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. 

That the ancient British Celts celebrated the Summer Solstice is not well-supported in their literature. Attempts to rebrand the festival by the neopagans have turned either to the Germanic and Scandinavian tradition of 'Yule', or to a brief mention of a season called 'Litha', found in the work on the Anglo-Saxon Bede of Northumbria. There are few accounts of what the Iron Age Celts actually did at midsummer. We can assume that they did something, because the longest day of the year is hardly something they would have missed, especially seeing as there are specific mentions of their activities on the other three quarter-days. But on the subject of midsummer, the texts don't say much.

​An exception is the strange story of the Summer Goddess Áine. In a story from the Book of Leinster, called The Battle of Mag Mucrime, Áine (the fairy daughter of Eógabal) is raped by Aillil Ollam, one of the Eóganachta, when he spends Halloween on the sacred hilltop called Gnoc Aine (Knockainey, near Limerick). She bites off his ear in revenge. (In ancient Irish tradition, you can't be a king without a whole body.)

That event happened at Halloween, not midsummer, but Irish men were known to gather and light a bonfire on that hill at St John's Eve (midsummer), and in one tale, the goddess Áine appeared to them, telling them to go away, for she and her fairy kind wished to have the hill to themselves.

That particular tale mentions that the rape of her was conducted by Gerald Fitzgerald, a wizard, who was Count of Desmond at the time. He is a distant relative of mine. I am truly sorry that my ancestor thus had his evil way with the Fairy Queen of Summer, and his descendants claimed her lineage from then on. Another story regarding the Wizard Earl of Kildare (the same Gerald Fitzgerald) mentions him gathering ingredients for an invisibility potion at midsummer. I sense a series of stories coming on, about evil aristocratic wizards. 

Source: https://archive.org/details/revueceltique04gaid/page/186/mode/2up 
The Wizard Earl of Kildare: 
​https://www.askaboutireland.ie/reading-room/history-heritage/folklore-of-ireland/folklore-folk-tales-and-c/the-wizard-earl/

The original Irish texts are always more more strange and wonderful than the neo-pagan attempts to overlay modern patterned meaning onto old names and symbols. Always. 

Happy Midsummer. 

Hello, folks. 

Today was the best day of the walk so far, but it did not go without incident. I woke up early to get the best out of the upcoming archaeological wonders, and left the Rose and Crown just after 8, full of beans, and other aspects of the Full English. After several miles, within striking range of Wayland's Smithy (a famous neolithic long barrow), I stuck my hand in my right pocket to discover the hotel keys I had forgotten to return. Oh, bugger. I found a diagonal back down the hill, and spotted a perching raptor en route, but was feeling a bit beleaguered at the thought of having added about 3 miles onto my day through my mistake. Luckily, a chap (who I could swear was one of the cast of Horrible Histories) spotted me in a cafe and gave me a lift back up the hill. So, only 2 miles added. 

The rest of the day was great. I saw the Smithy, and took a few photos, but it's really more about being there, and I was fortunate that there weren't too many tourists present, other than me. After about half an hour I sauntered on, and got myself to the White Horse of Uffington. I was dreading to see the wonderful White Horse in a similar state to the last two chalk figures I had seen, which were looking shabby and unloved in the browning grass. But it was in great nick, green and pristine - perhaps the nearby airbase has been water-bombing it? The hillside was much more green than those nearby, I noticed. I wandered around beaming among a few others enjoying the sunshine, mostly locals getting a good vantage point to watch a nearby airshow, or, families with kids flying kites off the Iron Age hill-fort ramparts. It was great.

Now I had a decision to make - did I go down the wonderfully named Blowingstone Road, too see the Blowingstone, and have a half at the nearby Blowingstone Inn? Apparently there is a stone hidden in someone's front yard with a hole in it, and if you blow on it hard enough, you can make a small noise of some kind. (In the Middle Ages, you made your fun however you could.) The stone and inn sounded tempting (although I am glad I do not have such a stone in my front garden). But, I decided to keep going on the Ridgeway to Letcombe Regis, where a bus would take me down into the market town of Wantage. Another fine raptor was spotted in the trees on the way. Both turned out to be Buzzards. 

