If the Roads Around Cashel Fall Silent, Best Turn for Home.
If you find yourself out late around the town of Cashel, Co. Tipperary, take a bit of advice from the old people; go home before the road goes quiet.
Tourists especially beware, because according to the folklore of the Galtee country, there are worse things abroad at night than a Garda checkpoint or a missed Fish & Chipper.
Long before horror films discovered the headless horseman, Ireland already had the Dullahan, latter a charming individual who travelled the roads carrying his own head under his arm and announcing death wherever he stopped. No door lock kept him out. No gate latch held him back. The only known deterrent was gold, which feels very Irish altogether. Even supernatural evil respects inflation.
The most entertaining version of the tale comes from an old story called “The Good Woman”, collected by Thomas Crofton Croker in the nineteenth century. The story is set around the Galtee Mountains and Cashel, where a horse dealer named Larry Dodd makes the sort of decision that proves Irish folklore exists mainly to warn men against acting the maggot after dark.
Larry is riding home from Cashel one June evening after buying a horse. He’s feeling pleased with himself, no doubt after “just the one pint” that became several. Along the road he meets a mysterious cloaked woman walking alone at twilight.
Now, any sensible person in rural Ireland knows there are only three explanations for a woman silently appearing on a lonely road after sunset; a banshee, a fairy, trouble.
Larry, unfortunately, ignores centuries of accumulated wisdom and offers her a lift.
She says nothing. Climbs up behind him. Still says nothing, which, to be fair, should have been the first warning sign to any member of the male species.
Eventually the horse stops near the ruins of an old church. The woman slips down soundlessly and glides away across the graveyard. Larry, displaying the sort of judgement that has doomed Irish men since mythology began, chases after her looking for a kiss and catches her, only to discover she has no head.
At this point the story becomes considerably less romantic. Larry faints dead away and wakes among a gathering of Dullahans; headless ladies and gentlemen, soldiers, priests, musicians and skeletons tossing skulls around like hurling balls. Naturally enough, someone offers him a drink. Well this is still Ireland after all.
Things go poorly from there but eventually he escapes with his life, though not with his dignity, and his horse disappears entirely which may be the most authentically Irish ending imaginable. Survive supernatural terror if you like, but someone is still stealing the livestock.
So if you’re around Cashel late at night and happen to see a silent figure on the roadside, perhaps keep driving. Do not offer lifts. Do not flirt. And, absolutely do not follow mysterious women into ruined churches.
The old stories survive for a reason, and mainly because somebody ignored obvious warning signs and succeeded to live just long enough to warn the rest of us.
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