A Wilderness is Heaven: A Week on Exmoor

26 June – 2 July 2009

‘…where peace smiles, a wilderness is heaven’ John Clare, ‘Peace’

view from above Culbone

After finally finishing my mountain of marking I was ready for a break – or a breakdown – after a very difficult few weeks. And so it was with great relief I packed my iron horse and hit the road. To paraphrase Trevelyan, ‘I have the two best doctors – my front wheel and my back wheel.’

The plan was to head down to the Exmoor Pagan Camp for the weekend and use that as a base-camp for a day out on Lundy Island Saturday, (the ferry, MS Oldenburg left from Bideford, 40 miles away, boarding 8.15am) then head to Culbone on Sunday evening for three or four days’ retreat. This would provide a mixture of landscapes and a healthy balance between community and solitude. My goals for the trip were ‘peace, relaxation, nature, walks, writing, inspiration.’

As I set off, my bike loaded up, it was chucking it down – so, wombled-up in my waterproofs I headed off Friday midday, hoping to have a ‘fine time on the A39’. I headed over the Mendips on my favourite run for Glastonbury – I had intended to stop off the Tor to eat my packed lunch – but realising the festival was on I gave the town a wide berth and stopped off at Hart’s Leap Point just above Wookey Hole instead, a suitable threshold for the beginning of my adventure. I sat in the gentle rain and gazed out over the Somerset Levels. You can normally see the Tor and Steep Holm and Flat Holm from the picnic site, but not today – the Levels were veiled in a rainy haze. I tried to get a brew going but my Gaz stove decided to give up the ghost at that point, in spectacular fashion! Onwards, I ventured, taking it easy in the rain, passing the dismal delights of Street and Bridgwater. Amazingly, when I hit Exmoor the skies cleared and the sun came out! I made it up the infamous Porlock Hill (1 in 4) – a test of skill and my steed’s mettle. Up on the moor and the weather and views were glorious. I had no problem finding the campsite, deep down in Doone Valley, where Blackmoore’s 1869 classic, Lorna Doone, is set.

Exmoor Pagan Camp - by the brook

The camp was small and friendly. I immediately got help with a bit of plywood for my stand – and a welcoming cuppa (and all the cake you could eat). The atmospheric was relaxed and good-humoured. My kind neighbours, Bruce and his partner, shared some of their curry. I bought a flagon of Otter from the local shop to share – and the party started around the campfire. I was tired and didn’t make a late night of it, knowing I had to be up very early the next day for my jaunt to the island…The pleasant camaraderie of the campfire serenaded my to sleep.

Lorna Doone farm, Exmoor

From my journal on the road…

27 June, Bideford Quay, 8.30am

Woke up at the crack of dawn, lying in my tent, listening to the electrophonic chatter of the dawn chorus. I felt wide awake – full of anticipation of finally visiting Lundy, after wanting to go there for several years (I had booked a week there in Sept ’07, but a week before I was due to go on there was a stomach bug out-break and everyone was evacuated, my trip was cancelled and refunded) a lost island found! I got dressed quickly and had a simple breakfast, felt an almost illicit thrill at leaving at first light. There’s something exhilarating about flitting off while the rest of the camp sleeps off their hangovers. I rode through the ford and struck out along the backroads. The ride through the hidden vales of Exmoor at first light was beautiful and exhilarating. One of the best! It felt a joy to be alive. I made Bideford in good time – the roads were clear. If only riding could be like this all of the time. Arriving early, I went for a coffee. Now I wait to board the MS Oldenburg, sitting on the quayside in the sunshine with the other daytrippers and residentials. There’s a thrill at waiting to cross to such a place. The mild tang of adventure is in the air. It promises to be a beautiful day!

During the sunny, smooth crossing, the 261 passengers were treated to a visit from a whole pod of dolphins, who swam alongside the boat, leaping from the water, the embodiment of joy. It was impossible to have a heavy heart on such day. It felt good to be alive!

Lundy cove - towards Mouse and Rat Island

A poem written shortly after arrival:

Blue, blue world of Lundy

glittering constellation of sea,

like a super-computer working on

the meaning behind all things.

sigh of waves, rumble of boat,

skylark and seagull.

hidden rocks, submerged forest of kelp.

Peace among the waves.

Height of the year,

stillness,

a sanctuary from the world’s insanity.

Lundy Island, Devil’s Lime-kiln, 27 June ‘09

Devil's Slide - goat city!

I sit amongst the goats on the cliff’s edge, the whiff of Pan in the air. Nearby, a dead seagull splayed like a seraphim. I look across to a rock formation resembling a mermaid, perhaps Elen herself (the island’s only church is dedicated to St Helena. The island is exactly equidistant between Stonehenge and the Preselli Mountains, where the bluestones came from, at precisely ninety degrees, forming an ‘L’, and of course, it’s called Lundy, ‘puffin island’, but also the ‘angled place’). Everywhere I look, I seem to behold sexual rock shapes! Monumental stone phalluses, deep vulvas – the land splits open or stands erect. Lundy is the clitoris in the delta of the Severn. The goddess welcomes waves of sailors into her arms. Her siren song causes shipwrecks. Sabrina has a welcome for them all. I look across at the Devil’s Slide, plunging towards the rocks – it is flanked by rocks named after the four apostles, eg St Paul’s Rock, etc. What were they afraid of? This place, with its wandering goats and Freudian rock formations feels about as pagan as it gets. Yet they have to give it Christian labels. Ultimately, of course, it is itself – whatever we perceive it to be.

NE Point, Lundy, New Lighthouse

And now I sit by Virgin’s Spring, at the northwest tip of the island – was the goddess once worshipped here? Elen herself? A small island like this feels ‘virginal’, inviolate in its completeness, its topographical hymen intact. And yet it is ‘desecrated’ by swathes of tourists throughout the summer. Two men passing said: ‘Oh, look – a fresh water pool.’ The other responded, ‘it’s a bit muddy’. The mystery is passed by or despoiled by litter, by exposure. Close by, on the rocks a couple of hundred feet below, I can hear the eerie singing of the seals – lonely, mournful. The song of the siren. The females are mellifluous, high-pitched, plaintive; the male – a guttural snort, a lager lout’s belch! I daydream about tales of selkies…

leaving Lundy - back to Bideford

28 June, Lorna Doone Farm

Just been on a walk up Doone Valley with a small group from the camp led by an ex-Signalman, Richard. We had a pack of lively dogs with us and it reminded me of the opening scenes of After London by Richard Jeffries, with its feral packs of animals roaming over wild England. We passed Cloud Farm, where Blackmore located Lorna Doone. Opposite, a stone raised in the year of my birth, 1969, marked the centenary of the book, which celebrates the beauty of Exmoor – and perhaps enhanced visitors perceptions of the landscape, as Hardy’s books do with ‘Wessex’.

We made our way up Badgworthy Water – an agreeable company of ‘Canterburyans’ chattering away – at a footbridge most decided to turn back but thre of us carried on to the site of a medieval village cradled in the folds of the moors, at a ‘crossroads’ of valleys. Here we pondered on the community that must have existed for generations – with all its characters, professions, feuds and friendships, tragedies and joys – only markings hidden amongst the ferns and grasses remain. No sign even (the dogs seemed intent on running off with a broken one to Brendon Common). It was a ghost village – a weird parallel to our own, where the Silent Ones still gather on moonlit nights. I imagined a ‘doppleganger’ community to each in this world, living in reflection, mirroring the dramas of life, albeit through a glass darkly.

29 June, Culbone

i am a little church (far from the frantic

world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature…

e.e. cummings

Culbone - the smallest church in Britain

Arrived at Culbone – raw and ragged after a precipitous descent down the track – a test of nerve! – but more from the life which has worn me out. I am in sore need of this retreat, away from the madding crowd. At last! Three days at the Exmoor Camp and three days here by myself – a good balance. The inner and outer spiral.

Culbone is the smallest complete Parish church in Britain. It is famously inaccessible (the coastal path is your best bet), nestled four hundred feet up in a wooded coombe above the wild north coast of Exmoor. Hidden in the deep folds of a plunging valley, it feels removed from the world – yet it has been, at times, a leper colony, an open prison, a religious community, and now a popular place for passing ramblers. There is evidence of human activity over six thousand years: its ancient name was Kitnor (from Anglo-Saxon for cave ‘cyta’ and ‘ore’, sea shore, suggesting what might have been the nodal point that originally drew people here – the summer rising sun floods into the vale, as if for it alone). The church is a mixture of styles from different centuries and cultures – Saxon being the earliest. Its name derives from a Welsh saint, St Beuno, (pronounced ‘Bayno’), born in the late 6^th Century, died 642: Kil Beun, the chapel of Beuno, became eventually Culbone. Beuno, said to be the most important Welsh saint after St David, follows in a long line of Celtic saints who graced the West of England, leaving their names as relics. The church is still used, with fortnightly services, and an atmosphere of deep peace pervades the place.

Drinking my first cuppa, I read some of The Book of Peace, and instantly related to the poem’ To Mr Izaak Walton’:

Solitude, the Soul’s best friend…

How calm and quiet a delight

it is alone

to read, meditate and write,

By none offended, nor offending none.

To walk, ride, sit or sleep at one’s own ease,

And pleasing a man’s self, none other to displease.

stream by the cabin

Arrival at Culbone

A bottomless well

of deep, deep peace.

This is reality,

this is the truth behind the world.

Everything else is white noise and nonsense,

the froth of the mainstream –

enamoured by its own bubbles,

a toddler wanting attention.

This is the source,

a purer course.

Cataract of murmuring peace,

soothing the pilgrim heart.

A wanderer overcome

with weariness

asleep on a bench in a churchyard,

a figure in stone

carved on a tomb,

frozen in the repose of death,

the doomed Gaul caught in his final tragic scene.

Finally I am here,

my road of thirty nine years

has led me to this place.

To sit in this steep wooded vale,

a chalice of sunlight,

sipping a little from its communion wine

of solar solace.

Stopped.

Arrived.

Finding a blessed release

in its stubborn obscurity,

a hidden portal,

a ferny cleft,

a soul fontanelle.

Kevan Manwaring

29 June, Culbone

A 3 hour jaunt to get food – on the hottest day of the year – nothing here you can take for granted: gas lights, a compost loo, a narrow bed and a simple stove. The basics. All you need really. I guest staying here for long would become grim – handbaths and handwashing. After a while one would murder for a hot bath and a washing machine, the odd movie, a cold beer. Yet for now…I have all I need and I am content. Complete unto myself. Not quite Thoreau, but I’ll do.

Porlock always waits – the world always waits. I think about the man from Porlock, who so inconveniently interrupted ST Coleridge while he was working on Kubla Khan (at Ash Farm, close by) – he is a symbol for the world itself, the jealous world of man and matter, always wanting its pound of flesh, banging on your door, never leaving you alone, always clawing for more, clambering for attention, creating patterns of interference to stop the flow, the signal from the Otherworld. The way out. To a transcendent reality far richer, far real, than this one.

Here’s the poem I wrote about the infamous visitor. As I put pen to paper, Barrie and a neighbour had to brush right by humble yard, where I sat in the sun, to gain access to the little foot-bridge by my cabin, making measurements, talking – this was the only time over the three days I had ‘visitors’. Back and forth they went, threatening to break my reverie, but I couldn’t help but smile: men from Porlock!

The Man from Porlock

He was always writing something in that bloody book –

scribbling, scribbling.

What kind of work is that for a man?

Sitting all there by himself,

looking out of his window at Ash Farm,

for hours on end, hours,

wandering the hillside like some mooncalf,

talking to himself, repeating phrases,

exclaiming, cursing, laughing.

He should be locked up in a loony bin.

Not so long ago he would’ve been burnt

for witchery. These days, with the Terror,

for espionage – writing poetry,

sounds a bit French to me.

Not the kind of activity for an English

gentleman. Takes opium you say?

Thought he looked the drug addict type –

all flashing eyes and floating hair.

Tooth-ache, sure. And I’m the tooth-fairy.

Have a mind to go up there,

knock on his door – remind him

there’s a world out here, the real world.

We all can’t sit in our ivory towers –

some of us have to make a living, you know.

Earn our bread by the sweat of our brow –

plough, sow, reap. Gather in the harvest –

the fields of wheat don’t turn themselves into flour.

The mill of toil. Raking muck. Honest graft.

Where’s me boots? Interrupting him?

He can’t be doing anything important.

Kevan Manwaring, Culbone, 1^st July 2009

In the churchyard there’s a seat in the top corner dedicated to the Earl of Lovelace. It is known as the Lovelace Seat and has been noted for its powerful energy and inspiring properties. The inscription runs thus:

Let all who rest here give glory to Go and have in remembrance one who loved this place – Ralph, 11^th Earl of Lovelace and XIIIth Lord Wentworth, Born July 2^nd 1839 , died August 1906.

From notebook:

The ribbons of sound of the stream, the gentle cooing of a wood pigeon. No other noise. Secluded silence. Not a soul in sight. Here at St Beuno’s Cell an underground river from Wales feeds the spring (the only water source) confirming Coleridge’s vision: ‘…where Alph, the sacred river ran through caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea.’ Pure clear source – Celtic undercurrents, bubbling up in unlikely places, secret outposts of awen.

On the Lovelace Seat: The infinitesimal interlacements of love – I think of my friends, close friends, dear friends and how they enrich me. How I feel connected to them here – Jay, Anthony, Mary. Humans are so delicate, so complex, so astounding – each one is a small miracle and should be honoured as such, yet we seldom do ourselves credit. We seldom live up to the grace given us.

As I sat in the Lovelace Seat felt elevated – not just from the marvellous prospect over Culbone and its small churchyard, but within. My soul seemed to rise up like the yew tree I face – crown level – from deep roots, roots it is said grow through the mouths of the dead, and I imagine I shall speak the ancestors if I stay here long enough…

30 June

Washing out my clothes in the stream (flowing with water from a Welsh source) I have never been happier. I had a blissfully peaceful night, writing and reading Joan Cooper’s wise words, my Book of Peace, Jeffries. Daisy, Barrie’s black-and-white tabby came a-visiting late last night. About 11pm, deep in my solitude, I saw something pushing against my door – I called out. No reply. So I opened it and there she was! She sidled in and had a sniff around then came and sat on my lap, fussed about a lot then finally settled down – falling asleep between my legs. It was pleasant having such an agreeable easy-to-please companion. Cats of knack of picking up energies, of finding comfort zones, of bringing healing. It was a shame I had to chuck her out when I went to bed, but couldn’t have her waking me up in the middle of the night wanting to go out.

