Catherine Drea: The Faery Tree

The Hawthorn, Sceach, Whitethorn, Faery Tree, May tree, or whatever you call it, is a total wonder this year. 

Every time I turn into our lane I am blown away by the hedgerows and the fullsome blossom on those trees at the moment. It’s probably the result of weeks of sunshine and very little wind or rain that the ditches are festooned with this magical tree and its heady blossom.

There are trees in all kinds of shapes and sizes as the Hawthorn is mostly self-seeded and squeezes into all kinds of nooks and crannies. 

Some of their flowers are creamy and soft, while others are turning pink now after a few weeks and are releasing a heavy scent.

One of my own earliest memories is of a neighbour's enormous Hawthorn growing against a garden wall with a number of its branches reaching out onto the road. The tree was always covered in layers of rags, pictures and rosary beads. We were told that this was a faery tree and that it was very likely that the faeries had stashed their gold underneath it.

We were warned, over and over again, not to touch the tree and never to collect the blossom or bring any branch or flower into the house. We would sit under that tree as children, wondering about the faeries and if we should bring them gifts too. 

I remember we made a little well in the long grass under the shadow of the tree. I had a plastic arm, which had broken off my doll, and the girl next door had some sequins from her mother’s evening dress.

These precious items were placed in that well in the grass and covered with a piece of fabric as an offering to the invisible faery community. 

Every day we went back to inspect our little stash to see if it was still there. Yes it was, so there probably was no such thing as a faery! 

But one day we arrived and our offerings had completely disappeared. This freaked us out! We held on to each other, gasping about the fact that now we knew that the faeries not only existed but knew of our existence too.

This Hawthorn lore was passed down from the older people to the extent that to this day I would still acknowledge the magic of these trees and would never bring the hawthorn into the house. 

It’s not that I believe the folklore, it’s more that I enjoy the idea of following my ancestors' ways.

Just as Eavan Boland wrote in her poem White Hawthorn in the West of Ireland, 

“But I knew, I had always known, the custom was not to touch hawthorn. Not to bring it indoors for the sake of the luck such constraint would forfeit– a child might die, perhaps, or an unexplained fever speckle heifers.” 

This all came back to me standing under the queen of trees this morning. The wind came up suddenly and the blossom began to fall like snow. I admired the gnarly bark of the tree, which towers over the gate and the ditch. It’s an old tree now and in its prime. You just have to admire and salute such majesty, but not necessarily touch!

You see the faery folk are absolute divils. While as children we liked to imagine them as little angel-like girlies in pretty dresses with gossamer wings and faery wands, the old Irish version is a lot darker.

Apparently the carryon under the hawthorn tree consisted of wild cavorting, casting of spells and eyeing up the human population. 

If any of us put a foot wrong there would be terrible vengeance wreaked upon us. Seemingly the faery folk had very little patience for the likes of us and they would line up terrible events to punish us for messing with their magical places. 

The worst of it was stealing children and putting faery changelings in their place.

Yes, they told us, many a child was taken and a little brat put in her place in the pram. Even as I put my own children’s prams out under a tree I would think twice about it!

All of these dark fantasies showed up in our dreams and in our games as we continued to venture to these places, tempting fate. Funny how children love mischief and danger. We actually hoped and prayed that we would meet the unscrupulous faeries some day. But of course we never did.

I’m sure that the existence of the faeries was instilled as a belief because so many of our elders had seen them, had been hassled by them or had been fooled by them, which was even worse. 

Stories about being trapped in a field and not being able to find the way out. 

Or how the milk turned sour as it hit the bucket under the cow’s udders as she was milked. 

Or how the special brush for sweeping the yard had disappeared and was never found again. 

All the dirty work of those pesky creatures from the underworld.

And yet, this Spring was a beauty and all of our fields must be on the good side of the faery folk for once! 

Were we so well behaved that they ordered up some incredible weather? More likely they just wanted to have a wild conference under the biggest, most lovely Hawthorn they could find.