I hate flying.
This is an issue considering where I call home, a tiny island in the middle of the Irish Sea.
Every semester before university starts, I pack up my things and bundle myself onto a plane. I turn my music up as loud as I can and grip onto the hand of whoever was unfortunate enough to travel with me. I am always in the window seat. I want to be the first to see it: the cloak.
It is said that the Isle of Man is shrouded in Manannán Mac Lir’s cloak – the féth fíada. It hides us away, protects us. As soon as I pass through it, I know I’m home.
According to our folklore, Manannán was the Island’s first ruler. We are named after him. And yet, I really didn’t know too much about him apart from this cloak of his that always makes for a bumpy landing. With our anthology’s theme this year being ‘Homeland’, I decided to do some digging.
Manannán Mac Lir, son of the sea, was one of the Tuatha Dé Dannan, a mystical and otherworldly group of people that existed long before humans (Milesians). His domain was known as Emain Ablach (Irish) or Cheer ny Aeg (Manx). It was a strange and magical island where no one grew old and everyone was happy, rumoured to perhaps be the Isle of Man itself. You could enter the island many ways, such as passing through the mist (perhaps the féth fíada) or travelling upon Manannán’s horse, Aonbarr.
This concept of Manannán rings true across many Celtic nations in Great Britain. On the Island, however, it was said that he ruled from South Barrule, the tallest peak on the south of the Island. Originally known as Wardfell, Manx people would gather rushes and bring them to the summit as an offering to the sea god each Midsummer’s Eve. Manannán also occupied Peel Castle, using trickery and illusory magic to defend it – in one story he made one man appear to be an entire army. This castle also happens to be home to my favourite of Manx myths and folklore: the Moddey Dhoo.
The Moddey Dhoo, the black dog of Peel Castle, is one of the best-known Manx stories for children on the Island. I have vivid memories of visiting the castle during school holidays and being terrified of the sculpture they had of him in the entrance. I was convinced that he would spring to life and chase me down the flagstones. Now that I am older, I feel an overwhelming sympathy for the poor dog.
The huge hound haunted the castle in the days of Charles II, and would curl up in front of the roaring fire in the guard’s room each night. When it was morning, he would quietly leave. He never barked nor bit, merely slept in the warmth.
Per their routine, the guards would have to take a nightly trip down the shadowy castle passageway to return the keys to the Captain’s quarters. They were too scared to go alone, walking two-by-two, convinced that the hound would follow. However, one man, buoyed with liquid courage, decided that the Moddey Dhoo was nothing to fear, and set off alone, goading the beast as he went. The dog rose from his place by the fire and padded along after him.
There were said to be bloodcurdling screams and howls from the passageway, and the man soon stumbled back into the room, pale and shaken. He wouldn’t say a word and ended up dying three days later. The black dog was never seen again.
I love the story of the Moddey Dhoo so much that I wrote a piece inspired by it for one of my first university assignments. It felt like a special thing to do after moving to a new place, to be able to write a story from home. There was the familiarity of calling upon an old friend, and it was an honour to be haunted by him so far from his castle.
Tip tap tip tap. Up the hallway. Follow the flame. The flagstones warm my aching paws, shooing away the night’s wet bone-chill. Tip tap tip tap. Into the room with the pale candle-waxen faces. They turn as one with hollowed
black eyes, meeting my pewter plates and watch as I take my turn and turn and turn and settle and— yes; this will do. I can close my hairy lids here, hide them away: my dreadful pewter plates. Hiss hiss, whisper whisper. I can hear them. Large ears and large paws. Too large, taking up too much room they say, soaking up all the heat into my thick curly coat. I lick my too-large claws with my too-large maw. A bone to gnaw on, I think. Something to busy my jaws.
(Excerpt from my piece, ‘BLACK DOG’)
I really enjoyed researching both of these figures and completely encourage everyone to delve into their respective stories from home – to dig deeper into their myths and legends and discover the depths of what they hold. How much history is hidden away, just out of the reach of your fingertips? What tales have shaped your childhood, moulded your adulthood? What might you have missed? As for me, I never would have known about Wardfell and its rushes, and I can now very easily trace my love of horrid hounds.
Eve Kinley
Make sure to check out the first episode of the York St John Folklore Anthology Project podcast ‘Hit or Myth’ on Spotify, out the 7th of March, where members of the team will be discussing and sharing folklore from their homelands!
Submissions for the anthology are open now! Check the guidelines on the Where Ideas Grow blog page.
Want to keep up to date with the anthology? Follow @ysjufolklore on Instagram and Tiktok for updates.