Walking the Golden Road: on Top the Preseli Hills

 

“Everywhere you feel the presence of the megalithic tomb-builders, of the iron Age warriors who piles stones for the great hill forts and of kindly and absent-minded Celtic saints.”

I can remember hearing the words of Winford Vaughan-Thomas on the radio when I was little, and he was already old – he’d been a decorated 2nd WW correspondent – but his first love was the Welsh countryside, and above, he’s talking about the Pembrokeshire Preseli Hills, locally called Mynydd Preseli. 

Myndd means mountain, because the Welsh have a flexible view of what makes a mountain. If the place is high and fairly inaccessible, rugged and wild, often lost in cloud and offering breathtaking views to climbers, that’s enough to call it a mountain, even if it doesn’t quite make the obligatory 600 metres.

Vaughan-Thomas had a love of the famous ridgeway walk called the Golden Road, which runs along the spine of the Preseli Hills, Anyone who has a passion for the ancient past, fabulous walking or stunning views, would love it. 

A month ago, I blogged about a Summer Solstice celebration we held at a Pembrokeshire stone circle called Gors Fawr. While were enjoying our picnic, some of the company told me they planned to walk the Golden Road. 

“It’s seven miles,” I complained. “Too long for me.” But as I gazed up at the ‘Dragon’s Back’, one of the possible quarries from which stones were believed to have been taken to Stonehenge 4000 years ago, and Carn Bica, where a second Neolithic stone monument stands, I just couldn’t resist. Both of these would be on our route. 

The Dragon's Back 

We set out on a Sunday in late June at 10am. The weather was perfectly awful, a misty drizzle that hid the path ahead. “Should we do this,” I asked. “Aren’t you supposed to avoid mountains when the mist comes down?”

Everyone reassured me. This spinal road is wide, sometimes almost half a mile of flat high moorland, with a marked path. No danger of getting lost or falling off the edge. The most treacherous thing would be the boglands, areas of soggy ground that can trick you if you do stray from the designated path.

And so the seven of us shouldered our backpacks and set out from the village of Rosebush, with Foel Eryr, or ‘Place of the Eagle’, at our backs. Eagles are no longer seen in Wales, but buzzards and red kites were gliding overhead, and they are majestic enough for me. At the summit of Foel Eryr there is a Bronze Age burial carn, marking, perhaps, the resting place of men and women who were important to that clan or tribe. We turned from that summit to the Golden Road and were soon walking alongside the northern edge of the Pantmeanog Forest, and as the pine forestry cleared, we looked across to the highest point in the Preselis, Foel Cwmcerwyn. Half hidden in the mist, it’s 1,759 feet high, making it a brilliant subject for a film like The Man Who Went up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain. It really would only need a few more metres of rock.

http://www.themodernantiquarian.com/site/502/foel_feddau.html

The Golden Road may have been walked for 5,000 years or more. It was one of hundreds of high ridgeway trails which people and animals used to avoid the dense forests, impassible rivers and difficult and dangerous terrain at lower levels…not to mention unfriendly locals. Some believe the Golden Road was a trade superhighway, along which gold mined in the Wicklow mountains in Ireland was carried south east as far as Wessex…to the very place where Stonehenge still stands to this day. If you have ever visited the Dublin Museum, you will have seen examples of the Neolithic gold jewellery, that both men and women of high status would have worn on their special occasions, and the Britons wanted to trade for some of that, I’m sure. 

We ate up the miles, walking mostly on flat high ground. As the mist began to lift, we could look left, to the south, and there was Foel Feddau, or Bald Grave, a high trig-point with yet another Bronze Age buried carn. Looking right, we tried to make out Castell Henlyll, a large Iron Age fort sitting high up some miles to the north. Castell Henlyll has been rebuilt to closely resemble the original settlement where the Celtic Demetae tribe lived 2,000 years ago. In fact, it’s unique in Britain – the only reconstruction on an exact Iron Age site. It’s well worth a visit. Not only have they built several perfect roundhouses, including the chief’s impressive dwelling, but they run events, for children of all ages, day workshops where you can train as a warrior, learn woodturning or help build a wattle and daub wall. We love going there, and recently we gathered near a roundhouse fire to hear Robin Williamson play, sing, and tell tales from bygone ages.