This morning I awoke to the sound of birdsong and the stream after a profound night’s sleep. Very peaceful. Made myself some breakfast, listening to some classical music on my little radio. Serenity.

I feel I would be happy living somewhere like here – at least for the summer months. Its nearly perfect – all that’s missing is a place for a real fire and a place to watch the sunset (although I discovered one up the hill later). Other luxuries would be electricity for a laptop, a broadband connection – although it’s nice to be off the grid – and a hot shower. The latter could be rigged up easily enough – solar-powered, fed by the stream. A nearer shop for provisions would be handy … but it’s the isolation which makes this place so special.

Being here, in this pared down place, made me consider the essentials of my life:

• Creativity – to write, perform, publish.
• Nature – woods, water, sun, stars. The elements. Landscape and wildlife.
• Freedom – ride-outs, camping, visiting new places, diverse experiences.
• Friends – kindred spirits, a cultural scene, gatherings, community.
• Spirit – sacred places/sacred time, connection with the awen, festivals.

1^st July

Asleep in the churchyard on the Lovelace Seat, until disturbed by a trio of lady walkers, congratulating each other on reaching the church. ‘Well done! Well done!’ I read some of The Messages of Sacred Places then realised I hadn’t brought my glasses or any water along (feeling rather spaced out after my siesta). I get up to leave. Passing the two sitting on the stone cross I bid them a good afternoon. Another seems to be trying to cut off my escape route. ‘Are you local?’ she calls after me. ‘Well,’ I hesitantly reply, ‘for a while.’

Hildegard of Bingen coined a term: viriditas, greening power, which seems to sum up the ‘Culbone Effect’. She embodies its voice:

I am that supreme and fiery force that sends forth all sparks of life.

This viriditas seems akin to Dylan Thomas’ green fuse:

the force that through the green fuse drives the flower

One can feel this power, this viriditas, so lucidly here. It is incredibly comforting – it is like being in the arms of a parent. I feel so languid, overcome with weariness, on the verge of tears or exhortations of joy. A raw place, a vulnerable place – or rather a place to be vulnerable in. It provides the shell so we can come out of ours. DH Lawrence wrote in an essay on the spirit of place: ‘[E]very great locality has its own pure daimon, and is conveyed at last into perfected life.’ Here the genius loci feels hidden, feminine – rivulets of water, deep valleys dripping with lush foliage, silent, soothing, safe. A green womb. The embrace of the goddess. Mother Culbone.

1 July (continued)

Walked up to the top of the track – to check I could make it out! The way down was most precipitous and the uncertainty of whether my bike, laden with me and my kit, could get back up the hill has been hanging over me a little since I’ve been here. This is one of those places that – once you’re in, you’re in! It’s an escape from the world – returning takes concerted effort, a conscious act of will. It’s easy to stay, comforted, cocooned. Why would one want to return to the madness? Yet one must – until it is time to retreat for good. But I must take my ‘vision’ back to the tribe, my renewed enthusiasm and clarity. My rekindled strength and sense of purpose. Though, looking over the ageless landscape, the mighty coast of Exmoor, all else seems vain ambition. Efforts to achieve recognition, critical acclaim, success – so many dandelions scattered on the breeze… Yet I believe in my stories, my ideas, my awen and want to share it, share the beauty. This dramatic Exmoor coast, plummeting in deep green folds down to the sea, dotted with content sheep, so Arcadian – one can see how it inspired Coleridge with lofty, noble thoughts, visions of grandeur, immortal words. It’s the stuff of a Caspar David Friedrich painting. Cue Romantic pose!

I nearly went into Lynmouth, but glad I didn’t –it would have broken the spell. Walking up onto the hill did the trick. It’s good to get a perspective. To see a horizon. I’d been in the valley for three days and was starting to develop early symptoms of cabin fever. I hate feeling trapped, cooped up. On the way back I noticed a lamb caught on the wrong side of the fence – I opened up the five bar gate and let it through. It was reunited with its mother, and I felt a shepherd-like satisfaction!

Culbone

Sitting on the Lovelace Seat,

on a summer’s evening –

the last rays of sun gilded the coombe

with honey. The dusk chorus sings

the Last Post of the day. A wood pigeons

coos its melancholy Morse code

across the shadowed grove.

A river of sky above,

clouds mottled, distant, slowly

drifting. The stream’s constant sigh.

Not a soul in sight, except I

and yet not alone, in this solitude’s bliss.

Numberless ghosts crowd

the humble parcel of land,

angels of place dancing

in the palm of Culbone’s hand.

The smallest church, a grey fist –

open it up to find the people. Thirty, a modest flock.

Each feature, a century.

A steeple like an inverted ice-cream cone.

Its thin iron cross, God’s punctuation.

Gravestones, wafers of lichened rock.

Geological records of lives –

generations of Reds: Ambrose, Ethel – were they ready?

A Welsh Guardsman taken too soon.

Joan Cooper, visionary guardian,

stone tongue speaking:

‘Let not your heart be troubled’.

The slow silent explosion of a yew tree

millennia long,

limbs amputated by a tree surgeon,

bows unstrung.

And peace comes in thick waves,

undisturbed by the ramblers,

preying mantis poled,

who clatter through the gate, stay for a snap,

a plastic cup of tea from a flask,

talk as if to drown out the sacred silence

they have come to seek – afraid

what it might say to them. Perhaps.

Yet they are gone in an automated flash,

the moment digitised,

leaving the vale inviolated, eternal,

itself.

Mantled in the jealous wings of its mystery.

Kevan Manwaring Culbone, 1^st July 09

Time to leave…

‘And yet his very silence proved

How much he valued what he loved.

There peered from his hazed, hazel eyes

A self in solitude made wise;

As if within the heart may be

All the soul needs for company:

And, having that in safety there,

finds its reflection everywhere.’

A Recluse, Walter de la Mare

May I be a ‘self in solitude made wise’ and may I carry this peace with me – take it back into the world, and not lose my centre. May I always carry myself with grace and act with wisdom – look with the heart, not with the head. Respond with love, not ego. May Culbone’s blessing stay with me.

3 July Leaving Culbone – Bath – Stroud

Culbone at dawn

Woke up at dawn to see the sunrise – watched its virgin light flood the vale. Realised its benediction may have been the original prompt for early man to linger here, to consider it a sacred place. Standing there, a man in a forest, beholding the new sun, felt primal. I felt connected to its earliest inhabitants, and probably looked not dissimilar in my shaggy state, all stubble and grubby clothes!

Locked the cabin and loaded up the bike. Paid a final visit to the church and sat one last time in the Lovelace Seat – paying my respects to the man on his birthday. Wrote my impressions in the church visitor’s book and left. Negotiated the steep hill out of the woods, taking it real slow on the gravel and ruts. Startled a deer, who bolted across the track in front of me, startling me. For a brief moment, still half asleep, I thought it was some kind of dryad, one of Jeffries’ ‘fern maidens’. I kept going, revved it up the really steep bit and … was clear. Relief! I stopped to close the gate and enjoyed the view at dawn, before hitting the road.

off the beaten track

Paused on Exmoor heights to fix my speedometer (a cable had been pulled out by my tankbag), then it was running the gauntlet of Porlock Hill and along the winding A39 back home. Roads clear at first (I left at 6am) until I hit the rush hour around Bridgwater – but got home in good time. Lots to sort out, but first … a bath! Found a tick still attached, managed to extricate it, but got paranoid about Lyme’s Disease. Caught up with my post, phone messages and flurry of emails. Some OU moderation to do, then it was all sent off (78 scripts) and I was free! Feeling a huge sense of relief, I headed up to Stroud for Jay’s hometown launch of Places of Truth (which features poems about Culbone among other sacred sites – reading these in situ really brought it alive. I gave a copy to Barrie and ‘all pilgrims of Culbone’). Joining him, was Rick Vick – who read from his new collection, ‘A Coat of No Particular Colour’ – Josie Felce on harp, and another lady of fiddle. It was held in the courtyard of the Star Anise Café, around the trickling water feature. I introduced the evening, reading out my ‘Man from Porlock’ poem, and then manned the Awen stall, enjoying the poetry and music. This event brought me back into the world – it provided a clear end-point to my holiday – and it was a pleasant reintroduction. Stayed at Jay’s and we had a good chat. Jay’s wise presence helped my ‘reintegration’, along with his lovely house, and overall, the gentle evening prevented me getting ‘reality bends’.

Jay and Rick's launch, Star Anise Cafe, Stroud, 2nd July

Riding the Dragon  part 3

20^th-21^st June

Pistyll Rhaeadr - one of the seven wonders of Wales, photo by K. Manwaring

Pistyll Rhaeadr and Wrexham Steeple

Snowdon Mountains without its people

Overton yew trees, Gresford bells,

Llangollen bridge, St Winifred’s Wells.

The Seven Wonders of Wales

After three week’s of slog finally … freedom! A long ride to Snowdonia to blow away the cobwebs. I think you can really feel the dragon in the land in Wales, especially if you ride through it on a motorbike!

On solstice eve I was invited to the wedding of Keith and Annie, two old friends from N’pton, on their farm cottage in North Wales – based on the theme of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with the bride as Titania, the bridegroom as Oberon, and the guests providing the rest of the Seelie Court.

Annie the bride as Titania

Keith as Oberon

I packed my pointy ears, tent and essentials and set off Saturday morning. I decided to take the route across the middle of Wales, aiming for Aberystwyth (the scenic route, and the longer one). I was hoping to see the sea and stop for a spot of lunch there, but by the time I was in the area, time was running out, and so I grabbed some much needed hot grub at the Red Kite Café (thrilled to spot some of the famous birds with their distinctive tails soon after) and blatted up the fast north road past Machynlleth, Harlech, Portmeirion…(fortunately not chased by white ‘rover’ balloons from the Village, where the cult Sixties’ TV series The Prisoner was filmed). At one point the road plunged precipitously down into the valley overshadowed by the dark dramatic flanks of Cader Idris, the giant’s chair – where those foolhardy enough to spend a night end up ‘dead, mad or a poet’. Further up the road, the sinister bulwark of Magnox North could be seen, blighting the beautiful coast. Crossing the cob into Porthmadog – the causeway linking it across the alluvial flats to the rest of Wales – I was treated to a stunning view of Snowdonia. After a long ride I had nearly made it! Unfortunately, fatigue (after a 5-6 hr ride) meant I made a wrong turning and precious minutes were squandered as I frantically tried to remember the way to Keith and Annie’s place – not the easiest place to find. It really is in the middle of nowhere, along unsigned roads, back of beyond. I pulled onto their land about 15 minutes late. I could hear the ceremony going on so I just rushed down the field where the guests had gathered – an impressive colourful circle of about a hundred ‘fairies’! It looked lovely, set against the backdrop of the mountains.

setting for Keith and Annie's wedding, N Wales

The couple were magnificent in their finery. I was worried I’d missed the tying of knot, but this was still to come. No vows were exchanged because this, it turns out, was a renewal of commitment – they had actually tied the knot eleven years ago, but this was a celebration of their love, a beautiful thing to see in this day and age. Afterwards there was a hearty buffet, followed by a puppet show version of Shakespeare’s fairy play

midsummer night's dream puppet show

and a Welsh ceilidh (which didn’t sound that different from a Scottish one, apart from the odd song in Cymraeg): the dances were identical. Alas, my heart wasn’t into dancing (it felt like the last couple of weeks finally hit me at that point) but it was nice to see everyone enjoying themselves. There was some fire-twirling by Keith and Annie’s son, Rubin and his mate. Then there was more drinking, and much late night hilarity…until, tired from my journey, I had to go to bed. I collapsed in my tent and slept like an Ent.

beer - a reason to be cheerful

It was strange just being a guest – a sharp contrast to the previous Saturday, where at Stanton Drew I was running the handfasting and performing. The feedback I received from Nigel and Sophie suggested it went down very well: ‘Thanks for a magical time – it was truly amazing. We’ve had loads of great feedback from folk praising your conduct of the ceremony and entertainment in the garden.’  This time, my services were not required and I felt somewhat at a loss. I would’ve happily chipped in a wee poem around the fire, but … there wasn’t one. Instead, there was just boozing and ribaldry in the marquee.

merriment in the marquee - Keith & Annie's wedding feast

It was a beautiful occasion, everything had been done with such love – it was just a shame I wasn’t in a better mood to enjoy it. After funerals of two friends in two weeks I guess it was going to take longer than an evening, however enchanting,to shake my gloom.

Next morning, feeling ‘delicate’ I grabbed a cuppa and some makeshift breakfast (a slice of the wonderful waterfall wedding cake) and packed up the old steed and set off. It was noon, summer solstice, not that you would know it – the weather deciding to be grey and overcast. I stopped off at the beach to clear my head – feeling as flat as the sands.

I fuelled up in Porthmadog – thank god for coffee! ‘people petrol’– and hit the road. The rain hammered down to begin with – not very pleasant – but fortunately my waterproofs kept me dry. I had to keep my eye on the ball on those twisty roads in the wet, so I took it easy along the road to Bala, a biker’s paradise … when it’s dry!

Bala gorsedd circle by Kevan Manwaring

When I reached Bala, I stopped to savour the glittering waters of Llyn Tegid, where I camped the previous summer. Then I parked up to visit the Gorsedd circle, where last year I had witnessed the proclamation of the Welsh National Eisteddfod, which will take place there this year. I decided to experience what it would feel like to, to step up onto the main stone and receive the highest accolade. The circle isn’t in the most inspiring of settings – hemmed in by a carpark and a light industrial estate, but it was still a thrill to stand there and raise the awen.

