57. White feather

The wind blew the beautiful white feather into the long grass on the ring fort. It is surprisingly large for a fluffy white feather. I wonder if it is from a swan, except that there are no swans in the Garden, so its origin is something of a mystery.

In many traditions - Egyptian, Maori and Native American as well as Celtic - feathers are associated with the spirit world. Druids, shamans and holy people wear feathered robes or head-dresses, and finding a feather is sometimes seen as a spiritual message or sign.

I hold my feather and think of lightness of being, of soaring like a bird, up, up and away into the expanse of the sky, riding the summer breeze.

I let the feather fly again and it alights on water, zipping across the surface - a little spirit boat that lightens my day.

56. Fuchsia

These pretty red flowers are such an accepted part of the landscape of the Atlantic coast that West Cork tourism uses the fuchsia as its quality mark. Yet fuchsia is not a native plant. It has traveled all the way from South America, originally in the bags of plant-hunters. Unlike some other garden escapees such as rhododendron, fuchsia is well behaved - it gets on well with its neighbours and doesn't spread beyond the hedgerows.

The Garden is a weaving of the old and the new, of native and naturalised plants, of Celtic myth and contemporary design. Fuchsia adds to the mix by bringing a touch of exotic warmth to the Lughnasa stone circles. It could, perhaps, symbolise something else as well -  the vibrant, multi-cultural Ireland we enjoy today.

55. Heart stone

On the shores of Mannin Bay in Connemara, where the white sand meets the cropped green turf of the machair, I found a heart-shaped stone.

It reminded me of my friend Susan Gallagher who lived in Roundstone, the windowsills of her cottage decorated with her collection of heart-shaped stones. Susan was the Grandmother of Brigit's Garden. During the seven years it took to turn the idea into reality she helped me hold the vision. It was as if the project had a flow, an energy of its own, and our job was to align our actions with the flow. If we did so successfully, things worked; if we lost the flow, things didn't. It was Susan's guidance that helped the project stay on track - a  true anam cara, or soul friend.

I took the stone to the Garden and tried it out in different places; nestling up to marigolds in the Lughnasa herb garden; among the wishes in the hawthorn tree; at the foot of a standing stone.

It was a small, heart-felt tribute to Susan and the many other people whose warm-heartedness have made the Garden what it is today.

54. Ivy - for the fairies

In the woodland, old ivy stems spiral and twist up the mossy trunks of hazel and ash trees, creating the sense of other-worldliness that makes this something of a fairy wood. Recently, we have added to our young visitors' enjoyment by adding some fairy doors along the path, nestled into the secret little places among the ivy and rocks.

In Celtic mythology the Otherworld, the place of faery, spirit and myth, is ever-present. It is the other side of reality, accessible at certain times and in particular places. In the modern world, much of this tradition has been relegated to children's stories and lost to the adult imagination.

Yesterday the Garden was full of real fairies. Elves and Fairies Day is one of our most popular family events and the Garden seems to enjoy it too. This picture was actually taken at a recent wedding, but for me it speaks of the mixture of innocence, magic and nature that makes the place so special to children. But yesterday there were many adult fairies and elves too, a reminder that the mythic world is there - just there - to re-connect with as and when we choose.

53. Sea mayweed

Today we had a summer gale, a wild, warm wind that whipped the sea into green and white and made the trees dance.

I had an exhilarating walk along the shoreline, and it felt like a different world to the Garden: no mellow softness here, just the elemental energy of a stormy ocean.

I picked some grasses and a bunch of sea mayweed, whose tough daisy-like flowers are oblivious to salty storms. When I got home I added ox-eye daisies and montbretia from my garden and plaited the stems together, weaving the sea with the land and tying the ends with grasses.

I realised I had made a Lughnasa offering, a simple harvest sheaf, and felt great gratitude for the richness of both the land and the sea.

52. Ripening apples

The year has turned. This weekend is the Celtic festival of Lughnasa, the start of the quarter that takes us from harvest into autumn. When I moved to Ireland I thought it odd to have a new season starting in early August, but seeing it as the start of harvest makes sense. Fruitfulness and abundance can now be seen everywhere in the Garden; it is a lovely time of the year.

In the Imbolc garden the tree fruits are ripening - plums, pears and lots of apples from old Irish varieties. Until March these trees were bare; then the leaf buds opened, followed by a cascade of beautiful blossom. Slowly, the base of each pollinated flower swelled into the fruit - sour yet, but turning sweet in the next few weeks. And, of course, the fruit contains the seed out of which new plants can grow.

The cycle of life in the Garden is made up of thousands of small miracles, and apples are one of them.