RSS

Tag Archives: dolmen

The Echo of the Dolmen

19 Dec
The Echo of the Dolmen

The air above Haroldstown Dolmen on Christmas Eve was thick with the kind of ancient magic that hummed just beneath the surface of Ballykillduff. It wasn’t the boisterous, unpredictable magic of sentient sausages, but a quieter, deeper power, woven into the very stones themselves. The three massive granite capstones, perched precariously atop their six supporting uprights, looked like a giant’s forgotten Christmas table, dusted with a fine layer of frost.

Young Aoife, a girl whose imagination was as wild and untamed as the gorse bushes on the surrounding hills, was convinced the Dolmen was a portal. Not to another dimension, perhaps, but to another time. Every Christmas Eve, armed with a thermos of lukewarm tea and a pocketful of slightly squashed shortbread, she’d trek up to the ancient burial site, hoping for a glimpse of… something.

This year, however, was different. As the last sliver of the setting sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, a strange light began to emanate from beneath the Dolmen. It wasn’t the cold, ethereal glow of faerie lights, but a warm, pulsating amber, like a forgotten hearth fire.

Aoife, shivering more from anticipation than cold, crept closer. The air around the stones grew surprisingly warm, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet, like honey and frankincense. As she peered into the dark crevice beneath the capstone, she saw not darkness, but a swirling, golden mist.

Suddenly, a voice, deep and resonant, yet as gentle as a lullaby, drifted from the mist. “Welcome, child. You have come at the turning of the year, when the veil is thinnest.”

Aoife gasped, dropping her shortbread. “Who… who are you?”

From the swirling light emerged not a spectral figure, but a kindly old man with eyes as bright as winter stars and a beard that cascaded like freshly fallen snow. He wore robes woven from what looked like spun moonlight, adorned with intricate patterns that shimmered with forgotten symbols.

“I am the Spirit of the Dolmen,” he replied, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Or perhaps, the echo of all who have celebrated the turning of the light here, since before memory.”

He gestured to the mist, and it parted, revealing a breathtaking scene. It wasn’t Ballykillduff as she knew it. Instead, she saw a circle of ancient people, bundled in furs, gathered around a roaring fire beneath the very same Dolmen. They weren’t celebrating Christmas as she knew it, but rather the Winter Solstice, sharing stories, feasting on roasted meat, and offering thanks to the sky.

Then the scene shifted. She saw Roman soldiers, their helmets glinting, leaving offerings of coins and wine at the base of the stones, their voices hushed with respect. Later, she saw early Christian monks, their solemn chants blending with the whisper of the wind, blessing the ancient site. And in every scene, spanning centuries, there was the same profound sense of gathering, of hope, of light returning in the darkest days.

“This place,” the Spirit explained, his voice weaving through the visions, “has always been a place of gathering, of hope, of welcoming the light. Every celebration, every prayer, every shared meal has left its mark, echoing through these stones.”

The visions faded, and Aoife found herself back in the present, the golden glow dimming, the cold air returning. The Spirit of the Dolmen stood before her, a gentle smile still on his face.

“Christmas, child,” he said, “is but the latest song sung in this ancient choir. The message remains the same: gather, hope, welcome the light.” He reached into his luminous robes and produced a small, smooth pebble, glowing faintly with the amber light. “A token. Remember the echoes.”

As the last flicker of light faded, the Spirit of the Dolmen dissolved back into the stones, leaving only the biting cold and the quiet majesty of the ancient monument. Aoife clutched the warm pebble in her hand, feeling a profound connection to all the Christmases, all the Solstices, all the gatherings that had ever taken place beneath those silent, watchful stones.

She trudged home through the frost, the pebble a comforting warmth in her pocket. This Christmas, she realized, she wouldn’t just be celebrating with her family; she’d be celebrating with the echoes of centuries, with the Spirit of the Dolmen, and with the timeless magic that bound Ballykillduff to its ancient past. And as she curled up in her bed, she could almost hear the faint, distant hum of generations, singing a lullaby of hope under the watchful eyes of the old stones.

Aoife trudged home through the biting frost, her fingers wrapped tightly around the glowing amber pebble. Her heart was full; she felt she had witnessed the very heartbeat of history. The Spirit had shown her that Christmas was just one layer of a much older story of light and hope.

As she entered her house, the smell of cinnamon and roasting turkey greeted her. Her parents were in the kitchen, laughing and clinking glasses.

“There you are, Aoife!” her father called out. “We were starting to think the pooka had snatched you away. Did you see anything interesting at the stones?”

Aoife smiled, her thumb stroking the smooth surface of the gift in her pocket. “Just the wind and the stars, Dad,” she said, keeping her secret safe.

