Beginning of July

David and Mara share a moment

Fairy wood

like our hats?

It was a glorious weekend. On Sunday we walked around the woodland near Cwmtydu (close to New Quay),  through a fairy wood, across a flower meadow filled with butterflys, over a hill fort called Castell Bach with its own colony of common orchids and down to the secret beach only reachable on foot.

first view of Cardigan Bay

summer meadow

The first salad potatoes are out of the ground and yummy, and we've actually finished one planting of peas and are on to the next. And the chickens are growing happily up with their two mums; Ceredwin, who is a concientious mum, and Henrietta, who is now, sadly, more interested in filling her own belly that that of her chick. When I offer them mealworms, to encourage them to eat off my hand she's there with her massive (painful) beak, and doesn't offer a single morsel to brown chick. Poor thing has to fend for itself, although Daddy Pwych does keep an eye out for it.

orchids

 It was still warm, if cloudy and a bit breezy, early this week, when we met Gill and Jenny down the Ffostrasol Arms for lunch. We were able to sit on the patio with our after-lunch coffees, anyhow.

But today, Thursday, it's drizzling and not at all warm. Suddenly, I longed to be somewhere where the weather is predictably hot all summer. Like Montenegro, where Becky is right now. Or Spain; the Costa Del Azahar, where we spent many fabulous summers. The poem below is in memory of those times. 

Spanish Song

 Heat virgin olive oil in a heavy pan,

Chop onion and gently fry.

Crush garlic, but add later in case it might burn.

Heat the grill for the sweet peppers to sear…

…To sear in thirty degrees, 

Lay out the tropical towels 

Smear with factor ten in case we might burn

Add four thin bodies to the heat-swirled beach.

Add four thin pork boneless steaks to the pan.

Seal juices while peeling red peppers

Once they have blistered. Slice finely. 

Grind in black pepper, oregano seasoning…

…Season for the murmurs of summer, 

For the glitter of the wide sea,

The screech and splash as children leap,

For the sleepy Spanish tongue; those sun-dried sounds.

Drain and slice a jar of sun-dried tomatoes

Toss into pan the tomatoes and the peppers. 

Cover and simmer for twenty minutes

After which add twenty olives to salt the dish…

…Salt in your hair and the feel of sand

Where the bar of your flip-flops grinds between your toes

Coming up the hill from the beach, stepping over wild thyme

Under the acacia trees into the marble chill of Los Arcos.

Chill the wine in the marble cooler,

As you lay out the ceramic you bought in Valencia.

The pepper skins lift; gift-wrapped in scarlet tissue, 

Spoon out the cerdo espanol and fluff up the rice

As the vino blanco is poured and sipped

Put on some Flamenco and twirl round the table…

The long evening filled with the fast guitars

And the smells of ceno from the next apartamento.

Midsummer - Glorious June 2014

Merry Midsummer to all our friends and relations!

We had a great day, yesterday. We rose at 4.30 so that we could see the sun up. Jane, Jim and me walked to the ridge of the Gernos Mountain. If this sounds like a hard tramp, believe me it wasn't; we just went up to the top of the field behind our house, 200 m above sea level.  It was bitterly cold and we were wrapped up in gloves and hats, but steadily, this massive, red sun rose above the horizon. As it did so, the clouds moved and we could see the crescent moon, pale in the sky. We took strawberries with us. We're getting a pudding baisin of strawberries a day, at the moment - I've had to make jam. I'm hoping they'll last till Wimbledon! We also took some fizzy elderflower cordial that I'd made the day before. I'd popped round to see Mara and taken home 25 heads of elderflower (and 2 lemons) and make several bottles of cordial. Very lipsmacking, I have to say. 

It was a glorious June day and we worked solidly in the garden trying to catch up with both the flowerbeds and and the veg plot; nearly there, at last. It's great, watching the two mother hens, Henrietta and Ceredwen, proudly bring their chicks out for a constitutional, but there was a sparrowhawk hovering so they soon hotfooded it back to their enclosure. They're grand mums, and the two cocks are always in attendence...I get the feeling they both think they're the dad.

In the evening we over to Rob and Angie's for a Midsummer party, with a blazing fire and loads of yummy food. By the time the bats were swooping overhead, the guitars, squeezeboxes and drums were out and we had a grand old singsong. 
By the time we crawled into bed, we'd been up for 20 hours, but who cares. It's midsummer!