Bala motte

From the carpark I spotted for the first time at mound – a Norman motte – with a tree growing symbolically from its summit. I decided to check it out and ascended in my leathers. When I got to the top I savoured the view over the surrounding valleys, sitting my back against the trunk, letting its strength support me. Apparently, a popular place for local knitters – imagine the gossip shared – and later on, visitors would be charged a penny to visit it. With interest, I noted on the interpretation board that on the opposite side of the lake a castle said to belong to Gronw Pebr once stood: the man who assassinated Llew Llaw Gyffes, according to the legend in The Mabinogion. The bright solar hero who is shot down in his glory by his shadowy rival… on one level this seemed to represent the fact that the summer solstice is the longest day of the year, but also the point from when the days start getting shorter, as the dark half of the year reclaims its losses and eventually ‘defeats’ its rival (until he is reborn at midwinter and the cycle begins again). On a transpersonal level, it speaks of an unfortunate trait I’ve noticed in people: it is easy to take potshots at those who stand up and shine. It is easier to criticise than create – cynicism is the way of the coward. That is not to say one should be naively optimistic about everything – but to be positive, think positive, act positive, requires more effort and courage than the opposite. We can all wallow, and seek to keep others down if they aspire too high – for their excellence emphasises insecurities in some – whileas, I think by shining it gives others permission to do the same. I believe in empowering people, not putting them down.

From Bala, I followed a stunning B-road to Pistyll Rhaeadr – a joy to ride along. The sheer beauty of the landscape made me feel so much better. Nature really is the best medicine.

And then, finally, when it seemed like the higgedly-piggedly road would never run out, there it was, a white horse-tail of water cascading over the cliffs. I was last here 19 years ago, working on a film called The Runner (a dogdy student flick, a substandard John McTiernan effort ‘starring’ Harrison Ford’s brother). Then I was the gaffer’s assistant, helping to set up the lighting and tracks. First to arrive, last to leave. A freezing night shoot I seem to remember. And now I returned – a bard on a bike!

The place is sympathetically managed. There’s a marvellous note on their website:

‘The falls have not been ‘tamed’ with concrete, safety railings and warning signs, It is a natural in its beauty as God intended it to be!’

The guest house, Tan-y-Pistyll is used for retreats and I read with interest:

‘For generations this location has been held and revered in the hidden orders of druidic folklore as one of there most special and sacred locations. Called the Druids Bowl a place of inner inquiry of the sacred’

I climbed down to the waterfall, and beheld the majestic natural phenomenon. Unfortunately it was hard to get into a reverie when one is being bitten to death by midges, and so I retreated to the café for some warming soup. Afterwards, I found a little summer house, where I was a little safer from attack. Here I could gaze out across to the waterfall, at Lady Pistyll, as she’s called, and ‘channel’ this:

Voice of the Waterfall

From the source I descend,

cascading into your world,

breaking through all barriers

with grace, with joy.

White seam of inspiration,

let it pour through you

do not contain it, restrain it.

Be the flow, the portal of light.

There is so much love,

more than one alone can bear.

it must be shared.

My natural urge is to become

one with the ocean.

Life cannot be separate from life,

and yet it must be allowed

to stand in its own power,

to be fully itself,

shining, magnificent,

a song singing to itself,

expressing its isness,

its soul note.

Kevan Manwaring, Pistyll Rhaeadr, Summer Solstice 2009

There’s a fantastic local legend, which I share below in full:

Dragon Falls – The Gwybr of Llanrhaeadr

Above the waterfall is a lake called Llyn Luncaws. The story goes that in this lake lived a serpent with wings who, once every few days, would fly down the valley to the village and there seize children, women or animals, taking them back to the lake to devour them.

The people of the village got together and, as nobody knew how to kill the gwybr, a number of them set off and walked over the mountains for many days to reach the wise woman of the hills. They told her the frightening story and she listened in silence. When they were finished, she bade them sleep whilst she thought on the problem.

Next morning, when the villagers awoke, they gathered round her and she explained to them in detail what they had to do when they got home. As soon as they arrived back the men got together and went to the blacksmith’s shop, where they worked all day and all night creating three enormous spiked collars of different sizes. The women worked together and gathered in all the linen in the village, sewed it together to make a huge sheet and dyed it blood-red.

In the afternoon of the second day, when all was ready, the whole village set off to the tumuli and great standing stone in the field at the foot of Rhos Brithin. Here the men dropped the three spiked collars over the pillar and the women wrapped the whole lot in the red linen. Then they set about building a circle of fire round the pillar.

The warning was given; the gwybr had been sighted on its way down the river. Quickly they lit the fire and hid amongst the bushes and hedges to watch. As it approached the village, the ring of fire attracted the great serpent and, as it flew closer, it thought it saw another dragon illuminated by the flickering flames. It roared with anger and threw itself to the attack, spearing its breast on the hidden spikes.

Again and again it attacked and each time the spikes drove deeper into its body until it dripped with blood and grew weaker. Eventually it could fight no more and collapsed bleeding and dying at the foot of the pillar.

The villagers, with the help of the wise woman of the hills, had outwitted the gwybr and once more the village was safe.

(from the official site website)

***

I reluctantly left the falls, feeling soothed by its energies and inspired to return. For now, I had to ride the dragon … south … back to my home, where a hot bath and a soft bed awaited.

Births, Deaths and Marriages

5-16 June

Sometimes life seems to challenge us – events come along to test what we’re made of, what we believe. It’s been one of those fortnights … but with positives that give me hope.

Within the last two weeks I’ve had to attend the funerals of an old friend from Northampton who committed suicide and a dear friend from Bath, who died of cancer last Tuesday: fellow poet, Mary Palmer, whose funeral is today – making two in a fortnight. This one will be a different affair from the one I attended in Northamptonshire for Sarah B, mother of two, who tragically took her own life on the 1st of May. Her ceremony took place at Olney Woodland Burial site. About twenty years ago I went to the first woodland burial in the county, for a lady called Jackie. Whether it was at this site or not, I cannot recall, but it is now a small forest. Many gathered in the carpark – and it was sad to think she took her life, when she had so many people who cared about her. I had ridden over the Cotswolds to be there for 2pm. I had ten minutes to spare, but Sarah’s partner and their daughter kept everyone waiting – turning up 50 minutes later (it must have been a huge ordeal for him and the kids). Many old faces were there. While we waited my bardic chum, Jimtom brewed me up a welcome cuppa in his van, which helped me to thaw out from the ride. I chatted to friends I hadn’t seen in ages, making surreal small-talk. Then, finally, we were ready to start. A guy with a flute led us in procession to the graveside. The haunting sound carried across the groves of remembrance and was deeply moving. A simple ceremony took place at the graveside, by the whicker casket. A poem of Sarah’s was read out. The casket was lowered into the ground. As everyone scattered in some flowers, we chanted ‘the river is flowing…’ led by the daughter and a friend. It was heart-breaking seeing the family, clearly decimated by their loss. Afterwards, we decamped to the United Reform Church in Yardley Hastings, just up the road, where no less than three religious ceremonies took place: Pagan, Christian and Buddhist (showing Sarah’s interests and tolerance), plus a moving presentation of her life – with photoes and music. There was a meal sometime in the evening – but not having had any lunch, I was spaced out and flagging, so I left to visit my Mum, whose 65th birthday it was that day – and the initial reason I was visiting Northampton then. It was a shame it was all on the same day, but it some ways it balanced it out: birthdays, deathdays… And the next morning I visited my sister and her wee bairn, Kerry, now a year and half old – eyes full of shining wonder. The cycle of life continues.

I rode home – wiped out from the draining experience, the funeral and a night around the fire in the rain with my ‘frenemies’, trying to rekindle some of the old Earth Rhythm magic and failing. God bless ‘em – but I probably won’t be seeing them until the next one. Once we were close, but now we just get on each other’s nerves. It’s telling it took Sarah’s death to bring us together. A shame, but … people move on.

In extreme contrast to my grim time back in the old town, in Bath I went to a talk by Marina Warner on fairy tales (part of the International Music Festival) at St Michaels church, then onto a private view – my friend, William Balthazar Rose’s new show ‘Horses, Hats, Cooks and Cleavers’. Ah, it’s good to be back in Bath!

The next day I took part in King Bladud’s Pageant, despite not feeling particularly keen to read long complicated texts in large public spaces!

Looking every bit the Bath old fogey I read in John Wood's The Circus, from The Bath Chronicle

Life continued, demanding attention, effort!

I had a heavy week, workwise, with a stack of marking to do – but on Tuesday, a bombshell hit. I received a call saying Mary Palmer had passed away early that morning at Dorothy House Hospice. Her sister was present. Having seen her (fortunately) last Thursday I knew she was on death’s door, but it was still a huge blow. Three months ago she had been performing at Waterstones. The cancer had come back and claimed her very quickly. I read to her in the hospice, and she seemed to be soothed by this, and took solace in the fact her words would live on – we’re publishing her selected poems. In the last few weeks she was able to edit her old work and write new material, up until the last week. It will be a poignant legacy to a brilliant poet. The way her friends have rallied around to help is so heartening.  We are all working hard to ensure her work will survive.

Tuesday night, despite receiving this awful news, I still had to teach somehow, as I was due to do my evening class at Chew Valley School. The session seems blighted – for it was on Tuesday a month ago I heard of Sarah’s suicide. I somehow dragged myself out of the house to go to the lesson, only to find my batteries were flat – and maybe just as well, as I wasn’t really in a psychologically fit state to ride. And today is Mary’s funeral – followed by the class. Not easy, being in the public eye!

Thursday morning I had been booked to run a private dawn ceremony at Stonehenge, through Gothic Image tours. I got up before sunrise and rode there – it was beautiful, seeing the sun rise over the misty, ancient landscape of Salisbury Plain. It was a stunning morning at the stones (for once). Introductions over, I led the small group from the States, Australia and Singapore into the stones, using my wolf-drum to lead the procession. We gathered in the circle and I started, casting the quarters with the help of volunteers (almost one from each corner of the world). In the gorsedd I performed Dragon Drance, which was a thrill to do in the stones, although at 6.30am I wasn’t at my best!  Still, it seemed to move people. A lovely bloke from Kansas wrote to me afterwards saying: ‘I thoroughly enjoyed and was moved by your poem at Stonehenge.  I’m not easily moved, but your words and your voice resonated deeply with me.’ He sent a photo too.

Bard on a Bike at Stonehenge, dawn 11.06.09, thanks to Larry Philips of Kansas

After the ceremony, we went back to the hotel they had been staying in, in Marlborough, for a very welcome cooked breakfast. It was nice to chat further with Jamie’s tour group. I don’t normally run ceremonies, but this was a pleasure. The sunshine makes all the difference!

Bon voyages over, then it was back home and down to earth with a bump for more marking!

The slog must go on!

Saturday, I, unusually, ran another ceremony – a handfasting at Stanton Drew, aka ‘the Wedding Stones’. This was only the second one I had done – the first, on my birthday a couple of years ago at Swallowhead Spring, near Silbury Hill, was for John and Colette. They recommended me to their friends, Nigel and Sophie. It was very special, to conduct the ceremony in the stones. Once more, I found myself leading a procession of people (this time much bigger – about 100) across the fields – negotiating an electric fence, cow pats and stampeding cattle (the cows, hearing our bells and seeing the line of movment may have thought it was feeding time – or was just overly curious. After a couple of attempts to join us or cut us off, they opted for circling a 4WD parked nearby, watching the gathering with frisky intent)! The sun broke through as we began. It was a beautiful ceremony – the couple clearly loved it, going by their beaming faces and comments afterwards. Many there hadn’t experienced anything like it before, and the responsive was overwhelmingly positive. Back at the lovely home of Nigel and Sophie (after a further trepidatious trapse through the cowfield) in the capacious garden, where marquees, dance floor, bar, buffet, chill-out yurt and fire had been set up, I led the toast to the newly weds with my poem, ‘The Wheel of the Rose’, and then entertained the guests with a wedding set, which seemed to go down well. My work done, it was time to hit the road – back to Bath, to say farewell to my friend Svanur, who was going back to Iceland, with a much welcome meal at Anna’s place.

Sunday, I needed a day off! I went on a great walk with fellow Fire Springer, Anthony, on the Malverns – managing to do a full circuit, from Swinyard Hill to Worcestershire Beacon and back again in the glorious sunshine, walking in the footsteps of Tolkien and Lewis, conversation flowing. It was ice-cream weather and a pint of a local ale in the Wyche Inn went down a treat too!

Last night, we held a Bath Storytelling Circle at the Raven especially dedicated to Mary, who was a regular attendee over its ten years’ of existence. Many moving tributes were shared, songs and poems performed in her name – and I can’t think of a better tribute than the way we gathered together in poetic fellowship, remembering her with beautiful words from the heart.

And today, the day of her funeral, I am sure many more moving words will be spoken. I’ve been asked to read out  a poem at the service and also speak in the celebration of her life afterwards at the Forum. It is hard being the bard sometimes – the one who remembers, the one who must stand up there and articulate what everyone is feeling (while being assailed with those feelings themselves), but that is my role and it seems destiny has made sure I fulfil it, by thrusting me into these situations. Bombarded by life (and death). It has been a maelstrom of emotion, these last couple of weeks, and at times it felt the only way I could survive was to ‘lash myself to the mast’, like Turner famously did. One has to ride with it, or be overwhelmed – back in Olney, poet William Cowper, captured this in one of his famous Olney Hymns of 1779, ‘Light Shining in the Darkness’:

