Guardian of Irish Mythology

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... where the past and present are stitched together with threads of magic, if we could only open our eyes to see them. Thank you for visiting.


My son, the triathlete…

Ali Isaac:

Meet Nick, a most inspirational young man. He’s achieving amazing things! Please support him on his journey by sharing his story, of donating to his cause, if you can.

Originally posted on Daily Echo:


You may know my son’s story. For once, I have no problem repeating it for those who do not. I have a very good reason for it that I have been bursting to share!

In 2009 my son was 25… a good looking, successful young man with a fast car, nice apartment near the coast and a very promising career. That ended on July 4th when he was left for dead in a Bournemouth alley, stabbed through the brain in an unprovoked attack.

2009 before the attack 2009 before the attack

I have written before of the terror of the next days as he underwent brain surgery to remove the shards of shattered bone from the left hemisphere of his brain. I have told of the weeks of heartache as we waited to see if he would live or die, while his brain bled and swelled, causing further damage to the brain stem itself…

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Flash Fiction Friday

Headstone in cemetery with flowers for concept of death and loss

Flash Fiction Friday is a new feature on aliisaacstoryteller, which will run in conjunction with The Friday Fiction. I am inviting all you authors, bloggers and readers to join me and have a go. You can submit here, I will feature only one story each week. Entries can be on any subject, so long as they are under 500 words, but please remember that I write YA, so there may be young people on this site… please keep it family friendly. I really hope you will join me and take part in the craic!

So here is my entry to kick it all off.

Birth Mother

“You’re not my real mother!”

She recoils, as if I have stabbed her with a real knife, not just the sharp edges of my words. Her pale lips tremble, the voice they issue so frail I can barely make it out.

“I nurtured you, reared you, devoted the best part of my life to you. What does that make me, if not your real mother?”

But my feet have already jumped the precipice; there is no going back. “She gave me life. There is no greater gift a mother can give a child.”

“That’s not true.”

“You just don’t want me to find my real parents. You want me all for yourself. You’re selfish, and afraid.”

An uncharacteristic hardness settles into the line of her jaw. “Alright, then. I set you free.”

It is not the reaction I expect, and I flounder, speechless for once.

“Get your coat. I’ll show you.”

I have no choice but to scrape up my courage and follow her out the door.


I eye the gravestone, the bare plot, untended and unloved, and wipe the tears savagely from my face.

Sometimes, the stories we make up for ourselves are preferable to the truth. Sometimes, the most twisted imagination can’t compete with reality.

She died young, my birth mother, her life stolen by the drugs she craved so badly for most of it. I had been taken from her as a baby when she was caught trying to sell me in a pub, a desperate attempt to raise funds to fuel her addiction.

Five hundred euros was all I was worth.

I turn away, burying myself in my real mother’s arms. She holds me tightly, stroking my hair, and murmurs softly.

“It was the best five hundred euros I ever spent.”


Don’t forget to submit your flash fiction piece here. Thanks for reading and taking part!

End of an Era

On Friday, Carys finished her last week of school for the year. It was a really sad day, because next term, she will have a new bus driver.

Edmund has been taking Carys to school for five years. Come rain, hail, fog, frost, snow or shine, he reliably turned up every morning with a smile and a joke, and there was no one else I would rather entrust my special little girl to. I always knew, from the first moment we met, that Carys would be safe with him.

He loved all the kids on his school run, knew them all well, their little moods and quirks and funny ways, what made them tick, when to pander to them, and when not. They all loved him. Carys was always happy to see him.

No matter how sleep-deprived the previous night had been coping with Carys’s needs or health issues, Edmund always cheered me up.  He loved the kids, and he loved his job. Where disabled children are concerned, being their bus driver doesn’t mean simply driving a bus.

He hasn’t retired. He isn’t ill. His bus hasn’t conked out. He hasn’t lost his drivers license, sold his bus or emigrated. Every year he dutifully put in his tender for Carys’s school run, and every year he was forced to shave it back if he wanted to keep the business. This year, someone somehow managed to massively undercut his bid.