After another hour’s walking we stopped for water, leaning on a line of rocky outcrops called the Cerrig Marchogion…Rocks of the Knights. In a grassy cwm below, the myths and legends of Wales tells us, King Arthur fought a bloody battle with a fierce and enchanted boar caller the Twrch Trwyth. They needed a comb which he held in his stiff boar hair to complete the tasks they had been given by a giant. We were leaning against the gravestones of the slain knights. Of course, these are natural outcrops, but I could certainly understand why legend tells that this was an ancient graveyard, high in the hiils. 

All at once, the mist dissipated and the sun shone golden on the valleys below. We gazed down, trying to make out Gors Fawr, the stone circle where we had spent the Summer Solstice in balmy weather, and planned this walk. 

Carn Bica

Finally, we reached the rocky tor of Carn Bica. We sat to eat a picnic, but were keen to move on, because we could see Bedd Arthur, a ring of stones in the shape of an eye – or a longish horseshoe – or a boat – or, more interestingly, the shape of the inner bluestone circle at Stonehenge. It’s only one of many places said to be the grave of King Arthur, but Arthur lived around 600 CE while this monument dates back to Neolithic times.

Just below it is Carn Meini, its bluestone rock eroded into jagged shapes that do look like a dragon’s back, it’s local name. For many years it was believed that the stones in the inner circle at Stonehenge were quarried here – a type of bluestone, the so-called ‘spotted dolerite’ – and if not quarried for that stage of Stonehenge, then certainly lifted by glacial action and taken close enough to the building site. However, this spotted dolerite is not the only type of bluestone found at Stonehenge. 

Close to the path’s end, we passed Foel Drygarn, a perfectly rounded hill rising out of the moorland.  It was tempting to digress from our path and climb it. There’s an early Iron Age fortress (around 350 BCE) with a double ramparts and ditches still visible. And right at the top are three Bronze Age burial carns. But we must have all been more than ready for the last two miles to the end, because no one took the diversion. I will do it, though, sometime soon! 

As we passed a final fir plantation, coming down towards Afon Taf, and the town of Crymch, we still felt like we were a inhabiting another world. We’d passed through mythological stories, enchanted lands, ancient history and remote but beauteous landscapes. Not once, along the seven miles, had we seen another human soul.  As we reached the cars we’d left at the far end of the walk, we could not have felt more content. All we needed to do was sit in the sun with a beer in our hands. So it was off to the Nags Head in Abercych for a final celebration.

Our Own Sacred Landscape; now in Indie Shaman

 

Our Own Sacred Landscape.

I went for a walk, one autumn afternoon. I wanted to sit and meditate, so I chose to go to ‘my place’. We all have one, I hope, even if it’s just a quiet corner of a small garden. At that time I was living in a suburb of Bristol, and ‘my place’ was locally called The Bowl; a six acre disused council tip, hidden behind a leisure complex. Sounds grim, but it was beginning to come back to life.

As soon as I entered the bowl, I knew something was different there. I could see a flock of what looked like finches, bobbing about from bush to bush. They had a scratchy, sharp song, but as soon as they were aware of me, they began to call their alarm. Chat-chat-chat…"

So opens my latest article of Indie Shaman, which was published in 
issue 51 available now (just £3.99!). 

It's the story of 'The Bowl', a wild  and forgotten patch of land in a busy, built-up area, not even six acres across, hidden between a Cineworld complex and a six-point roundabout.  It was less than a mile from the Bristol home we brought our children up in, but I only discovered The Bowl one day, I went looking for wild rose bushes.   

The article tells the tale of what happened next; how someone can get caught up in a whirlwind they weren't expecting. I contacted Avon Wildlife to ask if they knew there were skylarks, and indeed, also linnets, whitethroats and stonechats nesting and using this tiny patch of forgotten land. The Wildlife Trust they told me it was under threat from developers, and they were looking for someone to head up a campaign to save it. 

So began an eighteen month crusade that drew in neighbours, my son and his mates, my husband and, (of course), all the druids I knew. We formed a little group which had meetings with  local councillors as well as the Wildlife Trust, around the dining table. We gave talks, spoke on the radio, had an information stall in the local mall with boards full of photographs of butterflies, wild plants and trees. We started a petition and presented the thousands of signatures which we'd gained tramping the streets around the area to a council meeting. We were even on the local telly news.

