Saint Patrick and the Serpent – a retelling of an ancient tale by Rab Swannock Fulton

In anticipation of St Patrick's Day and a celebration of all that is Irish, I've given storyteller Rab Swannock Fulton today's post.

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Galway Bay Folk Tales is
illustrated by Marina Wild.
For more see:
http://www.marinawild.com/

Below is an extract from Galway Bay Folk Tales, the new book by Rab Swannock Fulton. The book retells the dark and strange myths, folklore and urban legends of Galway and the west of Ireland. One of the main characters in the book is Saint Patrick who with his nephew Lugnad travels from the North to the West of Ireland fighting against Druids, Pagans and  Immortals such as Cromm Crúaich.

Lugnad was the son of Patrick’s sister Limanin. On the mission around Ireland the old man would often come near to being overwhelmed with anger or despair; at other times pride and temptation would threaten him. It was Lugnad, with his steady youthful optimism who would guide Patrick back to calm reflection. So it was that Lugnad became known as Patrick’s navigator.

From the moment he arrived in Ireland Patrick pursued his mission relentlessly. With the arrival of the morning sun, Patrick and his black cowled followers fell on the drowsy pilgrims at shrine of Cromm Crúaich. Wielding wooden clubs and crucifixes they smashed the bodies of idols and idolaters.

Hearing the screams of men, women and children Cromm Crúaich hurried to do battle. He transformed into a monstrous snake with poison dripping from its teeth. The beast rushed towards an old man who was shouting out instructions and encouragement to the invaders. The old man turned around and laughed at the serpent. ‘Don’t bother me fairy!’ Enraged the Immortal snapped open its jaws and swallowed Patrick, but the evangelist ripped his way through the beast’s gut.


Wounded, the Immortal slithered away. Patrick returned to the battle filled with a blinding rage, only to have Lugnad put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Enough.’ Patrick raised his hands and the violence stopped. The pagans who survived were converted en mass and helped their Christian brethren strip the gold and silver from the pagan statues. As prayers of thanks were offered up to God and Christ, Patrick vowed his work was not yet done. ‘Cromm Crúaich’s shrine is broken. But I will not rest until Cruachan Aigli is conquered.’

In the granite bones of Ireland’s hills, atoms shifted imperceptibly as the news of the destruction of Cromm Crúaich’s shrine was transmitted across the Island. With one act Patrick altered utterly the realities of this world and worlds beyond. Kings and queens shivered with horror as they contemplated new and sudden opportunities for their own advancement or destruction. Even in the realm of infinite possibilities the paths of unborn ideas were realigned by notions of belief and unbelief.

Cromm Crúaich was broken, but Patrick was not yet satisfied.

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Galway Bay Folk Tales is published by The History Press. For details see Galway Bay Folk Tales on Amazon

Rab’s other work includes a retelling of the Irish Pooka legend in Transformation an e-book available from Dark Continents Publishing.

His work will also be included in the upcoming collection of short stories Dark Harvest.

For more see About Rab

Transformation by Rab Swannock Fulton #release

I was supposed to meet Rab Swannock Fulton last year while I was visiting Ireland. But we passed each other like ships in the night, and I wasn't in Galway long enough to make a new plan. He did, however, get a limited-run printed copy of his novel, Transformation, into my hands. When I read the novella, I was totally blown away by his lyrical style. What at first seemed like a sweet love story went so horribly wrong, in the nicest, wrongest possible ways. I just knew I wanted to sink my red pen into this story--and now, a year later, this has come to pass. I am, however, going to let Rab speak for himself, and he's graciously stopped by my blog for a little Q&A. Welcome, Rab!

You're a professional storyteller based in Ireland. Tell us how that came about, and also what the average day in the life of a storyteller is. 

Well I’ve aye been surrounded by stories, from the moment I was born I was surrounded by people either telling tales or reading tales.  This has been going on in my family for generations in one for or tother. At the moment I’m telling stories and my sister is writing plays, whilst one nephew is acting. So we’re all into words in some form. As for why I turned professional. Well I’d been through a terrible few years of grieving when a friend of mine Clare Murphy – a wonderful Irish storyteller – asked me to come tell some stories with her. This was in 2006. And things just developed from there.

My average day, at the moment, is spent juggling between editing riskybizzness.blogspot.ie and trying to get the Folk Tales book written. I’m lucky in that I start my week days walking my son to his school. It’s a walk that can last anywhere from 25 minutes to an hour, depending on what distractions we come across – flowers, squashed foxes, ufo landing sites, that kinda thing. All the time of course there are stories running through the back of my head as I prepare for my weekly show in The Cottage Bar. The shows take place every Thursday night and I’m usually wiped out on Friday – its been a gey busy summer, shows packed to capacity. And then there’s always other shows going on. This weekend I was entertaining a private group of travel writers and journalists from Quebec, so its all go.

