Today at 6:17am the Hay Moon was full, so tonight’s moonrise is the closest to full. This ninth moon of the year is also called the Corn Moon. Though I have already written off summer and moved right on to fall, today the season of Midsummer shifts to Lughnasadh, fair season, gathering season, a time to bring the whole tribe together and show off. The Lughnasadh holiday begins on the last Sunday in July, Bilberry Sunday or Crom Dubh Sunday. On this day, people climb to the heights for a day of picnics and berry picking and good-natured competitions. There are races and games.
In Ireland, the Tailteann games (or Telltown, named for Lugh’s foster mother, Tailtiu) is a tradition that may go back as far as the Bronze Age. The ancient games included chariot and horse races, boxing and wrestling. Being Ireland, in the evening, musicians and storytellers entertained the crowds. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, there were several attempts to revive the games. But it wasn’t until the Irish Free State was formed and the end of the Great Depression freed up funding that the games began in earnest. Today, there are many games specifically tied to this time, but “Tailteann games” is also a generic label for year-round sports in Ireland.
The Rás Tailteann cycling race was founded in 1953, and Cycling Ireland still organizes the race annually, though now it is known as simply “the Rás”. Many cyclists name this competition the hardest race of their careers, in case you were thinking of riding. In 1963, the Irish Secondary Schools Athletic Association began organizing their annual national championships under the name “Junior Tailteann Games”, and Athletics Ireland continues to use the name “Tailteann Games” for its annual schools inter-provincial championships. The Gaelic Athletic Association’s Tailteann Cup (football, of course), established in 2022, also takes its name from the ancient games.
In addition to games, many market fairs take place throughout the season, with an especial focus on horse trading. As in the ancient games, horse racing is also a feature of the season, with several races taking place on beach sand. Maggie Steifvater’s, The Scorpio Races, is a superb fantasy twist to this tradition of autumn beach racing. Not only are the races cut-throat, but the “horses” are actually kelpies — with a taste for human blood.
In a more grounded tradition, the potato harvest swings into full gear at this time. In the orchard there are still pit fruits ripening — peaches, in particular — and the earliest apples are ready for sauce-making. Berries of all kinds are ripe in fields and cultivated plots alike. And the garden is so productive there is hardly time to breathe between harvesting, cleaning, cooking, canning, freezing, and eating. You can actually get sick of tomatoes, still warm from the garden sun, sliced into thick wedges and slathered in fresh basil pesto. And in the midst of all this harvest it is also time to sow. Fall and over-wintering crops are planted in the garden and the fields are being prepared for winter grains.
Meanwhile, in my town we are starting the disturbing trend of dealing with flood mess in July. (Hence writing off summer.) I have managed to clean up the basement, though there was much less to clean. I have not cleaned up the layer of mud in the garage because it is too thin to shovel effectively and too wet to sweep. So there it will stay until we get some dry weather… which… might not be until September. If memory serves, I think it was September last year also, though there was also standing water for most of August and about an inch of mud to remove, most of which got tossed into the jungle — on the side I never intend to use, being that my neighbor’s VW leaks.
There’s a good deal of grack down there that I’ve been clearing out slowly, but it will never be good soil. I’ve pulled plastic cups, beer cans, tires, a beach ball — still inflated… no idea… — and tons of other trash out. There is still an entire telephone post reclining on the bank. That will never go anywhere. It will rot in place, sending all the tar and whatever else is in telephone poles into the soil. So a bit of Bug juice infused mud is no worse than what’s there already.
In any case, I am busy right now. Some of it is miserable work and all of it is hot in this humidity. But I enjoy this time of year more than any other. Even with the flood clean-up. Just adds a note of distinction to my summer…
Some Full Moon Folklore
Moving to a new house on a full moon is lucky.
Touching silver while gazing at the full moon will bring wealth.
When the moon is full, look through a holey stone, or hag stone, to see into the Land of Faery.
A holey stone also serves as protection from faeries if hung over cradles and beds or in windows.
Here is my take on a Cornish folktale on mermaids and the lunacy they inspire.
The Siren Song
There once was a cathedral on the rocky coast of Cornwall that was adorned with mermaids, woven into its tapestries, carved into its walls and pillars, and painted over its deep blue ceiling. Here in this corner, they danced in the cove under the silver moon. There by the sacristy door, they languidly combed long tresses that snaked around stone. Strong fish tales propelled them in dizzying spirals above the congregation. Altar candles flickered above gleaming bodies brandishing golden tridents. And every eye stared with haughty menace from breathtakingly beautiful faces.
