Another picture from the banks of the Thames, now Isis, at Lechlade. The swans were everywhere, grazing in the fields, preening in the shallows, like the children of Lir, one of my favourite stories:
Long ago in ancient Ireland lived a great chieftain Lir and his four children: Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiachra and Conn. His wife, Eva had died in childbirth but the children lived happily with their father in his castle in the middle of a forest. Near to the castle was a lake where the children swam daily. They were great swimmers as Lir was also king over the ocean and they were possessed of gills. After some years Lir married Eva's sister Aoife who became insanely jealous of the children and plotted to kill them. One perfect summer's day Aoife appeared on the lakeside and from her cloak drew a magic wand. A fireball hit the water and the children were transformed into beautiful swans, their feathers as white as snow, the only remnant of their past to remain was their beautiful singing voices. For nine hundred years the children were destined to haunt Lough Derravaragh, the Sea of Moyle and the waters of Inish Glora until the spell was broken by the toll of a church bell. The legend was used by writers, artists and poets over generations as an allegory for the state of the nation under British rule. There are many beautiful representations inspired by the legend which belongs to a fascinating genre of 'shape shifting stories' found across the globe.
