The Fairy Tree of Dooros

In the heart of County Clare, near the village of Dooros, there stood an ancient hawthorn tree on a small hill overlooking the countryside. This was no ordinary tree, but a fairy tree – a sacred hawthorn that had been growing in that spot since time immemorial, its gnarled branches twisted into fantastic shapes by centuries of Irish wind and weather.

The local people knew well enough to leave the tree alone. Their grandparents had told them stories of the fairies who lived within its branches, and their grandparents’ grandparents had told the same tales. The tree was beautiful in spring when it bloomed with white flowers that seemed to glow in the moonlight, and even in winter its bare branches had a mystical quality that made travelers pause and cross themselves as they passed.

“Never harm a fairy tree,” the old women would warn their children. “The fairies protect their own, and woe betide anyone who brings iron against their sacred groves.”

But there came to Dooros a man named Mick Flanagan, who had bought a piece of land that included the hill where the fairy tree grew. Mick was a practical man who had spent years working in the cities of America, and he had little patience for what he called “old superstitions.”

“Fairy tree, indeed!” he would scoff when the locals tried to warn him. “It’s nothing but an old bush taking up good grazing land. My cattle could use that hill for pasture.”

The villagers shook their heads sadly when they heard Mick’s plans. Old Brigid O’Sullivan, the wisest woman in Dooros, made a special trip to Mick’s cottage to speak with him.

“Mick Flanagan,” she said, standing at his door with her shawl wrapped tight against the evening chill, “I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your plans for the fairy tree. That hawthorn has stood on that hill since before the first stone of this village was laid. The fairies have made it their home, and they don’t take kindly to being disturbed.”

Mick laughed heartily. “Mrs. O’Sullivan, with all due respect, I don’t believe in fairies any more than I believe in leprechauns dancing on rainbows. That tree is nothing but wood and leaves, and it’s standing in the way of progress.”

“Just because you can’t see the fairies doesn’t mean they can’t see you,” Brigid warned solemnly. “Mark my words, young man – no good will come of harming that tree.”

But Mick had made up his mind. The very next morning, he loaded his sharpest ax into his cart and drove up the hill to where the fairy tree stood in all its ancient glory.

As he approached the tree, Mick felt a strange chill in the air, despite the warm spring sunshine. The birds that usually sang in the hawthorn’s branches had fallen silent, and even his horse seemed nervous, snorting and stamping its feet.

“Nonsense,” Mick muttered to himself. “It’s just the wind changing.”

He raised his ax and struck the first blow against the trunk of the tree. The moment the iron blade bit into the bark, a sound like a thousand voices crying out in anguish seemed to rise from the earth itself. The wind picked up suddenly, swirling around Mick with such force that he nearly lost his balance.

But Mick was a stubborn man, and the strange sounds only made him more determined to prove that there was nothing supernatural about the tree. He swung his ax again and again, and with each blow, the wind grew stronger and the cries more mournful.

By midday, the great tree lay in pieces on the ground, its white flowers scattered like snow across the green grass. Mick wiped the sweat from his brow and looked proudly at his work.

“There,” he said aloud. “No more fairy tree, and no more nonsense about magic and spirits.”

But even as he spoke, dark clouds began to gather overhead, though the morning had been clear and bright. As Mick loaded the wood into his cart, the first drops of rain began to fall.

The rain continued for three days and three nights without stopping. It was not the gentle rain that Ireland was famous for, but a driving, angry downpour that turned the roads to mud and flooded the lower fields. Mick’s own cottage developed a leak in the roof, and his newly planted crops were washed away.

When the rain finally stopped, other troubles began. Mick’s prize bull, the finest animal in the county, fell sick with a mysterious illness that no veterinarian could cure. His milk cow went dry, and his chickens stopped laying eggs. The well that had provided sweet water to his land for generations suddenly turned brackish and bitter.

But worst of all were the strange occurrences that plagued Mick day and night. He would hear the sound of tiny voices in his walls, speaking words he couldn’t quite understand but that filled him with unease. Tools would disappear from where he had left them, only to turn up in the most unlikely places. Milk would turn sour overnight, and bread would grow moldy within hours of being baked.

