By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
For such a tiny island, Ireland is not well connected. To get to the physical and mythological heart of the country, I took one bus from Galway to a hardware store in Athlone and another from the Athlone bus station to Loughnavalley. There is no public transportation to the site in County Westmeath that once served as the seat of Ireland’s high kings, so I walked along the shoulder of the country road. Most days, Uisneach is an unassuming hill sporting a few tourists and amateur archaeologists, but on one night in early May each year, it begins to resemble the commanding centre of power it was thousands of years ago. According to legend, Ireland’s first great fire was lit at Uisneach. Located at the very centre of the island, the hill’s height and position enabled people to see the fire’s flames across the country. The hill has since been associated with Bealtaine, the May fire festival on the Celtic calendar. Each year, pilgrims from around the world gather here to celebrate and honor the ancient sabbat by lighting a massive bonfire. As I ascended the stout yet asthma-inducing hill, the veil of reality lifted and I entered a world in which druids and kings coexisted. Gods and goddesses pranced atop grassy mounds while austere Celtic warriors sat on horseback, their faces painted with brilliant blue patterns. This enchanting realm bled into the physical when onlookers reached into pockets for cell phones and revealed their plastic cups of Guinness. The scene was incomparable to any other festival--it seemed as if, for this one night, both myth and history came alive on this hilltop nestled on a 21st-century farm. The sun descended closer to the fields on the horizon, and crowds began gathering around the enormous pile of tinder that would become the festival’s main spectacle. Except for the hundreds of hands that held cameras poised to capture the moment the flames engulfed the wood, we could all have been neighbours gathered to celebrate surviving another winter. The processional began, and costumed participants beat drums, chanted, and tossed fire as the ceremonial torch was carried to the site. The bearer’s movements were practiced while he held the torch low to ignite the fire. Howls and cries leapt from the audience as the flames licked at the base of the mound and moved their way up. Soon, the bonfire was ablaze and I felt the heat on my face even near the back of the crowd. The drummers and flutists picked up the tempo for a chorus who began to sing in Irish, prompting the onlookers to dance wildly and take deep swigs from flasks. As the bonfire raged on, a group of revellers cloaked in flowing robes of linen made their way down the slope of the hill. I walked with them, chatting to a woman called Meabh who identified as a druid. “This is the Catstone,” she said, gesturing to a massive limestone formation. “We are here to honour our goddess.” The goddess in question was Ériu, a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann pantheon and matron goddess of the island. She is said to have been laid to rest under this stone. It is from her that Ireland takes its name, and, consequently, so do I. I felt obliged to sit with the neo-druids, silently celebrating Ériu. The Catstone displayed deep fissures across its surface, representing the divisions of Ireland’s four provinces and the entrance to the fabled fifth province, Mide. It seemed to me that on this most magical of Bealtaine celebrations, there was no question that those who gathered here had caught a glimpse of Mide and members of the Tuatha Dé who had come to watch over their homeland. As the druids and I finished our prayers and we turned back toward the bonfire, dancing, and music, I realised that although Ériu was buried, Ireland heaved with life. The stone was cracked, but for once the land was connected.