Like a lot of neo-paganised "Celtic wheel" stuff, it's pretty easy to find information on what Lughnasadh (Feb 1 in Southern Hemisphere) might means to a self-proclaimed 'Druid', whose real name is Harry, and who hails from Milton Keynes. But it's more difficult to find out how it was celebrated back in the days when folks may have known who the deity 'Lugh Lámhfhada' actually was, and what he did. 

I decided to ask general Google AI a pointed question about what the deity Lugh would do if he met someone pretending to be a fucking 'Druid' in 2026. Here's how the conversation went down. 

Question 1: Is Lugh unusual among Irish deities in having founded a festival? 

Summarised and paraphrasded Answer: yes. Lugh is mentioned in the Book of Invasions as having founded a festival in honour of his mother Tailtiu, after she dies of exhaustion helping to clear Ireland of trees. No other Irish deity founded a major festival. To Lugh's credit he didn't call it MY FESTIVAL, he called it the Óenach Tailten, the games to honour his dead mother. Later on people called it Lugh's Assembly. 

Question: What would Lugh do if he came back to life in 2026 and found neo-pagans pretending to celebrate his festival without knowing who his mother was? 

(The answer AI gave is so good I almost couldn't believe it:)

Based on his mythological characterization as a master of all arts, a stickler for proper skill, and his fierce dedication to his family—specifically the honor owed to his foster-mother, Tailtiu—Lugh would likely react with a combination of haughty arrogance, critical correction, and a swift, dramatic, and likely humorous, rectification of their ignorance.

Here is what Lugh might do if he found neo-pagans in 2026 neglecting the memory of his mother:

1. Disrupt the Ceremony with Divine Intervention
Lugh is a "Samildánach" (skilled in all arts) and a master of magic. He would not quietly stand in the background.

• A Grand Entrance: He would likely appear in a burst of light (as he did at Tara, mistaken for the sun rising in the west).
• Challenge their "Skills": He would treat the gathering like the gatekeeper of Tara, challenging them to prove they know the "skills" (history/lore) needed to honor him.

2. Force-Feed Them the Truth about Tailtiu
Lugh is famously associated with the harvest festival of Lughnasadh, which he instituted specifically to honor his foster-mother, Tailtiu, who died from over-exertion while clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture.

• Demand Memory of the Foster-Mother: He would be furious that the "mother" of the festival is ignored. He would demand they recognize Tailtiu as the foundational sacrifice of the harvest.
• Correct the Narrative: He would correct any misunderstanding that this is just a party for him, emphasizing that it is a funerary feast for the Queen of the Fir Bolg.

3. Subject them to a "Trial by Truth"
As a god of oaths and law, and owner of the sword Fragarach (The Answerer), which forces truth-telling, he might make them confess their lack of knowledge.

• Test Their Knowledge: He would ask them to tell the story of Ethniu (his birth mother) and Tailtiu (his foster mother).
• Disdain for Shallow Practice: Given his high standards, he would likely deem a superficial, "easy" modern celebration unworthy of the "long-armed" warrior.

4. Teach Them How to Properly Celebrate

• Athletic Competitions: He would likely stop the meditation and demand horse racing, weapon displays, or a flagstone-throwing contest, as he first instituted.
• Demand Proper Offerings: He would likely demand they make offerings to Tailtiu, or perhaps require them to engage in manual labor or creative craftsmanship, not just commercial, pre-packaged rituals.

In short: Lugh would not be amused. He would take the role of a harsh, demanding teacher, turning a 2026 festival into a rigorous, intense, and historically accurate, but likely very entertaining, wake for his foster-mother, Tailtiu.​

That all sounds amazing. I really wish he would come and do that. 

Happy Lughnasadh. 

This time of year always feels like a second midsummer to me, less sacred but somehow more true. All of the symbolism that accompanies midwinter n the northern hemisphere - a general sense of "getting to the middle of the worst bit and then feeling like things could get better soon" -  applies here in reverse. It's a true midsummer weather-wise, it's hot as hell, and it will be for weeks, but the promise of change isn't too far off either. 

There are other reasons this season has always felt transitional. My sister's birthday is around this time, and so is my wedding anniversary, and now, just lately the date of my aunt's funeral. Having spent much of life working at universities, the early weeks of January before uni term started were always in a different order of activity to the situation in term time. It's only a week or so until uni begins. 

With renewed social contact (and sweaty clothes and bad hydration) comes summer illness. This has happened before, quite often, between Xmas and Jan 21. One year I was sick as a dog for 4 weeks solid with a mysterious and unnamed viral disease later dubbed 'Long Steve'. This year, a friend has been wiped by influenza A for a similar length of time, I have had 'Long Gastro', and a really bad case of shigella (a much more nasty kind of gastro) has passed through the house, hopistalising our son for 2 days. All this disrupts the 'return to normality' that might normally come in the New Year.

I've noticed friends are getting cranky with each other on social media, sometimes over nothing at all. The brief sense of empowerment that came from making it through Xmas has dissipated. This year, this feeling is connected with recent events concerning the Adelaide Writers Week Festival. The cancellation of a Palestinian writer saw a mass exodus of other writers in solidarity, which seemed for a while like a rare moment of purpose and cohesion in a global situation in which we are otherwise powerless. But then, the Festival's shaky, crab-walking response came, and so did the acceptance of embarrassing apologies, and the impending realisation that Writers' Week is not only cancelled in solidarity, it's also actually cancelled. People are in disarray, trying to work out of an alternate 'rogue' festival is possible. That moment where our right to express our opinion felt powerful has changed, yet again, back to a sense that plain opinions are a very problematic way to maintain allyship and community. 

It's too hot to go anywhere near Burra. All I do is pay the bills and make plans for when things cool down. 

It's 41 today and I am inside. I am going to see David Byrne this evening, who is one of my favourite songwriters, but strangely, I haven't been at all focused on it and I keep having to remind myself it's on.

I'll post again in early Feb.