God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

7th June

King Bladud’s Pageant

Yesterday I took part in King Bladud’s Pageant, celebrating the legendary founder of Bath, and the centenary of the original Bath Pageant. I had been asked by the organiser, Richard Carder, to run a series of creative writing workshops in King Edward’s School with Year 7, leading up to the event. I got the kids to write stories based upon the local legend and poems based on flying. On the day I was heavily involved in performing – the event began at noon in The Circus with a simple public ceremony. Medieval minstrels (Sulian Early Wind Quartet) played catching the attention of tourists, the sound of the pipes skirling around the incredible space with its triple echo. I had to read out some writings from its architect, John Wood the Elder, from 1749. Not very exciting! Then we proceeded down to the Abbey Churchyard in a raggle taggle procession, led by the musicians and Rob in his white stag head-dress. We turned some heads as we wended our way down Milsom Street, the main shopping artery. We snaked through the milling shoppers, passed the busy busker-pitch outside the Pump Rooms and rendezvoused with the Natural Theatre Company, who had been hired for the event – dressed up as Queen Elizabeth I, Beau Nash, a Roman senator and King Bladud. They looked impressive between the massive ‘chess pieces’ of bull-man and hare-woman created by artist Sophie Ryder. Here I had to read out the whole of the Elizabethan charter, which bequeathed the waters of Bath to its citizens. Unfortunately, Thermae Bath Spa and the council seem to have ignored this fact. It was hard work, getting my way through the chewy Elizabethan legal English to say the least – projecting as best I could in the noisy public space. I found it tedious to read, so no doubt the audience did to listen – but this was what I had been asked to recite. And it was probably the first time in four hundred years Bath’s charter had been heard in its streets. Afterwards the Natural worked the crowd while I caught my breath, chatting to Sheila who did the poster. As we talked a bird crapped on my leg! A sign from our winged king? Or just bloody annoying. I was given tissues to wipe the worst of it off, but my trousers were ruined and I had to go home to change them. On the way back I was struck again – on the shoulder of my nice summer jacket! I must be very lucky! I had to laugh at this, but by the time I got to the Parade Gardens where the picnic was taking place I wasn’t in a great mood – and I needed to just sit down and eat something, so I missed my slot (to read out some of my own work). Fellow poet, Rose Flint, had read some of her work out and with participants placed ricepaper blessings in the Avon, where the hot springs flow out – to counter-act the curses written on lead-scrolls cast into the sacred spring by Roman bathers. People in the park joined in, including the Mayor – who had come down to judge the banner contest (unfortunately there were only 2!). A little restored I made my way to Chapel Arts Centre, where the main concert was due to start at 3.30pm. Here, Richard had ensembled an impressive woodwind orchestra and choir. After some Purcell, I was called up to recite Canto X, Book II of Spenser’s The Faerie Queene. It went better than I expected after the dreary Wood and Charter – Spenser’s lyric were far more oral, designed to be recited in court, methinks. The jaunty rhythm made it rattle along at a fair clip and the saucy allusions made more than the ladies of court giggle. Next, came the main event: Richard’s impressive cantata, especially composed for the event, ‘Bladud and the Goddess’. He used some of the verses from my Spring Fall, and it was amazing hearing them set to music and sung out by an impressive baritone (William Coleman). Rose had her words recreated in similar fashion by Pamela Rudge, mezo. They made an excellent Bladud and Sulis. Before the finale I was asked to read out some of my Bladud and Sulis colloquy from Spring Fall – I enlisted the help of fellow ‘Bladudian’, Caroline Gay Way (middle name after her ancestor, the poet, John Gay, of ‘The Beggar’s Opera’ fame), who read the voice of Sulis. It was a poignant and pleasant surprise to perform with her – she had directed the original production of Spring Fall which one me the chair in 1998. It hasn’t been performed publicly in its entirety since, although I brought out a tenth anniversary edition last year. Richard’s Cantata ended with a stirring finale – and I thought it was a splendid achievement. ‘Bladud and the Goddess’ deserves to be heard more widely – and performed in Bath Abbey and the Roman Baths. Carder is a local ‘Birtwistle’, in what he has accomplished, our own folkloric cycle.

The second half started with some suitably mythic Purcell (The Gordian Knot and the chacony from King Arthur); followed by poems from Rose Flint and her workshop participants; then a stirring new piece composed by Michael Short, which captured the soul of water; local harper, Jennifer Crook, followed with two divine pieces, Lady Marion (Clannad) and Minerva (one of her own). Some more Purcell finished the proceedings.

Afterwards, the core crew – by this time very thirsty – decamped to the Hobgoblin for a much needed and well deserved pint.

Feeling relaxed and in the festival spirit, we decided to check out the play in the park, The Raven and the Rose, which was a good team effort by community theatre Fullsail, and pleasant to watch, though a little chilly and damp – sitting in the rain! But since the play was about the Deluge, and what happened to Noah’s avian emissaries, perhaps the rain was part of it and at the end, though we weren’t treated to a rainbow, there was a lovely sunset. A fitting end to the ’solar day’ of King Bladud’s Pageant, but …time to thaw out and – find some food!

Burnbake Campsite

Friday 30^th May

Arrived at the Wessex Gathering (my 7^th) after a good ride down in the sun. Sitting outside my tent now relaxing, after pitching by the woods in almost exactly the same place I camped in my first time. Was it seven years ago? Feels like longer – so much has happened. It’s good to stop and take stock. As always, it’s a bit hectic before coming down – putting my house in order, tying up loose ends, attending to business. Yet I still managed to do a bit of writing this morning on my novel (inspired by a fantastic play I saw last night the Theatre Royal, a version of Brief Encounter by Kneehigh; and a beautiful morning). The sun has his hat on!

Riding on the bike makes you focus on the now – you have to be fully present. You daydream at your peril! It wipes your mind of the white noise – the stuff that can keep you awake at night, the things that wear your down, wear you out. There’s so much waiting for me when I get back – a mountain of marking, projects, deadlines…The build up to the solstice begins! Yet here I’ll try to step outside of time for a couple of days in this magical place – the breath before the plunge! Here I’ll reconnect with the ‘tribe’ and synchronise with the turning of the wheel. I hope to raise and share the awen, create a story walk, even kickstart a new book. But the main thing is to relax – connect with this place, the people and myself.

Sunday 1^st June

The sun beats down like a gong on Burnbake. It’s a another glorious morning at Wessex (they always seem to have good weather: ‘words with the management’). Yesterday I ran my workshop on creating a local creation myth, which seemed to go well (see below). To my surprise, people turned up at 10am after Phil announced with a blast of his horn and a shout-out. I had about a dozen to begin with. Within a couple of hours we had the legend of Burnbake! We arranged to meet 2.30pm today to have a brief chat before performing it ‘publically’ at 3. After the workshop, I took off since there was nothing on in the afternoon that caught my interest. I went for a pie and a pint of Copper at the best pub in the world, the Square and Compass in Worth Matravers (a true ‘hard core’ pub – its beer garden is decorated with monumental masonry and stone carvings. At one point this used to be the local of the nearby Purbeck Quarry. Now it is the watering hole of well-heeled Purbeckians and in-the-know tourists). It comes complete with its own fossil museum and has an annual ‘rock festival’ of stone-carving. Sitting in the sun, supping my pint, overlooking the sea, I was starting to feel relaxed. Went for a dip in Chapman’s Pool – another tradition for me when at Wessex. This was my ‘beating of the bounds’. The water was freezing but I soon warmed up again, lying in the sun. I ran through Dragon Dance. Then I went on to Swanage – in full knotted hanky British seaside mode – for icecream on the beach, followed by chips (impossible to resist the smell). Wended my way back to prepare for the ceremony and the bardic cabaret. I performed Dragon Dance – my fourteen page praise song to Ablion – from memory to the two or three hundred people gathered. Held their attention and my nerve. It seemed to go down well – afterwards several people came up to say how much they enjoyed it. One guy had been reduced to tears. Even Damh the Bard had been choked up, he told me afterwards. Others were clearly fired up by it and asked for copies, which unfortunately I didn’t have.

After the fire labyrinth – created by the Hearth of Arianrhod – I started off the Bardic Cabaret (another fixture of Wessex) with a new story, for me anyway, The Physicians of Myddvai – and then opened it up to contributions from the floor. We managed an hour’s worth before the Dagda clomped in to do their fire leaping. The curfew curtailed the drumming which accompanied it, but not the singing which went on late into the night. Folk were in fine voice (or at least that’s how it sounded to those around the fire, if not those trying to get to sleep). But it was a beautiful summer’s night – the stars were out, the moon half full or half empty depending on your point of view. Someone saw a shooting star. It was hard not to be enchanted by the ambience. I performed my green man poem as my ‘swan song’ for the night, then hit the sack.

The final morning was relaxed. An even hotter day, it was hard to do anything much. I slowly packed up after lunch and then read my book in the shade of my bike, shawl over my head, like a Bedouin next to his camel, until it was time to lead the story walk – the Legend of Burnbake with the ‘Burnbake Players’. Unfortunately, out of the nine we had the previous day (who were each going to perform a part of the story) only one turned up, Jim. Never rely on anyone! Jim and I muddled through, but it was not the same. Amazingly, some ‘gatherers’ managed to rouse themselves enough to come on the walk, which circumnavigated the campsite, incorporating local features and characters into the narrative. My duties over, I bid farewell to the organisers and hit the road.

Before the long ride back, I paused on Studland Heath to enjoy the view over Poole Harbour with an ice-cream. Wanting one last view of the sea, I popped along to Studland Beach, where I sat incongruously in my bike leathers, sipping a can of Red Bull, then I was off! Back through the winding roads of Dorset to dear old Somerset and home.

The Legend of Burnbake

It was All Wights’ Eve in the land of Purbeck and in the village of the Sifters – the folk who for generations had been the bakers of the area – things were in turmoil. Every year at All Wights’, the Sifters would bake a special cake for the Lord and Lady of the Silent Ones, Lord Stag and Lady Salmon who lived in the Hall of Many Colours – but some had grown tired or sceptical of the Old Ways and that year they had not put so much TLC into the making of the cake. They had failed to collect the nine sacred woods for the fire – and so the cake had burnt. But there was no time to make another one and so it was presented to the Lord and Lady. The rulers of the Silent Ones were furious – and they split the land of Purbeck away from the mainland to teach the Sifters a lesson. They would not return it until they had placated them – proved they still respected the Old Ways and honoured the Silent Ones.

The villagers realised they had to do something to make up for their slackness. And so a group of the Sifters set off to make a new cake. First they had to gather the nine sacred woods from Dapple Wood, the enchanted wood that bordered their village. They crossed over Salmon Brook into the perilous forest, said to be the domain of a hideous beast – to protect themselves they called out its magical name: Obezag! Into the wood they went, searching for the nine sacred woods. They gathered branches of oak, holly and beech, of birch, hazel and pine, of gorse, chestnut and vine. Each time they asked the dryad nicely: ‘old tree, old tree, may we have some wood from thee?’ If the tree obliged, they thanked it properly. ‘Thank you, thank you, old tree, for the wood you’ve given free.’ One by one they gathered the woods – but they needed something else. They needed special water from the Salmon Brook to make the cake with – the banks of the stream were treacherous and were the home of a gnome called Norman. Up he popped. They had to answer his riddle and, guessing it correctly, Norman reluctantly agreed to help. He dived into the water, creating an e-Norman-ous splash, which sent all the water in the stream into the Royal Cake tin awaiting back at the village of the Sifters. But this left no water in the stream, and this was not good. The life of Lady Salmon was tied to the stream – and she began to sicken and wane. That naughty gnome! He was always tricking unwary folk! Fortunately, there was a remedy – and the villagers collected the magic pine cones which would heal the Lady. Then, with the nine branches and pockets bulging with cones, they returned to the village. As they left Dapple Wood they said the magic word that would return them to the real world – the monster’s secret name backwards – Gazebo!

The intrepid bakers made their offering of cones to heal the Lady, and then they set to work – making their fire from nine sacred woods. When this was ready they prepared the cake mix – stirring in some special ingredients: love, beauty, joy, hope, moonlight and magic. The giant cake tin was placed in the oven pit. As time was precious they accelerated the baking by running around it, creating a vortex called a ‘micro-wave’. The cake rose and, topped with special icing from the Arctic, hundreds and thousands from the Milky Way, glow-worms for candles and so forth, was ready!

The sacred cake for the Lord and Lady was processed through the village to cries of: ‘Here comes the cake!’ All was going well, until they realised they couldn’t find the Hall! It was lost in a strange mist. Norman the Gnome popped up and offered to show them the way. They didn’t really trust him but had little choice. Purbeck was drifting further and further from the mainland – any longer and it might not ever be connected again. And so they followed him. That naughty gnome led them into a claggy quagmire called the Dagda’s Porridge. Fortunately, one amongst them remembered the way to counter the tricks of such a trickster – by turning an item of clothing inside out. This was done, Norman got vexed, the mist vanished and the Hall re-appeared. The Sifters made it! They presented their new cake to the Lord and Lady. The rulers could see the villagers had put their hearts into it this time, and so agreed to return Purbeck to the mainland – the Sifters were saved! The Silent Ones were appeased for another year. The fertility festival of We-Sex could begin when many buns in oven would be baked! Ever afterwards, that land was known as the Isle of Purbeck and that village was called as Burnbake.

The End

Created by participants of the ‘Creating a Local Creation Myth’ workshop led by Kevan Manwaring, Wessex Gathering 2009

16th-22nd May

It’s been a busy week of teaching and barding about. I’ve been running creative writing workshops at King Edward’s School (est. 1552!) around the story of King Bladud, for a Bath Fringe 2009 event, King Bladud’s Pageant, a celebration of Bath’s legendary founder to coincide with the Bath Pageant, an enormous event that took place in Sydney Gardens in 1909. Hundreds of local people joined in, as can be seen from the fabulous photos. It’s a shame B&NES Council didn’t get behind this event and encourage all to take part. Richard Carder, the organiser, was originally refused funding but eventually managed to get some from somewhere – and so me and fellow poet Rose Flint got the green light to run our respective workshops. I was chosen to run workshops for Year 7 at Richard’s old school (where he taught music for many years). Rose ran goddess-writing workshops for adults and has written a libretto to be performed on the day. In Parade Gardens on the 7th, between the start at The Circus at noon and the concert in Chapel Arts Centre at 3pm, I’ll be performing extracts from my poem Spring Fall: the story of Sulis and Bladud of Bath, which won me the Bardic Chair of Bath in 1998. It has been republished by awen in a special 10th anniversary edition which includes my prize-winning short story, Taking the Waters – deemed so controversial Le Bath Chronic was too scared to publish it!

Bath Pageant 1909

Monday evening I went along to the Bath Storytelling Circle at the Raven – I wasn’t hosting this month, although I collected performers’ names before Anthony arrived, who was on MC duties tonight. The last guy I asked, a classic grumpy old man, wanted to know ‘what was I selling’ – duh, it’s a free event! I was offering him a chance to perform at our volunteer-run evening… Ah, well. Some people have their own ‘scripts’ and no matter what you say, they only hear what they want to hear. I performed an Irish eco-myth, The Yew Tree of the Disputing Sons. There were fine contributions from Anthony, Richard, Marks I & II, Verona and others. Inspirational local author Moyra Caldecott, frustratingly limited in her speech now due to age-related symptoms, asked me to read out a poem for her:

Cocoon

I lie

curled

in the green cocoon

of my garden

spun of sunlight

and leaves…

ready

to be born.

Tuesday I did another session at King Edwards, getting the kids to write poetry on the theme of flight, to link in with the lesser known aspect of the Bladud story. In the evening I blatted over to Chew Valley School to run my creative writing workshop there for adults. A good session, but I wished I could have been at the Bardic Finals in Glastonbury (when the new Bard of Glastonbury was chosen) but there you go. No rest for the self-employed.