Strangely, he’s not the only one, and there has been quite an outcry. It is yet another example of disabled children being treated without regard. And I am concerned that someone who can slash costs so readily may be more interested in pursuing their own profits than the well-being and safety of the vulnerable special needs children entrusted into his care.

I cried when I said good bye to Edmund. I watched him say good bye to Carys, and my heart ached. It might as well have been goodbye till next week, or next term as far as she’s concerned. Although her lack of understanding may protect her from sadness, which arguably could be a good thing, it also keeps her locked in the dark. In the future, she may well wonder where he is and why he has abandoned her, yet not be able to express it.

I know that people drift in and out of our lives as often as clouds drift across the sun, bringing their light, or shadows, with them. Some leave an imprint behind as they move on. And sadness fades with time. It’s all part of the process. But sometimes, it’s really hard to watch them go.

Bash the #bloggersbash -Together we can STOP THE ABBAs

Ali Isaac:

Dammit! Geoffle has seen through our dastardly plot…

Originally posted on TanGental:

Hi again. I think it’s safe to blog because everyone has stopped following me. I know why. It’s those


Have you seen this?


It’s happening and I warned you. Not that you’ve listened. Or you’ve been brainwashed. THEY are running a campaign to discredit me. But I won’t be silenced.

Look, someone has had to take the lead for those committed to


You remember? Back Off Our Blogs? Someone left a comment. I think they wanted me to lead BOOB.  It was coded, of course, to stop them being persecuted too. But pretty clear.

‘You’re a complete tit’

That’s a compliment, right? Wanting me to point the way?

Anyway, I wanted to warn you the Gang of Four have finalised their egregious blog-domination plans. Yeah PLANS.

Take those awards thingies, above, for which you can vote, right? I thought we might bring them down by overwhelming their…

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#BloggersBash | How Geoffle Saved the Day OR How the ABBA’s Nearly Never Were


“You!” a voice commands imperiously, a purple talon pointing in my face. “You will help me.”

I gulp. We get a lot of weirdos in this joint. You know the type; pale and pasty from inhabiting the dark watches of the night, hunched over their computers, spewing their innards into Ebooks which they sell for the price of a hamburger on some wretched E-retailer site called Leprachaun, or Amazon, or some such.

But despite their technology and dislike of publishers and agents, they can’t keep away from real books. Faded ink printed on yellowed paper. Musty, dusty, intoxicating, addictive.

“What are you looking for?” I sigh, booting up the old library desktop. Some obscure volume of love charms and youth potions, from the looks of her.

She takes off her aviator goggles, and fixes me in a piercing stare. “I’m looking for a man.”

She’s weirder than I thought. “You can try the Irish bar down the road. We only stock books here.”

She arches a mesmerising, perfectly pencilled brow at me. “That’s not the way I roll.”

Judging by her customised Tee and the jingling Victoriana jewellery, I don’t doubt it. I pick up the phone and dial security.

“Toby here,” says a comforting voice.

“Help me,” I beg. “I’ve a right one here. Says she’s lost her husband.”

“He’s not my husband,” she snaps. “He’s a very rare Geoffle of dubious age who is predisposed to being somewhat tangental, and he’s done a runner with the awards. What am I going to give the winners now?”

“Ah… she’s here for the BOSCARS,” says Toby, sauntering through the door and leaning on the desk. He flicks a speck of purple glitter from his lapel. “Hey, do you like my new uniform?” He strikes an alluring pose, but I’m not in the mood.

“Not now, Toby. Can’t you see we’ve got a crisis on our hands?”

“BOSCARS?” Weirdo-woman suddenly looks faint. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Always at the weekend when there are no cleaners, I think to myself in disgust.

Toby sniffs. “Yeah, you know. Like the OSCARS but for Bloggers.”

