The first bamboo bow that entered my life never breathed Indian heat; it lived inside a grainy photograph pinned above my crowded desk in Portlaoise, between a postcard of Velázquez and a stained reading timetable. The photograph came from an…
November carries a clear marker for The Irish Field Archery Monthly as Issue 48 completes four uninterrupted years of publication, reflection, and field-bred argument. The magazine stands as a continuous conversation between cold shoots and warm rooms, between physical discipline…
Dear Readers, this article arose from a need of the spirit and from the shared curiosity of fellow archers who keep asking the same living questions. Two traditions—Japanese kyūdō and European field archery, especially clout—speak to each other through posture,…
A sage from the auld days, a Roman steady at the helm of his own heart, praised the archer. He watched the draw and saw a likeness for a life well shaped. The whole purpose, the gathered labour of person…
“ 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…
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…...
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…...
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…
You think you understand violence. You think you’ve seen it, measured it, weighed it in your hands like something you could master, something that bends to the will of the wielder. You think a weapon is just a tool. But…
I first stumbled upon Irish Celtic mythology when I was a lad of fourteen, a scrawny thing with a wild imagination and a stubborn curiosity for the unknown. It was my older sister who planted the seed, gifting me a…...