Glastonbury in Midsummer 2014

Blown away completely by my four day stay in Glastonbury!

THE OLD HOLY THORN

Friday; 

THE ABBEY HOLY THORN; WITH WALKING STICKS

Lots of lovely people around, to meet, chat, drink tea with. I took a walk up Wearyall Hill, to see the poor, desicrated Holy Thorn tree; the one that used to blossom at Christmas; a sprig was always sent to the Queen for Christmas Day. It now looks like an amputee, but a much loved one, covered by cloutie ribbonds. 
This attack was not spiritual, but all to do with money and a landowner's feud.

A wander around the Abbey grounds was so peaceful; a great place to relax. And there, of course are two living and healthy Holy Thorns. I met the lady (in blue costume in the photo of the Abbott's Kitchen) whose Great Grandfather planted this Thorn. Her Grandfather subsequently planted a thorn some years later.

Later, the first of two chanting sessions with JJ and Adrian; these blew the ceiling off. Amazing. Finally, dinner with Mara before going back to my B&B. 
I'm staying at Bliss Cottage; which is bliss! Such a fantastic place; the garden full of roses and the house full of warm welcome from Trish.

Saturday; A massive marquee in the Abbey grounds to take 400 druids from over the entire world. Mara and I particularly loved Ronald Hutton's talk; you may recall his erudition when he spoke at my book launch for In the Moors - here he was the funniest I've ever heard him. Caitlin Matthews and the Druid's Chosen Chief Philip Carr-Gomm also spoke well, and Liv Tork's new book of Tree (Ogham) poems was created live on stage (more or less with live trees!)

I AM IN MATCHING GREEN TABARD AS I WAS PART OF THE RITUAL;
A PHYSICAL REPRESENTATION OF THE AWEN GLYPH 

MARA FREENAN LOOKING HER USUAL STUNNING SELF
AGAINST THE BACKDROP OF THE LEVELS

In the afternoon we all went up the Tor for the Druid's ceremony -. It was a short ritual, but very moving. 

  
That evening we had our party, back in the Town Hall for food and the Marquee for the Eisteddfod; Liv Torc was wonderfully funny on being pregnant and having her baby, and there was even a soprana from Holland, singing from Tosca. The dancing went on until 11pm when the fireworks started.

Sunday; Weary travellers were returning from the two ceremonies that had taken place at 6am at Stonehenge and Avebury as Mara and I joined other writers in the town hall to  raise interest in our books. We were part of a massive Druid Extraviganza; the  town hall full of tables where druids could display their speciality interests - everything from how to form a Grove to the Anti-Fracking campaign.

In the afternoon Mara was interviewed about her new book; Grail Alchemy by Philip Carr-Gomm. In the foreground, is Gill, a shaman I enjoyed meeting and hope to link up to again. 




It was a hot, sunny day and a trip to the White Spring was in order; this wellhouse, beautifully decorated by the trustees and volunteers is the original Victorian wellhouse which tapped the white spring directly from its source, as it tumbles out of the Chalice Hill rockface at gallons per minute. Inside, it constantly fills small pools in which you can paddle. Candles and flowers and bowers of hazel twigs are everywhere. Drumming, and singing to guitar added to the atmosphere, while children made rockpools by adding shells and pretty stones. A  fantastic moment in time.

Monday; I chaired a panel of writers at the 'Meet the Writers' morning, where we chatted informally about writing and tried to answer people's questions about their own writing. It went so well we adjourned to the George and Pilgrims after it was over; thanks especially to Mara, Brendon, Penny for being on the panel, and for Philip and Steph Carr-Gomm for coming, and for everyone else for making it such a lively event.


In the early evening I walked out onto the Somerset Levels (which I know so well....) to Ham Walls. An amazing experience; nature in abundance. I heart Bitterns booming, a Cetti Warbler, a Reed Warbler and various other reed birds, including the one recorded here, plus a thrush, a wren, a chaffinch, a blackbird, a goldfinch and a cuckcoo! A fabulous ending to the weekend.

Gors Fawr; Now on the Channel Five Map!

We were having a wonderful time at the Gors Fawr stone circle in the Preseli Hills, Pembrokeshire. We had created a short ritual to ask the stones, and their spirits and ancestors to allow us to continue working at this sacred and ancient place, just as those who erected the stones had done, thousands of years ago. When all of a sudden, out of the blue, two boys in Lycra on bikes came by…Larry and George Lamb!

