Nemeton

Nemeton n. (pl. Nemata). An holy place, sacred in ancient Celtic religion - groves, standing stones, ringstones. Related toponyms are scattered across Europe

I fell into science by accident at the age of 17. IF a particular conversation hadn't happened, and I hadn't found my biology teacher's jokes funny, THEN I'd now be a retired media wonk living in London in a £million house which I bought for buttons in the 70s. I regret nothing! A lifetime in science cannot but infect practioners with sciencism: a belief that everything which matters is (exclusively) discovered through science. Jakers, just look at the top of the page: Science Matters! It's bollix, of course: Science is A way of knowing: and has nothing on offer to comfort the dying, the power of song, or the drive of snog. One aspect of privileging evidence, the rational, and data is that I read, almost exclusively, non-fiction. As if histories were less full of lies than stories.

After I romped through Charlie Stross's parallel universe adventure, I set myself to read The Wren Hunt by Mary Watson. It is a coming of age tale set in an Ireland peppered with Thin Places [bloboprev] where the spirit world leaks through into a recognisable post-Tiger island with taxis, ringtones and tattoos. Librarians tend to shelve it in the Young Adult section. Cripes, YA must have quite the tolerance for the hum of violence - I blame The Hunger Games. 

'twas a long way from Ireland that Mary Watson was r'ared, but like my dear dead MiL she escaped from Africa and now lives in an Irish-speaking household near Galway where NUIG / UCG is the intellectual heart of the Gaeltacht. You may be sure that the Irish equivalent of Icelandic Sprakkar - obscure words from the Canon which have specific powerful meaning - surface in coffee-break chatter in NUIG. Watson, as accomplished word-worker, owns these words and makes them drive the story. New to me: bláithín brídeog brithemain draoithe géineolaíocht nemeton quinquetra ré-órga triquetra tuanacul. 

The central thread in The Wren Hunt is the Othering of a community which is different from, and opposed to, the people by whom Wren, the protagonist, was raised. It is, like obvs, a known thing that these Others are the  black hats . Wren's people are a) oppressed b) not going down without a fight. The fights are both real - fists and blunt force trauma - and metaphysical - dolls, sacred groves, potions. The magic allows us to suspend our disbelief that a bunch of Wren's people can paraphernalia up and troop off the woods for sunset rituals without the plain people of the townland [neither black hats nor white] knowing their business. (My policy when we blew-in to a rural midlands community 25+ years ago, was to give curious neighbours rather more information than they could reasonably ask for: partly to inhibit them from making monsters of us down the pub). But that's okay - it's fiction.

Without being intrusively didactic, the message that comes through this book is that you can to your own self be true, and that is more important than tribal loyalty: as a young adult you can / may / shd invent yourself. Celtic are not always right; Rangers play the same game to the same rules; they can't be all wrong. And, not to put too fine a point on it, exogamy is okay: The Others bring different stuff to the table - often challenging, but mmmmm so tasty. No more spoilers! If you know any YA [girls?] leave this book on their bedside table. They'll get more out of it than the ineffably boring Inter.Cert. Biology textbook.