Transformation starts out as a love story, but things go horribly wrong. Can you tell us a little more about the background of the tale?

Rab doing what he does best! Telling stories.

Well you know how it is as a writer, yir aye processing things. Whatever yi see goes in to your brain and begins turning into stuff. But what I wanted to capture with this tale was a sense of wonder, the wonder of soul, sex, terror. All that.

Goats. These wonderful creatures are entrenched in Ireland's history. When I toured Ireland last year I saw a bunch of statues of goats here and there. Tell me more.

 Goats go way back into Irish culture and identity and I use a little of that history in Transformation. They are definetly part of pre-Christian forms of engagement with life and the world. Funnily enough my Chinese star sign is the goat. And when I worked up in a farm in Leitrim there was a heap of goats there. The most delightful weird inquisitive creatures, with an old crabbit granny goat in charge of them all.  So I guess I’ve aye had an affinity wae goats. I have another goat story, well a goat skin story, that I perform called Toby’s Wish, a lovely grotesque funny tale

What are some of your favourite stories that you tell to audiences? 

It depends on the audience. But what I particularly love is listening to the stories that people bring into the audience. I have learnt so much about Galway just from older audience members telling me their family tales. And of course some of those tales touch on the stranger parts of Galway. I have met people, for example who have seen Hy Brazil.

Where can folks track you down for your sessions? 

I’m lucky that locally and internationally word of mouth has served me very well. But the best way to keep up on my Celtic Tales show is keep an aye on the Celtic Tales page in my Marcus Marcus blog

Links:
Marcus Marcus & the Hurting Heart  http://marcusmarcusthehurtingheart.blogspot.com

RiskyBizness http://riskybizzness.blogspot.ie/

Twitter http://twitter.com/haveringrab

Facebook  https://www.facebook.com/rab.fulton

#travel A Whole Lot of Blarney

The sight that greets visitors as they approach the castle

Set in verdant grounds, Blarney Castle is every bit the tumbledown picture-book castle I'd imagined as a child. And I was so going to kiss the Blarney Stone - even though my husband evinced his disgust when I'd told him that was one of my goals during my visit to Ireland late last year. Hell, I needed some eloquence. In my 11 years of marriage I've yet to win an argument with the man.

As the name suggests, the castle is situated in Blarney, near Cork, and was built as a fortress about 600 years ago by Cormac Laidir McCarthy, Lord of Muscry. Apart from seeing ruined tower houses scattered throughout the Irish landscape, this was my first exploration of a castle other than the Castle of Good Hope back in Cape Town.

We approached through Blarney Castle's park-like grounds and crossed a clear stream. Here, past visitors had stood on the bridge to toss coins and, ostensibly, make wishes. This was just the start of the sense that we were on to something almost magical and out of a fairy tale. Blarney Castle itself rose from the land ahead of us, a towering edifice of grey stone that contrasted vividly with the surrounding trees' foliage. I couldn't help a small lurch of excitement as I approached the ruins. I'd always known castles were big, but, yikes, so tall? I craned my neck to stare up at the sky, and experienced a brief spot of vertigo as I saw the clouds seemingly tattered on the crenellations.

Later during my visit I'd get a chance to see the fully restored Castle Bunratty, which is similar in design to Blarney, but for now I had to use my imagination. Perhaps it was a product of having read far too many fantasy novels as a child, but a real European castle was nothing like I'd imagined it.

For one, it was actually pretty darn cramped if I had to consider how many people must have lived together. And it was difficult to visualise quite how the castle must have been hundreds of years ago because of the ruinous state.

It's easy to get a sense of vertigo looking up

I also tried to picture what the area surrounding the castle would have been like. Would I have heard the ring of steel from a blacksmith's anvil, smelt the unmistakable tang of peat smoke and seen the proud Irish, some on horseback, some on foot, coming and going on their daily errands?

But my musings on ancient times aside, of course I had to climb to the top of the actual castle. After all, I hadn't flown halfway across the globe to not complete my little adventure. But oh, going up was definitely not as easy as it sounds - and not only was this exercise vertiginous, but slightly claustrophobic as well. The stairs leading to the battlements where the Blarney Stone is situated are narrow and I'm convinced the people who built the castle were a helluva lot shorter than me. There were a few moments where I needed to duck my head, and I had to watch where I put my foot each time as I climbed the worn spiral stairs.

I had a peek into what would have been a bedroom and visualised how the rough stone walls would have been covered in tapestries and I had to wonder if these measures could take away some of the chill the stones no doubt carried during winter.

