Amalia Gkavea
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne
‘’The banshee and the headless coach, phantom dogs and fearsome black cats, shadowy figures flitting alongthe dim corridors of old houses, gentle ladies that glide at midnight down gracious staircases, strange death warnings, unaccounted sounds in the dark in the secret recesses of storied castles…such are the ghosts of Ireland, an integral part of her tradition and her atmosphere.’’
John J. Dunne
A phantom black dog, howling in winter nights. A land cursed by a scorned woman, foxes that mysteriously appear to signal a death in a family, peculiar old men who seem to live in the graveyard. The ghost of a bishop appears in Marsh’s Library, searching for a note, a black cat appears in Hell Fire Club, one of the places where the Devil is sure to reside, waiting for a phantom piper with hooves instead of feet. In Killyleagh, a wealthy lady managed to appease the butcher who answered to the name ‘Oliver Cromwell, and a lovely woman in blue mysteriously haunted what is now a chapel in Ards peninsula.
In Ireland, ghosts attend Mass in silence. They linger in the Liberties of Dublin. Some are exorcised; others return—brothers crossing back from the veil to visit their sisters. Or to kill them. In Skryne, noble phantoms and Victorian spectres have made their home. In Glencairn, girls’ hearts lie forgotten in caskets tucked away in attic dust. Phantom pigs terrorise weary working girls. In Kilkea Castle, wizards lie in eternal sleep. Haunted colleges. Alleys where the shadow of Jonathan Swift still walks. St. Stephen’s Green plays host to the spirits of long-gone cats and dogs. Heartbroken girls find no rest as their lovers fall—victims of fate, or the cruelty of a father’s hand.
Men in dark cloaks. Shiny boys. The Devil himself, disguised, leaving his mark scorched into the hearthstone. A flighty girl, shamed and guilt-stricken, takes her life and returns as a mourning deer, watching from the woods. Phantom hearses, headless horses, leering faces at the windowpane. Footsteps echo where no one walks. Doors creak open of their own accord. In Ireland, even the gardens and the farmyards are haunted.
The faded photographs of a time long gone and the quiet musings of the writer in the margins make this haunted journey unforgettable. The book itself — written in 1977, passed through an Irish bookshop in Galway, still bearing the Staffordshire County Library stamp dated May 3rd, 1978 — is a ghost in its own right. A fragile portal into the past.
Ireland. A land where even the dead are unlike any others.
‘’The foregoing are merely random examples of the countless ghost stories to be found all around Ireland, in the tall old houses of Dublin’s history-soaked streets, in the rambling, grandiose mansions half lost in ancient walled demesnes that survive still in their hundreds throughout the countryside, in all sorts of odd corners here and there in a land particularly rich in folklore and where passion and emotion have throbbed strongly always.
Strongly enough, few will question, to leave their vibrations.’’
John J. Dunne