His neighbors began to avoid him, crossing themselves when they saw him coming and muttering prayers under their breath. Even the postman would only leave his letters at the gate, refusing to come up the path to his door.

“It’s the fairies’ revenge,” whispered the people of Dooros. “They’ll not rest until their tree is restored or Mick makes proper amends.”

After a month of these troubles, Mick was a changed man. His confident swagger was gone, replaced by nervous glances over his shoulder and dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights. Finally, he swallowed his pride and went to see old Brigid O’Sullivan.

“Mrs. O’Sullivan,” he said, standing hat in hand at her door, “I think… I think I may have made a terrible mistake.”

Brigid looked at him with kind but knowing eyes. “Aye, Mick Flanagan, that you did. But it’s not too late to make things right, if you’re truly sorry for what you’ve done.”

“What must I do?” Mick asked desperately. “I’ll do anything to end this curse.”

“First,” said Brigid, “you must gather every piece of the fairy tree – every branch, every twig, every flower you cut down. Then you must replant them on the exact spot where the tree once grew.”

“But surely the wood is dead by now?” Mick protested.

“The fairies’ magic runs deeper than life and death,” Brigid replied. “If your repentance is sincere, the tree will grow again. But you must also promise to care for it always, to protect it from any who would harm it, and to teach your children and their children to do the same.”

Mick spent the next three days gathering every piece of the fairy tree. Some bits had blown far across the countryside, and he had to search hedgerows and ditches to find them all. When he had collected every fragment, he carried them in reverent silence back to the hill where the tree had once stood.

As the sun set on the third day, Mick carefully placed each piece back in its proper position, rebuilding the tree as best he could remember it. When the last branch was in place, he knelt beside the reconstructed tree and spoke from his heart.

“Spirits of this place, fairies of the hawthorn tree, I humbly ask your forgiveness. I was arrogant and foolish, and I disrespected something sacred. If you will give me another chance, I promise to guard this tree with my life and to teach others to respect the ancient ways.”

As he spoke these words, a gentle rain began to fall – not the angry downpour of weeks before, but a soft, nurturing rain that seemed to caress the fallen branches. Where each drop touched the wood, tiny green buds began to appear. Slowly, magically, the tree began to grow again, its branches reaching skyward as if stretching after a long sleep.

Throughout that night, Mick kept vigil by the tree, watching in wonder as it was restored by fairy magic. By morning, the hawthorn stood tall and proud once more, covered in white blossoms that seemed to sparkle with their own inner light.

From that day forward, all of Mick’s troubles ceased. His animals recovered their health, his well ran sweet and clear, and his home was peaceful once more. But more importantly, Mick had learned a valuable lesson about respecting the natural world and the ancient wisdom of his ancestors.

He became the tree’s most devoted guardian, building a low stone wall around it to protect it from wandering animals and weather. He would visit it every day, tending the grass around its base and ensuring that no harm came to it.

When visitors came to Dooros and asked about the beautiful hawthorn on the hill, Mick would tell them the story of his foolishness and redemption. He became known throughout the county as a wise man who understood the importance of living in harmony with the old spirits of the land.

Years later, when Mick’s grandson asked him why he spent so much time caring for “just a tree,” the old man smiled and pointed to the hawthorn’s graceful branches.

“That’s not just a tree, young Patrick,” he said. “That’s a reminder that there are some things in this world that are bigger and older and more important than any one person’s plans. When we respect the natural world and the spirits that inhabit it, we find peace. When we don’t… well, I learned that lesson the hard way.”

To this day, the fairy tree of Dooros still stands on its hill, as beautiful and mysterious as ever. Local people continue to leave small offerings at its base – flowers, ribbons, or pieces of bread – and many claim to have seen lights dancing in its branches on moonless nights.

And though modern times have brought many changes to the Irish countryside, the people of Dooros still remember Mick Flanagan’s story and the lesson it teaches: that wisdom lies not in conquering nature, but in learning to live as part of it, respecting the ancient spirits that dwell in sacred places and understanding that some things are too precious to be disturbed, no matter how practical it might seem to do so.