“ There is no fault nor detriment / in facing bare the cruelty of world…” — We’ll Go Asleep Imagine, now, not just a tool or a sport, but a whisper that’s survived since we first dared to shape the…
29th April saw a contingent of six archers from The Les Archers Béarnais club in France travel to Ireland for a whistle-stop archery tour of the South East. By saying it was a whistle-stop tour, I mean over the course…...
Hello Crackers, my friends and Archery fans, are you all good? I hope so, I truly do, and I have some good news for myself—yes I do—as I have managed to book my place at the national champs in Dunbrody,…...
The last winds of March in the year of 1199 must have stirred through the valleys of Limousin with no particular burden, no whisper of what tremor would so soon ripple out across the aching spine of the Angevin world.…
strange heat it was, the summer of 1399. The kind of heat that presses down on the land and makes the air thick with waiting. You could feel it in the quiet of the fields and the low murmur of…...
V It was the same horse that had thrown Evander from its saddle not long ago. But that hardly mattered to him as he spurred it on, past the dead splayed across the battlefield, after the rider. He didn’t need…
Day 2 I It had been too long a night. For General Casey Aiza his restlessness was now searing into something more tangible, a solid force he could finally apply. Still, it was bittersweet in a way. Since he was…
It is now summer, which in Ireland means the weather likes to behave in more of a bipolar manner. Summer in Ireland is different from the other two seasons – I’m convinced we don’t really get Spring, just a mildish…
A meditation on hurt, ritual, and the intimate violence of archery “Then the English archers stept forth one pace and let fly their arrows so wholly [together] and so thick, that it seemed snow. When the Genoways felt the arrows…...
“I do not fight because I seek glory. I fight because I must protect what is mine.”— Tigrevurmud Vorn, Lord Marksman and Vanadis There’s something curious about the quiet books that stick. They arrive without noise, sit down across from…...
“You walk and you walk and you carry what you can and you leave the rest behind.” It stays with you, that line, doesn’t it? Like the feel of a worn stone in your pocket, or the ache in your…...
In the hush between the tolling of bells and the hiss of the string, something else stirred in the guildhalls of medieval Flanders and England—something older than the arrows they notched and swifter than the oaths they swore. While the…...
This is an updated version of an article I published a few years ago, about how badly the Olympics and World Archery need to diversify the representation of shooting styles. Given the inclusion of compound, I felt it was appropriate to not only republish it but update it too.
IV “I always wanted to do a landscape of the Mayne Lighthouse,” Ebrill said, relief in her voice as they clattered down the steps of the lighthouse’s base into the refreshingly cool, salty air. Evander enjoyed the taste and smell…
Introduction – who we are… We are a dedicated community built on shared passion, friendly competition, and a genuine love for the art of archery – Archers of Ennis isn’t just a place to hone our skills. It’s become the…
Well archers, readers, today we embark on a journey of what if… It’s a heretical endeavour, filled with blasphemy and a provocation calculated—yes, calculated—to infuriate you. This is not a careless insult nor a drunken rant penned between ends. No,…...
There are mornings when the world feels like a screen that forgot to sleep—flickering, expectant, always asking. In such light, where every silence must be earned and every stillness risks interruption, the soul reaches for older shapes. Not solutions. Not…...
Portlaoise carries its soul just beneath the hedgerows, where boots sink slightly and tree roots knot like old thoughts. And tucked within that pulse, in Clonkeen Woods – where the canopy breaks into mottled shadow and the light stammers across…
The essay that follows—perhaps a touch long for an online piece—is, in truth, a chapter from The Arrow Knows No Master, a book I’ve been quietly shaping since February of last year. It’s composed of individual essays—mostly reflective, occasionally philosophical—on…
I came across him not in a book, but in a footnote misquoted in the margin of another. It was a binding so cracked it seemed to wheeze when opened, part of a bundle I’d been lent by a Flemish…...