The Mystery Begins

Clonegal, Enniscorthy, County Wexford, August 1981

As dawn broke on that momentous day in 1981, I stood on the parapet of Huntington Castle in Clonegal at Enniscorthy in Ireland and watched the gentle mist roll away over the hills, lifting as it went. Above, a strong sun blazed through, heralding a fine day.

I went down the winding dark staircase to an early breakfast and to plan the day's itinerary. Little did I realize that the events of that day in August would forever be etched in my memory and that twenty-five years later they would lead me to write this book. Despite nagging doubts in my own beliefs on the subject of fairies, and memories of my own strange experience that day in Clonegal, I hesitated about writing any more on the subject of fairies. Then I became aware of an ancient law — one that still had not been repealed — making it a capital offense to kill a fairy! The law, which Henry III had passed in 1153, stated that even the wounding or maiming of a fairy could bring about the death penalty, such was the reverence in which these creatures were held!

My wife and I spent five weeks as guests of Lord and Lady Strathloch and the Honorable Olivia Robertson, who founded the internationally respected society of the Fellowship of Isis. It was in the depths of this castle that my wife, Audrey, was initiated into the hidden Egyptian mysteries of Black Isis by Derry (Lord Strathloch) and Olivia, together with a wonderful woman named Grainne, who was ordained as a priestess of Isis that same day as well. This celebration was followed by an agape (ritual) attended by local occultists, witches, Isians, and a number of eminent Druids.

Each morning, we came together for breakfast and talked about where we had been and what we had seen the previous day, and sometimes Olivia would arrange a special outing for us. Sometimes, as happened on this occasion, Olivia and Poppy (Lady Strathloch) would give us a packed lunch and send us off on our own. Our intention had originally been to go trout fishing at a fish farm. Audrey had never attempted trout fishing and was looking forward to the experience. Smiling, Olivia gave us our little parcel of sandwiches and cakes and bade us a great day.

Our Journey

En route, we accidentally took a wrong turn and found ourselves traveling toward a distant mountain range, so we decided to push on, abandoning the idea of going to the fishery. We had no rods and tackle with us anyway, and we were uncertain of whether we would be able to rent them at the trout farm. Deciding that the mountains looked far more exciting than fishing, we changed our plans. Later we stopped at a small kiosk for a couple of bottles of lemonade, and soon afterward we found ourselves at the base of the mountain. The road up was narrow and tortuous, often with a sheer drop to the side. Indeed, driving along it was a hazardous undertaking in itself!

The drive seemed endless, and we felt as though we were entering into the heavens. Above us, low clouds enveloped the summit. Then, near the apex and to our right, we saw a beautiful valley beneath us; while to our left, a small waterfall cascaded into the depths below. We decided to explore the valley and enjoy our picnic there. It was wild and rugged country, but we succeeded in parking our car in a wider area nearby that would allow another car to pass. Climbing over a fence, we could see the overgrown vestiges of a small path, and so we slowly worked our way down.

After what seemed an eternity, we were able to see the valley more clearly, and at the bottom of it, away from where the waterfall entered a pool, a winding stream wound its way through the valley and disappeared into the distance. A somewhat rickety footbridge now came into sight, and we gingerly made our way down to it. The bridge was clearly disused and rotten, and it was with some trepidation that we made our way across it, with our sandwiches and bottles of lemonade stuck in our pockets. We estimated the stream to be no more than a foot or so deep, so if we did end up in the drink, at least we wouldn't have to swim! Safely across the stream, we wended our way to a spot where harebell and lady's glove were growing and where clumps of bluebell leaves could be seen. The stream tinkled away beneath our feet, and we could hear the sound of the waterfall in the distance. It was an idyllic setting.

Fairy Music

We sat a while, eating our food and drinking lemonade straight from the bottle, but within a few minutes we became aware of a small rustling sound coming from the grass. Audrey is afraid of snakes, so she asked me to investigate, but there was nothing there. Only afterward did it dawn on me that it would have been a fruitless search, as there are no snakes in Ireland — legend states that they were banished by St. Patrick, no less!

The rustling continued circling around us. As the sound suddenly stopped, ever so gently the strains of some kind of ancient music could be heard. It is impossible to describe the ethereal sound that came from the grassy bank. I can only liken it to 11th-century-style music with harpsichords, lutes, and cymbals; it had a distinct medieval air to it, not unlike the sound of the music to the old Tudor song "Greensleeves."

Our first reaction was to look around for overhead wires or telegraph poles, which, just conceivably, could make a kind of singing sound, but the horizon was clear. The clouds had lifted, and all we could see were rolling meadows and hills. We stayed there at least a full half hour before moving on, all the time being serenaded by this mini-orchestra that continuously circumnavigated us. We both noted that this circling around us was "deosil" (counterclockwise), which, we realized when we looked back on the incident, could well have been a significant factor.

It was an absolutely charming scenario, something completely out of this world. The music continued, yet nothing could be seen. We placed our nearly empty bottles in the paper bag and hid them out of sight, intending to return later and retrieve them, and then together we set off to explore the valley. As we walked, the mini-orchestra fell in behind us and followed, dogging our footsteps. Every now and again, the rhythm altered, so that at one point, the music was to our left, then our right, and suddenly in front, as if leading the way. Dutifully we followed, like the entranced children following the Pied Piper of Hamelin. We climbed over turnstiles and five-bar gates and through old overgrown paths, with the merry band traveling along with us, until we stopped and rested for a while.

We sat on the grass, completely puzzled, while the invisible orchestra continued to...