With my friend Gail and the trees we 'guerilla' planted 

But what drew me to the bowl, was not a campaigning fervour. It was the fact I'd found a place I could consider sacred, and that felt all my own. I honoured one specific bush there, a lovely wild rose that grew proudly beside some everlasting peas. Her flowers were the colour of rose quartz and her leaves sparkled with a lime green gloss. Each time I want to The Bowl, I'd circle her thrice and talk to her. And she would answer me. I was working with a specific local goddess at the time, the Celtic goddess Rosmerta, and I knew the rose bush represented her. 

"The year had turned, and it was mid-summer again. I went to The Bowl, now definitely ‘my special place’. with my husband to hold a small, personal ritual. We worked around Rosmerta the wild rose bush, now the largest and loveliest rose in The Bowl.  Afterwards, we wandered around, in meditative mood, when I stooped suddenly, to examine what I thought was a bee, taking nectar from a grass vetch.

The artwork that is now at The Bowl

I was mistaken. I was looking at a spreading colony of bee orchids. We’d already found pyramidal orchids at The Bowl, but I’d never seen bee orchids before, and on this midsummer’s day it was the perfect discovery. My Rosmerta rose bush was thanking me for the effort we’d all put in."

How did it all end? Did we manage to stop the developers? Sorry, you'll have to read the Indie Shaman article to find out! This magazine is filled with wonderful stories with a theme of pagan, shamanic and mystic, so it's an excellent buy. Just go to https://indieshaman.co.uk/shamanism-magazine/ to find out more 

Coronations: A Ritual Crowning

 

The crown on Charlemange

A coronation is swirling around us in the UK even as I write this. Golden carriages are trotting along the Mall past cheering, waving citizens as a new king and queen go to be crowned. Although Charles acceded to the throne at the moment of his mother’s death, the coronation is the symbolic ceremony that marks his new role. Kings and Queens have been turning up at Westminster Abbey since William of Normandy hastened there; keen to get that crown on his head before someone else snatched it – or snatched away his life.
The ritual behind a crowning is meaningful, even for those who don’t believe in monarchy. As a lover of ritual, I’m at least respectful of other people’s need for ritual, ceremony, tradition and  pageant. All pagans who have read their Frazer know that the idea of ‘The King is dead –– long live the King!’ goes back a very long way indeed, as does the symbolic headgear worn to demonstrate that superiority, rule, and reign. 

The word coronation means the act or occasion of crowning - putting a crown on the monarch's head. It is a most universal ritual of governance, used all over the world in times gone by. In fact, its origins are pre-historic. 

In those past times, kings were far more common than they are now –– almost two a penny –– there were 800 kings in Ireland alone in the Dark Ages. And although it was understood that these kings were human, or at least had been human before the crown was  placed on their head, they often became far more than that.

In Egypt,  the Pharos were semi-divine and worshiped as gods. After their deaths, they were buried as gods, and still revered. 

the Copper Age Crown

I was interested to know just how far back the idea of wearing something on one’s head might signify one’s  dominion.  In 1961, a copper crown was discovered in a secluded cave near the Dead Sea. Dating to around 4000 BC during it  has  vultures extending from the top. It is breathtaking, although perhaps not quite as breathing as the crowns of Silla from the around the 6 century BCE and discovered in an excavation in Korean.

The crown of Silla

Until more recent centuries, crowns have always been ‘open’, as indeed are the paper crowns children wear in play. But in the coronation today, both crowns are enclosed, with an inner fabric area, possibly to help both the comfort of the wearer and the pomp of its look. 

Almost as soon as the Queen died, conversations started about King Charles's coronation especially its cost and meaning in this secular, finance orientated world. 
How big a state occasion should it become; should we invite dignitaries from around the world? Or those who dedicate their lives to good deeds in Britain? 

King Charles has asked for a smaller ceremony than Queen Elizabeth had but it seems to have grown like topsy despite this. It’s in progress as I write this, an extremely grand event with pomp and pageantry, colour, music, prayers, anointing, and vows to be made. 

As someone who understands how important ritual is to my own life, I can have at least some empathy with the idea of making this a big occasion – the touching and holding of symbolic artefacts, the anointing with oil (or spring water), the wearing of ritual robes. These things solemnify important occasions and fix them in the minds of those who undertake them.