotland (I could tell by the accent—Aberdeen is my best guess), his greeting was simply that.
Yahwright? is the equivalent of saying “‘Sup?” or “How are ya?” in other locales.
“Yeah, good, you?” I answered between shallow gasps.
“Warrior!” he said, pointing at my head.
I stared at him blankly.
“That’s you! Don’t forget it,” he said.
Momentarily flummoxed, I quickly realized the black knit tuque I had pulled on in the carpark below had the word WARRIOR embroidered on it in white thread.
“Oh yes, it’s my son’s hat—I forgot I had it on,” I chuckled, adding: “But I’ll take that!”
“Have a grrrreat climb,” the kindly Scot said as we passed and continued on our ways. “It’s worth it.”
He was right.
The trek up to the summit of Knocknarea, a very tall hill in south County Sligo, where Maeve (also spelled Medb, Meadhbh, Méibh, Maev, Maiv, among myriad other iterations), mythic warrior queen of Ireland, is said to be buried—standing up, in full battle regalia, and facing north toward her enemies in Ulster.
A massive, 12-meter (40-foot) high cairn marks her final resting place, one of a few around Ireland that make such a claim, but one of two likely to be the real McCoy.
I made the lengthy ramble, gaining about 1,000 feet in elevation, on the first morning since April I’d awakened without breathtaking pain in my lower back. I wasn’t sure if my body would cooperate, but my spirit was willing. I felt drawn to this ancient place by an unseen psycho-spiritual tractor beam.
Truth be told, I’d been feeling a little down in the dumps, the familiar Black Dog nipping at my heels, and an encroaching case of self doubt descending like a high pressure system on an given Irish afternoon.
I’m sure it had more than a little to do with a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion. Moving across the world is not for the faint of heart or body. That my back had been giving me fits, despite medical intervention in Chicago that had done the trick in the past, was a major drag. We’d been running into all kinds of resistance, large and small, since the day the movers showed up in California. A bad back. A bad knee. A broken car window. Logistical nightmares. A broken tooth. An unexpected bill or twelve. A few bruised hearts. One thing after another. A litany of petty annoyances.
In my experience, such resistance often means I’m on the right track and heading toward the kind of seismic change that is difficult, for sure, but ultimately life giving and essential. Even though I believe that deeply, after weeks of pain and complication, I was beginning to wonder whether we’ve made a huge mistake.
Not being able to walk it off, as is my longtime custom, to get out of my head by moving my body, whether through working out with the lovely woman who trains me or on various hiking trails, left me stewing in my thoughts. Despite all the contemplative tools in my quiver, I was having a wobble. A biggun.
So, when I awoke before dawn (which in this part of the West of Ireland at this time of the year is about 4:30 a.m.), and didn’t immediately wince in pain, I decided I would gird my ailing back with a neoprene Velcro brace and anti-inflammatories, drive to Sligo (about 90 minutes north), and attempt the ascent to pay my respects to the warrior queen and maybe breathe in some of her energy, mythic or otherwise.
It was about half nine when I pulled into the parking lot where a handful of other vehicles already were parked, pulled on a few more layers and that WARRIOR tuque, double-checked the trail map, and headed up the hill.
And if I only could I'd make a deal with God And I'd get him to swap our places Be running up that road Be running up that hill... —'Running Up That Hill (Make A Deal With God)' by Kate Bush
Whether Queen Maeve was an actual, historical, living human or solely a mythical figure, she is a metaphor for hardheaded, untamable, unapologetic female ferocity—a “fair-haired wolf queen” whose name in the Irish language (old and new) means, variously, “intoxicating,” “she who rules,” and “she who brings great joy.”
Daughter of the High King of Ireland, wife and mother and maker and slayer of other kings, Maeve is the archetypal warrior queen, uncompromising and, according to various legends, quite merciless. I don’t care for that last bit, but it’s hard to tell what tales about the Queen of Connaught are “true” and which were added by the keepers of history (read: largely menfolk) to minimize, dismiss, disparage, delegitimize, tame, or erase women who were important to their time and place.
In that way, I suppose she is not unlike Mary Magdalene, the Apostle to the Apostles, who was put in her place by the unhistorical, unbiblical notion that she was a sex worker (i.e. a woman of ill repute, a more sinnerly sinner than the other guys with whom Jesus reportedly spent his time) in need of rehabilitation. (If you want to do a deeper dive into Magdalene, might I suggest my pal
’s brilliant essay “Mary the Tower.”)The Wolf Queen even makes an appearance in another guise (as the Fairy Queen Mab) in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, where she is miniaturized for easier consumption:
"O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep…”
Ireland’s Queen Maeve likely lived, if she did as a human person, in between 50 BCE and 50 CE—perhaps even simultaneously with Jesus the Christ. Her alleged burial place atop Knocknarea joins passage tombs and other burial sites far older than she (or her legend) as the site dates to the Neolithic era.