She went upstairs to her room and placed the pebble on her windowsill. It cast a soft, golden light across her wallpaper, illuminating her old books and toys. Exhausted by the magic of the evening, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

On Christmas morning, Aoife was woken not by the sound of bells, but by a heavy, rhythmic thudding coming from outside. She ran to the window, expecting to see a neighbor’s tractor or perhaps a stray cow from Farmer Giles’s field.

But the village of Ballykillduff was gone.

In its place stood a vast, prehistoric forest of towering oaks and dense ferns. The air was thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and ancient moss.

Terrified, she looked down at her windowsill. The amber pebble was no longer glowing; it was now a dull, grey piece of granite. Beside it sat her modern smartphone, but the screen was dead, showing a “No Signal” icon that flickered strangely.

She looked back out at the horizon where the Haroldstown Dolmen stood. It wasn’t a ruin anymore. It was brand new, the stones sharp and clean, surrounded by hundreds of people dressed in furs, their faces painted with blue woad. They weren’t “echoes” or “visions”—they were real, breathing, and looking directly toward her window with expressions of profound confusion.

One of the men stepped forward, holding a spear. In his other hand, he held an identical amber pebble. He held it up toward her, and as the morning sun hit it, the stone began to pulse.

Aoife realized then that the Spirit hadn’t shown her a portal to the past. He had made her the “echo.” She wasn’t a girl in 2025 dreaming of the ancient world; she was now the ancient mystery that the people of the Dolmen would spend the next five thousand years trying to explain.

 

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 19, 2025 in dolmen, haroldstown

 

Tags: , , , ,

Doctor Who and the Music of the Dolmen

30 Sep

Doctor Who: The Music of the Dolmen

A lonely Irish field. An ancient stone table the locals dare not cross after dusk. And music—sweet, wordless, and terrible—drifting over the hedgerows at twilight.

When the TARDIS sets down near Haroldstown Dolmen in nineteenth-century County Carlow, the Doctor dismisses it as a simple megalith. But the parish books tell another story: of vanished boys and broken fiddle-bows left upon the stone; of a lady in green velvet singing the living down into silence. Investigating beneath the dolmen, the Doctor discovers a chamber of whispering figures—neither alive nor dead—while the song coils tighter around his companions.

What lies under the stone is no tomb—but a trap still feeding. To save Ian, Barbara and Susan from the music’s call, the Doctor must confront the intelligence that plays human souls like strings… before the last note falls.

Contents

  1. A Harp in the Hedgerows – In which the travellers meet a worried historian, a superstitious farmer, and a song that is not a song.
  2. Parish Ink and Green Velvet – Testimonies, tokens on stone, and a vision upon the capstone that nearly claims Ian.
  3. What the Earth Remembered – The Doctor digs; a lantern shows too much; Susan hears her name from beneath.
  4. The Unplayed Note – A bargain, a breaking, and a silence that does not quite hold.

 Do you want to read more?

Click on the link – and enjoy.

 

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 30, 2025 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , ,

A Tale of County Carlow

29 Sep
A Tale of County Carlow

 

The Woman on the Dolmen

A Tale of County Carlow

It was in the late summer of the year 1848 that I made my visit to the town of Tullow in the county of Carlow. My business there, though of a trifling and unromantic nature, afforded me the opportunity of passing several days amidst scenery that, if not grand in the manner of the Wicklow mountains, yet possessed a certain sober charm which spoke to the imagination in a more secret, and therefore more lasting, fashion.

The Barrow river meandered with an easy grace; the hedgerows were thick with bramble and honeysuckle; and in the quiet of the evening one might hear the calling of corncrakes from the meadows. I took lodgings in a modest inn not far from the market square, and soon discovered that my host was a man of much conversation and a relish for recounting tales of the district. It was he who first directed my attention to Haroldstown Dolmen, that curious relic of forgotten antiquity, standing solitary in a field between Tullow and Carlow town.

“You’ll see it if you take the back road,” said he, pouring me a glass of the local cider. “A great flat stone balanced upon others, like a table set for giants. Some say it’s but the burial place of kings long turned to dust.” Here he leaned closer, lowering his voice with a relish, “others say it is a doorway. And once in a while, sir, the dead themselves will come out to sit upon it.”

I laughed lightly, as travellers often do when hearing the superstitions of a countryside not their own. Yet I made a note to visit this monument, for I confess I am not insensible to the charm of old stones and the whisperings they provoke.

Two evenings later, when the weather was clear and the sky washed with a mellow gold, I set out upon the road he had indicated. The hedges on either side were high, and the hum of bees was still in the air, though the day had begun to cool. I walked for some time before the road turned, and then suddenly it came into view.

