I’ve been working on some “projects” instead of writing.  I’m not saying that they were critical, but they have cut into my writing time.  Among these was rereading a couple of novels because I thought that the next in the series MUST have been released.  I thought I actually saw that it was, but no.  Anyway, I had read my copy of George R. R. Martin’s Storm of Swords, but I had to rely on the library for A Feast for Crows.  I signed up for A Dance for Dragons, but it isn’t even released yet.  In fact, the last update from George was a couple years ago.

So. . .      . . . I’m about ready to get back to work.

My intention, as I’ve mentioned and as is indicated by the title of this site, is to write about Celtic people, as I imagine they may have been, as I imagine they could be.  It may be that this is what you seek as well.  See my Focus Page for what I’m working on currently.

If not, and if you are interested, rather, in the romance and intrigue of the Saxons after Harold was defeated at Hastings you might want to take a look at this: Lothere by Jenny.  This may keep you busy while you wait for me to write more that is Celtic and also rewrite what is merely Celtic into something good, or at least better than my first attempts.

I’ve also been thinking and doing some research and it is the thinking part that has led me to my topic today.

If you are reading this, it is likely that you are an English speaker.  I’d say that there is an even better chance that if you are reading this you are from the United States.  One of the main destinations for the Celtic Diaspora was the shores of the New World.

That being said, let me say that the spirit of the Celts lives in American rugged individualism.  This American ideal is being trained out of us, to be sure, but a focus on the individual owes much to immigrants who themselves were likely influenced by these values.  Individual Rights is a value that is codified in Celtic, Brehon Law, but that has had its full flowering in the New World, not the Old.

I planned to sprinkle this little post with several quotes about the flamboyant celtic spirit, their love of colors that some might term gaudy, a certain pride, but also extraordinary bravery.  Instead I think perhaps I’ll put together a page of that sort of thing.  The truth is that reading about CuChulain and Finn, Lugh and Nuada, the Dagda and the Morrigan, all of it makes me want to echo those old themes and bring them to another generation of readers, if I can.  .  .

.  .  . And so here we are.  If you’ve made it to this post you may have become disappointed once again.  I’m not very far along on this odyssey.  I’m not sure if I’m up to it.  But like my ancestors, it really isn’t about what I can do, it is much more about what I will do, and what I intend is large and gaudy and brightly colored, and of the same sort of beauty as the bagpipes.  Certainly it isn’t the kind of thing that is for everyone, but I hope it is for you.

Hopefully this rambling confessional ends my hiatus and I can get back to the business of yarn spinning in the celtic mode.

Sincerely,

LSO

Here are some beginnings:

• Jump right in to The Red Son of Concubar.
• Start reading about Lugh of the Long Journeys.
• Start to learn about Tir na Nua.
• Posts, including this one, about Celts.

Jim Cooper led Iamerge out of the sunshine into the cool dark of the inn.  There were stairs leading up and a hall, but Old Jim, the mayor of Rat Town, led Iamerge down a stone stair into a chill common room lit by nothing but a few tapers here and there along the bar. 

Jim patted a seat and then slipped behind the bar, “It looks like ol’ Mare ain’t here yet so I’ll have to tend my own self.  Will an ale do you?  That’s what I’m having.” 

Jim poured, Iamerge sat, “Sure, anything is fine with me.  You said that Ruaridh Ua Birlinn rode out of town?  What do you imagine he was doing?”

Jim slid a tall mug across the bar and then followed it around to Iamerge, his own ale in hand, “We’ve had some trouble with the overland trade.  A few have come in mauled, but mostly they come in fine or they don’t come at all.”  Cooper sat down next to Iamerge, took a swig, and planted his ale on the bar, “Ua Birlinn hasn’t had any such problems, at least not yet, because he always guards his traffic and put more men on since the trouble started.”

“So you think that changed?” asked Iamerge.

“I don’t know what to think.  Didn’t seem those fellers who come in was mussed much, but Ua Birlinn sure didn’t waste no time heading back out.  Seems if his trade ain’t in trouble then someone-else’s.”  Cooper smiled, made to drink again but paused to ask, “So, you said that Gospels is back.  Don’t know if you know it for good news, but it is.  The Brothers are the anchor that holds this place together, feeds most of us, good folk, but they weren’t the same when Gospels left.”

“I can imagine.  Gospels is, unique in my experience.”

“Sure, a brother looks pretty much like another to most folk, but Gospels ran that place well.  Its good when there is peace up on Bell Hill.”  Cooper chuckled to himself and took a drink, “mmm, even for us sinners.”

“Yes,” Iamerge allowed and then put his mouth to his ale to keep his own council.

“So, we heard that Gospels felt led by the Spirit to get in a skin boat and be washed out to sea to land wherever the good Lord made him land.  Mad as a, as a, mad as a hermit it seemed to me.  How’d you find him?”

“As my luck would have it, Gospels found me, pulled me out of the surf on the Skellig.  He’d washed up there and no matter how many times he put out again the coracle always came back.” Iamerge explained.

“Strange luck that.”