Wednesday, I had my last session with members of BEMSCA, (Bath Ethnic Minority Citizens Association) at Fairfield House, where Emperor of Ethiopia and Rastafarian god, Haile Selassie, stayed during his time of exile (1936-1941). I had been asked to help them produce a booklet of the members’ life writing (all first generation, post WW2 immigrants). They all have incredible stories to tell – and many of them were keen to tell me! I was shown lots of photos – some very old and rare – of numerous relatives and achievements. It was touching and I felt privileged to be allowed a window into their world, to be trusted with their treasures, their precious memories. When the book, Life Journeys, is ready there will be a launch at Fairfield House. I hope to be there to celebrate the residents’ achievement, which is in small measure because of the hard work of the staff there and Norton Radstock College’s support (they’ve been running IT sessions there since last Autumn – and now they’re all surfing the web). Quite rightly, it has become an award-winning project.

Wednesday evening I ran the Bath Writers’ Workshop at the New Inn. This has been going well since we moved to our new home in January – the snug bar of a great back street pub – and since I joined forces with the inimitable Mr David Lassman, esq., master self-publicist and screen-writer. Next week, for our monthly Fourth Wednesday session, we have 2 guest writers in conversation: fantasy novelist Jessica Rydill and Chrissy Derbyshire, whose first collection, Mysteries, I published last year thru Awen.

Thursday I turned to my stack of marking from the Open University – for A215 Creative Writing – I had hoped it might have diminished if I ignored it long enough, but no, it was still there…like a squat toad, waiting for me to snog it. I hoped its inky skin would have edifying properties.

Somehow, amidst all this I have been able to make significant inroads into my new novel, the fifth and final Windsmith novel, The Wounded Kingdom – about 9000 words. This is all that keeps me sane! As long as I can write every day I feel as though I am honouring my own creativity.

All I need now is an agent who gets me a five book deal…

Tonight, though, it’s the opening of the Bath International Music Festival with a big free Party in the City – time to dance in the streets!

1st-4th May

Talk in the Mountains

You ask me, ‘Why dwell among green mountains?’

I laugh in silence; my soul is quiet,

Peach blossom follows the moving water;

Here is a heaven and earth, beyond the world of men.

Li Po, 8^th Century

In Padarn Country Park, Snowdon in the background

The Ecobardic Minifest was a small gathering exploring how we can use the Bardic Arts (poetry, storytelling, song-writing and music) to raise awareness about environmental issues), inspired by An Ecobardic Manifesto (co-written with Fire Springs) at Eric Maddern’s amazing place in North Wales, Cae Mabon – an eco-retreat centre founded in 1989. Eric, an Australian born storyteller who has put down roots in Snowdonia, was inspired by the manifesto and felt it warranted its own special event.

I travelled up with fellow Fire Springers, Anthony and Kirsty. Anthony gave me a lift from Bath – after a false start, waiting in the rain for half an hour at the wrong bus stop (it was May Eve and the Good Folk were already making their presence felt!). It was nice to have time to chat with Anthony, and then his partner Kirsty, on the long ride up. Our job was to keep Anthony awake with our conversation – a challenge for 6 hours, even for bards! We made pit-stops at the Cravens Arms and Oswestry before heading ‘into the wild’. The roads became increasingly dramatic as we headed into the heart of Snowdonia. The half-full moon seemed to be leading us all the way there (perhaps not surprising, since we were heading west but it was a reassuring ‘moon illusion’) Around midnight we paused at Pen-y-Pass, at the highest point of the Llanberis Pass, and got out to enjoy the magical moonscape. The golden section of moon sat on the dark craggy outline of the mountain, beneath a field of stars. It was a cold, clear night. Anthony drew my attention to the sound of the water running down the mountainsides, gathering in streams – skeins of silver on satin – near and far, their soft song countless murmuring echoes in the darkness. We savoured the acoustic spectacle, letting the place work its ancient wordless magic upon us. It felt right to pause at this threshold place – both physical and temporal, as we crossed ‘over’, for it was the witching hour of Beltane Eve, when the veil is thinnest. What could be a more dramatic portal than Llanberis Pass at such a time? This pause before the plunge was important – it helped us to adjust to the different reality we were about to enter. Three days of sacred time in a sacred place. The gentle magic of the water had helped us to smooth some of the brittleness of the journey. We were ready to proceed – completing the final stage in a kind of dream. Certainly the access to Eric’s place was like something from a Winsor McCay cartoon – Little Nemo in Slumberland, or perhaps more appropriately, Dreams of a (Welsh) Rarebit Fiend – as the car negotiated increasingly more absurd hairpin bends and slopes. Somehow, we made it to the small carpark – surreal in the middle of a wood on a mountain side – and lugged our packs down the fairy path into Cae Mabon’s magical kingdom, strange in the darkness, with only Anthony and Kirsty’s headlamps lighting the way. ‘Behold the shining brow!’ Anthony alarmed slumbering hobbits trying to locate our chalet. Eventually we found our cabin – Eric had kindly left on the lights – and we gratefully dumped our stuff. I cracked open a bottle of Wild Hare to celebrate our arrival/Beltane Eve and to help me get to sleep. It was nearly 3 am. I sat in A&K’s room briefly while we ‘decelerated’. After an exhausting journey – when we were all in danger of nodding off – now we suddenly felt (relatively) wide awake. As soon as we had arrived and had stepped out of the car, it felt like all the effort of the journey had been worth it – the fatigue had melted away. I felt like I could of stayed up until dawn – and see in the May – but I wanted to be able to function the next day, so I made myself go to sleep. But no sooner had my head hit the pillow, I was off into the Land of Nod.

Cae Mabon roundhouse

Despite being so late to bed I was the first one up for breakfast – my stomach is the best alarm clock! I made my way down the path to the hall – enchanted by the beauty of the place in the daylight, beholding it for the first time. Cae Mabon consists of a small ‘village’ of eco-buildings: a cob-house, hogan, roundhouse, longhouse, hobbit hut, etc. Many had turf-roofs with blue bells growing on them. The shapes were rounded, organic, as though they had grown out of the land, responding to the aesthetics of place – the curves and kinks in the landscape with slate, wood, thatch. I can see why Cae Mabon has been named the best eco-building project in Britain. Seeing a place like this gives me hope for the future.

Cob-house, Cae Mabon

I met Martin – our incredible chef for the weekend – and Keith, a chippy who lives on sight. I got to have first pickings at his wholesome breakfast – fruit porridge, freshly baked bread, fresh eggs, gallons of tea – as the other participants started to appear.

We gathered officially at ten for our first meeting and discussed what we wished to do over the next three days. The weekend programme evolved in a very organic democratic way. Eric had a gentle hand on the tiller.

We agreed to create a ceremony to celebrate Beltane (May Day) later that day, but the morning was given over to a general discussion about Ecobardism – triggered by Anthony’s excellent ‘keynote’ speech. After the first of increasingly superlative meals, we had a session on ‘Mapping the Fields’ – the territory of Ecobardism. Basically what it means, what it involves, what it tries to tackle.

After this brainwork, we set to work devising our ceremony…

Eric, in his ‘creation myth’ of Cae Mabon, wisely writes:

‘One thing that is common to many groups is the creative use of ritual and ceremony. It seems that for many the old religious rituals do not serve any more. But they cannot dispense with ceremony entirely.

‘The impulse to ritual – the symbolic use of words and actions to intensify experience, to create meaning and to dignify the individual – is deep. In a place like this it is possible to devise rituals that pay homage to ancestors, that honour Nature, that appreciate beauty, that draw on traditions, that reflect the life stories and dreams of the people involved.’

We discussed what elements we wished to include: a honouring of the Green Man and the Goddess; contributions of poetry and song; the four elements; use of the immediate environment as a ritual landscape; Welsh May customs, including a lighting of a sacred fire from nine native woods, the procession of the Cangen Haf, the Summer Pole, and a Welsh Calan Mai carol. These later, indigenous elements, were given authenticity by the presence of two Welsh speakers – Gwynn, a man from the north and Angharad, a woman from the south. Because of arrivals and departures around 5pm we had a finite amount of time and a tight turnaround. We were given half an hour to prepare – select a branch from our chosen tree, gather rags for the Summer Branch, create a posy for the Spring Goddess, prepare the fire, etc – but the time limit galvanised us into action and it all came together really well. The spontaneity of the ceremony gave it a vitality – the spirit was with us. Eric gathered us in the roundhouse with a blast of his horn. He introduced the ceremony, speaking briefly about Beltane, before lighting the Bel-fire, onto which we cast our branches, one-by-one. Then we processed nearby, following the Summer Branch to the main outdoor circle, flanked by upright slate ‘megaliths’ and a tree stump carved with a green man. Here I asked people to connect with the Earth – by forming a circle as a symbol of the planet and feeling it beneath their feet and all around them. I performed my jaunty green man poem, One With The Land, which I had first performed for Beltane about seventeen years ago, ending with the declaration ‘we are one with the land’ as we bent down and touched the earth. Then we moved onto the stream side, where An gharad performed a beautiful poem in praise of Blodeuwedd, whose lovely effigy we could behold opposite, carved into the flank of an oak tree. Then we crossed Aber Fachwen (small white stream) to place the garland at the goddesses feet, before briefly communing with her as we passed. Then onto the grove of bluebells, where Eric asked us to connect with water as Eliot sang his lovely water song. Gwynn then shared his Calan Mai carol, before we tied our rags to the Summer Branch, stating our intention for the coming year. We ended with a suggestion from Kirsty, three cries of Joy as the Greek Nymphs used to shout on the Arcadian mountains: ‘Hara!’

Our Cangen Haf

The ceremony had flowed beautifully, and afterwards we were all buzzing. I felt like I needed to reflect on the experience and I went for a walk up to the waterfall, shown the way by Ken the Kiwi. I felt sensitized after the ceremony and the sun-dappled forest through which the white stream gurgled, seemed especially beautiful. Ken took me into Padarn Country Park, which Eric’s land abuts, to a viewpoint overlooking Llyn Padarn and Snowdon. Here I enjoyed the stunning view, before descending – much in need of a snack and a sit down.

We had an early evening chat while we waited for dinner – Eric regaled us with tales of his recent ‘bee-line’ around north Wales, travelling by foot, bicycle and horse to perform his ecoshow, What the Bees Knows, at various venues. His itinerary included walking over Snowdon and spending a couple of wild nights at Dinas Emrys and on Cader Idris – which he nearly got blown off of, but survived, coming down a ‘dead mad poet’ (the legend goes if you can spend a night on the mountain, you will come down either dead, mad or a poet). We were joined by a pleasant young American guy called Elias from Oregon. We partook of an excellent feast from Martin. Afterwards we gathered in the roundhouse for stories, songs and poems. Kirsty performed her funny First Nations dogs tale, Anthony shone with his ‘A Cobra Hissed’ literary recitation. Ellie sang a wonderful wolf-song, accompanying himself on his haung – a flying saucer style steel pan. I shared my Aristaios the Apiarist of Arcadia, story – which provided an entertaining way of exploring ‘why the bees are dying?’, a worrying contemporary environmental issue. It was late and it was smoky by the time I went on, so I don’t know if I, or the audience, were at their best by then (after 5 hrs sleep the night before and a full day), but the evening passed pleasantly enough. I chipped in The Child of Everything towards the end (round midnight?), my anti-GMO poem. Eric entertained us with some great eco-songs – notably his Long Time Coming cosmic ballad. But then I was ready for bed. It had been a bard day’s night!

The next day we packed a lot in – there was second intensive session of Mapping the Fields, a long session discussing Ecobardic Projects, a salmon feast and ceremony, and a hot tub. The highlight for me was performing my long poem Dragon Dance in the dragon snug, followed by a session on using ceremony and ritual in performance. It was powerful to do it on Beltane, in North Wales (where the dragon in the land is so evident) beneath a ‘dragon’ mountain no less, as Eric informed us.

the Dragon Snug - the perfect venue for Dragon Dance!

The salmon feast is worth mentioning. A salmon became unexpectedly available, and Martin showed his culinary excellence in preparing for lunch – it looked magnificent. To honour its spirit, Elias played his bagpipes (a totemic variant on piping in the haggis). Afterwards, we performed a brief ceremony, casting its bones back into the stream – much to the distress of the onlooking cat.

Cae Mabon - a place of healing and inspiration

We had a mini-session in the round-house, with Gwynn relating an amazing ecobardic epic, which we encouraged him to send to a radical Welsh poetry radio programme and try to get published. Eric treated us to a sample of his What the Bees Know? Eco-show, with songs, stories, poems and bee-facts. This prompted a discussion on the thin-line we tread with such shows between preacher and performer. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to explore this further as it was dinner time. Another magnificent feast from Martin – this time with a mountain of a pudding, dripping with ice-cream, which excited Elias into Homer Simpson-esque euphoria. He couldn’t wait long enough to finish his greens to tuck in.

That night, everyone was rather wiped out – so we didn’t have another roundhouse session. Instead, we had a free evening. The hot-tub was fired up and most of the men took the waters (the prospect of sitting in it naked with men somehow didn’t appeal to the ladies of the group!). It was wonderful to be immersed in the hot water underneath the stars and trees and the glowing moon, Aber Fachwen gurgling merrily passed. I recited The Song of Wandering Aengus to my fellow bathers to celebrate the magical moment. This seemed to fire up the young American with the ‘fire in the head’. Elias erupted skyclad from the tub to chase his two young friends who had been fire juggling, casting dancing shadows around time in the darkness. He seized the fire spear from them and swirled with it in the stone circle – the very picture of a young Celtic fire god. Lugh lives!

The last morning I was awoken by Anthony knocking. The meeting had started and everyone was waiting for me! I had overslept – and the meeting had been brought forward half an hour without my knowledge. I groggily dressed and dashed down to the hall, to grab a mug of tea and some porridge as we discussed our final activity: a story walk. Anthony pulled this together well welcome lucidity and alacrity. We each were asked to find a place in the locality to tell a story about, or recite a poem or song. I knew immediately what I wanted to use – a yew tree, for The Yew Tree of the Disputing Sons, a bleak Irish myth of eco-karma. I hadn’t rehearsed it – and now found myself with 30 minutes to do so. I was also asked to end the story walk with a ceremony! A good job a bard can think on his feet – and as last night’s naked hot-tub performance proved, he is never without material!