Of course it didn't quite happen like that. George Lamb had particularly asked to meet druids in Wales to find out more about this spiritual path, and we agree to be there on the day of filming. But we did create a lovely ritual, which we'd almost  completed by the time they came riding by, tinkling their bells to attract yet more fairies and joining in with smudge sticks to the ready…

You can watch us chat about Druidry to Larry and George Lamb on Britain by Bike, 
Channel Five 13^th October – Pembrokeshire – 8pm.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

Two magicians shall appear in England. The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me …

Dressed in an oriental robe and a white skin-suit scribbled all over with the predictions of a medieval English magician, I cried out those lines in a fit of madness. 

I was playing Vinculus, a character in the amazing, intriguing and compelling book called Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. A group of 10 of us, all lovers of this 1000 page (if you include the copious footnotes) work of magical fiction, had gathered together to enact, discuss and explore this amazing achievement. Acting out a huge piece of fantasy is not as daunting as it may seem; the same group of people have acted out Tolkien’s work and all of Homer’s, using a three day period to do so. In that time, we eat, dress and sleep the book in question. 

 Susanna Clarke writes about her invented world with such ease; it’s easy to believe England could really be like this – filled with magic and romance. It has been described as  'Harry Potter for grownups’ but that really does not do this eloquent and momentous work justice, although adults who adored Harry Potter will be impressed with the rich characterization and the great finale to the story.

Clarke has a flair for language, utilising the right words at all the right moments. She chose for her style an emulation of Jane Austin, (including archaic spellings). Some passages made me laugh aloud – Austin was funny, and here is another layer spread upon that ironic wit. 

I’m not alone in loving the book; Neil Gaiman said,  Unquestionably the finest English novel of the fantastic written in the last seventy years. It's funny, moving, scary, otherworldly, practical and magical...

This was Clarke's first book, although she’d prepared the ground by writing some short stories set in her parallel universe – a world that has the same history as our own, except for the fact that England was once filled with magic and magicians, and the North of England was ruled separately, by the Raven King – John Uskglass – a man who had been spirited away to fairyland as a child and returned full of fairy magic.

Ready to dance till dawn
 at the Fairy Ball in the kingdom of Lost Hope

But all that was centuries ago. When the book starts in1806, England is struggling with the Napoleonic war, and practical magic has faded into the nation's past – now magic is only studied ‘theoretically’.  But two of these students discover that Mr Norrell can really do magic. He’s studied the books all his life, and his displays of magic lead him, and his mysterious servant, John Childermass, from the north of the country to the bustling city of London. After he successfully brings a beautiful woman back from the dead and  terrifies the French army with a fleet of ghostly ships, he is taken to the bosom of the rich and fashionable. Gilbert Norrell is dedicated to book-learning and he's trying desperately to ignore and forget that in raising Lady Pole from the dead, he has awaken an amoral fairy king, who is now strutting around our world, enchanting people. When Jonathan Strange, the 2nd magician in the prophecy emerges, a dangerous battle of wills begins. Strange is young, dashing and daring, and not at all interested in only learning magic from books. While Norell,  a reclusive and cautious man,  is trying to get rid of any taint of dangerous fairy magic, Strange is actively bringing it back. He has no idea what a menace the fairy king posses, especially to his own lovely wife.

I was soon hooked on Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell the first time I read it, even though you need to get through at least the first 200 pages to even begin to see where the plot is going. Reading it again for the weekend event made me love it even more. All its depth and humour and the true cleverness of the carefully crafted plot became even more clear. One thing I really loved was the vast history of magic Clarke invents for England. Long after I finished it, I was still thinking about the menacing settings,  the wonderful characters, the

brilliant narrative development and the history she creates.

Of course, I also watched the TV series, now available both in the UK and the US to watch again.  Bertie Carvel who plays Jonathan Strange so well, said; I read it years ago and loved it … They've preserved the scale and majesty of the story … So you have credible, fully imagined characters recognisably of the same world we inhabit.  Paul Kaye, who played my chosen character in the film said, 

I read the book and loved it. It sort of obsessed me for a while and I felt an affinity with what turned out to be my character, Vinculus. I found the footnotes addictive! If there wasn't one on the next page I would be disappointed

You can watch the TV adaptation at:

UK; https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/video/detail/B00Y1Q6KXA/ref=imdbref_tt_wbr_aiv?ie=UTF8&tag=imdbtag_tt_wbr_aiv-21

US; http://www.bbcamerica.com/shows/jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell

The Thrush Sings Thrice Over

There’s a thrush singing in my garden. When I let out my hens at daybreak, he’s there, welcoming the new morning. The first time I heard him, about a week ago now, I stood for long minutes. I had no idea that the wind from the top of the hill was lifting my hair, making me shiver. I was inside the song of the thrush. Finally, I was carried down the garden, with my steaming dishes of hen’s mash, calling out the lines from Browning…

That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture!

