Curlew Moon. Mary Colwell

Ireland was the stage for wild gods to act upon, or, as Austin Clarke in his novel The Singing Men at Cashel wrote, ‘There was no hill or wood in all the land which has not been remembered in poetry. Had not those great teachers of the past taught that matter was as holy as the mind, that hill and wood were an external manifestation of immortal regions?’7

      Wherever you look in Celtic Britain there are stories like these; folk tales that have been told and retold. Jeremy Mynott, author, classicist and naturalist distils perfectly how these stories take on a modern resonance. ‘These are myths that have become snowballs, gathering size and picking up bits and pieces from other folklores as they roll through the ages. No one can stop them to construct them more neatly or make them internally consistent, as we would scientific theories. But they also flare brightly in our imaginations, like a comet streaking across the sky in a blaze, trailing its comet’s tail of vaguer associations, memories and intimations.’ Perhaps their real value is in connecting us to what W.B. Yeats called the ‘brooding memory and dangerous hope’8 of our ancestors. And behind all this intensity, the once-common call of the curlew provided the mood music for these flights of imagination.

      As we walk back to the car, leaving the curlews to their moorland peace, the looming form of Slemish Mountain is emerging from under a blanket of cloud. This vast monument to Christian fortitude is another place shrouded in half-truths and legends. It was supposedly the site of the enslavement of Ireland’s most famous saint. St Patrick was himself a figure of misconception and contradiction. This most Irish of saints was probably born in Wales and has never been canonised by a pope, but he became a saint by popular acclaim. One famous story tells us how Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland – not that there have ever been any snakes on the island. It is most likely a metaphor for eradicating paganism.

      St Patrick lived in the fifth century, when Christianity was taking hold of Europe but paganism was still widespread in the West. Paganism, a complex and varied system of beliefs based on the worship of many gods, is deeply related to the natural world. The veil that divides the spiritual realm from nature and humanity is thin and insubstantial. In ancient Ireland, the gods were feisty and flighty, as quick to rage as to bestow blessings, making the natural world an unpredictable place. Nature took on dual characteristics. The eagle was the earthly embodiment of kingship and power, the swan represented the spirits of love and purity. The owl was linked to the shadowy goddess of moonlight and mourning, and Morrigan, the goddess of battle, took the form of the crow. The curlew, with its haunting cry, was associated with the mysterious god Dalua, who calls people to ponder their place on Earth amidst the beauty of lonely places. The cry that embodies both sorrow and grief gave voice to inexpressible fears. This meshing of gods, human beings and the Earth dominated the stories of ancient pagan Europe.

      This was the world of St Patrick: two belief systems living uneasily side by side and often in conflict. Patrick was raised in a Christian household. When he was a teenager it is thought he was kidnapped by Irish slave traders and forced to work as a shepherd for the pagan chief, Milchu, in what is now County Antrim. On the windswept and rain-soaked Slemish Mountain, he increasingly turned to the faith of his father. After six years he escaped back to his homeland and trained to be a priest. Thirty years later he returned to Ireland to convert his captors. Some believe St Patrick used the famous Celtic cross as a means to connect with the pagan inhabitants of Ireland. The traditional crucifix with the circle of life binding the arms is the iconic symbol of Celtic Christianity, combining the Christian meaning of the crucifix with the pagan symbolism of the life-giving sun. Paganism, with its stress on the sacredness of life, lived on in a new form in this early Christian era.

      Some legends about St Patrick echo the strong pagan relationship between the spiritual and natural worlds. One Irish folktale has Patrick trying to cross the sea to the Isle of Man, but a dense mist prevented him seeing the shore. He was in mortal danger until the clear call of a curlew directed him towards land, and hence to safety. He was grateful and blessed the curlew, decreeing that these birds should be protected from harm and that their nests must always be difficult to find. Celtic Irish folktales also have curlews warning Jesus of the approach of enemies, either by calling loudly to wake him from sleep, or by covering over his footprints in the sand. These tales intricately bind curlews (and many other creatures) to God and human salvation. Nature is seen as an active player in the Christian story, where selfless acts of sacrifice and compassion are freely given.

      St Patrick’s captivity on Slemish Mountain is a treasured story in Northern Ireland, and on his feast day, 17 March, large crowds make a pilgrimage to the summit. On the same day, say local farmers, curlews return to breed, and from the break of dawn their calls ring from the hillsides. St Patrick would have heard them, heralding warmer days and the prospect of new life, as he prayed in the cold solitude of the mountain. The curlew and St Patrick are intertwined in the minds and hearts of generations of farmers in Antrim. To lose the last remaining curlews from this land would be to lose a part of the soul of Northern Ireland.

      Neal and I retreat to a farm owned by Sam and Wilma Bonnar, a family who have farmed Glenwherry for generations. They are friendly, hard-working people and their warm and comfortable farmhouse is a thoroughly modern bungalow, like many rural buildings in Ireland today. A large picture window looks out over the fields and distant bog, giving an airy feel in an open landscape. On a clear day I am sure you can see for miles. As it is, I can barely make out the field right next to the house where a lone lapwing calls plaintively to unseen companions. It’s a sad sound, as rain beats against the panes. We chat about the weather and the hardships of farming through the winter, while their two-year-old grandson runs around the room. There is a real sense that this is a family that is deeply rooted in the land and values the wildlife they host. They work with the RSPB to keep the Trial Management Project on target, and without them, and other like-minded volunteers, Neal’s job would be nigh impossible. Apart from helping with the physical work of management, Sam knows what’s around, telling Neal where he has seen birds and whether numbers are up or down compared to previous years. I ask about the subsidies available for combining farming with wildlife conservation; is enough money being made available? Sam’s answer is a first warning shot across the bow, and I will hear many like it over the coming weeks. Wildlife is good to have, but it has to pay its way. Without help from agri-environment schemes, farmers wouldn’t be able to prioritise curlews, lapwings, or anything else that requires taking land out of intensive production. There is too much pressure to increase yields and too many costs to meet. Curlews are not seen as a pest species, they are not unwelcome, but their needs cannot be met without financial help. In other words, wildlife has to pay rent on land that is no longer theirs.

      It is time to move on; the official start date of the walk is just days away. I leave Antrim and head east towards Enniskillen as the sun breaks through the clouds. The land softens as mountains give way to low-lying green meadows and the watery basin of the River Erne in County Fermanagh. There is already much to think about.