Echoes in a Hollow Space

Back in 2004, two friends and I visited the Cornish peninsula. Tintagel was definitely a high point—the actual rock and castle itself, if not the village. But there was another place that left just as big an imprint on my soul—maybe even bigger. Not as dramatic as Tintagel, much quieter, but no less magic: St. Madron’s Holy Well in Cornwall.

It’s inland from Penzance only a few miles, but a whole different world from the bustling tourist centers along the coast. It wasn’t featured prominently in my Green Guide, but I’d read about the well elsewhere and it figured high on my wish list. My companions indulged me in this, and I think they were glad they did. We were an Episcopalian, an agnostic, one leaning strongly towards pagan, and all of us were all moved by this place. It’s been holy since pagan times, taken over by the Christians, and still remains holy to both. There are a couple of small churches nearby, St. Madron’s which we didn’t get to visit, and St. Grada—small, lovely, peaceful. But the well itself (and the ruined chapel channeling it) exist a mile north and a whole ‘nother universe apart.

It’s a half-mile, so they say, from the church to the gate leading to the well, and a quarter mile in to the ruined chapel. Pastures surround the location, and the gate opens onto a tree-lined path. On this spring day, the trees burned with blossoms. We progressed through dappled shade along the rough path, delicate wildflowers in white and pink and yellow leading the way. Maybe it’s the screen of trees that shuts off all noise except the chirping of birds, the occasional movement of wild things in the overgrown brush on either side, but it’s like stepping into another world, so different from the one we know—centuries older, maybe a millennium or two. We hushed in response, the sound of our quiet passage seeming unnaturally loud. We could hear the wheels of our own thoughts spinning in our heads.

It hadn’t rained for several days, but the path was still damp, quite muddy in spots, sunken beneath water in places. Sometimes we had to scramble over rough stiles, crudely cut blocks of gray stone. One to step up, a flat one to scramble over, one to step down.

The waters of the wellspring, I learned later, is somewhere out in the marshy land beyond the chapel, but they say its water brings healing and also gives mystical insight into the future. Puritan fanatics tried to smash the well housing in the chapel during the Civil War, but it still burbles on with fresh, pure, clean water. We were there on a Saturday, the end of April, but the waters are supposed to be their most potent on the first three Sundays in May. Maybe we got some residual from the build up to May, who knows?

After the second stile and down a bit, there’s a stand of trees where people who’ve been cured by the well leave an offering—traditionally rags tied to the trees, but we saw all sorts of things. We left our offerings before the fact. All I had on me was a crimson velveteen scrunchie for my hair, one I was particularly partial to. I must say it looked lovely wrapped around the broken end of a branch.

A real presence exists in that place, a sense that something potent moves through those trees. I didn’t feel at all silly looking back on that crimson scrunchie. It felt damned good, an elevation of the spirits. No guarantees of anything, no promises made, but for me a sense that I was making a wordless promise; I gave up something to the spirit of the place.

I’m not exactly sure why that particular bend in the stream became the location of the rag offerings because it’s around the path and down a ways from the actual well site. But I do know that the stream forked at this point, and in pagan beliefs, at any rate, forks in rivers are magical places. As are forked trees—ymp trees, they’re called, where the branches split in a Y low enough on the trunk for a human to walk or climb through easily. There were some of those in that grove, too. Forks represent transition points, places where the energy (or magic) changes directions and, some believe, gives a surge of power.

The chapel itself is a ruin, a roofless box of ancient stone, steeped in age and covered in moss. An altar, on this day hosting a crude cross woven of branches, sits at one end of the enclosure.

The interior housing for the well is another, smaller box on the opposite side, with a catch basin for the waters before they flow out and into the stream. A cold, absolutely clear, surprisingly gentle stream for such a volume of water—and again, the sense of presence was palpable. Even if you don’t go in for the mystical stuff, the thought that for thousands of years humans have come to this spot for prayer and offerings is awe-inspiring. Maybe that’s all the presence is at Madron, those innumerable human lives and energies intersecting with this place. Whatever it is, it’s potent. We sat on the rough stones for longest time, drinking it in, letting the peace invade our souls and smooth out the jangles. I was healed, although I hadn’t been aware of being sick.

I snapped a few pictures, but it seemed a futile (and maybe sacrilegious?) endeavor, and none of them came out all that well. I couldn’t escape the realization that no film, no picture could capture the enveloping green peace of this place, surrounded by trees, accompanied by the trill of songbirds, the plash of water on stones, the gurgle of it running in a channel, the fresh smell of greenness all around. At best, these photos may jog memories years hence, opening the door to the soul memory left behind by St. Madron’s Well.

Mirrored from Better Than Dead.

I'd been to the ruined abbey of Glastonbury on a previous trip and loved the place so much I'd practically done a photo montage, so I wasn't much in the mood to take pictures this time. Ann and Lynn had never been, so I turned my camera over to Lynn and let her take what she liked, and Ann got some nice pictures, too.

I just wanted to walk around and enjoy the lovely green peace and quiet of the place. Some of the places I revisited on this trip were a disappointment, but not the abbey. It was just as lovely as I remembered it. It's said that King Arthur was buried here...or that may have just been a story cooked up by 12th century monks to get more tourist revenue. It's also said that back in medieval times the land around the abbey and Glastonbury Tor, which looms up in the nearby countryside, was swampy during the wet months of the year. Some have suggested that Glastonbury was actually the place where Arthur was taken when mortally wounded—the Isle of Avalon. Or that may be a story to get more tourist revenue... I don't take sides. It's a wonderfully romantic place, surrounded by evocative legends.

