From Kevin Patrick on the birth of the School :

Oh to be a pilgrim!

“He who would Valiant be”

Hum or sing it as you feel fit. I bet by the day’s end though you will to. The tune is hardwired in my brain still, as it plays its loop yet again, a remnant from earlier carefree days at school. Triggered, as experiences and memories of a rather unusual weekend unravel in my tired mind.

It’s a catchy little number and bound to grab your attention, as many such songs have had a wont to do over the ages. The harmonies of the universe manifesting into the creation we have been dropped into. That’s what some troubadours whom I recently met would have you believe.

Suffice to say I was changed by my experiences at the time, and also in ways yet to come, if events of the weekend were anything to go by.

They had a tale to tell those troubadours, one, which makes the Canterbury Tales look like a stroll in the park. A tale by any standards which was only matched in vibrancy and audacity by the colours of their robes, but even that paled into insignificance compared with the Glories of the One at the dawning of creation.

To be fair in the end the troubadours gave us a glimpse of what it was like, that dawning. It was like coming home and much more.

They say life’s a beach – and then you fry!

The Song of the Troubadour was a bit like that, at least it ‘felt’ like that in the beginning. Ask some of those nine pilgrims, many of whom thought they had life sorted. Were they in for a shock, I mean –‘shut up’ – as some of our younger brethren would say these days.

Brought to sanctuary at the doorway of a monastery High in the mountains of Andasola, having suffered at the hands of a severe storm. Then ded and watered they slept waited for the storm to abate and continue on their journey.

Surprise!
To be woken in a strange Temple with a geometric design upon the floor. I mean freaky or what. But I digress and the tale is long in the telling. So let me explain, or at least give you a flavour of the shenanigans going on between the pilgrims at the start of their journey.

You see, the Troubadours were to blame; it was their fault that I found myself in this predicament. Dressed in threadbare robes with a belt the colour of the morning sun. Seated in some far-flung land called Andalosa awaiting the first ‘Knowledge Lecture’. With a draft of cold air ascending to my nether regions at the time, and cooling said parts, of which I will not describe in detail, for fear of upsetting the squeamish. I tell you, I was I glad that I was appointed a keeper of the Flame and able to use some of my abilities to add some warmth to the proceedings.

It was then that pattern, the ‘Enneagram’, which the pilgrims were to discover later on the floor of the temple made its first appearance.

Well the enneagram upon first impression looks a bit like some Klingon war bird or some sort of evolutionary successor to a Borg Cube. Or worse still my mind cried at the time, it might be some business model for corporate personality development. Images of purple ties and shirts, and women ’Power dressing’ ran past my minds eye aghast in horror, oh no!

But nothing could have been further from or closer to the truth as they say after another fashion. Who would have of thought that, in the middle of the Derbyshire countryside. Not since the adventures of Sean the sheep had I been so shaken. I mean I might have been getting fleeced and not recognised it. But I guess trust was the byword and I stuck to my guns, and kept an open mind. I was glad I did that.

Simply put dear reader what was going on was started by the appearance of a crazy looking diagram on a screen. Emblazoning itself upon my retina and pronouncing persona development and proclaiming links with my real self. A buzz in my crown chakra announcing it’s okay, whilst the reverberations of a Shamannic drummer (Censer of sound) still beat a tattoo upon my consciousness from a previous session (by the way that Lad has got the tune of the universe in his head, if you know what I mean).

Yeh…as my thoughts meandered to an artist who had only just recently become an acquaintance, But whom I’ve known apparently for a Lifetime – at least my soul says, whatever that is – and who’s to argue. Then into the mix some hot blond ( a lady circus owner) with more understanding of the universe than she realises and a wonderful soul to boot, opens a conversation and I’m gob smacked.

“Which type are you” she says. Well you can imagine the thoughts rolling through my mind at the time, but I remained steadfast and meekly said “what do you mean?” Before I had time to reply (thank God) I was brought rapidly back to earth when the raised eyebrows of a nearby physician caught my attention.. Of course that conversation opened a whole can of worms….

A glance from a troubadour came in my direction – oops silence has its moments it seemed.

Then there was this precocious kid, the kind who tells you what your really like, and whom you would like to give a clip behind the ear at some stage because they are so right (you just don’t want admit it to yourself) – the innocence.

Those troubadours must have known something we didn’t it, ‘cos they called him The Child. I mean who calls an adult ‘The Child’

And that dear readers was the start of the journey, of course there were more of those pilgrims, nine all told, characters of great remark who all had apart to play in the great adventure which was yet to unfold.

Funny though. Those pilgrims seemed to match the nine points on that Enneagram ‘thingy’.

I need to have a word with those pesky Troubadours, they seem to have an idea as to what’s going on. Oh and yes they could sing!

Blessings to you all

Kevin xx