The view from the top, of course, is nothing short of amazing - green fields and trees as far as the eye can see - and even if you elect not to kiss the Blarney Stone for the gift of eloquence, it's well worth the mission just for where your gaze can roam.

According to history, the Blarney Stone is said to be half of the Stone of Scone from Scotland, upon which the Scottish kings were crowned.

It was given to Cormac McCarthy by Robert the Bruce in 1314. Later, when a certain Cormac Teige McCarthy gave Queen Elizabeth uphill, it's reported that she said that the man gave her "a whole lot of Blarney" - hence the origin of the term that's still in use.

My actual kissing of the stone was a bit of an anticlimax, but perhaps that's a good thing because before that, oh my... You have to lie down on your back, hold on to the iron railings while one of the assistants clings to your legs and... swing yourself head first under the battlements of the castle to reach the stone. And yes, you are horribly, awfully aware of that plunge on to the stony ground, many, many storeys below. People down there look teeny-tiny. Photographs are taken of you in this ungainly posture, but I opted not to pay the about R100 for my picture, content merely with the memory of the cold stone against my lips.

As for whether my wish came true, that would be telling now, wouldn't it?

Blarney Castle's verdant grounds

Unfortunately the day grew a bit cold and miserable, and our schedule was tight, so we tarried only a little in the grounds surrounding the castle.

Of particular interest to me was The Poison Garden filled with all manner of deadly plants, and a woodland walk that led to a brief investigation of nearby caves below the castle.



If we'd had more time, we would have visited the historical Blarney House itself, as well as had more time to fully explore more of the beautifully laid out gardens, the arboretum and The Rock Close. You need an entire afternoon here, definitely. When I eventually get my posterior back to Ireland, I'll pay a second visit to the castle with the stone that's been pressed to many, many lips.

This article appeared in the Sunday Independent Life supplement on July 15, 2012. All pictures by the writer. Nerine Dorman was a guest of Tourism Ireland. For further information about Blarney Castle, see www.blarneycastle.ie and for additional information about planning a visit to Ireland, see www.discoverireland.com/za

Review: Transformation by Rab Swannock Fulton

Title: Transformation

Author: Rab Swannock Fulton

Publisher: Dubray Books – dubraygal@dubraybooks.ie

Like many young people who have left school, Donnacha takes on a menial job in order to pay bills. Elbow deep in suds at a Galway pub, he soon makes friends and begins to establish himself independently. He finds love yet at the same time comes into contact with a goat-like being that is source of intense terror.

What starts out as a love story turns into a supernatural mystery with underpinnings of horror, but it’s also more than that. Superficially, Transformation is a fairy tale but, like most fairy tales, once you peel back the layers there’s a lot more substance. In many ways, Donnacha’s goat represents the darker aspects of man’s nature—bestial, carnal and savage—that exists in counterpoint to the dreamy, sensitive lover. This is also a tale about the dangers of monomania and obsession, and how one can eventually poison oneself.

For the sake of not spoiling the story, I won’t go into further detail with regard what transpires suffice to say that love is central. What struck me the most about Fulton’s writing, however, was the sheer magical gift this man has for language. I was immediately drawn into Donnacha’s world, sharing in his triumphs and his tragedies. It felt as though I were walking next to him through the ancient streets of Galway to the point where I could even hear the beating of swans’ wings and the rush of the River Corrib.

Fulton brings the magic of the Emerald Isle to life with his lyrical prose yet always reminds one that for all the light and beauty, there are darker aspects too. He evokes the primal nature of existence in his tales beneath a veneer of the commonplace, and that is why this is an important book to read.

Yes, the print edition is a bit rough around the edges with regard to edits and layout, but these flaws are minor and are far outweighed by the pure magic of the story. Rab Swannock Fulton is a gifted storyteller of the highest order, and Transformation will not leave you unchanged.

Follow Fulton on Twitter @haveringrab

The Emerald Isle--day two

No surprises, it was raining when we woke on Sunday morning. I totally overslept due to completely not setting my alarm properly. But that was okay at the end of the day. Danny, Sheldon and Helen were still having breakfast so I gulped down copious amounts of tea and assorted yoghurts, nuts, croissant, eggs and toast--then we braved the cold.

To be honest, it isn't that much more cold than Cape Town during winter, so the weather didn't really bother me. We walked a bit to where we could catch the Dublin Bus Tours, which is the hop-on, hop-off bus that drives a circuit through the city to the majority of its sights. And it's worth every euro for this. If you're here, DO invest in a ticket. It's going to save your life--and your feet. Plus, if you're lucky, you'll get a smart-mouthed bus driver who'll tell dirty jokes.

