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Irish Pilgrimage

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Irish Pilgrimage

According to 23&Me, both my partner, Channing McBride, and I both have over 90% of our genetic heritage coming from Ireland and the British Isles. Having founded an entheogenic congregation, the Congregation for Sacred Practices—a “medicine church”—in 2020, it seemed only fitting that we embark on a journey to reconnect with our indigenous roots. With all the current discussions around indigeneity and reciprocity, we sought to understand if the Celts, Druids, and witches of old had a relationship with sacred mushrooms. 

Despite their lost oral traditions and the ravages of Roman, Viking, Norman, and Christian invasions, some clues remain. Liberty Caps, a strain of psilocybin mushroom, and the Amanita Muscaria toadstool grow wild across Ireland and the British Isles. With all the faerie lore, woodland elves, witches, and whispers of magick, surely, we thought, there must be some ancient connection.

The words of Julius Caesar, who once called the inhabitants of these islands, along with the Gauls, “God-drunk Celts,” echoed in my mind. That single phrase captured my imagination, sparking a desire to see if I could find a living link to this ancestral wisdom. In my heart, I pictured a wise old witch emerging from the misty shadows of some Tolkeinesque ancient tree, ready to teach me the old ways, whispering, “Welcome. We’ve been waiting.” I was not far off. 

Return to Ancestral Lands

Our journey began in London, where we wandered through the layers of royal history. We paid an obligatory visit to Stonehenge, though the jet lag and crowds dulled the awe I had hoped for. The pilgrimage truly came alive as we traveled north to the Scottish countryside, just outside Edinburgh. There, a young medicine woman welcomed us into her home. She was a native Scot who had spent years in California before returning to Scotland to lead ceremonies and gather Amanita mushrooms—those beautiful toadstools with their bright red caps and white spots, so potent and elusive they cannot be cultivated. She had mastered the art of turning Amanita into tinctures, and after a day spent at the Fringe Festival, we returned to her cottage for a taste. The potion brought a light, gentle euphoria, accompanied by contented sighs and laughter. As I looked out over the land from her remote farm cottage, I felt the presence of ancient forces. It was distant but tangible, just beyond the edge of my awareness. I had found both a new mushroom ally and a kindred spirit in the woman who had prepared it.

Traveling further north, we visited Inverness, Scotland and stood on the battlefield of Culloden, where the Jacobites made their last stand. For those unfamiliar with the history, the Jacobites were 17th-century Scottish Highlanders who believed the throne of Scotland rightfully belonged to the Stuart family due to the Stuart’s divine (and Roman Catholic) lineage. These warriors were fierce, often charging into battle with wild abandon, sometimes naked, in a style that must have terrified the orderly British Redcoats. Perhaps it was this warrior’s madness that Caesar had witnessed when he tried—and failed—to conquer Scotland. Standing on the battlefield, I could feel the echoes of that primal energy, the blood, and the beliefs that had fueled centuries of conflict.

Next, we crossed into Northern Ireland, where the land itself felt charged with ancient magic. Serendipity led us to an unexpected invitation: a Lughnasadh celebration, marking the start of the fifth season in the Celtic calendar—a time of harvest, gratitude, merriment, and matchmaking. The ceremony was conducted by Dolores, a wise elder in her 80s who was preparing to retire from her role as a ritual leader. As it happened, I had been carrying her book, Ever Ancient, Ever New: Celtic Spirituality in the 21st Century, in my backpack, a birthday gift from a friend. Only after the ceremony did I realize Dolores was that Dolores. This synchronicity felt like another sign we were on the right path, searching for our connection to this sacred land.

Enter Tara, our guide through the pre-Celtic cairns and stone circles older than the pyramids of Egypt. She introduced us to the sacred plants of the region, including mugwort and Hawthorne. The Hawthorne tree, as legend has it, is home to the faeries who live underneath, and while modern Irish people may dismiss the old superstitions, very few dare to cut down a Hawthorne tree, for fear of offending their subterranean inhabitants. Drinking tea brewed from Hawthorne leaves opened my senses to the living essence of the forest—the sounds sharper, the sights more vivid. I felt as though the land itself was alive with spirit.

On the third day, we planned a mushroom ceremony, but as we were setting up our cottage for ceremony, a group of mothers and daughters arrived, ready for crafts and dancing just outside our little door. After a short debate and “feeling into it,” we moved our altar deeper into the woods—another synchronicity that moved us from an indoor journey to an outdoor one. 

As the “native friends” as they are called colloquially, began to take effect, I felt myself connecting not only to the spirits of the land but also to my own ancestors. I had participated in many journeys in Mexico, even on the Day of the Dead, in search of the oft spoken ancestral connection but, honestly, never got further back than the relatives I knew and perhaps the ones I imagined they knew — a sort of, “I miss my grandpa. I’m sure he missed his grandpa, too” sentiment. 

This time, the connection was different, deeper, much more powerful. It wasn’t just gratitude for my personal lineage; it was a visceral sense of belonging that stretched back through the ages. I could see the warriors, the battles, the songs they sang, the passions and people they fought for, the lives they lived and lost. I sat up and looked around. Cromwell’s people were still here! The struggle, the bloodshed—it wasn’t just history, it was the pulse of life itself, ancient and eternal. 

My people were fighters, invaders, victims, colonizers and colonized. It was bloody. It was violent. It was Life, Life-ing itself. And just beyond the visual layer of the warriors and the wars, I could sense the faeries, the woodland sprites, the flittering and movement of something lighter, faster, and more translucent than men. I could hear the ancient song of creation and destruction. I could see deeply into the land on which all of the drama of being, becoming, and dying had been played.

See Also

A Family Warrior Tradition

Returning home, I began to understand my own place in this long, strange journey. My spiritual path has wound through Methodism, Pentecostalism, the Jesuits, Buddhism, Taoism, Advaita Vedanta, Yoga, a doctorate in Mythology, Psychology, and Religion, and now the founder of an entheogenic congregation. After living 25 years in the Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, the mystic and the magician are familiar to me. Yet, this pilgrimage, this journey into the land of my ancestors, connected me to my lineage of warriors. 

My grandfather fought in World War II. I was born a Navy brat. I grew up in Annapolis training for swimming every night at the Naval Academy. I fell in love with the Blue Angels as they flew every year over the Severn River on my early June birthday (also the Academy’s Commencement week). My childhood dream was to fly with them one day. Although I ultimately chose a different path, turning down an appointment to the Academy for Harvard, and later being disqualified from flying fighter jets due to back surgeries, I have never lost my respect for the military. Now living in Washington, D.C., surrounded by memories of monuments to battles won and lost, I feel more connected than ever to my warrior ancestors, more committed to serving the entheogenic sacraments that are part of our rapidly growing congregation, and more committed to helping veterans find healing through the sacraments of our community. We are now planning another pilgrimage to the Ring of Gullion at the end of July.  

In the end, perhaps Caesar was right. We Celts are god-drunk warriors, connected to a line that is as much about blood and battle as it is about magic and mystery. Through this pilgrimage, I have found a deeper sense of belonging, not only to the land and its ancient traditions but to the long line of warriors and mystics who came before me. In this discovery, I have found a peaceful balance of the lover and the fighter . . . knowing that my fight is one to bring entheogenic sacraments from the fringy underground to the light of the center and sing, full-throated, the Song of Life. 

Photo Eoin Gardiner via Wikimedia Commons

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