The Holy Road
A series of synchronicities involving the number three has guided me to the Awen symbol, shedding light on my creative path for an upcoming exhibition. This connection to the power of three and the inspiration embodied by Awen has brought clarity and depth to my work.
“The Awen symbol, deeply rooted in Celtic tradition, represents flowing inspiration and divine creativity. It is often visualized as three rays of light, symbolizing balance among mind, body, and spirit or land, sea, and sky. This symbol embodies the sacred power of three, resonating through ancient and modern understandings of creativity and spiritual connection. Awen is seen as a divine gift flowing through artists, bards, and makers, connecting them to higher wisdom and encouraging harmony and transformation”
For several years, my ceramic practice has been shifting, deeply influenced by a heartfelt grief for the planet, the land, and the well-being of all living beings. This grief has propelled me toward small but meaningful acts of care and hope, whether working with soil, clay, planting trees, or being present with the land. Each act offers a glimmer of optimism and eases the weight of climate anxiety within me.
My work is firmly rooted in a lifelong respect for material, process, heritage, and place. It has been shaped through apprenticeships, formal education, and family traditions. The three porcelain bowls I created for a grant proposal to the RDS Craft Award reflect this practice, showcasing craftsmanship, skill, and deep knowledge of porcelain and clay.
The intention behind these bowls was always clear, the clay vessels would eventually return to their original state, potentially resting until I was ready to engage with it again. Facing rejection from the RDS Craft Award and the Arts Council, along with other setbacks, I have felt moments of deflation. Nonetheless, my commitment remains strong to work with local clays and new materials with full agency, engaging in reciprocal relationships with the land and its custodians, listening deeply to what must be heard.
Fortuitously, upon receiving the RDS news, I found myself among a new “family” of clay enthusiasts. That weekend, a different love and approach to clay emerged building with raw, unfired clay, and hearing others stories sparked a fresh wave of energy within me. The transcendental music of Rik Warren opened a portal connected to previous explorations inspired by artist and cartographer Tim Robinson. Where I once felt lost, a renewed sense of direction began to emerge.
Returning home, I set off for the hills to locate a standing stone with a large hole in the centre of it. Two years earlier, I had spent a lot of time on Black Head, Gleninagh, and Cappanawalla, Mountains behind my house, walking and engaging with the landscape. I wanted to display work on the hills but abandoned the idea as it never felt fully resolved.
On a wild, wet day, I parked at Irwin’s house and called John Irwin to ask about a bale of hay cut from my land that summer, knowing somehow that I would create something with it. I traveled up Irwin’s Hill, also known as the Holy Road, reaching the highest point of the mountain, although the standing stone’s location was unclear. The fog and rain limited visibility to only a few feet, so I began descending to avoid getting lost.
I descended toward what I believed was east, though I was unsure since I couldn’t see clearly. I came to a part of the mountain I had not seen before, but I found a water trough. Knowing a hose fed this trough, I figured that following it down would eventually lead me off the mountain, probably far from my van. However, I ignored this thought and continued in the direction I was innately drawn to. After walking a couple hundred meters, I jumped over a wall. There, I saw the sea and knew I was heading in the right direction. Once I had a line of sight to the hills across the bay, I knew how to navigate my way down. I descended with the help of wild mountain heather, using it like an anchor to stop me from falling.
Eventually, I came upon a place I had been before, a set of circular stones and a distinctive old hawthorn tree. The tree branches dance toward the sea alongside smaller trees. I now know this to be Howard's house, said to be a hermit and a healer of oral thrush. It was there that I experienced a moment of what I thought was clarity, and I said to myself, “I’ll exhibit the work here.” There was a feeling of setting out to find something specific on the mountain, only to get lost and, in that getting lost, discover another place that felt unexpectedly precious and meaningful. Sometimes, the path we seek leads somewhere different but equally valuable.
Needing to meet the Holy Road higher up, I climbed the next ridge, passing familiar sites. Soaked through, I felt profoundly alive, filled with creative energy unknown in galleries or museums. Natural, untamed places feed an unknown energy that guides me, it is a call I must listen to.
