Studio Journal No. 003
There are places where the past does not feel entirely past.
Kilskeagh is one of them.
Among the old stones, trees and traces of lives once lived there, time seems to fold in upon itself. The present remains—the voices of volunteers, the sound of tools, the gradual clearing of the ground—but it exists alongside something older. Names, stories and memories remain embedded in the landscape, even when they have been obscured by moss, earth or the passing of generations.
It feels especially fitting to reflect on Kilskeagh at All Hallows.
All Hallows’ Eve is the vigil before All Hallows’ Day, now more commonly called All Saints’ Day. It marks the beginning of a season of remembrance within the Christian calendar: first honouring the saints, both known and unknown, and then, on All Souls’ Day, remembering all those who have died.
These days stand at a threshold. They fall as autumn gives way to winter, when the evenings darken early and the natural world begins to withdraw. They invite us to pause between what is ending and what is still to come—and to consider the relationship between the living and those who came before us.
Older Irish traditions also recognised this point in the year as a time of transition. Samhain marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. Although Samhain and All Hallows belong to different traditions and should not simply be treated as the same observance, both acknowledge the significance of a boundary: between seasons, between light and darkness, and between the familiar world and what lies beyond it.
Perhaps that is why Kilskeagh feels so closely aligned with this time of year.
The ruined church and graveyard stand between presence and absence. The building is no longer complete, yet it has not disappeared. The people buried there are gone, yet their names, relationships and stories remain. Nature has reclaimed parts of the site, while the stones continue to hold the marks of human hands.
Kilskeagh is not frozen in the past. It is a living place of memory.
That has become particularly clear through the work of the Kilskeagh Church and Graveyard Custodians. The committee and its volunteers are not simply maintaining an old site. Through patient, physical work, they are making it possible for the place to be seen and understood again.
Growth is cleared. Stones re-emerge. Features that had almost disappeared become visible. Local memories are shared and compared. Questions are asked. Fragments begin to connect.
The work is careful because Kilskeagh is not an empty ruin. It is a burial place, a sacred place and part of the history of the surrounding community. Every intervention carries a responsibility to those who rest there and to those who still feel a connection to the site.
This idea of stewardship has stayed with me throughout the creation of the Kilskeagh candle.
My work often begins at a threshold too: somewhere between research and imagination, history and sensory experience. I gather what can be known about a place, but I am also attentive to its atmosphere—to the landscape, the materials, the silences and the feelings that remain after visiting it.
A candle cannot tell the complete history of Kilskeagh, nor should it try to. Instead, it offers a point of connection.
The blackberry recalls the hedgerows and the abundance of the Irish landscape at the edge of autumn. Wildflowers suggest the life that continues among old stones. Incense carries an echo of worship and sacred space. When the candle is lit, these elements come together through scent and flame, creating a small moment in which the place can be remembered.
The flame itself is significant.
Across many traditions, a light placed in darkness becomes an act of remembrance. It may be a prayer, a welcome, a vigil or simply a way of holding someone in mind. A candle occupies its own threshold: it transforms solid wax into warmth, fragrance and light. It is present, but always changing.
That feels appropriate for Kilskeagh, where the work is not about returning the site to some imagined, untouched past. It is about caring for what remains and allowing its story to continue.
There is a temptation to think of history as something preserved in books, archives or museums. Yet so much of it survives because ordinary people decide that a place matters. They give their time, share their knowledge, clear another section of ground and return again the following week.
The volunteers at Kilskeagh are doing precisely that. Their work is practical, communal and often demanding, but it is also an act of remembrance.
The Kilskeagh candle was created in support of that work. Ten euro from every Kilskeagh candle and gift set purchased will go to the Kilskeagh Church and Graveyard Custodians, helping the local community to care for the site and continue uncovering its story.
At All Hallows, we remember not only the widely known saints and celebrated figures of history, but also lives whose stories may never have been written down. The unnamed, the forgotten and those remembered only within their own families and communities are gathered into that act of remembrance.
Perhaps this is the deepest connection between All Hallows and Kilskeagh.
Both ask us to recognise that a life does not need to be famous to be worthy of remembrance, and that a place does not need to be grand or complete to be historically significant. At Kilskeagh, past and present meet through the practical work of care: clearing, recording, researching and remembering. Each name recovered, each stone uncovered and each story returned to the community carries something across that threshold.
Photograph courtesy of 77edenhill.