County Sligo, Carrowmore, Tuesday 26th July 2022…
***
***
Whilst it is a reconstruction
there is nothing to overtly suggest
that it is modelled on the cairn on top of the hill?
***
***
The name Maebh derives from ‘mead’ which is why
in some of the Old Irish texts she is called ‘sweet-mouthed’.
***
***
Queen Maebh is another one of the major characters in,
‘The Ulster Spoil’, that huge, sprawling, epic of a tale…
Continue reading at France&Vincent
County Sligo, Carrowmore, Tuesday 26th July 2022…
***
***
Almost as impressive as the monuments themselves,
if not more so,
are the locations in which they are situated.
***
***
If cemetery builders were artists!
***
***
It is difficult not to suspect
that there is a high purpose here too…
Continue reading at France&Vincent
County Sligo, Carrowmore, Tuesday 26th July 2022…
***
***
It is natural to think that things start small
and then get bigger.
***
***
But in this case it just makes the question
of where the builders went to
that much more difficult to answer.
***
***
But if they started big, and then got smaller,
they could, indeed, have just dwindled away?
***
***
And who says the big sites
have the same function
as the small sites anyway?…
Continue reading at France&Vincent
County Offally, Clonfinlough Stone, Monday, 25th July, 2022
***
‘Meadow of the Bright Lake’
***
“The Leanan Sidhe sucks the life-force
out of artists who in return for an early death
achieve immortality in their life’s work.”
*
Which sounds a bit like the muse.
*
“We may think of Sid and Nancy,
Kurt and Courtney,”
and possibly, even, Jim and Pamela?
***
***
Was this wild charge into the unreality
of reality prompted merely by the idea
of leaving votive offerings
in the cup-holes of the stone?…
Continue reading at France&Vincent
County Offally, Clonmacnoise, Monday, 25th July, 2022
***
***
The legend of regaining, ‘the Spoil’,
is tied up with a stone.
***
***
After the composing of a lay for Fergus Mac Roigh,
one of the major characters in the tale,
at his grave stone, a grey mist descended,
and the ghost of the great man himself appeared…
Continue reading at France&Vincent
County Offally, Clonmacnoise, Monday, 25th July, 2022
***
‘The meadow of the sons of Nos’
***
‘Something dark
and swift
flitted between the grave stones.
*
Whether or not it was profound,
only time would tell…’
Continue reading at France&Vincent
***
“… See you soon…Stay in the car!”
He must have known the futility of that message as it winged its way through the ether…I could hear the sighs of despair… I had texted my current location and “… the heather is in bloom…”
The best way… not necessarily the quickest… to my friend and co-writer’s home is via the hills…and when there is heather in flower…
It took a while. And these were only small patches of heather… when the high moors are in full bloom, that purple mantle covers the world from horizon to horizon.
I was in the north for a Silent Eye meeting and the opportunity to hook up and visit a couple of ancient sites with my friend was too good to miss. He knows me well… the combination of me, hills and camera is a bad one where any kind of punctuality is concerned… and I have heather in the blood.
***
The culprit
I stopped at the first place I could… and the second…
There is just something in that combination of grey stone, the impossible green of fresh bracken and the purple mist of heather… for me, drinking from the iron laden waters of the streams that fall from the high moors is to taste the waters of life.
It sings to my soul.
I stood looking out across the valley where the heather paints the hills with impossible colour and felt so much joy well up from the very depths of being that it could not be contained by flesh or constrained by silence… and shouted my love for this land to the hills.
The skylarks didn’t seem to mind, and apart from the odd, startled sheep there was no-one to hear except the wind.
Well, hopefully…
***
It took a while…
I eventually arrived at my destination… my friend took one look and his eyebrow flew up in that characteristic fashion… He pursed his lips and sighed…“You didn’t stay in the car…”
His eyes, however, were dancing… which sort of set the tone.