At this, she lets out a blood-curdling shriek and drops to the floor.

“You’ve bloody killed her, Toby,” I gasp, racing around the desk to check her pulse. “Call an ambulance. Get the supervisor.”

Toby folds his arms across his chest and pouts. “Why do you keep calling me that? My name’s Hugh, got it? Hugh.”

“You were Toby yesterday.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“What does it say on your badge?”

“It says Robert.”

“Then your name’s Robert, Robert.”

“Robert Robert? I suppose I do have rather a lot of monikers. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track. And passwords, don’t get me started-“

“Monica?” I shake my head, confused. “Never mind… Look, she’s coming round. Get her some water, Toby-Hugh-Robert-Monica… oh, whoever.”

“I don’t want any sodding water, I want wine. Rosé, and lots of it,” she croaks as I help her up. “What am I going to do?”

“We have a great self-help section where you might find some answers,” I suggest, then shrivel under her withering stare.

“If I want help, I’ll ask my useless excuse for a committee,” she retorts, consulting the intricate mechanical timepiece hanging on a chain around her neck. “Where are they all? We were supposed to meet by some statue. Perhaps I’ve got my time zones confused.”

“It’s your airship.” Robert-Toby-Hugh-Monica hands her a paper cup of water, which she sniffs at suspiciously. “It’s completely blocking our view of poor old Newton. You can’t park it there. I’m afraid you’re going to have to move it.”

I glance out the window. The airship has gathered quite a crowd, but they don’t look happy.  Old Newton sits alone on his cold stone throne, looking on with ill-disguised contempt .

“You’re going to have to sort them out,” I tell Toby-Monica-Robert-Hugh. “Looks like they’re going to riot. And if old Newton starts firing off his apples, there’s no telling what could happen.”

“I’m on it.” He slips out the door, wielding his pink brolly with relish.

Witch-face turns a few shades paler. “They’ve tricked me. It’s a plot. They’re going to take over the #Bloggersbash and rule without me.”

“Who are ‘they’?” I ask, bewildered.

“The blogging bloggers, of course!” She shakes her head at my stupidity.

Suddenly, Hugh-Robert-Monica-Toby bursts through the door. “It’s getting quite ugly out there,” he squeaks excitedly.

Weirdo-woman rolls her eyes. “That’s why we blog,” she says, voice laden with scorn. “So no one can see us. We don’t do face-to-face. I knew this was a bad idea, but Geoffle made me do it.”

“They’re demanding some 70s Swedish pop group. They said if they don’t get them, they’re revolting!”

I gasp. “ABBA is here for the BOSCARS? Aren’t they dead? Or doing panto?”

Witchy gives another little strangled cry and faints.  Monica-Robert-Toby-Hugh meets my gaze. “Call security,” he demands.

“You are security,” I yell at him.


“They want their ABBA’s,” mutters Weirdo-woman into the polished tile floor.

Wondering exactly how much rosé she’s already had, I help her to her feet for the second time. “I thought they were here for the B-“

“Don’t say that word,” she screeches warningly, and I clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“That’s torn it,” said Toby-Hugh-Robert-Whoever. We both glare at him. He points outside. “The airship. Hope you’ve got insurance on that thing, love, cos someone just ripped a big gash in its side with a fountain pen.”

“My lovely airship,” Weirdo-lady yelps, and rushes to the window. “It was only delivered by Amazon yesterday. The delivery van wrote off my car trying to back it up the drive…”

She gazes mournfully at the rioting bloggers as her deflating airship zips crazily in the sky above them. It drapes like a giant soggy handkerchief over the angry crowd, and they wriggle like fish caught in a net.

“Well, that’s them all wrapped up,” says Robby-Nobby-Barney-McGrew with obvious relief. “I’ll have them carted off to the dungeon, erm, I mean, the café for some English tea and scones.”

“It’s all that Geoffle’s fault,” Weirdo-woman says ominously. “I gave him too much power. He’s obviously gone over to the Black side.”