There, in the middle of a wide, low field, stood the dolmen. A capstone of enormous weight lay supported upon uprights, casting a shadow long and black upon the grass. The field was otherwise empty, save for a scatter of nettles near the gate and the distant silhouettes of sheep against the horizon. It was a place of uncommon stillness, and I confess I paused at the gate, uncertain whether to proceed.

It was then I heard it—the faintest thread of music. At first I thought it the sound of some shepherd’s pipe carried on the wind. But no: it was not a rustic air, nor yet a jig or reel. It was a note of a harp, clear and pure, rising and falling with a solemnity that chilled me. And following that a voice!

The voice was of a woman, and such a voice I had never heard before nor since. It sang not in words that I could discern, but in tones that seemed to touch the very marrow of my bones. Sweet, mournful, tender yet with a power that shook the air like the tolling of a bell. I was drawn forward, step by step, until I stood at the edge of the field.

Upon the dolmen lay a woman, as though in careless repose. Her hair was of a deep red, falling about her shoulders like a mantle of fire. She wore a gown of green velvet that glimmered in the low light. Her arms were raised slightly, her pale hands outstretched as if to shape the air through which her song flowed.

Beside her, in the grass, was a man. He sat upon an ordinary chair, such as one might find in a parlour, though how it had come there I cannot imagine. His face was thin, his complexion ghastly pale, and his eyes fixed with an unnatural solemnity upon the strings of the harp which his hands commanded. His aspect was of one who performed not for pleasure, but by some inexorable compulsion.

The sight held me immobile. The woman’s gaze, though her eyes were half-closed in her song, seemed nevertheless to rest upon me. The harpist did not look up. The music rose, wound itself about me, and I felt my breath catch.

Then the woman ceased her singing, and the harpist let his fingers fall silent. The hush that followed was more terrible than the sound itself. Slowly, the woman turned her head. Her eyes, green as glass, clear as water, met mine.

“You hear us,” she said. Her voice was low, but carried across the distance without effort. “Most do not.”

I could not reply.

She rose then from the dolmen, her long gown trailing like mist. Yet I swear, and would swear upon any book, that the moss upon which she had lain bore no impress of her form, no trace of disturbance.

The harpist lifted his face. His expression was grave, and I observed with a start that the chair upon which he sat was sunken deep into the soil, though the ground about it was hard and dry. He struck a single string, one sharp, brittle note, and in that instant the dolmen itself seemed to shudder.

The woman advanced a step, her eyes never leaving mine. “Come closer,” she whispered. “Every ear that hears our song is chosen. We need one more voice.”

At this, some dreadful instinct awoke within me. My whole being revolted at her invitation, yet my limbs moved of their own accord, one step into the field, then another. The grass seemed higher than before, the nettles hemming me in, though I had not marked them so thickly when I entered.

I do not know how long I stood thus, poised between compulsion and terror. But suddenly a cloud passed across the setting sun, and a shadow fell. In that dimness I found strength, turned, and stumbled back through the gate to the road.

Behind me, as I fled, the music began again. This time it was sweeter, more coaxing, filled with sorrow, as though the very air grieved at my departure. Yet I did not look back. I ran until the roofs of Tullow were in sight, and the sound was lost in the ordinary bustle of the town.

When at last I returned to my lodging, I found my host waiting. He looked at me keenly and said, “So, you have been to Haroldstown.”

I could not answer him. I had no wish to speak of what I had seen, nor indeed could I have put it into plain words without doubting my own senses.

But in the nights that followed, as I lay awake in my chamber, I thought I heard, faint and far, the trembling of a harp string, and a woman’s voice calling in tones of sweetness and despair.

It is now many years since that evening. I have never returned to Haroldstown, nor do I intend to. Yet sometimes, when summer fades and the wind carries the scent of nettles and cut grass, I hear again the echo of that song. And then I wonder what would have become of me had I taken one step more, and placed my hand upon the dolmen’s cold stone.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on September 29, 2025 in county carlow, dolmen

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Haroldstown Dolmen

07 Jul

haroldstown dolmen

Haroldstown Dolmen

Harolodstown Dolmen sits quite in a field,

Alone and uncared for adrift from the real,

From the life we consider so important, though rushed,

Yet it will be there when we’re gone, when we’re hushed.

 

Older than pyramids and older than sea,

Haroldstown Dolmen contained and yet free,

It’s neighbous are cattle, some sheep and a goat,

Blissfully unaware of its significant note.

 *

It’s a place of sanctitude, a place to set free,

Your mind and your spirit, your heart and your chi,

To rest for a while away from the rush,

Of everyday life and of everyday fuss.

*

Some tourists do seek it out now and then,

Taking a photo or two then moving on again,

Perhaps one day it will be known far and near,

As the dolmen of sanctitude; a place so rare.

*************

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on July 7, 2014 in Ireland

 

Tags: , ,