He had his revenge for my tardiness however, as my feet, impractically and unsuitably clad in patent leather, whimpered quietly. We spent a day on foot… with occasional recourse to public transport… in the woods and walking up hills so steep even the car would have struggled… and found ancient petroglyphs and a vitrified fort in the middle of a city. Incredible stuff…
There was, as always, a huge amount of laughter. There was the usual anomaly of warped time as we seemed to achieve way too much for the hours at our disposal… and the odd apparent space-time glitch that left my friend with his head in his hands wondering how to announce that he had managed to lose one of the Directors of the Silent Eye…. As always too, there was almost non-stop conversation and debate… across a breadth of subjects that are incredibly diverse yet which all, somehow, seem to lead back to the same core idea…
There were, also… thanks to my friend’s foresight in leaving my car parked at his home… a number of judiciously placed hostelries in which to collate our findings and keep hydrated… with a superb little place to finish, where the odd, speculative conversation emanating from our table was simply looked upon with a certain amount of amused indulgence.
***
Reflecting on our research…
I am once more home, reunited with a dog who is currently occupying a percentage of the sofa completely at odds with her actual size… and with my son, just home from his travels.
And as it suddenly seems to have become tomorrow, the inboxes can wait till morning. I’m heading for bed to dream of heather and the upcoming trip to the North Yorkshire moors which, if the heather is in bloom, will be so beautiful they would make angels weep for joy.
***
Sheer joy
***
Stuart France & Sue Vincent
Unwittingly drawn into the mysterious and magical landscape of The Initiate, Don and Wen pondered the visual language of symbols, stumbling across revelations and realisations that would alter their perception of the age-old stories they thought they knew… tales that entwine across the tapestry of time.
A hilltop steeped in tragedy, a child whose eyes see too much… a Word-Weaver’s birth into darkness… strange forms shimmering on the edge of vision. They learned to walk the Living Land, listening to the whispers of Earth memory and the ghosts of the most ancient past. And from those tales, another line of communication opens as they explore the folklore, legends and traditional tales handed down, from heart to heart, over the millennia.
As the two friends travel between the sacred sites of Albion, they discover stories that tell how the leys were made, the true origins of the hill-forts and the reason why Father Fish had breakfast in Slug Town.
Striding across this landscape of myth are the giants. From Cerne Abbas to the top of the Beanstalk, from Camelot to the Castle of Maidens, how and why is their presence stamped on the Living Lore of the land by their seven-league boots?
Join Don and Wen as the adventure continues, un-ravelling its mysteries and the magical relationship between Albion and its people.
***
We spent the morning working, until it was time for the hospital. I left minus bandages and armed with a full complement of skin again, albeit not particularly pretty skin for now. The healing of the burns is going well and I am finally allowed full scale, unimpeded ablutions. Which, in this heat, is wonderful.
***
***
Then we headed off into an ancient and sacred landscape, littered with barrows and earthworks, pale stone and mellow brick in search of a pub for lunch. In this area they are not hard to find and we settled for a little place with a petunia filled terrace, ablaze with colour. We talked, ate, laughed and made notes before finding a temporary sanctuary from the heat in ancient stone.
***
***
It was a lovely afternoon’s adventuring but thirsty work, so it seemed almost inevitable that the early evening found us on the terrace of the Black Boy, watching the rabbits on the hillside and .. well, me at least… drawing pictures in the condensation that enveloped the cold glass.
***
***
As the sun, softly golden and hazy, stooped down to kiss the horizon, I fell in love all over again. Not that my love affair with this land has ever abated or diminished. But sometimes it comes up with a rush from the innermost depths to flood your senses, emotions and being.
Tonight was such a night.
***
***
There had been a day chasing landscapes, both those of the green earth and those of myth, magic and legend. There had been the landscape of faith painted in the shape of a shadow on a church wall, the glory of jewel coloured glass and the frozen lace of carved stone. There had been the landscape of history, ancient graffiti, crude sundials and lost names. And the landscape of the soul that wound and entwined its way through all else, as intimately as any lover.
