Those who must not be named

I went to a talk in Trinity last night by Kieran Hickey (he of Five Minutes to Midnight: Ireland and Climate Change fame).

Last night, he offered a preview of his new book, about wolves in Ireland: earliest records, medieval folkore, evidence for packs (from Schull to Kilmainham), Cromwellian bounties (£6 for a female head, £5 for male, 10 shillings for a cub) and their eventual dying out (everyone claimed the last wolf, but Carlow is most likely the spot of the final killing, and proud of it!).

As in so many other cultures, wolves were powerful totems (if you ate a dish of wolf's meat, it would stop you seeing ghosts) - although Ireland seems to have more than its fair share of werewolf lore. And there was also some discussion about Reintroduction (probably not the best idea, all things considered. Even if you don't believe in werewolves).

Kieran talked about the language used to represent wolves, which was picked up in the Q&A afterwards: academics chipped in early words for wolf in Old Norse and Indo-European languages. Someone suggested that the Old Irish word for wolf - way back when - might have been ulc - the same as for evil. And in a superpowerful Voldemort kinda way, a taboo grew around even uttering this word, about naming the wolf, and so we pussyfooted around it by developing euphemisms like mac tíre (son of the country) or faolchú (evil hound). Fascinating. Looking forward to reading the book.

Anyhoo, all wolf-lored up, I enjoyed an exquisite wander home. Lovely music drifting along Grafton Street (which turned out to be The Shoos), and St Patrick's park was its usual teeny self, but quite resplendent.