A Thousand Miles of History XXVI: Rite of Way

Our next stop was right on the coast. On a day when you could see where your next step would take you, and had we been blessed with more time, we might have parked at Land’s End and walked the cliff path… which would, undoubtedly, have been the simplest route and, as it turned out, possibly the quickest too. But then, we would have missed a truly magical journey.

Instead, we chose to take a ‘short cut’. We would drive to the closest point we could get to our destination then walk a short way… or so we thought… between the fields and out onto the cliffs. We thanked whatever Providence had made us buy a detailed local map and set off down a series of increasingly isolated farm tracks until we found a gap in the hedgerows that looked like it might once have been a track… but it was certainly not the lane the map had suggested it would be.

We parked the car and entered the green tunnel between high hedgerows. It didn’t look like a long walk. At the first corner, though, the rutted track gave way to a narrow path festooned in greenery and wildflowers, climbing the embanked walls typical of this part of Cornwall.

These walls are curious affairs in themselves, seeming to consist of twin walls, often made of gigantic stones that would look more at home in a stone circle, infilled with earth. Grasses, flowers and shrubs colonise these walls, making them into natural gardens. The profusion of life in these sheltered ecosystems is as astonishing as it is beautiful, but when the mists close around you, and the green walls tower above you, the outer world slips into oblivion.

There was nothing ahead except the green pathway. Nothing behind. No way to see over the high banks…and no way of knowing which way you were walking through the swirling mists. Each corner revealed a new stretch of green… it felt exactly like being in a maze.

Distance was impossible to judge. Time seemed to stand still. There was no way to judge how far we had come nor how far we yet had to go…or if we were moving at all. The only relief was the occasional glimpse through an ancient field entrance, overgrown and half-obliterated by Nature… and these gaps in the green walls were flanked with great, guardian stones that seemed to watch our progress and call in the mists to veil our view of the ‘real’ world beyond the path.

Yet, there was something more real about this journey of one foot in front of the other, than any other path I have walked. The grasses whispered memories as we passed. Webs captured the mist in jewelled nets, butterflies guided faltering steps, brown fairies flitting in and disappearing against the damp, stony earth. Small birds, and even our familiar robin, led us onwards until, after what seemed like an eternity of utter tranquillity, we emerged into a farmyard.

From there, the track widened a little, opening out to let us glimpse the mammoth stones of which the wall was built. Not for long, though, as we were once more plunged back into the green shadows of the lane.

At last there was a gate and, beyond it, the heathlands of the cliffs. After the narrow confines of the green cocoon, passing through the gate felt like a rebirth. Yet, now the mists descended in earnest. We could see no more than a few yards ahead until we finally reached the cliff path.

Visibility was little better there. Like the sea pounding the shore far below us, the mists rolled in as waves, sometimes giving us glimpses of silhouetted headlands, sometimes shrouding them completely from view.

Faces peered out from the rocks; strange shapes and figures danced with the shifting, amorphous blanket that appeared to encase the wildflowers in soft ice. Gulls skimmed the currents, crying unseen above us, while below the cormorants opened their wings as if casting spells.

There is power in a journey, especially when it is undertaken as a quest or a pilgrimage… a sacrifice of effort and energy pays the toll for such a rite of passage. Trust in the call of the path leads you onwards and you are content to follow where the heart and the land may lead.

We turned our footsteps towards Land’s End… aware in some strange fashion that had little to do with the logic of the thought, that the land… our land… ended here and that what lay beyond was another realm, one into which we might be invited, but which we could never enter without that call.

The mist came down, veiling the marriage of land and sea from view. We walked on, uncertain that we would be able to find the place we had come to see…  but we need not have worried. Our guide was waiting, perched on the guardian stone…

About Sue Vincent

Sue Vincent is a Yorkshire-born writer and one of the Directors of The Silent Eye, a modern Mystery School. She has written a number of books, both alone and with Stuart France, exploring ancient myths, the mysterious landscape of Albion and the inner journey of the soul. She is owned by a small dog who also blogs. Follow her at scvincent.com and on Twitter @SCVincent Find her books on Goodreads and follow her on Amazon worldwide to find out about new releases and offers. Email: findme@scvincent.com
This entry was posted in adventure, albion, Ancient sites, Books, Don and Wen, Landscape, mystery, Photography, Stuart France and Sue Vincent and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

30 Responses to A Thousand Miles of History XXVI: Rite of Way

  1. jenanita01 says:

    Absolutely magical… making my yearning to return stronger than ever!

    Like

  2. What a most beautiful mystical enchanting journey Sue.. Your words weaved their own magic with each step you took.. Just loved walking with you on this journey.. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  3. colonialist says:

    Misty and mystical both! A lovely walk indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. stevetanham says:

    Reblogged this on Sun in Gemini and commented:
    From Sue.

    Like

  5. Awww ❤ Reminds me a bit of my walk through Merrivale.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Jennie says:

    Another wow!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Sometimes, the journey is part of the trip and sometimes, the journey IS the trip. We used to summer on the Vineyard, which is an island you can only read by flight (rare because there is no airline that goes there), or ferry. I love the ferry, the approach by water was like a Tarot reading of “you will be taking a journey across the water.” I loved Lands’ End. I have a mental memory of it and a memory of finding my way down the cliff, feeling for a footing or a place to grab, blindly, and somehow, actually getting to the shore below. So many memories you have brought back to me. Thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Sue Vincent says:

      I’m glad I can help bring these places back, Marilyn. Land’ End a tad too commercial these dys…though the land itself remains unchanged. I agree…the journey matters. Not just where, but how you travel…

      Like

  8. Widdershins says:

    Heh, heh, heh … of course Robin was waiting for you. 😀

    Liked by 1 person

  9. Such a place of mystery. Wonderful feeling!

    Liked by 1 person

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