Ghosts often walked the earthworks at Tara. This was the ancient seat of Ireland's kings. Heroes lived and died here. Yesterday, the hill was populated with those waiting for the solstice dawn. High on a hilltop, with views spanning seven counties on a clear day, close your eyes and imagine warriors on determined horses.
Stories emerge from the mist. Legends maintain that Conn Cetchathach, King of Tara and Ireland, used to pace here thinking about his enemies. On one particular morning, while walking at dawn with his druids and poets, he stepped on a stone which cried out beneath his feet.
The bewildered king soon realised something important had happened. His druid bent close and explained that the stone was named Fal and that it had made an important prophecy.
Conn's descendents would reign over Ireland. The stone made other announcements, but its chief concern was always Tara's rulers.
No one on the hilltop at Tara yesterday before daylight was overly preoccupied by power.
Instead, they scanned the east for the first signs of the rising sun at a place venerated since the third century when King Cormac Mac Airt held court here.
It is midsummer. On this day, summer peaks and the sun begins its slow farewell towards the darkness of winter. It is a celebration tinged with regret. A lone drummer is building up to a steady beat. After a cold, blustery night, the watchers have pale faces. Several were dressed in long, flowing robes and headgear. Their silhouettes looked dramatic as they made their ways over the damp grass. Were they chanting? Or was it merely the wind?
Most are heading towards the large royal enclosure upon which the famous stone, Lia Fail, stands.
A small group has already begun its vigil. A lantern housing a thick candle flickers. Two women have decided to wait by the Mound of Hostages.
Perhaps they are at prayer?
Just down from the stone, a man looks like he is sleeping, but he gives a yelp and his companion seems pleased.
"He has made contact with the gods."
Good for him.
Light begins to slip through the clouds. It surges and grows strong and, at 4.43am, the sun asserts itself, as does the drum beat. The good-natured watchers cheer and sing; a female druid whispers "Happy solstice!"