Wantage is a cool place; there's lots of Tudor half-timbered buildings with Turkish Barbers operating out of them, heaps of tradies drinking in the pubs, and about 6 op shops, which I visited in hope of replacing some of my thoroughly stinky clothes. I am now all good for socks, and have a new long-sleeve shirt, but fresh underpants await me further down the trail. The op shop people may have thought me a bit weird when I asked about second hand underpants and I had to explain that was normal in Australia. I didn't have time to explain that they are normally donated new, so perhaps that explained the funny looks. 

My place this evening is the Volunteer Inn, which originally housed a volunteer rifles crew, but now houses people who come to visit the Formula One Williams Centre, which is just down the road. Car enthusiasts abound around here. The hotel cheap and 'cheerful', because it's on a main road, and, the main train line to Bristol. My room faces both. Earplugs have been provided. Wish me luck. 

The weather tomorrow may feature ALL the rain the country hasn't had in the last 6 weeks, or, none of it, if the storms don't cross the Chilterns. I'll make my mind up in the morning, but if it really is chucking it down as threatened, I'lll go to Oxford by bus - it turns out to be just up the main road I'm on - and mooch about in my raincoat, buying whisky and underpants. If it's clear, I might bus back to Letcombe and start the trail again. Let's see. 

It's Monday evening, July 7. The first week of my trip is gone. Eeek! Come back, week. I want to have you again. Except I would probably spend less of you in London. I am beginning to tire of it. Doctor Johnson can say what he likes, I'm not tired of life. Just London. It's noisy and stuffy and despite being infinitely varied it is actually all the same, after a while. 

On the weekend I saw my cousin Miriam, who moved to Old Blighty in the 90s and never came home. We couldn't agree when we last saw each other - was it in 95, or 97? It was a long time, anyway. She now lives in Falconwood, an Eastern suburb in Kent that I had never heard of. We went walking on Fooots Cray Meadow (again, never heard of it) and played Cluedo with her family, catching up on 20 years worth of news and sharing our love on fantasy literature, especially children's books. It was good to see her, and amazing how auickly we related on so many things. 

The next day we went to Oxlea Wood, and a craft market at 'Severndroog Castle', neither of which  I knew anything about. Then we went to Eltham Palace, which I had heard of only vaguely. These were places in Miriam's local stomping ground, places in which she had often taken her daughter for walks and playdates with other Eltham kids. It was a beautiful day, and I felt a bit jealous when comparing all of this to the dull parks of Glenelg North where my kids grew up. I had to remind myself that it probably wasn't that nice for much of the year.  

I only knew about one thing in the area before I arrived: on Shrewsbury Lane in Eltham there is a Bronze Age burial mound, one of many that once stood in this area, but the only one to have survived the Blitz, and the housing developments. It was wonderfully ordinary, a small grass covered hummock you'd play on as a kid and never know. Miriam and I discussed this as a prompt for a spooky kids book with an urban setting. ("The old mound had stood undisturbed for millennia, until....)" It was nice to be with someone who got it, because I suspect most people would have wondered why we had traipsed all the way there to see something so obscure and visually unimpressive. 

I went back to London and have been in departure mode ever since. Today was all about resting up, op shopping, and having a few last halves of bitter at the North London pubs. The major decision point of the day was whether I should pay 10 pounds to see the tomb of Karl Marx in Highgate Cemetery, and I decided the answer was no. Bye London, I won't see much of you again. Small Towns, here I come. 

On Friday, I set off on a vain quest to find my imagined magickal London. In my mind, it is the location of that 'olde bookshoppe' on the corner of Hangrope Lane and Handspit Alley, where you buy an obscure tome from a wizened mystic, and then, upon seeking to return the cursed book, find the shop no longer there the next day!  

With such a silly aim in mind, it's no surprise I had an entirely random day. 

London Wall is one of the strangest archaeology sites I have ever seen. Tiny stretches of the Old Roman Wall around Castra Londinium still exist, but they are all mixed up with medieval and Victorian-era walls, the old Barber Surgeon's Hall, brand new skyscrapers, massive roundabouts in tunnels, a lily pond, larch-panelled Scandi cafes, and a park full of daydrinkers. The City seems to have given up on any consistency here, and stuck the historical eras together with sticky-tape into a very loose pastiche.