“What’s a Geoffle?” Bert-Rob-Monica-Moon chews on the unfamiliar word, looking puzzled.

Bloody Indie authors; they think they can re-create the English language to suit themselves. And the rules of grammar… and spelling… My reverie is interrupted by Weirdo’s gusty sigh.

“He’s the man I’ve been looking for.” Her face darkens. “And if he thinks he’s taking over and stealing my thunder, he’s got a battle on his hands.”

Just then, the door is thrust open and a tiny woman no taller than my knees marches in, dressed all in green with red hair and a beard to match, tugging someone along behind her.

“Look who I found down the Irish bar, to be sure,” she announces, prodding her prisoner gleefully with a lethal-looking curved stick.

“Ow! Stop poking me with that hurl,” her prisoner squeals indignantly.

“Ali,” exclaims Witch-face in surprise.

“Aye, tis I, meself, to be sure.” The Irish caricature grins manically.

“Geoffle,” she hisses, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as she glares at him.

“I was just partaking of a G-G-Guinness. Purely for medicinal purposes,” Geoffle protests.

“But I thought you were a tea-totaller.”

Geoffle grimaced. “I needed it after what I’ve just been through.”

This time, Weirdo-woman raises both mesmerising, perfectly pencilled brows. “And the reason for the pair of you being in the pub instead of meet-and-greeting our Bloggers is…”

Ali smiles, confident that her Irish blarney won’t fail her. “Sure, I’m here for the craic now, aren’t I? You English just don’t understand; today is August 1st.”

Weirdo-Black snorts. “Trust the Irish to state the obvious. So?”

“So it’s Lughnasa, ancient festival of the Irish, a time when the veil between this world and the Otherworld thins, allowing all manner of ghosts and ghoulies to escape. I was protecting you.”

“In the pub?”

“To be sure. What other portal would the Irish use?”

“I thought you were a vampire-slayer not a ghost-buster.”

“That I am.” Ali brandishes her hurl. “I whack ‘em with this. Works every time.”

Witch-face looks doubtful. “I thought you needed pointy stakes to kill vampires.”

“Nah, hurls are much more dangerous. Have you never seen a hurling match?”

Weirdo-woman takes a deep breath, nearly bursting her corset, which she was wearing over her customised Tee. “So Geoffle, you’re not challenging me to a duel?”

Geoffle blinks. “What? No. Cricket’s my game.”

“Monopoly’s mine,” interrupts Hugh-Robert-Monica-Toby excitedly. “I’ve got properties everywhere. I’m a property tycoon, I am!” He shakes glitter from his hair, and it scatters all over the foyer.

I eye it in despair. I’m leaving it for Monday’s cleaning staff, I decide.

For the first time, Witchy-woman smiles. “Right then, let’s get this show on the road. I believe we have some awards to give out. Talking of which, where are they, Geoffle?”

“That’s why I needed the Guinness. The Irish fairies didn’t like us hi-jacking their festival with our Special Event; they read all about it on Facebook. So they attacked me. It was terrible…” he sobs. “They… they tickled me into submission, and stole the awards.”

“Oh no! What will we do? We have to give the winners something.”

Geoffle wipes his eyes on the vintage lace fingerless glove Witchy-Black hands him, and takes a deep breath. “It’s Ok. Ali took me bog-diving to the Fairy-king’s castle, and I won them back by telling bad jokes. I think he’d have given me his crown and his daughter if it would have made me stop.”

Weirdy-woman claps her hands. “Well done, Geoffle! My hero!”

This time, I feel my own less-than-immaculate brows arch. From villain to hero in a couple of sentences; it could only be Indie fiction.

 “I’m afraid they’re a bit worse for wear.” Geoffle rummages in his purple flowery man-bag (he likes a bit of horticulture), and produces a sodden mass of mud-stained fabric.