The story walk started with a poem by Liz Clarke, youth worker from Bath, who was there with her cute toddler, Lily, who won over everyone’s hearts – and became our ‘Mabon’ for the weekend, the golden child we should never lose within ourselves. Next, we processed up to the hives area, where a drainage pit had been dug. Here, Kirsty performed the story of the Green Children, from St Mary-in-the-Wolf-Pits, Suffolk. A few yards on, I performed my yew tree story, talking about the significance of the tree. We processed over the stream into the sessile oak forest, where had a moving rendition of the Passenger Pigeon tale from Anthony; Elias’ storytelling debut with a parable about the man who sold his heart to Mammon, relocated to Uist in the Western Isles, (Llyn Padarn serving as a loch); then Ellie shared an amusing tale from Africa about the alligator and the hare (at which point a steam train chuffed by, Ivor the Engine-like – along a narrow gauge track once used for transporting slate to the Menai Straits, now tourists). We wound our way back to the grove of the Summer Branch, via a tree where Gwynn shared a poem in Welsh. We gathered, feeling a little chilly – so I got everyone to raise some chi and blow on their hands before we held them! Then I shared my praise-song to creation, encouraging the circle to give thanks in their own way. I ended with a call-and-response Celtic valediction and three shouts of ‘Hara!’

The final lunch was an incredible curry feast – setting us up for the long journey home, or perhaps preventing our departure! It seemed unlikely we would achieve ‘escape velocity’ from the lovely vortex of the place with such a pay-load! We made our final farewells, swapping emails and gifts. Our group had been small, but that meant we had all mattered in a more obvious way than in a larger group – and we had all connected. Friendships forged, a connection with the land renewed, commitments made to ‘carry the fire’ of the Cangen Haf and our intentions into the wider world, we hit the road.

Rather than go straight back to Bath, which would have felt too abrupt – as though I had been thrown off the end of a conveyor belt, I decided to share the lift back with A&K to Stroud and stay at a friend’s place. It gave us a chance to ‘debrief’ and have a kind of plenary session. There was a lot to process from the weekend and it was nice to chat about what we made of it all. The sun shone and the pleasant scenery of the Welsh Marches eased us back into ‘reality’.

The next day I went to the open day at Hawkwood College, Stroud, where I participated in Jay’s poetry workshop. He read out a poem from Rumi, ee cummings and Mary Oliver, and asked us to think about the effect poetry has on us, which prompted this poem of mine:

Poem Flowers

Poetry is the opening of a flower –

beautiful explosions

of sound and consciousness.

Sonic orchids scattered

in the mind’s stream.

Flimsy petals of luxuriant richness

drawing us in,

intoxicated by exotic scent,

colours of a different palette.

Their pollen sticks to us

and we pass it on.

Its soul-nectar sweetens

our heart’s hive.

During the workshop I could hear the strains of the May-pole dancing music drifting across, inspiring this piece:

The Bright Ribbons of May

The bright ribbons of May

plait the pole of the World-Tree.

The children laugh,

eyes shining with story wonder.

Young men and maidens

dance the ancient dance.

The land smiles again.

The widow of winter

changes into her summer dress.

Hope whispers from the hedgerows.

The seven sisters in their bright dresses

circle in the night,

eyes flashing, spells in their hair,

knowing truths

unspoken on their lips.

And between two fires

the stoic herds are driven

to fairer pastures.

***

After Jay’s workshop, we squeezed into the tipi, to catch some of the excellent storytelling by Kirsty and Fiona. Packed in amongst the little ‘uns, we all became children again, entering the kingdom of the imagination. Unfortunately, I felt myself nodding off after a whirlwind fews days. It was all catching up with me.

Afterwards, we decamped to the Woolpack in Slad, Laurie Lee’s local, where, over a pint of Budding, I read out my new poems, ‘ink still wet’, to my creative friends – Anthony, Jay, Gabriel and Miranda – in our poets’ snug. Jay and Anthony shared theirs, then it was time to go – I had a train to catch – but we walked up to Laurie Lee’s grave to pay our respects to the Bard of the Five Valleys. Then Miranda dropped me off at the station, and I caught the train to Swindon and onto home, wearily lugging my pack up the hill to my hobbit abode, glad to be finally back.

It had been a May Day to remember – I felt I had well and truly celebrated it and been fired up by beauty, friendship and awen.

Eric, whose vision has created Cae Mabon over the last twenty years should be applauded. If you can ever make it up, I highly recommend it. Otherwise, check out his show What the Bees Know, if he’s in your neck of the woods. FFI: www.caemabon.co.uk

/|

O Brother Where Art Thou?

18^th-19^th April

The Manwaring Bros - together again!

One of my favourite runs is up to my old home town of Northampton over the Cotswolds – I take the scenic route along the old Fosse Way (a thrilling roller-coaster of a ride – straight but hilly) through Tetbury, Cirencester, then onto Chipping Norton via Stow and Banbury. Stunning. A handy pitstop and half-way point is the Rollright Stones – my ‘first stone circle’ and still one of my favourite, situated high over the Wolds. I wanted to stop there this time as I had been working on my latest and last Windsmith book – now I finally have some head-space for it after handing in Way of Awen – and one of the scenes is set there, involving a dragon (my nod and wink to Devereux’s Dragon Project there in the 70s)! It’s always pleasant to stop somewhere green and peaceful after a couple of hours on the road – when one takes the old lid off, the senses suck in the surroundings like a man dying of thirst. Alas, my idyll this time was shattered by a clay pigeon shoot in the field next to the King’s Stone – a load of wannabe Hoorays practising their ‘peasant-shooting’. I managed to escape the worst of this by walking down to the relative peace of the Whispering Knights, where I sat and ate a sarny in the sun. I thought about the interesting folk tale associated with the place:

Once, two hundred years ago, or was it two thousand, there was a king and his army determined to conquer Britain. They had defeated the resistance in battle after battle as far as Little Rollrights when disaster struck. They met a witch who pointed at the conquering king and prophesised: ‘Seven long strides thou shalt take! If Long Compton thou canst see, King of England thou shalt be!’ His scouts had confirmed that the village of Long Compton was just over the brow of the hill. Optimist in his imminent glory, the king took seven strides forward. Unfortunately, his victory was thwarted by a mound – stubbornly obscuring his view. The witch shrieked: ‘As Long Compton thou canst not see, thou and thy men hoar stones shalt be!’ And the king and his army were all turned to stone…

These petrification tales are common – typically, drunken revellers dancing on into the Sabbath and getting turned to stone for their disrespect, eg the Wedding Stones of Stanton Drew. Christian propaganda, perhaps, but good yarns! Feeling like I had imbibed a little of the cromlech’s ‘dragon energy’, I headed on – to the dirty old town. Northampton!

Here, I visited my mum – checked out the progress on the garden and lent a hand, laying some lawn and planting a cherry tree. My sister turned up and we went for a couple down Dad’s old local, where they had put a plaque up at his corner of the bar. A nice gesture, despite spelling his name wrong! It was quite moving to see it and to raise a jar of his favourite tipple in his memory. That night I caught up with some old friends at the noisy dive that is the Racehorse. It had been a lovely sunny afternoon (if a little fresh over the Wolds) and J, me old mate, had it in his head it would be good to sit out in the garden. Unfortunately, by the time we got there (picking up his mum on route!) it was dark and … freezing. There was an impressive brick chimenea roaring like Dante’s inferno – which made me comment: ‘I always thought Northampton was a gateway to Hell and now I know!’ The various goblin-like denizens – pierced, tattooed, spiked, shaven, studded – hunched over their various poisons, polishing their cynicism, did not dispel the illusion. The Racehorse hasn’t changed since I used to go their as an art student in the late 80s. It’s where old Goths go to die. The freezing night forced us inside, where our eardrums were bombarded by deafening drum ‘n’ bass, making conversation in a group impossible (which renders the whole point of being in a pub, well, pointless in my humble opinion). To find respite from bleeding eardrums, one had to stand outside and freeze – only to risk passive cancer from the smokers. So much for ‘fresh air’. I realised I wasn’t enjoying myself by this point and decided to leave…I must be getting old.

The next day more than made up for a disappointing evening. A walk over Delapre Abbey always straightens me out – it did as a kid growing up there, and it still does. It is my oldest sanctuary. I checked on the progress of the Dad’s tree – and new leaves were growing on it. And the gardens were in their Springtime glory. I ‘stood and stared’ in my grove, letting it work its quiet magic.

Here’s the poem I wrote about the place a few years back:

The Green Abbey

By salmon wisdom I am ever returning

along that avenue of gothic oaks,

towards the white clock tower, still,

above the bolted coach-house.

Perambulating about this accumulation of architecture:

the sandstone hourglass

of my memory mansion.

The crackle of gravel

my favourite track

of the old record office –

the familiar groove spiralling inward.

Into the dog-eared garden,

past the gravestones of pets:

the ghost of my hound leading me on –

playing with me still in his paradise.

So many times he brought me here,

teaching me to follow my instincts,

to listen to nature,

nurturing my fledgling wild-self –

the boypuppy who became a wolf.

Here in a personal wilderness I found solace

from the pain of passion,

first and lost loves,

alienation and aloneness.

Discovering solitude

but unable to share its bliss.

In make-believe I found my beloved;

playmates in hide-and-seek with passers-by:

a Jack-in-the-Green, without knowing why.

In this nursery of my imagination

I learnt the alphabet of trees, an Adam

naming them octopus heart monkey.

By a foetid pond with broken maw

I cast a witch in shadowy hut;

and gypsy lights winked

in the gloaming;

and grey ladies drifted

in the undead night –

the phantom nuns

who left a legacy of peace

as they paced their sanctuary:

every step a prayer.

And here I repair when I grow weary of the world

for their healing grace –

a taste of the grail

that restores my wasteland

with the memory of summer,

of sunfat days of timeless youth,

of picnics for virgin palates,

of blind kisses beneath staring stars,

and shadowdancing

under champagne moons.

Where goddesses of fish and cat

enticed from their fastnesses

I gleaned an inkling of the Muse.

And in the grove of my Lord and Lady

I silently communed, vertebrae to bark.

Above, tall and strong,

how they watched me grow -

their heartwood my Axis Mundi:

spine of my history.

Each ring witnessing my full circle -

as past and future pilgrims

rendezvoused with déjà vu

beneath the trysting tree.

O, the oaks of my Arcadia,

archive of my life,

endure always –

keep the world at bay.

As in amber be the bowers

of blessed Delapre.

Kevan Manwaring 1999-2004

After doing some work on the garden, I bid farewell to mum, and headed south – deciding to risk a visit to my ‘long-lost’ brother, now residing in Buckinghamshire just down the A43. I hadn’t seen Gary for about seven years – and even birthday and Christmas cards had dried up. I don’t know why – because we always got on okay. It saddened me to think I had a brother in the world who didn’t acknowledge me and I decided to do something about it. I had tried to ring that morning but got no reply and so, somewhat nervously, I decided to risk just dropping by. As it was still early and I hadn’t eaten lunch I made a beeline for Jack’s Hill Café first, just outside Towcester on the A5, a famous biker greasy spoon, where they were having a ‘Ton-up Day’. The carpark was looking healthily full of mean machines as I turned up on my humble Zuki. A Stones-sounding and looking rock band (The Rocketeers) was playing in front of the café and there was a nice vibe. I got me a ‘biker’s breakfast’ (albeit a veggie variety) and sat down to soak up the oil and grease. Luvverly! Slurping down my cuppa, I wandered around, checking out the big bikes and the couple of stalls – one about the charity, Riders for Health, and the other, promoting Riders’ Digest (which I thought might be interested in a page from Bard on the Bike). A raffle ticket and a promo copy later, I sat on my bike and listened to the second set of the band – bluesy Americana – before heading off to find my brother’s place.

Jack's Hill Cafe, Ton-up Day, 19th April '09

Amazingly, I found it – a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately my mum had shown me some photos of the place the previous day so I recognised the house as I rode past it. I pulled up in the layby in front of their house, just as my brother was coming out of the house. I thought he had seen me, but when I flipped my helmet up and called out ‘Hello!’ he politely responded and carried on pottering in the garden. I found out later he thought I was just another walker – they’re used to ramblers parking there. Like Odysseus, returning after twenty years I was not recognised by my own relative. And so I got off the bike, pulled her up onto the centre stand and lock the front wheel, before approaching the garden. Gary was just out of sight, putting some bread out for the birds – and I poked my head around the corner and said: ‘Would you be my brother?’ He finally recognised me and held out a hand – but I gave him a fraternal hug. This was a big moment for me. Here, in front of me, was my brother, looking so … solid, with his black beard and mature Clooney-esque looks. Seeing a sibling, especially one of the same gender, makes you feel more real somehow. You are not alone in the world. Another shares your genes. It’s a powerful feeling. A little awkward at first, but not unwelcoming, he showed me his impressive vegetable patch. It turns out he has green fingers. Clearly he has ‘put down roots here’, and I can see why – a lovely place far from the madding crowd. He invited me in and we slowly, hesitantly caught up. His partner, Lisa, finally arrived – she had wondered why Gary had invited a ‘stranger’ into the house! I wasn’t a stranger, I was his brother … but it had been too long – we were practically strangers – and we had a lot of catching up to do. More than was possible in my brief visit – the kick-off of the big game was within the hour, which somewhat curtailed it – but the main thing was the ice had been broken. Lisa’s son was introduced, a nice lad called Jay. I think I won him over with one of my muffins. Lisa made us a much welcome coffee. Gary and I swapped emails – a good sign. Before I left we had a couple of photos – evidence! Look, I have a brother! And hopefully Gary won’t forget he has one now. I am happy for him – he has a nice house, partner, step-son, is doing well in his job (lucky to have one in this current climate). He’s just got on with his life and I can’t blame him for that … but the old call or card wouldn’t have gone amiss! Don’t be a stranger, bruv! I’ve missed ya!

Still I left glowing with happiness – and had to stop at the next village just to assimilate the experience. Composed, I carried on my way – taking a short-cut along a B road to cut out Banbury, passing thru the picture postcard Deddington. I stopped off at Ma Larkin’s, another café popular with bikers (several were parked up, also out enjoying the rays) for a galvanising cuppa for the road and then headed back down the Fosseway into the setting sun. When the weather’s with you, there aint nothin’ better than riding on two wheels.

I was enjoying myself so much, blatting along, I decided to take an impromptu ‘alternative route’ back, turning right at Cirencester – taking the lovely Minchinhampton Valley into Stroud and calling in on my friend who has a stunning place on the edge of the Cotswolds … but that’s another story.