I’ve seen him—it might just be a female, of course— fly from my far stand of clumpy willows, out across the fields, but usually he sings in a particular beech tree, establishing his territory for the breeding season. His song repeats on and off through the rest of the day, and is always there as the shadows soften down and the hens are heading to their beds. I’m hoping he and his lovely mate will choose my garden for their nest. Mr and Mrs Thrush don’t always start thinking about lurve quite this early on, but they’re responding to the warm rush of weather that has meant I don’t even need morning central heating. We seem to have left behind the worst ravages of winter behind bang on cue. 

The TV weatherman always makes the point that there are two starts to each season. The astrological start, which for spring is the 21st of March, and the meteorological start, which they seem to think is the 1st of March. But as a Druid, I follow the Celtic farming calendar, which has been with us since the Iron Age. The 21st of March,  June, September and December are the mid-seasons, not the beginnings. Spring started on the first of February, when our little band of earth-magic lovers…pagans, druids, witches, and the like…celebrated Imbolc, the coming of spring. For, although you might not feel very springlike at the end of January, under the soil and in the sap of the trees there is a new thrusting, shooting drive to lift the head and sniff the air and get on with things, from tilling the soil, to some DIY, to raising a family. 

Our Bridie Mantle, or girdle
 People pass through it, tying on their
hopes for the coming year

Imbolc is an Irish word, meaning ‘the milk of the ewe’, andeve n now, February the time of the baby lambs. Imbolc is dedicated to the Mother Goddess and the new life that she brings. She is well-known in Ireland by various names - Brighid Bridie Brigantia, becoming, as the years went on and the religion changed, Saint Bridget. She is often symbolised by the gentle bobbing of the snowdrop, which can literally burst through the last snows, and she's said to drape her green mantle across the winter world, turning it verdent. In her honour, Brigid Crosses are made by weaving rushes into a four-pointed star. As a goddess of healing, she has sacred springs across our lands, and in Solas Bhride Spiritual Centre, in Kildare, Ireland, a Perpetual Flame is tended by the Brigidine Sisters in memory of her, guarded as a beacon of hope, justice and peace.

with thanks to 
https://www.blarney.com/st-brigid_s-cross/

It is true that this mother goddess takes a little time to spread her mantle over the cold, hard, earth. Legend has it that if the Winter Goddess, the Callieach, intends to reign over a good, long winter, she will make sure the weather on the 1st of February is bright and sunny, so she can gather plenty of firewood, often seen in the form of a raven picking up sticks in its beak. Therefore, people in old times were generally relieved if that was a day of foul weather. Last year around my area of West Wales it was a lovely day on the first, but this year it was cold enough for snow to fall. So our small ritual was based on the idea that these two had to confront each other; the beautiful maiden of spring and the wizened old hag of winter. Of course the Callieach must lose, and slink away, threatening to return next winter, but we’re not under any illusion that from the 2nd of February onwards there would be nothing but daffodils nodding in sunshine! In fact, it may be that the wonderful, record-breaking warmth we have been enjoying in the past few weeks should be worrying us.

Yesterday, it was ‘as warm as spring’, and I went on a Garden Crawl with some veg-growing friends. This is a bit like a pub crawl, but with tea and cakes as substitute for beer. We saw five wonderful gardens, with polytunnels as warm as a Mediterranean beach. For the first time since last summer, we pulled out my rattan furniture and sat on my lawn in the sun, chatting, enjoying Kate’s greenhouse-grown melon and listening to larks rising from the fields, and my thrush, shouting at the top of his voice.

For me, the song of the thrush is simply the best. Yes, the blackbird and the blackcap are lovely, and the robin has a very pretty tune, while the nightingale’s melody is darkly spine-chilling. But the thrush can lift off the top of my scalp. His song always surprises, full of twists and turns, and not always ‘thrice over’; sometimes he repeats a phrase four times, or twice, but what I love is you never know what will come next…only the bird knows that. It is said that the more complex the song, the smarter the bird, but that can only be true of ‘Passeri’ class of perching birds, because we all knows that Corvus—rooks, ravens, jackdaws—are as smart-as-they-come, and there’s not much to a crow’s song except latent threat and a thread of misery.