“Luckily, I brought my trusty upcycling kit,” says Witchy-woman brightly, and cackles. “I’ll turn ‘em all into tanks and fix ‘em up with a few sequins. No one’ll notice.”

“Grand,” says Ali.

“Okey-Dokey,” says Geoffle.

“Group hug,” cries Toby-Robby-Monica-Hubert.

The Annual Bloggers Bash Annual Awards

Don’t forget, you have until 12pm Thursday (UK time) to vote for your fave bloggers in the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards.

The social event of the year, the Annual #Bloggersbash takes place this Saturday 1st August 2015 at 11.00am outside the British Library, meeting by the Newton statue.

If you can’t be there, you can keep in touch on Twitter via our hashtag #BloggersBashand also on our facebook event page, where we will be posting photos and up to date information on the day live as it happens. Sounds like fun!

Find out more here. Only 4 more sleeps to go!


Gremlins and Dark Fantasy

They’re causing havoc in your machine!

Firstly, there are gremlins in the machine today. Lots of WordPress users are reporting strange happenings on their blogs which are completely out of their control.

Last week, I had a lot of problems with my WordPress app, which caused havoc with sending and receiving comments, so if I missed anyone, I sincerely apologise.

Today, I thought all you bloggers were having a long lie-in, my inbox was so quiet! Then I found out that all my email notifications are automatically going into my spam folder, for some reason. I will try and rectify this asap, but again, if I have missed any of your posts, I sincerely apologise. I am not a happy bunny!

Finally, can anyone recommend a good DARK FANTASY novel or series? I have searched on Amazon, and was particularly unimpressed with what came up. To clarify, what I don’t want is distopian, zombie, horror, vampire, werewolf, paranormal romance or erotica.

What I do want is a true dark fantasy, either contemporary or not, and that means gritty psychological fantasy which incorporates elements of the supernatural, be it fantastical beings or those who have passed over, perhaps with touches of horror (as in designed to scare, not blood, guts and gore), and an aura of doom and gloom.

Indies, have you written anything like this?

Annual #BloggersBash – VOTE NOW and final arrangements

Ali Isaac:

The big event is almost here, folks! Only 5 MORE SLEEPS!!! Hope to see you there!

Originally posted on Sacha Black:

The Annual Bloggers Bash Annual Awards

If you haven’t heard, then quite frankly you must be living under a rather large rock. In less than a week, the first ever Annual Bloggers Bash is happening. YES IT’S REALLY HAPPENING PEOPLE. No more hiding behind computer screens in fear of meeting each other…! We are dragging ourselves out from behind our computer screens, jumping on trains and into cars and venturing into London. The BASH is here.

Before I go through all the final details, I am going to take a moment to remind you of a little something else that’s happening…. THE ANNUAL BLOGGERS BASH AWARDS.

You nominated in your hundreds, you have already voted in your thousands (literally) but there is still time to have your say. There are three days of voting left. Do you have a favourite blogger? Have you voted? If not, what are you waiting for? Get over to the

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Tagathon | Would You Rather…


A few weeks ago, I was tagged by novelist and blogger friend, Rachel Carrera, to take part in this little question and answer tagathon. Thanks, Rachel… I bet you thought I’d forgotten!

  1. Would you rather only read trilogies or only read standalones? 

I love reading a book series, because there is nothing I enjoy more than getting to the end of a great book and being able to dive straight into the next part of the story. The exception was the Game of Thrones book series; I was so annoyed when I go to the end of the first set of seven books and there was no resolution to any of the threads in the story, I just gave up in disgust! It went on far too long, in my opinion, and ended up being purely a money-spinner. Oh, and I do read standalones, too.

  1. Would you rather only read male or female authors?

I have no preference. A writer’s gender has no relevance to producing an exciting read.

  1. Would you rather shop at Barnes and Noble or Amazon?

I shop wherever I feel like spending my money, and wherever I get the best service, value and choice.

  1. Would you rather books were made into TV shows or movies?

Movies, definitely. I rarely watch tv.