One of the legends about Maeve’s death claims that she was dispatched by a piece of hard cheese flung at her from the slingshot of one of her male rivals. (The cheese details stinks like something someone might add to make her look ridiculous or at least an attempt to take the wind out of her legacy.)
The cheese detail failed to dampen Maeve’s impact on Irish culture through the centuries. She looms large in the imagination here, where many locations are named after her. My favourites are Ballypitmave in County Antrim and Sawel Pitmave in County Tyrone, which both translate more or less to “Maeve’s vulva.”
Take that, cheese guy!
As Maeve’s Cairn came into view as I approached the summit, the winds kicked up and my hair lashed wildly about my face. I turned into the wind to blow it behind me (and once again catch my breath). That’s when Julie walked up to me and started a conversation.
Was I traveling around Ireland alone?
No, my husband was at home in Mayo nursing a janky knee.
Oh what a pity he’s missing this view. Where else will I visit while on holiday?
I’m not on holiday, I explained. We’ve recently “moved home,” at least for the rest of the year.
How brave! How wonderful! Good for you! She had just moved home to the UK after 35 years in South Africa.
Thank you. I need to hear that today. I’ve been starting to doubt our decision and by extension my instincts.
Don’t do that. It’s a huge leap, of course it will be scary, but it’s worth it to follow your heart.
That’s what I keep telling myself, but it helps to hear it from someone else. Especially a woman. Especially a woman I don’t know.
Trust yourself.
So far, this Irish adventure has been an extreme slow-motion, high-altitude trust fall.
There were things that we probably should’ve known before we got here that we didn’t and now we have to figure out, and that’s scary and sometimes a bit overwhelming.
But, if Julie the oracle is to be believed (and I choose to believe her), they are not insurmountable. One thing at a time, one foot in front of the other.
Trust yourself.
I have no idea why Julie approached me at the cairn that day, but my guess is she just had a sense that she should. I love women for that. Not to say that all people can’t have intuition that compels them to do such things. It’s just that women, when they listen to their intuition, are so good at the follow through. Anyway, I’m grateful she did and was able to penetrate my innate New England reserve that makes me allergic to small talk and that I often wear like the shell of an ancient leatherback.
Her traveling companion, Louise, joined us for a quick chat and then they asked me if I’d heard about the seaweed baths nearby. I had not. They kvelled about the healing (or at least relaxing) properties of said baths at a spa on the beachfront in Standhill, about a 10-minute drive from the trailhead carpark.
About 90 minutes later, I was soaking in a claw-foot tub at the Voya Spa, the loose mermaid hair kelp steeped in hot water, all nourishing and slippery. Amniotic. By the time I left to do the big shop on the drive home, I felt renewed in all the ways.
Unfortunately, around midnight that night, I became violently ill and stayed that way for the next 10 days. It turned out to be rotavirus, a new one on me, and I do not recommend it. No idea how I caught it as they immunize children (the most likely carriers and sufferers of the virus) here against it and I’ve hardly been near a child except for passing by them in the aisles of the grocery store.
Knocked sideways (literally in this case), I spent a week in bed, nauseated and miserable, everything hurt, and I could barely keep water down.
But around day nine, things slowly improved and by Thursday this week, my appetite returned and the gnarly symptoms had mostly relented. Thanks be to God and the kindly Irish doctor who treated me earlier this week.
Renewed, on Friday, I drove across the breadth of Ireland on a solo quest for a different kind of warrior goddess energy and naming, this time to see the Godmother of Punk Herself, our beloved Patricia—
—and her quartet on their second of a two-night stand at the legendary Vicar Street in Dublin.For nearly two hours, Patti glided around the stage like the poet-prophet she is, her long, white tresses lit from above giving her the ethereal glow of the Fairy Queen Mab. She livened our hearts, dispensing her inimitable folksy-literate wisdom and wit in a sonic feast and spiritual pep talk I sorely needed.
Tough times, these, all around the world for all kinds of people, who, she reminded us, still have the power despite evidence to the contrary.
“I’ve got at least two decades left,” she announced after a woman in the audience shouted that she could “die in her arms.” (People sometimes say the strangest things when they’re having a peak experience.)