Super Worm Moon. With thanks to
 https://res.cloudinary.com/jpress/image/fetch/c_fill,f_
auto,h_400,q_auto:eco,w_600/https://inews.co.uk/wp-content/
uploads/2019/02/shutterstock_205323442-e1550676266368.jpg

Meanwhile, as the new lambs, chicks and fledglings begin their lives, the wheel of the year turns. That’s what I love about celebrating as a Druid; the constant turning of that wheel. Just 21 days ago it was Imbolc;  in less than four weeks time it will be Vernal Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere, an astrological event celebrated right back to the Neolithic. This year, that special moment of solar balance falls on the 20th March; twelve hours of daylight, twelve of darkness. The tides will rise as high as they can, while it feels as if the world stands still. And this year, as an added frisson, it will be the third full moon of the year; the Worm Moon…and this will be a supermoon, large, close to Earth and wonderfully ripe for magic. I wonder what we will celebrate on that night?

If the weather continues warm, my true-loving thrushes will have started a brood by then, and may carry on having broods of babies to the far end of summer. I haven’t a clue where that nest may be; it could be in the deep layers of ivy covering my century-old  beeches that line boundary, or it could be in the long, thin strip of land between the garden fence and the edge of the high bank elevating us from the little country road. I’ll be leaving out bits of cotton and fluff for birds to take advantage of, but I doubt the thrush family will use this; they like natural materials for their house. I would love to find it, with its clutch of sky-blue eggs, but I don’t want to look too close. I think it’s best if I just let them get on with their lives, while I get on with mine.

You can hear the song of the thrush here.

A Solstice Summer Ritual at Gors Fawr Stone Circle

Gors Fawr

We met at Gors Fawr stone circle in time on midsummer’s day. The views that confronted us were magnificent. The summer solstice, June 21st this year, was a clear, hot, bright day – the hottest in 40 years – and being there was powerfully invigorating. 

 We were in a bleak, but strikingly beautiful place – a moorland full of gorse and reeds and sheep, lying quite flat for a mile or more until the hills suddenly loom up as a backdrop. We’d come to hold a ritual at the very place in Pembrokeshire where Neolithic worshipers also gathered, to watch the sunrise on the solstice. 

We were at Gors Fawr Stone Circle.

Bedd Arther

Gors Fawrs dates from the Neolithic. It is part of a surprisingly large and active sacred landscape at the foot of the Preseli Hills called the Glandy Cross. This is an area rich in Neolithic burial chambers, Bronze age settlements, barrows, standing stones and a chambered tomb. There were once three stone circles, but one is lost. The smaller of the remaining two, Bedd Arthur (Arthur’s Bed), is a small, boat-shaped horseshoe of stones high in the hills, while at the foot of the hills on the flat plateau of moorland is the larger circle – Gors Fawr, whose name translates as 'great wasteland'. 

The inner bluestones against the
Stonehenge Trilithons

The circle has a very special atmosphere. It consists of 16 small remaining stones about 22 metres in diameter. They are small stones, unprepossessing on the north side of the circle, but getting bigger towards the south until they’re about a metre in height. Eight of the stones are composed of local glacial erratic boulders, but, very excitingly, the other eight stones in this circle are bluestones, the same stone as the smaller stone arc inside that far more famous circle…Stonehenge. 

We were here to hold a ritual on the summer solstice, which is called Alban Hefin by Druids and Litha by Wiccans. The solstice is the peak of the power and radiance of the sun. It’s union with the earth at its zenith. Over the last week, the sun had shone above us, strongly and brightly.

It had been so hot, records were being broken. In fact, the 21st became, the hottest day since 1976. I recall that summer very well, as I was pregnant with my first child, so ‘hot’ was what I remained most of the time.

Carn Meini, the Dragon's Back

As we prepared the circle, and met up with the people who had been here for the sun’s rising in the very early morning, I looked up to the hills above us. I could see a  short area of jagged rocks running along the ridgeway of the Preseli's. This is the Dragon’s Back –  the peak of Carn Meini, a natural outcrop of Blue Spotted Dolerite – the place where the Stonehenge bluestones originated.