Luckily, when I got back down to the van, John was sitting in the kitchen. He put the kettle on, and my soaked self-sat down for a cuppa with him. Without any agenda to explain why I had been up there, John began to tell me about the Holy Road and the reason behind its name. He explained that a holy rock sits halfway up the road, where, in ancient times, people would secretly place three stones on the rock and offer a prayer. He also spoke of three white-faced standing stones at the top of the hill. John described how the Druids celebrated three seasons, Imbolc, the Spring Equinox, and Beltane.
The number three kept coming up, and I told John that I had been on the mountain that day to find a place to exhibit my three porcelain bowls. I didn't say more, feeling my arty spiritual talk might not resonate, though I could have been wrong. My elated energy likely explained enough. Our conversation continued for about two hours more. He told me about a brick factory once beside my home where clay bricks were discovered during digging. I had just returned from a brick factory in London!. There is such value in sitting with others and listening to the old stories of place and how the stories and experience move through that place.
I knew I needed to return to find the Mass rock and the three white standing stones. I also wanted to come back with a compass to navigate the path to Howard's house, where I thought I would display my bowls. I messaged my friend Michelle, with whom I had shared my thoughts, and she accompanied me up the hill. We slowly walked the path, looking intently for what might be the Mass rock or the Holy rock. It’s often difficult to say for certain, “This must be the place,” or “This must be the rock,” especially with vague directions like, “Just go halfway up the hill, and on the left, you will come across the rock.” Unfortunately, we didn’t come across the Holy rock, and I feared I wouldn’t find the three standing stones either.
But then, out of nowhere, in the valley of the mountains above us, a massive crow started cawing loudly. I turned to Michelle and asked what it was doing; it was the only bird in sight. The crow landed on a rock beside me, and as I took out my phone to photograph it, I looked down and saw a worn path. I followed it and there were the three standing stones. The crow had led us to the path!
We spent about 40 minutes there, completely in awe of the place. The positioning of the rocks in alignment with the east and other directional nodes was striking. The energy and spirit of the place were deeply felt by both of us. The white markings on the faces of the rocks, along with their alignments with other standing stones and nearby stone forts, made the experience feel utterly surreal. These standing stones, like many scattered across Ireland, likely served ceremonial, territorial, or astronomical purposes and are a powerful link to the ancient landscape and its stories.
This is where, on 1/11/25, I will exhibit my three porcelain bowls.
This work symbolizes both an ending and a beginning. Porcelain, a material I have worked with deeply for thirteen years, has taught me countless lessons. Often wrestling with it, I learned to surrender and attune to its temporalities, which led to the creation of many vessels. Clay’s memory reflects how it retains impressions, gestures, and energies from handling and the environment physically, spiritually, and energetically. This living memory connects earth and maker, serving as a medium for transformation and continuity.
In light of our climate situation, I feel called to work with local clays and materials, taking full agency over my practice. This marks the beginning of a new body of work one that moves beyond commercial intent into a space of reflection where clay becomes not a product but a” partner in thinking, sensing, and remembering”. It is an invitation to listen, respond, and collaborate with the land and its stories through the materials themselves a practice rooted in reciprocity, respect, and the profound memories held within clay, land, and custodians.
Process
Each porcelain bowl is hand-thrown on the potter’s wheel, then carefully carved and worked over time to create textured lines that give them character and depth.
The Awen symbol is made using rammed earth, a traditional building technique. I harvested grey clay from my land, ethically gathered beach sand, and used hay, which John had cut from my land during summer. This process involves compacting natural materials into sculptural form, then allowing them to dry before removing the formers.
The circular discs are thrown on the potter’s wheel, with red clay harvested from another Burren location. This clay fires beautifully and handles very well on the wheel. It will be the foundation for deeper exploration and development in my new practice.
Each porcelain vessel and rammed earth symbol will be carried up the mountain individually. Because the pieces are unfired, they remain fragile and vulnerable to damage. This fragility reinforces the connection between the work and the natural environment, it engages with unfired clay, maintains its close relationship to earth and place, emphasizing the impermanence and care integral to the process. Handling the pieces with care becomes part of the work’s narrative, reflecting a respectful and reciprocal relationship with the land and materials that shape it. The clay works will not be brought back down the mountain but will instead disintegrate naturally back into the land through weathering. This return to the earth completes the cycle of making, reinforcing the work’s role as a temporal gesture that acknowledges both the limits of human intervention and the ongoing processes of the natural world. It embodies a practice of reciprocity where the land gives materials and inspiration, and the work, in turn, returns to nourish and become part of the place again.