I moved on to see the Barbrican, which is famous for its 'brutalist' architecture, but it looked to me much like any other concrete high-rise, to be honest. I took photos, but they are of a boring high-rise. Next up was Smithfield Market, the place where William Wallace was hung, drawn and quartered, and many other traitors and criminals were put to death for the entertainment of people buying their vegetables. Now it's a rather gaudy market hall built in the Victorian era. 

I walked the length of Fleet Street, where the river Fleet once flowed before they reclaimed all the land. I stopped in at the Cheshire Cheese, a very famous old pub from the 17th century, where my family had a ploughman's lunch in 1980. This was done on the insistence of my Dad, who said it was a famous London experience, one that would have been shared by Pepys and Doctor Johnson, who both lived nearby. The ploughman's was 23 pounds, so I had a pint instead, and grabbed in selfie in front of Doctor Johnson's house, in honour of my Dad. 

Further down the Strand (which used to be the riverbank, I believe), I ran into a large pro-Palestine demonstration in front of the Central Court of Justice. I joined in for about ten minutes until they started chanting 'Death to the IDF', at which point I decided to leave. I don't personally think that calling for more Israeli deaths is going to help the folk of Gaza much at all, and it rather easy to say when you are in Westminster and you don't have to do any of the fighting. 

I found my magical bookshop, Watkins Books, on Cecil Court. The same street has map shops, coin shops, stamp shops, and it basically a magnet for collectors and souvenir hunters. Watkins books is run by the descendants of Alfred Watkins, the man who invented the notion of leylines. It was full of mystical and new age claptrap. I scoured their second-hand section in the hope of finding something amusingly esoteric, and cheap. I didn't find such a book, but I did overhear two extremely serious young gentlemen with goatees having a hilarious conversation in which they managed to namedrop about fifty esoteric authors in the space of twenty minutes before finally introducing themselves to each other and then leaving without buying anything. Glorious. I bought some modern books on English folklore and departed. 

​Now it was time to head over the river and get close to Battersea, where I was intending to see a jazz band in the evening. The famous old power station has now been turned into a shopping centre. I am pleased to think that numerous of the photos taken by other tourists that day will feature a rather tired-looking man in a green collared short-sleeve, picking the toe-jam out of his feet and doing calf-stretches on the courtesy seats. Tour walking tires me more than forest walking, I don't know why. 

St Anne's in Battersea was lovely and the jazz duo were excellent. I got back about midnight. I set off to see my cousin Miriam out in Kent, the next morning. I am at her place now. 

Hello folks,

This coming Sunday (June 29) I am flying to the UK / Ireland and will be over there a while. It's "trip of a lifetime" stuff, a thing I have been planning for 7 years. Various COVID / LIFE factors have prevented it until now. I'll be journalling the trip here. 

Rough itinerary: London / Chiltern region / Devonshire / Wiltshire / Oxfordshire / Chiltern Region again / Holyhead in Wales / Dublin / Folk Festival in County Clare / Belfast / Ballycastle / Galloway / Glasgow / Fort William to Inverness / Ullapool / Outer Hebrides / Back to London / Kuala Lumpur and a deep breath before getting back again. 

I'm attempting a few long distance hikes while there. And, there will be a lot of birding. 

Wish me luck! 

Steve.

The shapely form of Louise K in the cellars of the Unicorn Brewery in Burra, May 2025. 

A few weeks later I played a game of Sherlock Holmes down here with some mates. In order to trigger the lights, we had to re-enter by the main door every half hour. Each time, our presence aroused an automated video broadcast featuring John Jarrett, who talks you through the history of the cellars just as you come in. The cellars were used as a prominent location for Wolf Creek 2, an Australian serial killer movie. John Jarrett is the killer. 

Great place to take your wife on a date. Also, a great place to role-play. 

I've so far had one failed attempt to publish my Port Adelaide urban folklore book, the Panther of Divett Street, and I am tempted to self-publish it, or possibly reformat the book and try again with a regular publisher. Still scratching my head about that one.

In the meantime, a few mates have had a go at a cover, using AI. My prompt was "An old fashioned policeman holding a baton chasing a panther with a chicken in its mouth." Results are hilariously bad. Thanks to Richard, Chris and Eva for playing along.