Carn Meini has a very strong radiant quality. On some level it feels like the yang counterpart to the Yin Gors Fawr. It’s not surprising the bluestone found there was used and loved so much in the Neolithic. As well as being used for the building of an early stage at Stonehenge, ‘crystal-sized’ pieces have been found in Neolithic burial chambers around the Salisbury Plain area, as if people kept these beautiful stones close as talismans, perhaps for healing. I constantly find it amazing that bluestones found their way from a very powerful and ancient site in Pembrokeshire to another very ancient and powerful site a couple of hundred or so miles away. How they were moved is still debated, but around Pembrokeshire, the story goes that in ancient times, the ceremonial route of the bluestones from Carn Meini to Stonehenge followed the streams down the hill and past Gors Fawr. 

The two Outliers

There are two outlying stones to the north-east of the Gors Fawr circle. These align to the sunrise on the summer solstice. As you walk towards them from the stone circle, the first you meet is about five feet high, much larger than the stones in the circle, and this makes one think it must have been of importance. The larger of these, a few metres on, is around six feet in height, and is known as "The Dreaming Stone". Some accounts suggest that they were originally part of an avenue leading off from the circle. The dreaming stone has been shown to be strongly magnetic, especially where one’s head would rest if one sat on the little seat. And the seat itself does not look inviting – one imagines one would slide off, but once there, it’s wonderfully comfy, and I have sat there for twenty minutes and more.

We gathered outside the circle. Some of us had been there all night, to wait until the dawn came up on the solstice day, while other of us had arrived for this ceremony.

As everyone walked towards it, the Spirit of the Stones came towards us, and challenged us…what was our purpose here? This is how our Herald replied… “Spirit of  this place! We come in peace at this time of the summer solstice, to honour the spirit of these stones and to honour the spirits of our ancestors. We come to work in peace and love.” 

The Spirit of the Stones replied. “Then know this –  as you step beyond the boundary of this circle, you will enter the magic of Gors Fawr, where time itself has no meaning and experience is unlimited, for this realm is full of spirit and is interconnected in every direction. These stones wash a blessing over each being who works within it. So  enter this place in peace, and you shall leave renewed and refreshed.”

Once we’d set up our ritual circle, and passed an oaken branch around to each talk about how we felt about this time of the year, we called upon the Lady of the Land, who represented the landscape itself. She spoke  thus; 

“All ancient circles like this one have a fay presence which is a lovely summer bonus, but do not forget how careful you need to be when dealing with faeries; they need to be given due respect or they can play tricks. Here in my basket I have the blossoms of the Elder Tree. Celtic lore indicates that if you stand near an elder tree at Midsummer's Eve the land of the fairies will be revealed to your searching eyes. The blossom of the elder protects from fay trickery yet helps those who use it wisely to come closer to the world of Celtic faerie lands. It can also induce vivid dreams, particularly of the Faerie realms; why not take your spray to the dreaming stone and see what happens. “

The Lady of the Land then walked around the circle of people, handing out the sprays. Everyone had brought something to entertain us with, pipes to play, poems to read, and stories they wanted to tell. By the time we took our circle of ritual and celebration down, we were all starving and laid out our picnics in the circle to share. 

The sun stayed hot, but luckily the breeze coming from the coast kept us cool. Even so, after eating, some of us lay in the circle and closed our eyes. But we had to take care not to fall to sleep, as it is said that if you fall asleep inside a stone circle, you will wake to find yourself in Fairyland, and none of us wanted to drive home still enchanted by the fay…

If you live in West Wales, you can find Gors Fawr Stone Circle just outside the village of Mynachlog-ddu, Pembrokeshire,  OS Map Ref SN135294
OS Maps - Landranger 145 (Cardigan & Mynydd Preseli), Explorer OL35 (North Pembrokeshire)

The Beginning of February

The first of February and we celebrated the beginning of spring with our pagan friends in this area at Mara Freeman's house, enjoying some of the traditions that surround the festival of Bridget which is held this day. We dressed and blessed a Bridie Doll in her cradle, went out to pick reeds and make Bridget crosses, sang songs and carols for this time of year, read out our own poetry, and did some circle dancing and saw a profusion of snowdrops growing on the banks.

Sadly, that meant that we couldn't be at Stanton Drew, where the very final ritual was being held by our old Bristol group of Druids.

December Poems

Here are some poems I have written in deep midwinter: 

Nina Milton

WINTER TREES

They are matchless,

My trees in winter. 

