Stories That Still Live in the Land

At the centre of Harper’s work is a question: what remains of the stories we’ve inherited?

Not as text. Not as fixed narrative. But as fragments – embedded in landscape, echoed in place names, resurfacing in patterns that repeat year after year.

She speaks about “wonder tales,” a term used by Dáithí Ó hÓgáin in his book The Sacred Isle, to describe stories that have survived in partial form. Stories that may not be complete, but are still meaningful.

“I think we still have them,” she says. “Even if they’ve come down broken.”

Her interest lies in what those stories align with – how they intersect with archaeology, with seasonal change, with the physical world around us.

“You can piece things back together,” she says. “You can find them happening every year.”

This approach resists the idea of mythology as something distant or symbolic. Instead, it treats story as something active – something that continues to exist alongside us, if we know how to look.

Across Water, Not Apart

One of the most striking aspects of Harper’s thinking is how she reframes geography.

“We’re very used to seeing maps north to south,” she says. “But if you turn the map, you start to see bridges instead of barriers.”

In her work, the Irish Sea is not a divide. It is a route.

Rivers become highways. Bays become entry points. Travel by water – historically – was often easier than by land. And with that movement comes exchange: of people, of language, of music, of story.

It is this perspective that underpins her recent exploration into the connections between early Irish music and traditions further afield – including the influence of Middle Eastern instruments.

She does not claim certainty. Instead, she asks questions.

“It just struck me that the worlds aren’t as far apart as you think.”

Collaboration and Continuity

Despite stepping away from orchestral life, Harper has not stepped away from collaboration.

Her work with storyteller Liz Weir on Cloak of Wisdom reflects this – a project grounded in folklore, memory, and the transmission of knowledge across generations.

“It’s lovely to have that company,” she says. “That camaraderie is really important.”

Where classical music offered collaboration within strict boundaries, her current practice allows for something more fluid. Ideas move between people. Stories are shared, reshaped, extended.

There is no single authority. Only contribution.

The Intimacy of Storytelling

Harper came to storytelling later than music. She formally trained during the pandemic – initially without a clear plan for what it would become.
What she found was something different entirely.

“The essence of storytelling is human to human,” she says. “Sharing the same emotional journey.”

Unlike music performed on a stage, storytelling places the teller and the listener in direct relationship. There is no distance. No separation.

“You see it on people’s faces,” she says. “The nod, the laugh, the silence.”

It is this immediacy that defines the practice for her – and what she feels cannot be replicated digitally. While she uses social media to share her work, the core of storytelling remains physical, present, and shared.

“We’re all becoming tired of digital connection,” she suggests. “At some point, we need more.”