We first drove the circuit and got an idea of where everything was situated. Then we went to the Guinness Storehouse where we climbed all the way to the top to have our pint. The Gravity Bar gives an awesome, fantastic view of the entire city. And I had my first proper pint of Guinness, which is rather nice.

Plainly put, the Guinness brewery is huge. I cannot remember how many millions of pints it puts out daily but the amount is staggering. It makes our little SAB brewery in Newlands look like a baby. But ja, if you're a fan of the "black nectar" as it is called, the Guinness Storehouse is a cathedral devoted to the liquid. For me it was just a total treat to see the panoramic views of the city from the top.

What I love about Dublin is its architecture, which combines everything from the gorgeous Gothic styles of its cathedrals and churches, to the many Georgian-era buildings. Window boxes and hanging baskets are filled with colourful flowers this time of the year. And there is not a scrap of litter to be seen. The locals are super-friendly and if they see gormless tourists looking lost, they're quick to ask where you want to be and to give directions.

Lunch we had at one of the restaurants at the Storehouse, a surprisingly good buffet with poached salmon and a selection of fresh salads. Salmon is very common in Irish menus, so for folks like me, who don't see all that much of it in South Africa, it was a treat. I've been eating fish pretty much my entire time here.

Afterward, Danny and I (the two sub-editors/crazy ladies) eventually decided to see the Dublin Writers Museum--the whole being a wordsmith thing. The exhibits were just enough to whet my appetite to delve into Irish literature, which is very much tied in with the history of the country. We didn't see the whole museum as it was closing time and we were in need of a bath, so we waited for the bus then headed back to the hotel.

Feeling much fresher, we caught a taxi later to the Temple Bar in the Arlington Hotel, to take in a show and a meal. The crowd was mostly tourists, from countries such as France, Ukraine and a lot from the US. To think that a few years ago we'd never admit to being South African! How much has changed.

The Irish band that played was very slick and, while I would have loved to have heard more traditional reels, they took requests from the audience. Don't laugh. Someone requested Molly Malone (and yes, I died a little). After the band came the dancers, who were, likewise, also slick--delivering a lovely Riverdance-styled show. Very energetic and very rousing.

We were quite merry by the time we returned to the hotel but gosh, was I tired. All in all, I didn't realise how quickly the time would pass. I'd have loved to have gone to more of the destinations in the city, to its numerous museums and art galleries, but there simply wasn't time.

Dublin is a magical city with many wonderful places to spend time exploring. You need at least a week here and you will still only have scratched the surface. Thank you to Tourism Ireland for giving me the opportunity for this small taster.

We plunge into the countryside next.

The Emerald Isle--day one

It was with some trepidation last night that I boarded the KLM flight to Amsterdam. How the hell was I going to survive 12 hours in the air? I needn't have worried. The cabin crew made sure that even economy class wanted for nothing. And can I say it? Oh my, smoked almonds.

Even better, I didn't have any snorers and I did sleep a little.

Schipol is BIG. Then again, I am a South African who's on her first trip to the northern hemisphere. Everyone was very friendly and I found the rest of my group (they'd flown up separately from Jozi) and what did we do? We ended up in an Irish pub in Amsterdam. Go figure.

And that first 500ml Crossbow cider went down mighty fine.

One highlight of the airport (not that airports by their very nature have highlights) was that I saw the Schipol Rijksmuseum that had an exhibit of Dutch girls. Now I understand why the Dutch were considered the masters of portraiture and landscapes during the 17th century. And while I've seen a few masterpieces in South African art galleries, this small taster of what can be found in Amsterdam proper makes me fiend for the day I can haul the DH to Europe with me on one of these trips.

Our flight to Dublin, courtesy of Aer Lingus, was uneventful. I was a bit concerned at the strong winds we had upon landing, but kudos to the pilot. He did a bloody good job. And this is the Capetonian who's blase about the southeaster perking up about wind.

I watched some of the other planes land and they looked a bit like drunk geese caught in strong cross-winds.

It looks like what's happening in Cape Town's CBD is happening in Dublin too. A LOT of revitalisation of the CBD with more public-friendly amenities. Public transport here rocks. South Africans who visit will probably have their eyes pop out of their skulls when they see how much everything costs--food and drink is quite expensive in the big hotels and restaurants.

But it's all worth it. I'm looking forward to tomorrow when we do our first tour of the city. Tonight we're just chilling out, going out for dinner in an hour or so and I'm heartily glad I've had my bath. I have cosy room in Jurys Inn, and it even has a slightly psychedelic carpet in the hallway outside my room.

Even better, I have wifi. I'm so not watching telly tonight when we get back. I may well edit. Yes, yes, I know I'm supposed to be on holiday but I can't help myself.