But the stage against which all this was set was England on a summer’s day, and it was beautiful.
***
***
Stuart France & Sue Vincent
Unwittingly drawn into the mysterious and magical landscape of The Initiate, Don and Wen pondered the visual language of symbols, stumbling across revelations and realisations that would alter their perception of the age-old stories they thought they knew… tales that entwine across the tapestry of time.
A hilltop steeped in tragedy, a child whose eyes see too much… a Word-Weaver’s birth into darkness… strange forms shimmering on the edge of vision. They learned to walk the Living Land, listening to the whispers of Earth memory and the ghosts of the most ancient past. And from those tales, another line of communication opens as they explore the folklore, legends and traditional tales handed down, from heart to heart, over the millennia.
As the two friends travel between the sacred sites of Albion, they discover stories that tell how the leys were made, the true origins of the hill-forts and the reason why Father Fish had breakfast in Slug Town.
Striding across this landscape of myth are the giants. From Cerne Abbas to the top of the Beanstalk, from Camelot to the Castle of Maidens, how and why is their presence stamped on the Living Lore of the land by their seven-league boots?
Join Don and Wen as the adventure continues, un-ravelling its mysteries and the magical relationship between Albion and its people.
***
Another hot, bright day dawned early, so we meandered over towards Stowe landscape gardens near Buckingham. Not so much to see the gardens themselves as a particular church in the grounds there. However, as usually happens, we were waylaid by a vague memory from long ago of a hamlet down a dirt track… and a possible old church in the middle of nowhere.
***
***
These little churches, tucked away far from the beaten track are often delightful and hold, unscathed by time, many small and simple treasures in their well-loved interiors. So we were hopeful. Parking the car we were treated to a fabulous display of sheer joyousness by a red kite, wheeling and swooping against an azure sky, seemingly just because it could.
***
***
But the church in this tiny hamlet was not quite what we expected. We stumbled across the Cathedral of the Fields. A delicate tracery of stone lines the porch, tall columns the interior and a choir of carved and painted angels still look down from their lofty perch into the chancel as they have for centuries. It was, inevitably, a while before we set off again.
***
***
The first sight of Stowe is a huge triumphal arch on top of a hill. The carriage drive runs between the piers of the arch, but we took a different route, driving round the magnificent house to reach the little church. The gardens are spectacular, filled with temples and statuary, columns and contrived vistas at every turn. It is the type of place you could wander for hours, but by this time we were hot and thirsty… and had seen a sign for a village pub that promised lunch.
***
***
Parts of the inn date back to the 16th century. The place is covered in flowers and the food superb.. though after meeting one of the residents in the doorway I felt a little guilty about the Chicken Caesar…
***
***
The village pubs hold as much history as the churches and, in some ways, have their own special place in the history of the people. Long ago it was the inns and farriers that served the highways here folk come together to share time, tales and laughter as they have always done.
***
***
We were here a while too….
Later we wandered back the long way, finding some treasures en route and a blue heron in a field.. the second in as many weeks. Not that I was quick enough this time with the camera, but it was lovely to watch.
Tonight as the heat subsides and the evening becomes pleasant, there may be a wander to the village pub here too. Why not? It seems a perfect way to end another lovely summer’s day.
***
Stuart France & Sue Vincent
Unwittingly drawn into the mysterious and magical landscape of The Initiate, Don and Wen pondered the visual language of symbols, stumbling across revelations and realisations that would alter their perception of the age-old stories they thought they knew… tales that entwine across the tapestry of time.
A hilltop steeped in tragedy, a child whose eyes see too much… a Word-Weaver’s birth into darkness… strange forms shimmering on the edge of vision. They learned to walk the Living Land, listening to the whispers of Earth memory and the ghosts of the most ancient past. And from those tales, another line of communication opens as they explore the folklore, legends and traditional tales handed down, from heart to heart, over the millennia.