A series of synchronicities involving the number three has guided me to the Awen symbol, shedding light on my creative path for an upcoming exhibition. This connection to the power of three and the inspiration embodied by Awen has brought clarity and depth to my work.
“The Awen symbol, deeply rooted in Celtic tradition, represents flowing inspiration and divine creativity. It is often visualized as three rays of light, symbolizing balance among mind, body, and spirit or land, sea, and sky. This symbol embodies the sacred power of three, resonating through ancient and modern understandings of creativity and spiritual connection. Awen is seen as a divine gift flowing through artists, bards, and makers, connecting them to higher wisdom and encouraging harmony and transformation”
For several years, my ceramic practice has been shifting, deeply influenced by a heartfelt grief for the planet, the land, and the well-being of all living beings. This grief has propelled me toward small but meaningful acts of care and hope, whether working with soil, clay, planting trees, or being present with the land. Each act offers a glimmer of optimism and eases the weight of climate anxiety within me.
My work is firmly rooted in a lifelong respect for material, process, heritage, and place. It has been shaped through apprenticeships, formal education, and family traditions. The three porcelain bowls I created for a grant proposal to the RDS Craft Award reflect this practice, showcasing craftsmanship, skill, and deep knowledge of porcelain and clay.
The intention behind these bowls was always clear, the clay vessels would eventually return to their original state, potentially resting until I was ready to engage with it again. Facing rejection from the RDS Craft Award and the Arts Council, along with other setbacks, I have felt moments of deflation. Nonetheless, my commitment remains strong to work with local clays and new materials with full agency, engaging in reciprocal relationships with the land and its custodians, listening deeply to what must be heard.
Fortuitously, upon receiving the RDS news, I found myself among a new “family” of clay enthusiasts. That weekend, a different love and approach to clay emerged building with raw, unfired clay, and hearing others stories sparked a fresh wave of energy within me. The transcendental music of Rik Warren opened a portal connected to previous explorations inspired by artist and cartographer Tim Robinson. Where I once felt lost, a renewed sense of direction began to emerge.
Returning home, I set off for the hills to locate a standing stone with a large hole in the centre of it. Two years earlier, I had spent a lot of time on Black Head, Gleninagh, and Cappanawalla, Mountains behind my house, walking and engaging with the landscape. I wanted to display work on the hills but abandoned the idea as it never felt fully resolved.
On a wild, wet day, I parked at Irwin’s house and called John Irwin to ask about a bale of hay cut from my land that summer, knowing somehow that I would create something with it. I traveled up Irwin’s Hill, also known as the Holy Road, reaching the highest point of the mountain, although the standing stone’s location was unclear. The fog and rain limited visibility to only a few feet, so I began descending to avoid getting lost.
I descended toward what I believed was east, though I was unsure since I couldn’t see clearly. I came to a part of the mountain I had not seen before, but I found a water trough. Knowing a hose fed this trough, I figured that following it down would eventually lead me off the mountain, probably far from my van. However, I ignored this thought and continued in the direction I was innately drawn to. After walking a couple hundred meters, I jumped over a wall. There, I saw the sea and knew I was heading in the right direction. Once I had a line of sight to the hills across the bay, I knew how to navigate my way down. I descended with the help of wild mountain heather, using it like an anchor to stop me from falling. Eventually, I came upon a place I had been before, a set of circular stones and a distinctive old hawthorn tree. The tree branches dance toward the sea alongside smaller trees. I now know this to be Howard's house, said to be a hermit and a healer of oral thrush.
It was there that I experienced a moment of what I thought was clarity, and I said to myself, “I’ll exhibit the work here.” There was a feeling of setting out to find something specific on the mountain, only to get lost and, in that getting lost, discover another place that felt unexpectedly precious and meaningful. Sometimes, the path we seek leads somewhere different but equally valuable. Needing to meet the Holy Road higher up, I climbed the next ridge, passing familiar sites. Soaked through, I felt profoundly alive, filled with creative energy unknown in galleries or museums. Natural, untamed places feed an unknown energy that guides me, it is a call I must listen to.
