This story is based on an actual experience I had in March of 2022. Apologies in advance for spelling mistakes, dyslexia is a bitch.
March: Loophead Peninsula, Co. Clare.
He stood on the precipice. The Wild Atlantic Ocean infront, the lighthouse of Loop Head behind. If he dove now and swam, he’d not see anything until the Eastern shores of North America.
This was what he lived for, wilderness, isolation, adventure. The oneness with nature.
None of this interested him in that moment. His gaze was fixed on the towering sea stack infront of him.
He could not see the ocean between the two lots of land. But could hear its waves of fury crashing against the rocks, several hundred feet below.
Lovers Rock they called it.
His mind wandered back to his grandfather’s tales of Diarmuid and Gráinne. The tale of the two lovers who had spent a long night on the rock. Braving the elements together. Fleeing from Gráinne’ ageing chieftan Finn McCumhil. Her bethrode.
He thought of his own love, still sat in his car. Protected from the elements that the West of Ireland was throwing at them. He wondered would she ever spend a night in the cold with him. Braving the rage of the Atlantic. Was it real love they had?
This was the last day of their staycation, their last stop before heading back to the bustling streets of Dublin. She had been consumed with worry for her ailing uncle since they had left the capital. It had put a dampner on his relaxation time.
Then it hit him. Rising from between the sea stack and the mainland like a vengeful gust of wind. The howl. A shriek that brought shivers to his spine and pimples to his flesh.
Barn Owl? Too early! A fox perhaps? But where? There was no cover in the form of trees or bushes to be seen. He had glimpsed no other signs of life on his venture to the stack. Loop Head was beautiful but this was the West of Ireland in March. Bleak, cold and forgotten. He was the only one there.
His mind went to another of his grandfather’s stories, of the great warrior Cúchullain. To the mythical warriors bout with the hag Mál. Mál who had met her doom falling from the stack in pursuit of Cúchullain. Her body washing ashore at Hags Head near the Cliffs Of Moher. Her blood staining the beaches of Miltown Malby.
Stories he told himself. Stories from a time when people had time to create stories.
Then it came again, rising and boiling over the precipice like an angry teapot. He left this plain and disappeared into his thoughts. “She’s come for me.”
His senses and motor skills abandoned him. As much as he wanted to turn and run he could not.
The crashing waves of the Atlantic were gone. The sounds of the squabbling water fowl a distant memory. Her call was luring him from his astral body. He closed his eyes and accepted his faith…
He couldn’t remember taking any steps, but when he returned to himself, it was evident by the sight of the roiling ocean calling up to him that he had. The world was silent. A light breeze took his cheek and blew his hair across his face. He breathed in deeply as if he had not tasted fresh air in years.
A sigh of relief? He couldn’t say for sure. The thought was on the tip of his tongue, but they were just stories. Stories from a time when people had time to create stories.
When he felt confident in himself to walk again, he made his way back to his awaiting love. Daring not to look behind him. He had seen enough for one day and was full of fear, as to who or what may be looking back at him.
“Just stories!” He told himself.
She was visibly upset. One hand lightly clutching the back of her head. The other loosely holding a cigarette burned to its butt. Her phone thrown into the drivers seat. Dried tears on her red cheeks. “Her uncle!” he remembered. “She wasn’t calling to me!” He rejoiced to himself.
His face must have given his sudden realisation of the events of the past few moments. “What is it?” she asked.
He looked at her and said:
“Banshee…”
Thanks for reading. I hope you all have a fun and safe Paddys Day.
Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Duit. 🇮🇪💚☘️