the 30-minute pilgrimage
or why sacred water in a saucepan sometimes does the trick
I was in a state.
It was the end of the first launch week of my first online programme, and I hadn’t made any sales.
“People need time”, I kept telling myself, trying to keep my spirits up, reminding myself that the outcome of a single launch didn’t mean no one needed the work I was doing—it just meant I needed to make some tweaks.
Still, that didn’t stop me lying awake in the middle of the night panicking in the spare room at my brother’s home in Tramore, Ireland, where I had come for a few days to meet my new nephew, Feidhlim, for the first time. My father had come over from England to join us, and they had asked me to be godmother. Needless to say, it was an emotional time.
When my brother’s partner Elaine asked if there was anything I wanted to do during our stay, I sheepishly replied I’d like to visit Brigid’s Holy Graveyard, the site of a holy well dedicated to the saint.
“But only if there’s time”, I added. “It’s not essential”.
Although, truthfully, I really wanted to go.
I felt a bit embarrassed dragging my very non-religious, non-pagan family to a holy well, but they were happy to take me there and discover a place they didn’t know about. So we all piled into the car—my brother driving, my father in the passenger seat, and Elaine and I squeezed into the back with Feidhlim in his car seat.
It was a gloriously sunny Saturday morning as we took the road towards Cork, and we weren’t the only ones—the road was full of other cars, packed with other families heading out for the day.
After just a half-hour drive, we found Brigid’s Holy Graveyard down a narrow lane and parked at the nearby village hall. On one side, the Comeragh Mountains loomed gracefully over us, their ridges softened by the spring haze. On the other stretched the Emerald Isle’s famous green fields—greener, even, than their cousins over in the UK.
After a couple of days of the Irish weather doing what it does best (changing its mind every five minutes), the spring sunshine was welcome on our faces. Especially mine, more used to the Spanish springtime.
A quaint signpost on the road marks the entrance to the graveyard down a recently-mown grass path that leads round a bend and into a small graveyard situated around the ruins of an ancient church that was abandoned long ago.
Although it seemed little-frequented, the graveyard is beautifully well-kept, and we all felt the “palpable air of piety” as one enthusiastic Google reviewer put it. It did indeed have a peaceful, slightly magical atmosphere.
Beyond the graveyard, the enclosure opens out into a paddock containing three holy wells: one dedicated to Saint Brigid, and the others to Mother Mary and Jesus—who’s a bit hidden away in the corner. On the other side of the hedge, a herd of cows grazed peacefully in the field—no doubt extra serene due to their proximity to such a holy site.
Each of the three wells has a makeshift receptacle next to it for pilgrims to access the holy water—Brigid’s is a saucepan, Mary’s is a plastic tub, and Jesus’ appears to be a dog bowl. Of the three, Brigid’s well is clearly the most popular, as it had the most coins in it.
My family stood watching as I doused my head and hands with the holy water, then my dad decided he wanted a go too. As he hobbled down the slope, we debated dousing the baby, but decided against it.
Since my father can’t bend down, I filled the loose-handled saucepan with water, and just as I was about to pour it over his hands…he dunked them straight in. I wasn’t sure if that would contaminate the holy water, but I didn’t say anything, and poured the remains back into the well.
We didn’t stay long—just long enough to throw a few coins in the well, and whisper a quick prayer to Brigid without my family thinking I’d lost it. And since it was such a beautiful day and setting, we took the opportunity to snap some photos with the baby.
As we headed back to the car to go to the pub back in Tramore, we lingered at the grave of someone who died a month after my mum.
I don’t know what I was expecting from my mini pilgrimage. My launch didn’t miraculously pick up, and there were no flashes of light or voices from beyond the veil—but something shifted. Afterwards, I felt calmer and more grounded.
And perhaps that’s the power of rituals, and why we perform them—even awkwardly, in front of family members who don’t share our spirituality but are happy to make space for it.
Turns out, a thirty-minute pilgrimage to a quiet place does more than a full day of overthinking.