Grianstad - The Summer Solstice

In Celebration of the Sun

Life on Earth cannot exist without the presence of the Sun. The Sun’s significance has been observed since the beginning of time when ancient cultures worshipped the Sun for their survival— like our Celtic ancestors. For northern hemisphere dwellers, Summer Solstice - the longest day and the shortest night of our year - is usually celebrated on June 20th or 21st. In 2024, the cross-quarter moment between Bealtaine (early Summer) and Lughnasadh (early Autumn) is Thursday, June 20th. 

I love the Irish Gaelic word for solstice, “Grianstad”, which means “sun stop”. At this time of year, the Sun has its greatest moment of light, the longest day of the year, and lasts for a few days where the hours of daylight remain almost the same— as though the Sun has stopped in the sky at that place of most light. Then, the light begins to lessen as we move towards Autumn. I like to imagine the Sun coming out into her full abundance, sharing her incredible light, and then she turns for home, just as the seasons turn. Returning to the darkness of Winter, a time for slowing down and reflection— a time of incubation.  

The solstices were extremely important to the Neolithic age, and they built stunning monuments, such as Brú na Boinne (Newgrange), that reflected their vast knowledge of the Sun and stars. Many of these monuments are aligned to the setting and rising Sun of the Solstice. The Summer Solstice is a festival to honour the gods and goddesses in anticipation and hope for the harvest at Lughnasagh. It was the time of year Áine (the goddess of the Sun) was celebrated and called upon to banish evil spirits and ensure a good harvest. Lugh (the god of light and the Sun) was also celebrated in August at the harvest festival of Lughnasagh (named after Lugh). 

It is a beautiful time of the year to reflect on our gratitude for life’s abundance and enjoy the fruits of the summer, the world in full bloom, the coming harvest, and the bounty. It is a time to rejoice with gratitude, embrace the moment life has to offer, and give thanks for the light we bring into the world around us—the full bloom of life itself. 

Oiche Tine Cnámh - Night of the Bone Fire

In my childhood, I remember St John’s Eve being the night we celebrated in Connemara. St. John’s Eve is the Christianized version of the Solstice festival and is usually observed on or before the birthday of John the Baptist, which is June 24th. Bonfires were lit across the countryside, and the summer days were filled with feasts, dancing and merriment.

We didn’t call it St John’s Eve or have any reference to St John the Baptist; we called it - Oiche tine Cnámh (Night of the Bone Fire).

I loved it so much when I was a child. I remember being so excited to gather the firewood and build the bonfire on the days leading up to the night itself. We held the bonfire in the field across the road from my grandparents' house. Close to the foot of the mountain was a flat rock where we lit the fire. Neighbours and family would gather, and we would enjoy biscuits, cake, and tea. Sometimes, the extended family came home from England or America, where they had emigrated, and we gathered during the summer night. 

I remember seeing the fires lit in the distance in neighbouring fields. It was a lovely sense of togetherness, with fires lit across the village. One year, I remember the awe and wonder of seeing a bonfire on top of the mountain. Someone had climbed up the mountain and lit a fire to celebrate that special night, the night of the bone fire. 

There was a beautiful ritual to the bone fire: the oldest person was tasked with lighting the fire, while the youngest was tasked with throwing a bone in the fire during the festivities. This custom is still practised today in various areas around Ireland.  

I wrote a poem some years ago, titled “Bone Fire”, to capture that evening and how it has stayed with me ever since, how that fire felt so important, as a time of awe, wonder and belonging, a time of the past, the eternal, and now. 

Bone Fire

(St John’s Eve - June 23rd 1986)

Their shuffling on the hillside
broke months of gray stillness.
It had been a long winter
like a constant shadow crossing.
I watched neighbors
find their spot
settling into heathered seats
between granite rock and mossy swells.

Everyday that week
I visited their homes.
I begged them to come 
while I wheel-barrowed 
discarded wood from their sheds
all along the village road.

I dragged bogwood from ditches
severing forever their steel-like grip
on the earth.
I was not in the least bit distracted
by playful squeals of cousins 
back from England;
nor their excited talks of exotic outposts;
elephant, castles and cricklewood.

By evening I picked splinters from my fingers.
Moon anchored the hillside.
I remembered the shop had promised
empty crates and wooden boxes,
pictures of oranges
all the way from Brazil.

And then they came. 
My grandmother lit the fire.
Slowly each flicker flamed.
It towered,
How it towered!
A gallery of color.
All eyes transfixed -
as though the fire had been stacked
with all the days of their past.
For weeks afterwards
I could still see
charcoal in the earth
smoldering.

Bonfire celebrating Midsummer Night 1912 by Nikolai Astrup