A Village of Fairypeople, Folklore, and Everyday Oddities

Just beneath the surface of Lough Owel, nestled among the reedbeds and rockpools, lies a village not found on any map but this one. Under Lough Owel is home to a curious collection of fairypeople, mossfolk, water-whisperers, and one or two locals who may once have been human--though no one brings it up over tea.

Here, the laundry on the Wishing Line carries secrets instead of scent, and Maudlin Wisk brews tea that can remember your dreams better than you do. Whindle Spatchcock, always up to something mildly illegal with spoons, lives up the lane from the opinionated pair Snib & Skerrit, who disagree on everything except the weather.

And don’t be alarmed if you hear a gurgling croon from the shallows--that’s only the Kelp Oracle, singing riddles into the surf. Old Coddle watches it all with a stovepipe hat full of stormwater and a notebook of unanswered questions.

No one ever moves to Under Lough Owel. You arrive. You’re accepted. Or you’re gently forgotten.

Either way, the pier’s still standing, the stones are warm, and the stories keep bubbling up like spring water through sand.

So go on. Have a wander. You might hear your name spoken by something that doesn’t have lips. That’s usually the start of something interesting.