While I watch telly and eat carbs, 

Put the fire on, the heating up, 

They stand naked to the battle;

Steady for storm, ready for gale. 

Winter trees communicate in semaphore

Black flags against the half-day’s light.

They are gallows for bats,

Rigging for gulls,

Blue cages for robins 

Steeples for stormcocks.

In the cold sun, 

The oaks glow emerald with moss;

The planes strike piebald patterns;

Birch trunks shimmer like a high moon. 

I pull on gloves, hat, scarves,

Brave the cold to watch 

As they wait secure, 

Dreaming sap dreams,

Expectant for spring.

CAILLIACH 

                                                                                   Scrag End,

                                                                                   Hag wending

                                                                                   Her cackling flight

                                                                                   Over the mushroom yews.

                                                                                   The Samhuin night holds her,

                                                                                    Unfolds her soaring cloak

                                                                                    As she rides her birch broom high.

http://themotherhouseofthegoddess.com/

2013/12/21/winter-solstice-reflections-on-an-cailleach/

Storm Eye

Borne higher 

Than Circling wind,

A vortex for a throne.

Below, as we run for cover

She shrieks a laugh and spins

Stridng the tides.

Boughs creak

Clouds flapping

Seas flooding, seeing blood.

She shakes the earth 

Till fire spews.

Life’s elemental horrors are hers

As she beats out the storm

Enough! 

Misshapen crone, 

Winter harpy - time for home,

Let late winter snows gentle 

Lambs and snowdrops into life,

I implore, beseech you, hag,

It’s Bridget’s time, so pack your bag.

(the Cailliach is a Scottish Goddess, whose legend states she epitomizes hard winter)

STANTON DREW STONE CIRCLES

Photograph of Stanton Drew
 by the late Carni Tipton

Suppose the dolmen that squats high on the track

Are three petrified shepherds who never sleep – 

Moonbeam white, resting as they watch their sheep

Leaning to rest each on the other’s back?

While down in the valley, three circles lie,

Earth-rooted like old men’s molars, they stare

Past the earth’s harried timekeeping to where 

Stars wheel backwards and the moon’s phases fly

To the beat of these sandstone hearts. One ring

Lies fallow, resting in the weedy grass, 

The grandest circle is spaced wide and fast

The third stays tight, upright; I hear it sing.

It breaths the pulse notes of a well-tuned harp

It holds the secrets of a trusted chart.

BLACK MOUNTAIN, BRECONS.

My feet stand deep by your heel in the gloom

Of your towering wilds.

Storm wave, Wailing Wall,

They named you Black Hill,

The back end of Brecon’s

Mountain range where, disconsolate, you loom.

Ceridwen loves to feel the dusk enslave,

Wrap wild anguish round

A heart. Black Mountain must

Belong to her,

Stirring an iron-cast pot

Inside a hollow crag, some dark-eyed cave

Murky shadows move me;  are you

Goddess, hag, or just a tale 

From old-folk years?

No answer.

Only the wind, steep with dread

Flap of umbrella bat, bleak caw of crow,

As they soar into the desolate air.

From the break of dawn to moon-slivered night,

Herbs lie in curling steam.

Cauldron-sour on the tongue,

Perilous to steal, it will devour,

Turn you mad or

Offer transformation into light.

I turn upon my heel, can’t hold my place.

The barren cliffside sucks

At hope, drags away cheer.

My shoulders shudder 

At the goddess glowering in her crag

I want to weep at your heartbreaking face.

It doesn't matter which of the mountains of Wales you visit, in January, they loom over you in a very Welsh way; powerfully depressing. Recently we've passed under the shadow of several; the Preselis, the Cambrians, Carreg Cennan where our friend Gill lives, the Berwyn Range a little northeast from us, and the Black Mountain, which is the closest part of the Brecons to us. 

In fact, none of these are mountains in the true sense, all being less that 1000 metres in height. We all know that the only mountain in Wales is Snowdonia, which tops the 1000 by just a metre or so. But every hill and mound is a mountain to the Welsh; even we live on a mountain; the Gernos Mountain, which peaks (just above our cottage) at less than 300 metres.

We passed the very eastern end of the Black Mountain quite recently, as we drove through the village of Ynstadgynlais, and the hill loomed up against us like some sort of malevolent spirit about to do terrrible things to our car. That's how it felt, anyhow, and as soon as I had paper to write on, I had to record the weird things I'd felt, in the poem above. 

Winter Poems by Nina Milton