G r e n


The Irish have a story…the Irish always have a story…of a woman named Niamh of the Golden Hair who lived in a land called Tír na nÓg, a realm of eternal youth which exists somewhere off the edges of any map. Niamh would travel between her world and this one on her father’s horse, a white mare named Aonbharr, a steed with a splendid mane who was as swift as the spring gales and could run without touching water or earth.

This is not Aonbharr, of course, nor is this horse grazing in Tír na nÓg. But if you squint your eyes just right, and if you shape your mind just so, and if you block out all noise of the modern world, you can almost…almost…see Aonbharr in that field. A powerful horse, her mane rippling in the breeze, the brave tilt of her head, the strong broad back from which no rider would fall, the massive muscles that carried her across boundaries of time and space.

There are moments when myth and reality seem to intersect. Moments when it’s possible to believe in a land of eternal youth, and a golden-haired faerie woman astride a magical white mare. Moments like this one. Perhaps those are the moments when Niamh and Aonbharr are passing nearby, when the border between our world and Tír na nÓg is most permeable. Perhaps…perhaps…in those moments you are this close to becoming part of the story.

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