The wild edge of druidry
Practical magic at the sea shore.
I've been walking a druid path for over a decade. Wandering in birch woodlands planted the seeds of a nature-centred spiritual practice that roots me deeply in the changing seasons, the cycles of life and the mysteries of the living world.
Like many people, I was initially drawn to druidry by a transformative encounter with trees. Many druids today gather in sacred groves, study woodland plants and immerse themselves in the mysteries of the dark forest.
Druidry is oak wisdom, but these days, I live far from ancient woodlands. I've struggled at times to make sense of a path that led me to the wind-swept shore.
Yet I remember that my druid ancestors lived in a world with landscapes as varied as mine. And some, like me, inhabited the wild edge where sea, sky and land meet.
Druids in history
The original druids were the spiritual leaders of the Celtic peoples of Europe. First documented and then nearly eradicated by Roman invaders, druidry has seen many revivals over the following two millennia. The druids left no written records of their beliefs and practices, and so every generation has reimagined what it means to be a druid. From public solstice rituals to personal encounters with the living world, from venerating old gods to telling new stories, druidry today is diverse and inclusive. Druidry is a pagan practice that is rooted in a deep connection with the land and the more-than-human community.
Yet historically, we know that the sea played a central role in shaping the various Celtic cultures of the Atlantic Northwest. As archaeologist Barry Cunliffe explores in his books Facing the Ocean (2001) and On the Ocean (2017), maritime travel spread materials, language and ritual practice from the coves of Iberia to the cliffs of Ireland. In the days when journeys by land were arduous and dangerous, intrepid adventurers and merchants set out in boats to cross the ocean, connecting the communities at the watery fringes of western Europe.
Dive deep into those cultures from which druidry springs, and you begin to sense the encircling presence of the ocean. We find gods of the sea, like Manannán mac Lir, who rides across the waves on his chariot, shrouds the Isle of Man in protective mist and carries his crane bag filled with treasures. In the Mabinogi, Branwen crosses the Irish Sea to marry Matholwch, and her brother Brân follows with his army, wading through the waves to rescue her. Later in the tales, Dylan ail Don, son of Arianrhod, is killed and the waves sing his lament.
We have folk stories of selkies in Scotland who emerge at the shore and shed their seal skins to live among humans. Mermaids - murúcha, merry maids, mari-morgans and maruxaina - slip between sea and land in Irish, Cornish, Breton and Galician folklore, both protecting sailors and luring them to their doom.
And in the Lebor Gabála Érenn, the book of the taking of Ireland, the sea brings successive waves of culture to the island. In the final phase of the story, as the druid Amergin approaches the shore, he calms the storm, singing: “Am gāeth i m-muir, am tond trethan, am fuaim mara…”
“I am the wind on the sea, I am the ocean wave, I am the roar of sea…”
Beyond the druid’s grove and far from the forest, the sea has always been a realm of myth, magic and mystery.
The wild edge
Throughout my life, I have been drawn to the water’s edge, and over the last decade, I’ve spent much of my druid journey walking the shores of Britain, Ireland and Galicia. After many years of wandering, I settled on the coast of Morecambe Bay in northwest England.
I find myself in the ancestral territory of the Setantii, a Celtic tribe who inhabited a watery world of salt marshes and shifting sands. We have the merest archaeological fragments of their existence: an ancient map reference to a port, a scattering of stone monuments, shards of pottery. Whatever lives they lived on this shifting coastline, their story is largely lost beneath the waves.
But whoever the Setantii were, I like to imagine they were inspired by the living world around them, just as I am.
As in the deep past, Morecambe Bay today is home to an extraordinarily rich and diverse community of plants, sea creatures and birds. Migratory flocks visit to feed and raise their young on the shoreline. The water teems with fish, and sharks move silently in the Lune Deep, the ancient canyon that runs far below the waves. Fog rolls in and clears as quickly as it arrives, opening the view across the expanse of the bay to the Lakeland Fells. The landscape is constantly changing, and every day brings a new encounter.
Where I live, at the lowest tide, the water pulls back from the beach to reveal three kilometres of sand, silt and creeks. This makes the edge of Morecambe Bay dangerous territory for the unwary walker, but it offers a powerful daily reminder of the cycle of life. As the moon circles the earth, so the tide flows and ebbs, covering the land with incoming waves and exposing a reshaped earth to the sky above as the water withdraws. In just twelve and a half hours, the world will be changed. Everything here is temporary and uncertain.
This is a potent place to be a druid of the wild edge.