29th March-6th April

In the land of the Longobardo!

It is hard to know where to begin to sum up my 9 days in Italy. I was booked to run storytelling workshops with teenagers in aschool in Udine, NE Italy, by a fellow teacher, Silvana Muzzati, whom I met when she attended my creative writing classes at the University of Bath, where she was teaching Italian. Now back in her native Italy, she teaches English to pupils at Liceo Scientifico Statale Giovanni Marinelli, a scientific college. Last year her recommendation got me a couple of days workshopping in Asti, in the Piedmont region. This time I had longer – a full seven days to run workshops for the whole 4th Year -13×2hr workshops, plus a teachers’ inset in creative writing – making a marathon 28 hours teaching in total (to approx. 300 pupils and teachers). This was always going to be a test of stamina, but it was undoubtedly worth it. The kids were great, the response was positive – so it felt like it had ‘worked’. And every afternoon and evening I had free to enjoy Italian cuisine and the delights of the region, courtesy of my wonderful host, Silvana. I stayed at her place in Spilimbergo – a lovely house built by her father, next door to her sister – and she was extremely hospitable, making me feel comfortable and feeding me up like a typical Italian mama! I had never eaten so well for so long – each meal was another epicurean pleasure, as Silvana took my palate on a tour of the province. During the week I was treated to lovely local fare, including Fricco – a delicious cheese and potato dish; a yummy ‘peasant bean stew’; grilled polenta with fabulous cheeses; gnocci; porcini & truffles; the best risotto and best tortellini I’ve ever had. Italians enjoy good food, slowly. Lunch can last a couple of hours – it certainly did for us, as school finished at 1 o’clock. Evening meals normally are served around 8pm – a little later than I’m used to and my body clock needed to make some adjusting to the diurnal rhythm, starting with an 6.15am alarm call to get to school for an 8.05am start. I have never been so active so early for so often! …But I soon got used to it. What I like about Italian culture is the way meal-times involve ’slow food’ and are family affairs when possible (some must grab a quick bite depending on their job, but most shops shut between 1-3pm and everything goes quiet as the nation takes lunch!) Also, I like the early evening stroll when folk wander into town for an apertif – often taken standing up on the pavement at tall tables, for the focus is on people watching and socialising. Everyone it seems goes for an evening constitutional – teenagers, young parents with bambinis, workers, the elderly – it’s the time to ’see and be seen’. Even a smallish town like Spilimbergo comes alive at such times and the atmosphere is pleasant. Unlike Britain, there isn’t a booze culture. Drinking always revolves around food – and many bars serve ’starters’ to go with the early evening aperitif. As soon as you order you get a bowl of crisps or other nibbles. In the trattoria you get a basket of bread.  There’s no chance of starving in Italy! I was starting to feel like Homer Simpson by the end of the week – as Silvana put it, a bit ‘Michelinos’, after the Michelin man! But my workshops kept me on my toes – as they involved quite alot of movement and energy. I don’t know how teachers keep going – I was wiped out after each morning, but I guess I was putting my all into a 2 hour ‘blast’ rather than a slow burn term-long approach. Still, I have respect for teachers who have to do this all year long! I spent most of the week spaced out with fatigue – not really having a chance to recover from travelling. And everything being different – the language, the culture, the country, my diet, my working week, & domestic arrangements – made ‘the basics’ tiring. Everything required more effort than if I was, say, in my comfort zone back home – and of course it’s healthy to be pushed beyond that zone, but it made the week a tiring one.But it was nevertheless, a pleasurable, memorable experience. Not only had I a lovely host who was good company (but knew the importance of ”time out’) but most afternoons I was taken to somewhere interesting.

Here’s some dispatches written in situ…

Bard and the Bora - a windy day in Spilimbergo

Tuesday 31st March, Bottega del Caffe, Udine

Sitting at a cafe in the centre of Udine, Northern Italy, watching the proprietress sweep the floor in the wind, the leaves swirling about her skirts, her long sienna hair teased into gorgon tendrils of terrible beauty. Fiercely, she sweeps, like the Spring winds, magnificent, proud. The spirit of Spring, of Autumn, of Winter. Of change – life’s inexorable cycle. The spirit of youth – as irrepressible as Spring’s sap – and even perhaps the spirit of death – katabolic, cathartic, the dark crone of dissolution, the stern widow who will suffer no fools gladly. Who sees through the lies of men. Who attracts the eyes of men. The dark sickle of her cleavage every time she bends to sweep draws the gaze like iron filings to a magnet.  A grey nun on a bicycle rides by, men on motorbikes joust traffic, chic shoppers hustle and bustle, young mothers – bambinis dangling between their breasts or in pushchairs. Scooters buzz. Wheels turn… The fresh wind swirls the trees, snaps off a branch that falls on my table, brings new weather as old as the hills, relentless energy moving forward forever, the Spring tide of life, a wave ever building, never breaking. Onwards! Tidal wave of tomorrow. The boot of Italy – a leg allegro, striding forward. Best foot. A country of movement. A verb nation. Reverberation. A seismic rumble from the gods of industry and fashion. Chic business. A Catholic work ethic – work hard, play hard – focussed flamboyance. La dolce vita. The opera of life.

Civvidalle - East to the Alps

Civvidalle 4th April

Sitting outside the Caffe’ Longobardo in Civvidalle – a town on the border between Italy and Slovenia – and still enriched by its Longobarda heritage. It straddles the Natisone river, which courses through a gorge dramatically splitting the town. This is crossed by the Ponte el Diavolo, the Devil’s Bridge. My host Silvana kindly brought me here after school finished – 4 more to go! We had a nice lunch in the trattoria opposite the school – crespelle with spinach and ricotta. It was a hot afternoon – the temperature in the car when we left was 24 degrees. We were both tired after our classes. We parked the car and walked to the diabolic bridge – stunning over the turquoise waters. You could see trout basking a hundred feet below. Swifts darted under the tall arches. We crossed and sat in a park facing the bridge, enjoying the view of the town, river and mountains facing East to Slovenia. We talked for a while and then happily sat in silence – enjoying the peace. Silence at last after alot of talking. A week of words. A river of words. I thought about languages flowing into each other here at this crossing place – Slavic, Italian, Friulian (the local ‘language’), English, German – flowing together and flowing to the sea. Mother tongues into mother ocean. Becoming one again – after Babel.

Devil's Bridge, Civvidalle

Afterwards we visited an incredible underground temple – L’ipogeo Celtico. When Silvana mentioned there was a Celtic temple in the town my ears pricked up. A must! To gain access you have to collect the key from the local bar. We let ourselves in and flipped on the lights from the fusebox. A stone staircase lead downwards. We descended into the dripping darkness.

L'ipogea Celtico, Civvidalle

The rockcut catacombs immediately reminded me of the Hypogeum in Malta and it had a similar acoustic ambience. I tested this by intoning in different parts of the ‘temple’ – starting low like a Tibetan monk. Eventually found a pitch which harmonised with the space according to Silvana.  A higher register. I awenned and asked for peace to the ancestors and the genius loci. Silvana found the atmosphere slightly creepy and sad – as though something had happened here … not murder, but suffering of some kind. She imagined people hiding here. Although it has been long associated with the Celts (the Longobarda were the local tribe) the latest idea is that the Jewish community used it (it is close to the synagogue) and maybe they were forced to gather here in times of pogrom. Perhaps in the Second World War? The town is very close to Austria. I imagined them singing their songs of sorrow and solidarity. I imagine the place was used by different people over the millenia and cannot be claimed by one culture. It is a negative space into which people have poured their feelings or projected their fears. I felt that whatever S. had picked up here could be released by singing. Vernon Watkins wrote in ‘The Feather’: ‘Unless I make that melody, How can the dead have rest?’ I could imagine the Celts bringing out the skulls of their ancestors at sacred times, eg Samhain, placing a candle within them and communing. Placing offerings of food, liquor, song. S. was relieved when we left. Three masks had been cut into the rock – I had found two. Returning the key Silvana discovered from the barman  there was a third. She asked me if I wanted to return to see it. I said to ‘leave a little bit of mystery for next time’. When we emerged from the subterranean temple I stood in the narrow street in an epiphanic glow, my senses on fire after being ‘deprived’.

Back in the sun - outside the L'ipogeo Celtico

We visited an oratory when local nuns sang – the Christian equivalent of the sounding chambers of the L’ipogea – but my soul was still underground. I didn’t want to listen to some turgid commentary on a dodgy ipod. It seemed rather sterile after our visceral experience and after a week at school I wanted to ‘bunk off’. I feel Silvana is so used to being a teacher that she forgets adults aren’t school-children sometimes! I don’t want to be spoon-fed history lessons. I prefer to enjoy the ambience in my own way. Hearing some boring recording is not the best way to really experience a place.My ‘rebellion’ caused some hilarity anyway, and in good spirits we carried on our way – passed the oldest house in Civvidalle, and going down to the river side where I bathed my feet in the icy mountain water.

A cafe I could relate to!

We decided to stay in Civvidalle until it was time to go to Udine for dinner. We found a lovely cafe in the central square, Caffe Longobardo appropriately, where we enjoyed an aperitif and the pleasant atmosphere. My hearing seemed sensitised after the L’ipogeo. I listened to the bells peal. Pop music from the bars. Children laughing, pedalling their small trikes across the cobbles.  Friends talking. Clatter of crockery. Loose change. Mobiles. A froth of noise in a sea of sound. I wrote in my notebook as Silvana went into her own space – both in companionable silence. I have felt a greater connection with this place than anywhere so far – probably because of the Celtic connection (this was a pleasant surprise, but shouldn’t have been with Austria so close. Hallstat, cradle of Celtic culture was just over the other side of the mountains which dominated the northern skyline). The L’ipogea was an exciting discovery – an unexpected treasure (S. had not visited it before, so it was a first for her too). The fact that the region is associated with the ‘Longobards’ endeared me to it! Something I could relate to. After a week immersed in another culture I felt yearnings to connect to my own – not out of homesickness, but to stop myself feeling completely ‘drowned’ out. To regain a sense of self. Watching a couple of British movies at Silvana’s gave me a temporary fix (Elizabeth: the golden age & The Other Boleyn Girl). I have enjoyed this ‘different life’ but such experiences make us appreciate our own even more. For me feeling connected to the land in which I live is essential. Iain Sinclair said: ‘We are never more than an extension of the ground on which we live’. We can be ‘universal citizens’, travel the world, enjoy different cultures, geographies, but to flourish you need roots.

Isle of the Dead, Venice

5th April, Isola di San Michele, Venice

I write this on an Isle of the Dead in the sun – the funerary island of Venice, which reminds me of  Bocklin’s famous paintings of the one in Florence. It is thrilling to be here – walking in myth. I was keen to visit this ‘lost island’. Silvana reluctantly joined me on this visit to another ’spooky place’, as she charmingly called it. We took the vaporetto across – a very busy ferry service full of distinctively alive passengers! Alighting at the wharf, we got a map and discovered there were various ‘celebrity’ graves. We made a beeline for Stravinsky’s grave in Rec. Greco and Brodsky’s in Rec. Evangelo, but could not find Ezra Pound’s, not matter how much we wandered around (’he was a Nazi anyway’). His grave, like his work, remains obscure to all but acolytes.

The place is peaceful – a sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of the most beautiful city on Earth. It is noon and I am light-headed with hunger (breakfast, at 6.30am seems along time ago). I have snacks but there is a taboo here against eating – the living should not partake of the bread of the dead. In many stories there is a taboo against the food of the otherworld – for it can force you to stay, as it did Proserpina/Persephone who partook of the pomegranate seeds of Hades, Lord of the Dead, and is forced to spend three months every year under the Earth. In ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ the Queen of Elfland warns: ‘All the plagues that are in Hell dwell in the fruit of this country’. No photographs can be taken in the cimitero either – out of respect for the dead (and no doubt their living mourners). Ironic, perhaps, since tourists often take photoes to remember – it is a place of remembrance. I was surprised by how many contemporary burials there were – the cimitero is still very much in use. Rows of ‘high-rise’ mausoleums stretch out in every direction – death’s council estate. Italian cadavers are rarely cremated – as Catholics believe in the resurrection, for which mortal remains are required. The often opulent graves – thick slabs of marble, plinths, pedestals – are adorned with a photograph of the deceased, who beam back from beyond the veil, smiles fixed like the bloom of plastic flowers, bouquets of which festoon the cenotaphs, rendering the chic kitsch. Most touching are the graves of children whom death took too soon – from the dates some are evidently stillborns. Time stands still here. … But we must return to the land of the living before we fade. The dead can keep their peaceful sanctuary, the tranquility broken only by birdsong and footsteps on gravel. With almost palpable relief we saw our reliable Charon approach.

Grand Canal from the Rialto Bridge

By the Grand Canal, Stazione Venezia di Santa Lucia

Sitting by the Grand Canal,

hypnotised by blue and gold ripples.

A fabulous tapestry. The warp and weft of

vaporetto, river taxis, shuttling to and fro,

disgorging snap-happy tourists in ridiculous hats.

The farting boats pass

ochre palaces, mustard, pink -

architectural confections the colour of ice-cream,

a gelatteria of mouth-watering delight.

A thousand accents jostle in the campo.

A city of dreams and desires,

of remembered wishes,

Here we project our happiness,

a classic movie – flickering phantoms overlap the view -

we experience the real through cinematic sunglasses.

The Bridge of Sighs is obscured

by a massive fashion billboard,

advertising designer bling.

The heat of the day eases.

The Earth breathes.

The stones exhale their warmth.

Shadowy Calla keep their shuttered secrets.

Temples and churches, mansions and penthouses.

Months of honeymoons,

romance laps against the seaweed steps.

The world is benign today.

The moon, a newly formed pearl,

hangs in the sky, waiting

for a daring Eros to snatch it.

Love sighs from every bridge.

Venus waits in the waves.