Luckily, when I got back down to the van, John was sitting in the kitchen. He put the kettle on, and my soaked self-sat down for a cuppa with him. Without any agenda to explain why I had been up there, John began to tell me about the Holy Road and the reason behind its name. He explained that a holy rock sits halfway up the road, where, in ancient times, people would secretly place three stones on the rock and offer a prayer. He also spoke of three white-faced standing stones at the top of the hill. John described how the Druids celebrated three seasons, Imbolc, the Spring Equinox, and Bealtaine.
The number three kept coming up, and I told John that I had been on the mountain that day to find a place to exhibit my three porcelain bowls. I didn't say more, feeling my arty spiritual talk might not resonate, though I could have been wrong. My elated energy likely explained enough. Our conversation continued for about two hours more. He told me about a brick factory once beside my home where clay bricks were discovered during digging. I had just returned from a brick factory in London!. There is such value in sitting with others and listening to the old stories of place and how the stories and experience move through that place.
I knew I needed to return to find the Mass rock and the three white standing stones. I also wanted to come back with a compass to navigate the path to Howard's house, where I thought I would display my bowls. I messaged my friend Michelle, with whom I had shared my thoughts, and she accompanied me up the hill. We slowly walked the path, looking intently for what might be the Mass rock or the Holy rock. It’s often difficult to say for certain, “This must be the place,” or “This must be the rock,” especially with vague directions like, “Just go halfway up the hill, and on the left, you will come across the rock.” Unfortunately, we didn’t come across the Holy rock, and I feared I wouldn’t find the three standing stones either. But then, out of nowhere, in the valley of the mountains above us, a massive crow started cawing loudly. I turned to Michelle and asked what it was doing; it was the only bird in sight. The crow landed on a rock beside me, and as I took out my phone to photograph it, I looked down and saw a worn path. I followed it and there were the three standing stones. The crow had led us to the path!
We spent about 40 minutes there, completely in awe of the place. The positioning of the rocks in alignment with the east and other directional nodes was striking. The energy and spirit of the place were deeply felt by both of us. The white markings on the faces of the rocks, along with their alignments with other standing stones and nearby stone forts, made the experience feel utterly surreal. These standing stones, like many scattered across Ireland, likely served ceremonial, territorial, or astronomical purposes and are a powerful link to the ancient landscape and its stories.
This is where, on 1/11/25, I will exhibit my three porcelain bowls.
This work symbolizes both an ending and a beginning. Porcelain, a material I have worked with deeply for thirteen years, has taught me countless lessons. Often wrestling with it, I learned to surrender and attune to its temporalities, which led to the creation of many vessels. Clay’s memory reflects how it retains impressions, gestures, and energies from handling and the environment physically, spiritually, and energetically. This living memory connects earth and maker, serving as a medium for transformation and continuity.
In light of our climate situation, I feel called to work with local clays and materials, taking full agency over my practice. This marks the beginning of a new body of work one that moves beyond commercial intent into a space of reflection where clay becomes not a product but a” partner in thinking, sensing, and remembering”. It is an invitation to listen, respond, and collaborate with the land and its stories through the materials themselves a practice rooted in reciprocity, respect, and the profound memories held within clay, land, and custodians.
Process
Each porcelain bowl is hand-thrown on the potter’s wheel, then carefully carved and worked over time to create textured lines that give them character and depth. The Awen symbol is made using rammed earth, a traditional building technique. I harvested grey clay from my land, ethically gathered beach sand, and used hay, which John had cut from my land during summer. This process involves compacting natural materials into sculptural form, then allowing them to dry before removing the formers.
The circular discs are thrown on the potter’s wheel, with red clay harvested from another Burren location. This clay fires beautifully and handles very well on the wheel. It will be the foundation for deeper exploration and development in my new practice.
Each porcelain vessel and rammed earth symbol will be carried up the mountain individually. Because the pieces are unfired, they remain fragile and vulnerable to damage. This fragility reinforces the connection between the work and the natural environment, it engages with unfired clay, maintains its close relationship to earth and place, emphasizing the impermanence and care integral to the process. Handling the pieces with care becomes part of the work’s narrative, reflecting a respectful and reciprocal relationship with the land and materials that shape it. The clay works will not be brought back down the mountain but will instead disintegrate naturally back into the land through weathering. This return to the earth completes the cycle of making, reinforcing the work’s role as a temporal gesture that acknowledges both the limits of human intervention and the ongoing processes of the natural world. It embodies a practice of reciprocity where the land gives materials and inspiration, and the work, in turn, returns to nourish and become part of the place again.