The Summer Solstice in Connemara
St. John’s Eve | A Connemara Childhood | A Poem by Eileen Ní Shuilleabháin | NEW! Summer Solstice Meditation
Sky Road, Connemara, Ireland
Oíche Shin Seáin | St. John’s Eve
St. John’s Eve—Oíche Shin Seáin (pronounced ee-ha hin shaw-in)—falls on June 23rd, the twilight threshold between light and dark, past and future. Though named for St. John the Baptist, the night’s deeper roots stretch far beneath the Christian calendar, into ancient midsummer rites of fire, protection, and the great turning of the solar year, the Solstice and our pre-christian ancestors.
More typically practiced across the western counties of Ireland—Mayo, Galway, Clare, Kerry—the tradition of lighting bonfires is still practiced today, to celebrate when the sun stands in the sky. ‘Grianstad’ is the Irish word for solstice, and it means ‘sun stop’. The Tine Cnáimh (tin-a knawv)—"fires of bones" (bonfire) were lit—from the old custom of burning animal bones in the fire in ritual.
Much like Bealtaine and Samhain, Solstice, St. John’s Eve is a liminal feast, when the veil thins and the Otherworld draws near. On this charged midsummer night, the Aos Sí, the faery folk, were believed to roam freely.
This turning of the year is when the sun begins its long waning arc and the world ripens toward harvest and the shadows of winter.
Mordán Mountain looming above Connemara - image by sullycreation@
Eileen with Mordán Mountain behind
Oíche Shin Seáin | A Connemara Childhood
I remember this night in my childhood. Each year, we lit the bonfire across the road from my grandparents’ house, at the foot of the mountain. It was also my grandfather’s birthday—his name, fittingly, was John.
The cousins from England were home, the fields hummed with life, and one year in the 1980s, something stirred in me—a longing I couldn’t quite name. I wanted everyone there. I went from house to house, asking neighbours for whatever I could gather from their sheds and fields—old wood, bog timbers, boxes, whatever I could get. I dragged it all back, dreaming of a great fire. But more than that, I wanted them to come.
And come they did.
The evening arrived, thick with midsummer. One by one, they appeared—neighbours hopping the stone wall, children running, the air alive with expectancy. My grandmother, mamó, lit the fire. A hush fell. And just then, as if echoing our own spark, another fire flared up on top of the mountain—Mordán mountain (‘The King of the Ghosts’ in the Tuatha de Danann). Someone had actually carried kindling all the way up the mountain.
I remember the feeling in my chest—awe, wonder, and a hint of fear. The air was electric. Stories, songs, and laughter followed as twilight deepened and the fire danced. When the flames died down and the field emptied, everyone returned home for the night, and the fire was now only a small ember of light.
For days afterwards, I felt changed, as though something ancient had passed through. As though the field still held the memory of flame and footfall, of ritual and mystery, the embers of a world where Christian and pre-Christian rites came together in smoke and starlight.
I once tried to capture it in a poem (below)—how that night lived in me, glowing quietly all these years.
St John’s Eve
by Eileen Ní Shuilleabháin
June 23rd 1986
Their shuffling on the hillside
broke months of grey stillness.
It had been a long winter
a constant shadow crossing.
I watched them find their spot
as though settling
into velvet theatre seats,
between granite rocks and heather swells.
Everyday that week
I visited their homes
begging them to come while
dragging old tree stumps
from their sheds,
all along the village road.
I pulled bogwood from ditches
severing forever their steel-like grip
on the earth.
Not the least distracted
by playful squeals of cousins
back from England or
their excited talk of exotic outposts;
elephant, castles and cricklewood.
By evening, I was picking splinters from my fingers.
Moon anchored to the hillside.
I remembered the shop had promised
empty crates and wooden boxes,
pictures of oranges
all the way from brazil.
Mamó lit the fire.
Slowly each flicker flamed.
How it towered!
A gallery of colour.
All eyes transfixed.
The fire now stacked,
with all the days of their past.
For weeks afterwards
I could still see
charcoal in the earth
smouldering.
New!
Meditation
Grianstad an tSamhradh | The Summer Solstice
30 Minutes
This 30-minute visual meditation celebrates the Summer Solstice—the longest day—when the sun stands still in the sky and the world is bathed in light. Guided by the Irish landscape's rhythms and the land's ancient pulse, we journey into this turning point of the year as a threshold of illumination and renewal.
This meditation has segments spoken in Gaeilge, the Irish language, which is my first language (with English translation). It weaves myth, poetry, and ancestral wisdom into a luminous path inward. You will hear voices from the earliest times, Irish poetry—composed over a thousand years ago—calling us home to the heart of being, where light meets shadow and soul awakens. Poems spoken in the Irish language and written in medieval Irish manuscripts share the simple beauty of nature and the summer's vibrant abundance.
Together, we honour the fire of the sun, the fullness of life, and the blossoming of our inner world. This is a time to pause, to give thanks, and to realign with what is most vital and alive within you. Let the brightness of this day ignite your own inner radiance—and guide you forward with clarity, courage, and creative soul.