As the two friends travel between the sacred sites of Albion, they discover stories that tell how the leys were made, the true origins of the hill-forts and the reason why Father Fish had breakfast in Slug Town.
Striding across this landscape of myth are the giants. From Cerne Abbas to the top of the Beanstalk, from Camelot to the Castle of Maidens, how and why is their presence stamped on the Living Lore of the land by their seven-league boots?
Join Don and Wen as the adventure continues, un-ravelling its mysteries and the magical relationship between Albion and its people.
***
It was hot in Windsor yesterday. Very hot. It seemed only sensible to contemplate the enormity of the castle from a table outside the ancient pub with a cold drink. It would, in fact, have been almost impolite not to do so. Holiday or not, we were busy researching a theory and Windsor held one or two things we needed to see.
***
***
The castle is a stunning edifice… a huge piece of the collective imagination, the sempiternal English Castle of dream, myth and fairytale, begun by William the Conqueror and evolving over a thousand years into a palace, fortress and symbol of monarchy. It is, however, full of tourists.. so we looked and admired… but did not enter. Over the gate ancient faces looked down, with some amusement, at the hot and thirsty visitors.
***
***
We chose not to join them. Instead we visited the Parish Church… a quiet place, a pool of silence in a busy town. The cool interior was a welcome respite from the blazing sun. Though not a particularly attractive church, as churches go, it is replete with history. The screen behind the altar, however, is quite spectacular and some of the stained glass is stunningly beautiful. To the right of the sanctuary are the thrones reserved for royalty when they visit the little church, placed behind carvings of the pelican sacrificing its own blood to feed its children. It is often forgotten, I think, that those in such power are, or should be, servants of those they rule in this respect, for with power comes responsibility.
***
***
It is often abused, of course, power can corrupt or debase the human who wields it very easily. Ego becomes a driving force and tyrannies are born, sometimes from those who began with the noblest of ideals. It is a human frailty and our history is littered with such tales.
Having exhausted the relevant possibilities of the town we headed back to base, being waylaid by an old coaching inn in the tiny village of West Wycombe, from whence we emerged some time later refreshed.
***
***
It is the smaller places that hold the charm for me. The grandeur of the castle, like the magnificence of a cathedral, is something to gaze upon in awe.. which, I suppose, is the point. But the history of people and place comes alive in the simple, everyday places.. the tiny villages, the isolated chapels and the homes that have held our personal stories for hundreds of years, seeing families come and go, watching children laugh and learn, holding our hearts and emotions within their haphazard walls.
Yet even these are transient, as impermanent in the wider life of the world as mere castles in the air. The lands upon which these places are built hold a deeper memory and it is in the landscape itself, though we forget it sometimes, that we have our home.
***
Stuart France & Sue Vincent
Unwittingly drawn into the mysterious and magical landscape of The Initiate, Don and Wen pondered the visual language of symbols, stumbling across revelations and realisations that would alter their perception of the age-old stories they thought they knew… tales that entwine across the tapestry of time.
A hilltop steeped in tragedy, a child whose eyes see too much… a Word-Weaver’s birth into darkness… strange forms shimmering on the edge of vision. They learned to walk the Living Land, listening to the whispers of Earth memory and the ghosts of the most ancient past. And from those tales, another line of communication opens as they explore the folklore, legends and traditional tales handed down, from heart to heart, over the millennia.
As the two friends travel between the sacred sites of Albion, they discover stories that tell how the leys were made, the true origins of the hill-forts and the reason why Father Fish had breakfast in Slug Town.
Striding across this landscape of myth are the giants. From Cerne Abbas to the top of the Beanstalk, from Camelot to the Castle of Maidens, how and why is their presence stamped on the Living Lore of the land by their seven-league boots?
Join Don and Wen as the adventure continues, un-ravelling its mysteries and the magical relationship between Albion and its people.
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 