“Make sure you drink plenty of water when you get home,” Mama Patti told the crowd as she sent us back into the night a little lighter in the souls. Ah sure, it’ll be grand.
Trust yourself.
There was an elegiac quality to Patti’s performance last night as she remembered aloud her husband Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith and Kurt Cobain, who both died 30 years ago, Jeff Buckley, whose (for me) life-altering album Grace also arrived in 1994, and Johnny Cash, who left the room in 2003 when he was only 71 (which feels insanely young to me now.) Patti sang Lana Del Rey’s ‘Summer Sadness’ in an arrangement that was equal parts playful and mournful. And her tribute to Cobain—her own song ‘About A Boy’ that morphed into a howling, chanting, soul-shaking rendition of Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’—was pure punk lamentation.
When she returned to the stage for the encore, coffee cup in hand (‘hot water, lemon, ginger and manuka fucking honey’) to help nurse a froggy throat, and intoned the first words of her anthem ‘Gloria’—Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine—I thought the walls might come tumbling down as every voice in the room seemed to sing along at top volume in defiant unison.
An unspoken, shared sentiment dovetailed in a fashion with her cover earlier in the set of Bob Dylan’s ‘The Man In The Long Black Coat’ —
Preacher was a talkin’, there’s a sermon he gave
He said "Every man’s conscience is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
When it’s you who must keep it satisfied."
It ain’t easy to swallow, it sticks in the throat
She gave her heart to the man
In the long black coat…
The symbolism of the long black coat, perhaps a clerical cassock, a preacher who tried (and too often succeeded) to tell people (and women in particular) not to trust their guts, conscience, or primal intuition, was not lost on the standing-room-only crowd.
I’m fascinated by what’s happening spiritually in this place, Ireland, where much of institutional religion has been resoundingly rejected in the main not even a generation away from its being a functional-if-not-formal theocracy. Don’t let anyone tell you Ireland is fast becoming “secular,” at least not in the false secular-versus-spiritual binary sense or that such a turn is a “bad” thing, spiritually.
There’s a seismic shift happening, for sure, and I sense a big female energy rising.
But I’m new here. I’m just watching and listening and trying hard neither to jump to conclusions nor to narrate what I’m seeing as it happens.
And yet, you know how it goes? Once a professional observer, always…
Interestingly, Friday also was the first night of Taylor Swift’s three-night stand in Dublin’s Aviva Arena. My hotel was chock’o’block with sequined Swifties, as was much of the city center. And while I do not count myself among her loyal minion (and couldn’t hum a single tune in her vast repertoire beyond ‘Shake It Off’), I do admire the fierce young woman Ms. Swift is and the global community of revolutionary kindness and empowerment she leads. Theirs is a different sort of feminine power than the one I sought, yes, but surely akin to it and an intriguing human phenomenon to observe in all its sparkly, feather boa’ed, friendship-bracelet-sporting glory.
Patti’s is a different sort of glory.
She is benediction
She is addicted to thee
She is the root connection…
I'm dancing barefoot
Heading for a spin
Some strange music draws me in
Makes me come on like some heroine
In an ocean of Swifties, I am a Patrician.
We give thanks for such graces (and Graces).
Oh Patricia, you've always been my North Star
And I have to tell you something I'm still afraid of the dark
You take my hand in your hand from you flowers grow
And you understand with every seed you sow you make this cold world beautiful
She told me all doors are open to the believer
I believe her, I believe her, I believe her...
—'Patricia' by Florence + the MachineHOUSEKEEPING
If you’d like to follow our Irish adventures more closely, please head to Instagram where I post (usually) daily reels, photos, and stories @godgrrl. And Stritch even has her own account now: @MissStritchie.
Smidiríní
It’s a nifty Irish word (basically meaning “pieces”) from whence the English word “smithereens” is derived, apparently. The smidiríní are the bits that are left when something is “blown to smithereens” but they also are the fragments, large or small, from which complex mosaics are made.
As your weekend begins, just keep following the heart lines on your hand, as our Florence, herself a modern-day Maeve of a kind, might say. She who is terrified but sings it anyway. (See below.)
Please be as brave and as kind as you can, and remember that you haven’t met yet everyone you will love and you haven’t met yet everyone who will love you.
Heaps of love from me,
All of this. Glad you’re better. Keep asking,seeking, knocking. And yes to 20 more years of Patti.
Thank you for bringing us along Cath. Beautiful. All of it. (Sorry bout the sick though. Ugh.)