Silvana and Kevan by the Grand Canal, Venice

Trieste & Duino

6th April

My final two workshops finished I was free! It was another gloriously sunny day (the weather has improved over the nine days I’ve been here). We grabbed a pannini in a cafe opposite the school frequented by staff and pupils alike – and run by ex-pupils, so it had a mildly chaotic air. And I tried a ’strong ale’ called significantly (to me) Ceres (7.7%!) I wouldn’t normally drink at lunchtime – I don’t at home (otherwise I wouldn’t get anything productive done in the afternoon) but here it became part of the ritual of lunch. After four hours of workshops it was a good way to wind down – by then I was often hot and dry-throated. We set off for Trieste – about 90 miles away. The feeling that ’school was out’ put us in good spirits, even though we were tired. The riding there was pleasant, through a shifting geography – we crossed an altiplano of dramatic carsiche rocks before descending into Trieste along the stunning coast road. Parking up along the seafront we hit the town – an impressive place. A university town, it has a sophsticated air about it. It drips culture, as well as being a busy urban centre. I’ve never seen so many bikers – on modern fat scooters pretending to be bikes and real bikes. There’s a factory here apparently – but its also part of Italian culture. A nation in love with speed and business, in the industrialised north anyway. The Futurist dream that came true. We didn’t have much time so we headed swiftly for Cafe S. Marco, Joyce’s favourite haunt, on the other side of the centre. Unfortunately it was closed (many do on a Monday), but my disappointment was somewhat compensated by coming across Joyce’s statue (we had passed one earlier to a local poet, Saba).

Joyce statue in Trieste

Photo opportunities out of the way, we decided to go to the cafe frequented by the intellectual elite (the wealthier caste, as opposed to Joyce’s impecunious crowd and the political agitators who frequented the cafe on the square). Here we hoped to imbibe its cerebral ambience, but both felt too shattered to do more than share inanities. ‘I would be happy to watch a cartoon!’ I joked. After a week’s teaching and intensive communication this was all I was capable of! Still, it was an elegant place, even though it took so long to get served I had to go and buy another parking ticket (we’d been stung for one the other day, day-dreaming in Civvidalle). I felt revived after my Earl Grey tea (an Englishman needs his tea – and it’s been devastatingly rare this week). We set off for our final site visit – the Rilke walk in Duino. This was a simple pathway through a stretch of woodland straddling the cliffs of exquisitely eroded carsiche rock. It was a moving experience, to walk in his footsteps, to breathe the ’same air’ as he had done, enjoy the same noble vistas over the Adriatic. We walked up through the shady resinous woods to a view point, where we simply sat and soaked in the magnificence. It was a peak experience. We were both filled with the sublime grace of its genius loci. It provided a epiphanic ending to our week and my time in Italy. We didn’t feel the need to go far – just ’stand and stare’. It was good to be still after so much travelling (S. had done alot of driving this week, commuting back and forth between Spilimbergo and Udine, and ferrying me places of interest – it was a shame she hadn’t got more help from her colleagues). Earlier in the week I had posted on Facebook that I was off to ‘walk in the footsteps of Rilke’ and a German friend asked me to read out a poem for him (’Say one poem for me for Rilke, one of the worlds truly bardic poets. Now this is one of the few Germans where i am glad I can read the original…nothing like his language…makes speric music out of the old teutonic brawl.’ Karola). We didn’t make it that day because S. was wiped out (it had been pretty much 24/7 for her). But I read out an extract of the First Elegy today. It was moving to read out Rilke’s words in perhaps the very place he had composed them (the Duino Elegies – he stayed at the nearby castle, the guest of the fabulously named Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis-Hohenloe). The section I had selected seemed deeply resonant:

Yes – the springtimes needed you. Often a star
was waiting for you to notice it.
A  wave rolled toward you out of the distant past,
or as you walked under an open window,
a violin yielded itself to your hearing.

All this was mission. But could you accomplish it?
Weren’t you always distracted by expectation,

as if every event announced a beloved?
(Where can you find a place to keep her,

with all the huge strange thoughts inside you

going and coming and often staying all night.)
But when you feel longing, sing of women in love;

for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate

(you envy them, almost)

who could love so much more purely

than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising;

remember: the hero lives on;

even his downfall was merely

a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature, spent and exhausted,

takes lovers back into herself,

as if there were not enough strength

to create them a second time.

Rilke’s words strike seams of fundamental truth. They are a draught from a deep cool well. A cry from a lofty place. My words were carried out to sea. We let the silence settle. We walked a little further, our senses delighting in the Spring woodland gilded by an early evening light. White hawthorn flowers shone like stars in the fecund shadows. S. told me of the places dark past – the deep defiles were infamously used in WW2 by internecine partisans, who would cast unfortunate rivals down them. This chiaroscuro – unbearable beauty tinged with unbearable tragedy is so perfectly Rilkean.   We can to another viewpoint, looking out over jagged cliffs – like Easter Island giants ready to topple into the sea. A helicopter buzzed overhead. I tracked a seagull far below across my field of vision, out of sight. I savoured this moment of stillness before my long journey home. Everything was numinous with poignancy. Perhaps because I was tired and it was the end of a long, hard week, but I felt quite emotional – but in a satisfying way. The release of relief, I guess. It was accomplished. My work here was done – the coast stretched tantalisingly into the haze of the east, but for now, it was time to return. Further discoveries awaited for another trip.

On the Rilke walk, Duino

TS Eliot famously wrote in ‘Little Gidding’::

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

This sums up so perfectly the experience of returning home after a long journey. I remember how I felt when I wandered my home town after seven months abroad travelling around South East Asia. Nine days in Italy was not in the same league, but I still felt deeply appreciative of my own neck of the woods the next day, as I went for a walk in the late afternoon sun, my senses keenly aware, and one of the real benefits of such a trip is that it resensitises you to the wonders on your doorstep:

An early evening walk on Bathwick Hill

the familiar transfigured

by a traveller returned.

Scruffily ambulating passed

the dignified Georgian architecture,

the uxorious blossom of magnolias,

Wordsworthian daffodils,

crocuses, budding bluebells. The sun,

a medallion of butter,

melting into evening.

The pale dubloon of the moon

rising over Smallcombe’s ghosted groves.

A kestrel hovers above the hedgerows,

dancing a tarentella with the wind,

a flamenco femme fatale.

The April wind is a cold hand,

shaking the grass. A biting contrast to

the swooning heat of an Italian afternoon.

The subtle shift of palette – golds, ochres,

dusty olive to a rainbow of greens.

With inexplicable pride I behold

an oak tree with leaves of flame.

A Union Jack untangles its crosses in the breeze,

defiant on a flagpole – and for its first time its colours,

its design, seems beautiful.

Is it strange to love to the country you live in?

Browning’s words echo in my head. Yes,

it is good to be England now that April’s here.

To awake and behold my walled garden,

hear the sweet birdsong. The joyousness of Spring.

To savour it like Odyssesus, senses renewed.

Every homecoming makes an Ithaca of the familiar.

KM 10.04.09

PS A sad post-script to this is the 6.3 earthquake which hit central Italy in and around L’Aquila on Monday night – which came to light when we touched down at Bristol International, near midnight. The news was just breaking on the rolling news that sleep groggy passengers watched while waiting for their luggage on the carousel. Today, Good Friday, is a national day of mourning in Italy for the hundreds dead and all those affected. The British Red Cross has set up an appeal and you can donate via this link:

http://www.redcross.org.uk/news.asp?id=93875

The Hill of Wells

21^st March 2009

‘My eyes made fountains’, John Masefield

Looking towards British Camp, Malvern Hills, 22rd March '09

I am filled with awen having just seen Robin and Bina Williamson perform their Songs for the Rising Year at Malvern Wells village hall – around the corner from where I’m staying (a lovely B&B, the Dell House, sleepily ensconced within its leafy bower as the name suggests). It was a joy to see and hear them both again – a fitting ‘end’ to my bardic journey (in the context of my book, The Way of Awen: journey of a bard – due in imminently) for Robin is a living embodiment of the Penbeirdd – a worthy inheritor of Taliesin’s title for my money. I am a bard, but Robin is on another level entirely, and shows in his consummate skill and stage professionalism how far I have yet to go – not that I imagine matching Robin’s huge talent and achievement (he is a living legend, after all). It is rightly humbling to note there is always someone more advanced than you. In truth, we all have our own mountains to climb – and whatever size that, the achievement of reaching its particular summit should not be diminished by the mountains of others.

The fact that I made it here, however humble an immram, is a kind of ‘mountain’. This morning I was sluggishly recovering from the previous night – a big night when we launched Jay’s book (Places of Truth: journeys into sacred wilderness – working on it whetted my appetite for such places) at Waterstones, Bath; an event fellow poet and tutor Mary Palmer asked me to organise. So I had to co-ordinate the performers, promote it, MC it, and publish Jay’s book (being a writer requires more skills than ‘just’ writing these days – gone are the days of waxing lyrical in ivory towers and perhaps just as well). It was a good night – the awen flowed. All the performers were very professional so helped to carry the weight – it was a collective effort and and credit to all those who took part… And, what a relief, we did it! Despite last minute ‘labour pains’ we got Jay’s book out on schedule (collected from the printers the day before – phew!). It’s been an intense couple of weeks – stacks of marking, Jay’s book, my book, Waterstones, Bournemouth talk last Monday, Bath Writers’ Workshop, my evening classes… I felt I deserved a break. It’s essential to replenish the cauldron – and where better than on the hills of wells, where Long Will, as William Langland was known locally, lay down ‘tired out from (his) wanderings’ and had his visionary dream ‘among the Malvern hills’ of his divine allegory, Piers the Plowman.

Having decided to bunk off ‘school’ (my marking not quite finished, but the sun was shining and shouting Carpe Deum!) I packed my saddlebags and hit the road. It was a lovely sunny road/ride-up along the edge of the Cotswolds and across the Severn plain. When it’s like this the bike is a joy to ride. I felt like ‘king of the road’ again, shaking off the final cobwebs of winter. After I had checked in, I went for an early evening walk – determined to catch the last rays of the day. The golden light had lost its keenness, but in the back of my mind I had my favourite line of English poet (written by Malvern poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning): ‘the sun on the hill forgot to die’. It was thrilling to think these very hills I ascended might have inspired that line. And true, the light seemed to linger, as I hiked up through the woods like Wandering Angus (a fire in my head fed by the oxygen and kindling around me). The woods worked their magic – it was good to arrive, to connect with the genius loci. To orientate myself. The path zigzagged up through the steep woods. A collapsed retaining wall at Holy Well meant I had to take a more circuitous route to the top, but finally, I cleared the tree-line and made the ridge at sunset – though the sun was obscured behind a low bank of cloud. And yet there was still the dusk to savour. Two guys passed by, but otherwise I was alone. I called for awen on the heights. Satisfied, (planning to return for a proper walk the following day) I descended through the darkening woods.

Now I had to attend to physical needs – sustenance before the concert. The only eating place was a Thai restaurant, not quite what I had in mind. Instead I grabbed a sandwich and a packet of crisps from the garage (served by a cheerful Oriental girl). I’d had a good lunch before setting off, and plenty of snacks so wasn’t ravenous. I freshened up for the evening’s entertainment. It was great to go the nearby gig and enjoy a couple of real ales (which I would not have been able to do if I’d been staying further away – the Dell was a real find). In the break I said hello and Robin remembered me straight away, reminding me to his wife, though I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years since booking him for an event in Bath. His lovely wife Bina thanked me for what I said about them in The Bardic Handbook. I gave Robin a dedicated copy of An Ecobardic Manifesto – for he is cited in it as an exemplar. Afterwards we talked further about poets – I mentioned Vernon Watkins, as I’d been on the Gower recently; and Robin talked of Ifor Davies; which brought to mind Phil Tanner, bard of Llangennith. I was flattered when Robin called me ‘a pretty good poet’ (which, compared to Bob Dylan’s comment about Robin – ‘not bad’ – is positively glowing!) We joked about hanging out on lonely knolls, hoping to bump into the Queen of Elfland. I said I had done this on the Eildon hills, but had no such luck. Robin had been there too – and perhaps faired better!

It was great to sit in the front row – having got the last-but-one ticket earlier that day – and be fed by a master of awen. I am so glad I came – I didn’t decide for definite until that afternoon, when I reserved the ticket, found and booked the B&B, packed and blatted up here – it just required faith … in the Way of Awen.

The next morning, after a peaceful night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, I headed for the hills, making a beeline for British Camp, where Langland was said to have been inspired to write his famous medieval poem. I yomped up the hill in my bike leathers – not ideal for walking in! Breathless, I collapsed on the summit and stared at the blue bowl of sky. Sunlight glittered on the reservoir below and although not quite the original source reminded me of Langland’s lines: ‘…I lay down to rest under a broad ban by the side of stream, and leaned over gazing into the water, it sounded so pleasant that I fell asleep’. The hill fort was impressive – its steep flanks would have made a formidable defensive structure – and I wondered whether Tolkien had been inspired by it for his ‘the ancient watch-tower of Amon Hen’, whilst walking here with Lewis – and by the impressive ‘beacons’ the beacon fires which Gondor called for aid to Rohan. The local bishops were less friendly, the Earl of Gloucester raising the 13^th Century Red Earl’s Dyke between their respective bishoprics. Caractacus was said to have made his last stand here, (a small cave, Clutter’s Cave, is said to be the resting place of the British hero who rise to his countrymen’s aid) inspiring Elgar, who said in 1934 when suffering from his final illness: “If ever after I’m dead you hear someone whistling this tune on the Malvern Hills, don’t be alarmed. It’s only me.” I can see why the composer found such inspiration here. Given long enough it may untap the awen in anyone. Today I only had a brief taste, but it was enough to turn on the taps. Moving onto Black Camp, I parked up, stashed my togs, and followed the undulating ridge north, enjoying its spectacular natural roller-coaster. Turning back along its leeward side, I found a quiet sunny spot overlooking the western vale and penned these lines:

On Malvern Hills

On these lettered hills I find peace.

Thick as cream the Spring sunshine pours

over the wooded wolds, cloistered

from the world. Here song waits, poised,

a bird in the air – waiting

to strike at any fecund second.

The sky is full of poetry, the green Earth

budding with awen.

From these pure springs Masefield, Browning, Auden

drank. Elgar whistled symphonies in the silent folds.

Inklings rambled, forging a landscape of myth and

language, and Langland dreamt his rustic allegory.

From the defiant fastness of British Camp

to Worcestershire Beacon

something positively English

can be gleaned about this charmed island

of six hundred million year old granite,

enduring, quietly conquering

all who reach its sanctuary. From

its many wells it suckles all.

Great Mother Malvern.

Her children take

shelter amongst her skirts,

nourished by selfless springs.

Thank the wild saints, the spirits of place,

for this hallowed spot, this bedrock of Albion.