Shifting ritual
18th-century antiquarian William Stukeley first made the connection between druids and stone circles. With insights from contemporary archaeology, we now know that the standing stones and burial mounds scattered across European landscape were already centuries-old when the first druids encountered them. But it's hardly surprising that crowds gather for soltices and equinoxes at stone circles like Stonehenge and Avebury. Ancient monuments hold a mysterious magic built over centuries of reverence.
Yet unlike on solid land, the shore resists such enduring places for ritual. At the wild edge, everything is temporary.
Ritual here is what I make it. I step onto the freshly revealed earth of the ebb tide, draw a circle in the sand and mark the directions with shells and driftwood. I gaze at the horizon, watching the flight of seabirds and hearing the roar of distant waves carried on the salty breeze.
I call out, honouring the three realms of the Celtic cosmos in the words of the 8th-century poet Blathmac: “muir mas, nem nglas, talam cé.” The beautiful sea, the blue sky, the present earth.
Understanding the division of the universe into three interconnected realms - sea, sky and land - opens up a powerful connection with time. The sea is the realm of the ancestors, holding the secrets of the past beneath its waves and delivering them to the shoreline in storms. The deep waters of the ocean are a symbol of emotion, and I feel that connection in my heart, too. The sky speaks of the future, a place of thought and wisdom, expansive consciousness and far-seeing vision. The earth beneath my feet roots me firmly in the present, the realm of the body and becoming. So, the shifting edge of the shoreline is a place where past, future and present meet in ritual, and where I can find unity between my body, mind and heart.
Developing a sea ogam
Across Ireland and around the Irish Sea coast, stones stand with mysterious lines etched into their edges. These lines are known as ogam, a writing system unique to these islands. The history of ogam is complex, as the symbols transmuted from carved stone inscriptions into written medieval manuscripts. In modern times, largely thanks to the work of author Robert Graves, the ogham (as it's known in contemporary Irish) has come to be regarded by many, erroneously, as the Celtic tree alphabet. It is so much more.
Many contemporary druids study the ogam, and use sticks, cards and dice inscribed with the symbols for divination and self-reflection. I struggled to make sense of a forest-based system of interpretation. I live on a windy shore largely devoid of trees, but immersing myself in the history of Irish letter names and kennings opened a rich tapestry of meaning and associations. I realised that I could use the ogam to encode my knowledge of the shore, just as medieval scholars used it to capture and categorise their insights about subjects as diverse as colours, birds and occupations.
So, quietly, I've been working on a project to develop a sea ogam. Part divinatory system, part symbolic library and part environmental education toolkit, I'm continuing to nurture it towards birth.
Many druids see the letter duir as a mighty oak tree, but in my imagination, it is a tenacious acorn barnacle. Clinging on, repeatedly immersed in the waves and exposed to the air, these tiny creatures are a gateway to the mysteries of time, as much as the roots, trunk and branches of any tree. They are a powerful symbol of strength and resilience, encouraging me to consider how I can weather life’s storms. And they remind me, always, to stay firmly rooted in the present.
The path to the sea
Druidry is a practice, not a dogmatic belief system, informed by the idea that nature is overflowing with symbolism and meaning. So the rituals and rhythms of being a druid are open to everyone, regardless of your religious beliefs or none. It can inspire a deeper reverence for the living world.
If you are heading to the sea for your summer holidays, bring your curiosity along with your beach towel. Draw a circle in the sand as the tide retreats. Gather stones, shells and driftwood as offerings. Step into shifting space between sea, sky and land, and sense the flow and cycles of time. Being by the sea is good for your wellbeing, and it can open you to the energy of life. Watching the sun set behind mountainous clouds over a stormy sea can inspire wonder.
If you live far from the ocean, you can still immerse yourself in the mysterious, watery world of the druids of the wild edge. You might read stories of the sea or meditate to the sound of crashing waves. A sea shell or stone in a container of saltwater could be a fitting addition to an altar or sacred space at home.
And if you are moved to care for the living world, why not give your time and attention to protecting the ocean? All of us can take action, whether we live close to the shore or not. Too many of our waste plastics find their way into the sea, and run-off from intensive agriculture pollutes marine environments, causing vast algal blooms that disrupt delicate ecosystems. Climate change bleaches coral reefs and threatens the patterns of deep currents that drive our weather.
Whether we're druids or not, the ocean and the creatures who call it home urgently need our love and care. The sea is calling us.
An earlier version of this article was first published in June's edition of Touchstone, the magazine of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids.
I'm glad that for you the sea has as much to offer as the woods and trees. I loved reading about your practice and how Druidism connects so many parts of life to the natural world.
That’s fascinating. I love that you are finding your place in such a beautiful world.