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Authors: Barbara Sjoholm
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woman. They ran tours out to the whirlpool in the tourist season. I called and reached a machine, left a message, then turned my attention to finding a room for the night.
It was rainingâno, not just raining, but pissing down. I stood dripping in the tourist office with other wet visitors to Oban while a staff member fixed me up with a room for the night. I made my way along the dreary esplanade to a group of tall guesthouses built in the townâs Victorian heyday. Ten days into my trip, my green rain slicker was beginning to feel like a second skin.
The prospect of viewing a thundering whirlpool in this rainstorm seemed unlikely, as well as perhaps unwise; however, it was perfect weather, I thought as I took off my wet clothes and settled myself into a chair in my garret room at the top of six flights of stairs, to think about storm goddesses. I put on the kettle and blessed the Scots for having the right idea about comfort: plenty of tea, biscuits, and tiny containers of milk.
L EAN AND mean, thatâs the Cailleach, blue-faced, rust-haired, one-eyed, with a single tooth. Stories of this ancient goddess are found in the west of Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland, and are particularly common around the firths of Oban. Itâs said that she created the mountains and the islands by dropping stones from the creel she carried on her back. Many mountains have their own Cailleach. The Cailleach nan Cruchan is said to havelived on the summit of Ben Cruchan, not far from Oban. When anything put her in a temper, she gathered a handful of whirlpools and descended the mountain in a fury. She crossed Loch Etive in a single stride, and doing so, lashed it into a tempest that prevented all passage at Connel Ferry. Connel, from âcona thuil,â which means whirling floods, was also said to be the place through which the Cailleach drove her goats, that is, her frisky waves. The Cailleach is much connected with the Isle of Mull in the Inner Hebrides. The frothy swells off its coast are called her sheep and goats. Where waves billow and the coastline seethes white is her stomping ground.
Donald Mackenzie, who collected Scottish folklore in the first part of the twentieth century, has an entire chapter about the Cailleach in one of his books. He calls her the Scottish Artemis, who roamed the mountains with her animals, and carried a magic wand to control the weather. As with most ancient goddesses, her early power was elemental and to be revered as much as feared. Later she turned into a sea witch responsible for storms and drownings. But she was always associated with the coldest, stormiest part of the year. Her strength grew as autumn arrived; she reigned supreme until spring. Some later stories sentimentalize her as a beautiful girl who turned into a hag in winter, then succumbed each spring to another beautiful girl who replaced her. Other stories tell how she kept her youth by never failing to drink from the waters of life in the moment before the sun rises, once a year. When once she was prevented or forgot, she fell dead, and didnât rise again.
I prefer the older stories, of the Cailleach and her ocean form, Muileartach, who appears in Irish poetry and lore. Muileartach came from the west, over the waves; she lived in the ocean with her lover, and enjoyed having her body massaged bysea merchants. The only way to kill her, itâs said, was to bury her up to her shoulders in soil.
       Her face was blue-black of the luster of coal,
       And her bone-tufted tooth was like red rust.
       In her head was one pool-like eye.
       Swifter than a star in a winter sky.
Like the Cailleach, Muileartach often took the shape of an old woman. Itâs said she visited a house on shore to ask for lodging, pretending to be a cold and weary traveler. When the door was slammed in her face, she kicked it open furiously.
It was rainingâno, not just raining, but pissing down. I stood dripping in the tourist office with other wet visitors to Oban while a staff member fixed me up with a room for the night. I made my way along the dreary esplanade to a group of tall guesthouses built in the townâs Victorian heyday. Ten days into my trip, my green rain slicker was beginning to feel like a second skin.
The prospect of viewing a thundering whirlpool in this rainstorm seemed unlikely, as well as perhaps unwise; however, it was perfect weather, I thought as I took off my wet clothes and settled myself into a chair in my garret room at the top of six flights of stairs, to think about storm goddesses. I put on the kettle and blessed the Scots for having the right idea about comfort: plenty of tea, biscuits, and tiny containers of milk.
L EAN AND mean, thatâs the Cailleach, blue-faced, rust-haired, one-eyed, with a single tooth. Stories of this ancient goddess are found in the west of Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland, and are particularly common around the firths of Oban. Itâs said that she created the mountains and the islands by dropping stones from the creel she carried on her back. Many mountains have their own Cailleach. The Cailleach nan Cruchan is said to havelived on the summit of Ben Cruchan, not far from Oban. When anything put her in a temper, she gathered a handful of whirlpools and descended the mountain in a fury. She crossed Loch Etive in a single stride, and doing so, lashed it into a tempest that prevented all passage at Connel Ferry. Connel, from âcona thuil,â which means whirling floods, was also said to be the place through which the Cailleach drove her goats, that is, her frisky waves. The Cailleach is much connected with the Isle of Mull in the Inner Hebrides. The frothy swells off its coast are called her sheep and goats. Where waves billow and the coastline seethes white is her stomping ground.
Donald Mackenzie, who collected Scottish folklore in the first part of the twentieth century, has an entire chapter about the Cailleach in one of his books. He calls her the Scottish Artemis, who roamed the mountains with her animals, and carried a magic wand to control the weather. As with most ancient goddesses, her early power was elemental and to be revered as much as feared. Later she turned into a sea witch responsible for storms and drownings. But she was always associated with the coldest, stormiest part of the year. Her strength grew as autumn arrived; she reigned supreme until spring. Some later stories sentimentalize her as a beautiful girl who turned into a hag in winter, then succumbed each spring to another beautiful girl who replaced her. Other stories tell how she kept her youth by never failing to drink from the waters of life in the moment before the sun rises, once a year. When once she was prevented or forgot, she fell dead, and didnât rise again.
I prefer the older stories, of the Cailleach and her ocean form, Muileartach, who appears in Irish poetry and lore. Muileartach came from the west, over the waves; she lived in the ocean with her lover, and enjoyed having her body massaged bysea merchants. The only way to kill her, itâs said, was to bury her up to her shoulders in soil.
       Her face was blue-black of the luster of coal,
       And her bone-tufted tooth was like red rust.
       In her head was one pool-like eye.
       Swifter than a star in a winter sky.
Like the Cailleach, Muileartach often took the shape of an old woman. Itâs said she visited a house on shore to ask for lodging, pretending to be a cold and weary traveler. When the door was slammed in her face, she kicked it open furiously.
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