  1. Would you rather read only 5 pages per day or 5 books per week? 

I would read 5 books a week, if I could. When I was younger, I would have several books on the go at once, because I was so hungry to read. Now I devote myself to only one book at a time, and rarely have time to read other than when I go to bed. I love reading in bed!

  1. Would you rather be a professional author or reviewer? 

An author, of course!

  1. Would you rather be a librarian or a bookseller? 

Well, I have already been a librarian, so I would choose a bookseller this time around. I suspect I’d be too busy reading all the books on the shelves to get much work done, but at least I’d be able to make great recommendations!

  1. Would you rather read only your favourite genre, or every other genre but your favourite? 

No. I read quite widely across most genres. I’m not into romance, chick lit, or erotica, but I’ll read most other categories.

  1. Would you rather only read ebooks or physical books? 

I love reading ebooks on my phone in bed, it’s so easy and convenient, and when you’ve finished, you can immediately download another if you want to continue reading… I love that! But there’s nothing quite like experience of reading a print book, particularly a quality hardback. If I really love a book, I always want a print copy to keep, but not all Indies produce print versions, even though POD is free and so easy.

So now you know a little more about me. My five nominees are;

Éilis Niamh


David Prosser

Sarah Zama

Karen Oberlaender

Guys, I hope you don’t mind being tagged, and as I always say, there’s no pressure to take part, you are all busy people, it’s just a bit of fun!


Irish Hurling | Is it Crazier than Quidditch?

In Irish mythology, hurling was the sport of the Tuatha de Denann. It is still played in Ireland today, and is reputed to be the fastest and oldest field sport in the world. It is certainly the only sport I can think of which is more dangerous, and crazier, than Quidditch! Hardly surprising then, that the Irish won the Quidditch World Championship…

Sadly, Quidditch isn’t a real sport, but hurling is. Here’s what happened when film of the game was shown to American spectators…

Hilarious, right? I can certainly understand their reactions. It’s fast, it’s furious, and emotions run very high indeed.

Although the game had been played for many hundreds of years, perhaps even longer if the tales of mythology are to be believed, the rules of the game were only formalised in the latter part of the C19th by the Gaelic Athletic Association.

It was amalgamated from two variations of the sport played in different areas of Ireland.

In the north, the game was played similarly to Scottish shinty, with a narrow stick and a hard ball, with the action mainly taking place on the ground… no, we ARE talking hurling here, not Quidditch, I promise you!

The second variation was known as Leinster hurling. The stick was broader, and the ball was softer. Players could pick up the ball, catch it, and strike it with their stick. Thus, more of the action took place off the ground.

Here are the rules, according to the GAA;

“Hurling is played on a pitch that can be up to 145m long and 90m long. The goalposts are similar to those used on a rugby pitch, with the crossbar lower than in rugby and slightly higher than a soccer one.

“You may strike the ball on the ground, or in the air. Unlike hockey, you may pick up the ball with your hurley and carry it for not more than four steps in the hand. After those steps you may bounce the ball on the hurley and back to the hand, but you are forbidden to catch the ball more than twice. To get around this, one of the skills is running with the ball balanced on the hurley. To score, you put the ball over the crossbar with the hurley or under the crossbar and into the net by the hurley for a goal, the latter being the equivalent of three points.”

Here are the top 5 hurling goals of last year.

Each team is made up of 15 players. The stick, or hurley, is also called camán in Irish. It is curved outwards at the end, to provide the striking surface. The ball, or sliotar, is similar in size to a hockey ball but has raised ridges. I have played hockey in my youth, and believe me, that’s where the similarity ends. I’ve never played hurling, because I don’t have a death wish.

In Irish mythology, the Tuatha de Denann were said to have played hurling with their enemies, the Fir Bolg, before the Battle of Moytura commenced, according to an ancient text known as the Cath Maighe Tuireadh. The only surviving copy of this text dates to the C13th.

