Three women enter as forces rather than figures. Their bodies shift and surge, folding like land, spiralling like wind, striking and smouldering like fire.
In Cailleach, the dancers channel the witches of Ireland, not as myth, but as memory carried in bone and breath. Gestures echo spells, labour, exile, and defiance. Weight drops into the floor, rebounds, dissolves, reforms. The elements pull them apart and bind them together, shaping a shared ritual of listening and resistance. This is movement born of weather, soil, smoke, and tide.
Past and present blur as ancestral stories surface, not told but felt, asking the audience to sense what still lives beneath the ground and within the body, long after the final movement fades