A bishop came to this church one day and was chagrined by what he thought were devilish designs in the house of his god. He asked the parishioners why their forebears had taken such pains to cover every surface with primitive pagan folktales. So they told him this story.
Many generations ago, a beautiful woman came to the cathedral. Her skin was gleaming bronze with nary a hint of age, though she carried herself with the confidence and grace of full maturity. She had long silken hair the color of midnight and bright eyes that flashed like beams of moonlight shining through falling water. She wore pale blue silk embellished with beads of pearl and shell in intricate design. She was very tall, and her bare arms were strong.
She came into the cathedral and stood alone, her back to the congregants. And when the choir raised their voices in praise, she joined them. Her voice rang high and clear above all the others. And in her voice could be heard tempered bells of finest silver sounding under water and flutes carved from the bones of ospreys trilling in the twilight. She conjured images of ice like dark crystal and warm sun on the sandy strand at low tide. She brought hard men to salt-streaming tears and invoked the untamed strength of ocean waves in the gentle hearts of women. Though the words of the mass flowed from her lips, she sang of innocence and lust and deep occluded secrets at the foundations of the world. And the whole congregation was spellbound.
But when the mass was ended, she slipped through the people and disappeared.
The villagers nervously shook themselves free of the enchantment, whispering that it was all a dream. They would not look into each other’s eyes for fear of finding confirmation there. And they buried what they heard in that voice deep in their hearts.
Weeks passed. Then months. And soon it was a year since the mysterious woman sang in their midst. But in spite of their efforts to forget, her voice still sang in their minds like seabird song in a grotto, calling to their hearts. Young women daydreamed of following her into a life of wild reprieve. Young men longed to be allowed merely to worship at her feet. Elders heard regret for a life they never dared claim.
And on a Sunday morn close to the Midsummer Moon, she reappeared, standing amongst them like she had never been gone. Once again, she held them enthralled by her voice, conjuring visions and desires and wonder. And once again she vanished as the last notes of mass hung like sun-sparkling motes in the air.
So the story repeated itself. So another year passed with joy and sorrow and mundane living. But in this year some began to express the impressions seared into their memories. All through the village, stoneworkers carved, weavers entwined, artists painted, smiths cast iron and silver and bronze. And though none of the portrayals was alike, nor even similar in form, people saw uncanny likeness to her in each image. And each image was impregnated with unfathomable yearning.
Not a few began to fear what they saw in those faces.
So then a third Midsummer Moon brought her back to the cathedral. And again it was the same, until the end of mass. But this time when the benediction was laid on the congregants, she paused under the arched entry to the nave and turned. There, silhouetted by the bright light of day, she stood and silently raised one hand in invitation.
As one, every young person and those young at heart — man and woman, matron and maid, bachelor, betrothed and bewedded — all turned and followed her into the sunlight. And the whole body processed in eerie silence out of the village, past fields and farms and fishing huts, down the rocky cliffs, across the sands, and into the waiting arms of the sea, which swallowed them all without a ripple, as if they never had been.
Children cried after their mothers. Old women wailed for their sons. Old men stood rooted and wept. And sailors cursed the waves. But they were finally freed from enchantment.
And so, the villagers told the bishop, our ancestors took every likeness from the village and translated each to the cathedral, as warning to both mermaid and those mortals tempted to follow her voice in search of wild beauty and savage freedom.
She is not welcome here, they said. And these are the reminders, the countercharms against her voice should she ever again dare to sing within these stone walls.
Because at times, we still hear the song of the sea, and then we must stopper our ears and close our eyes. We see them, the echoes of those she enraptured away, dancing abandonedly in the foamy shallows under the midsummer moonlight. We see them and we hear her voice and sometimes we are filled with treacherous longing.
And still, after all the tears, all the tales of heartbreak and sundering, all the long years, still, some will follow to the land under wave.
©Elizabeth Anker 2024
By My Solitary Hearth 
So much activity in the northern hemisphere compared with the south! Today I used my early energy to do a thorough house clean then sat in the weak sun for a while – there is no wind at all for the first time in days, so we actually felt a little warmth from the sun for a change. I watched the moon last night as it seemed to be riding the clouds that were passing in quick succession.
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