According to Lady Gregory in her book, ‘Of Gods and Fighting Men, this is what happened;

“It was on a Midsummer day they began the battle.
Three times nine hurlers of the Tuatha de Danaan went
out against three times nine hurlers of the Firbolgs, and
they were beaten, and every one of them was killed.”

So the Fir Bolg won the game, but unfortunately for them, went on to lose the battle. In some versions, they actually played with the heads of their enemies, instead of a ball.

There are other legends referencing hurling, too.

Midir, son of the Dagda of the Tuatha de Denann was said to have lost an eye in a hurling match, which Dian Cecht replaced for him. The story goes that he was watching a group of youths play hurling at Bru na Boinne (Newgrange) with Oengus mac Óg, when a fight broke out amongst the youngsters. Midir went to sort it out, but was  accidentally hit on the head by a hurley thrown in the heat of the moment.

Diarmuit mac Cerbaill, who became High King at Tara in AD560, ordered the young Prince Curnan of Connacht executed for accidentally killing a man during the playing of a hurling match.

But it is Ireland’s most well loved hero, Cuchullain, who is responsible  for bringing the ancient game of hurling into the spotlight. When he was only seven years old, the age at which fostering was most common, he went to live with his uncle, King Conor mac Nessa, at Emain Macha (Navan Fort). Along the way, he entertained himself by hurling his bronze sliotar great distances, and then throwing his hurly after it, so that it met the ball in mid air.

When he arrived, he joined in a hurling match, in which he single-handedly defeated 150 other boys. He is most famous, however, for killing one of Cullen’s fierce guard dogs by smashing his hurling ball into its face… what a way to go! Cullen was understandably distraught at the demise of his favourite hound, so Cuchullain offered to serve in it’s place, which is how he obtained his name; Cuchullain means ‘hound of Cullen’.

A Day of Surprises

Sometimes, lovely things happen unexpectedly, and you just want to shout about them, not to show off, although I can see why some may think that, but just because they make you feel happy. So I’m going to tell you about two things which happened today, which made me feel very happy.

First of all, I woke up to a tweet about my first book, Conor Kelly and The Four Treasures of Eirean. It had actually been read, and reviewed, and featured on a book blog! Now, that may not seem anything out of the ordinary for an author, you might think, and for some of you, it’s probably fairly run of the mill.

But for me, every time some one reads my book, I still feel surprised and delighted. If they have actually paid for it with their hard-earned spondoolies, I am doubly honoured. And if they take the time to write a review, I feel gobsmacked and proud… after I have picked myself up off the floor first.

The novelty still hasn’t worn off, even after all this time. I don’t think it ever will.

So today, my heart-felt thanks go to Cathy of Between the Lines Book Blog for her lovely review, and to Alison Williams Writing who tweeted it and brought it to my attention. If you want to read it, please click the link above to Cathy’s blog. You both made my day!

Secondly, I had another article published on Irish Central. I know that’s not so unusual, but I haven’t felt this way about an article I’ve written since I wrote about reincarnation; some topics, really get to you, I suppose.

The good thing is, quite a few people have visited the blog after reading it, which is really nice, and also makes me feel happy. So hi and welcome to anyone who has just popped over from IC, and to those of you who haven’t, here is the intro and a link to the article (it’s about fosterage in mythology and pre-Christian times, if you are interested);

“Ireland has a strange history when it comes to the care of its children. Sometimes, it seems as if they were treated as possessions to be traded rather than flesh and blood to be cherished, our country’s future.

“We have a dark legacy to come to terms with, as we discover pits at nursing homes packed full of the remains of babies and young children; stories of babies torn from mothers at the Magdalene laundries and given into slavery in exchange for a donation, and people within living memory who have no idea of their true identity because they were adopted or fostered outside of the law.

“In ancient times, fosterage played an important role in Irish society, but the process was governed by strict and complex rules as specified in the Brehon Laws.” Read more…

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