You can view the current batch of photos by CLICKING HERE.

I haven't updated the pictures of the 2004 trip in awhile. You can look at the current set by CLICKING HERE.

This was one of the last stops we made in Cornwall, on our way to the cottage we rented in Somerset. It was one of my favorite memories of the trip. I've written about it here. It was a lovely, quiet place that put my heart at ease. We all fell completely in love with it.

I also shot my favorite picture of the entire trip here. I'll let you decide which one it was.

Alpha




and Omega

I've posted some more pictures from England (Tintagel) on Flickr. You can view the latest upload by CLICKING HERE.

You can see an abbreviated version of the entire Tintagel Experience here.

And if you're a real glutton for punishment, you can click here to read me gushing about it shortly after being there.

Here's the latest upload of pictures from my English trip. To visit the new pictures, CLICK HERE.

You can read my LJ account of this day's adventure here.

Here's the latest uploaded batch. I found one leftover shot of St. Michael's Mount. CLICK HERE to get to the new batch—which is mostly about the lovely little church of St. Grada, near Madron Holy Well.





St. Grada

This immense estate has beautiful gardens in a large variety of environments, as well as being an important wildlife sanctuary. The gardens became "lost" when the owners ceased to take interest and everything became an overgrown jungle. Now in public trust, the gardens have been lovingly restored and provide a nice day of enjoying the flora and fauna. Some of these environments are like stepping into another world. We took a ton of pictures that day. I've culled some, but there are still 25 in the latest upload. Click on either picture to get there.

Here's the next batch of photos, showing the afternoon we were headed to Golitha Falls and got lost in the countryside—which turned out to be a nice drive anyway. We'd never have seen sweet St. Neot otherwise. Although the poor wanker us broads accidentally interrupted might feel differently about our adventure. We thought it hilarious. I suspect he didn't.

The set-so-far can be found here.

The latest pictures can be found by clicking on the first photo:



The countryside



St. Neot's churchyard

And with his concurrence, I am posting some pictures I took in Lyme Regis in spring '04. I should warn you: they're a pretty pathetic collection. This was our first stop out of London, and I was just getting reacquainted with my SLR after a few years of taking no pictures whatsoever. I like to think the pictures got better as the trip progressed, but between jet lag, fatigue and technical malfeasance, these ain't much. Certainly Lyme Regis deserved better.

We drove from London (about 160 miles?) and stopped in Dorchester for lunch. A lovely little town! We booked our B&B at the Tourist Information center there, then decided to head a bit north to visit Cerne Abbas. For half my life I'd wanted to visit the giant etched into the chalk hillside there, the so-called Rude Man. You can read about him here. I had no idea that every picture I'd ever seen of him was an aerial shot. I had this vision in my brain, you see, that he was on a steep hillside and you could see him stretched out clearly, but alas, it was a crashing disappointment when I got there. Plus, I'd always had this idea that I'd walk up onto the hillside and traipse along up there with him. But it had rained heavily that morning and the hillside was sucking mud. Besides, after our lunch in Dorchester, my stomach was giving me fits so we cancelled the climb and got back on the road. I was depressed and cranky by the time I got to Lyme, hence I didn't do it justice.

We did book a lovely B&B high on a hillside overlooking the bay, but it was getting rather late in the day by the time we got there. Our hosts told us of a neaby river walk that would take us to the shore. It was quite lovely, a narrow footpath winding in and out amongst the buildings as the river itself does. Ducks everywhere riding the current, and charming buildings. But mostly too dark for decent pictures. When we reached the shore, the shops were much the same as you'd expect from any seaside town tourist destination. We also realized we were on the exact opposite side of town from the famous Cob, the landmark made famous by The French Lieutenant's Woman and other films. I'd wanted to see that half my life, too, and walk out there pretending to be Meryl Streep.

But we were tired, cranky, and quite hungry by that time. We turned around and headed back towards the river walk and a interesting restaurant we'd seen there. I felt quite dispirited at this point. Plus, at dinner there was this loud Australian woman at the next table talking about why she couldn't get any of her romances published in the United States (although she did quite well in the Commonwealth countries). "They're all so bloody ignorant and have no idea how to spell proper English. They wanted me to go through everything and change the spelling and the British English. I'd be damned if I would. They're just so ignorant!" Her friends kept trying to shush her because they'd realized we were Americans, but it did no good. I also wondered if they recognized us from earlier in the evening? They were staying at the same B&B. It made for quite and "interesting" breakfast the next morning.

I should say at this point that I've generally found Australians to be charming people. This woman was not one of them. And her reasons for not publishing in the US sounded like bloody feeble excuses to me. I'd bet good money she couldn't sell any of her books to American publishers, hence the vitriol.

The walk back to the B&B along the river walk at night revived my spirits, though. Water and night time have always been my friends. The water babbled beautifully, little ducks were talking in the water, and tiny bats swooped through the night, making a chirping sound. (Who knew echo location could be so lovely?) I'm not at all freaked by bats. I find them fascinating. And these were not even as large as my hand.

So we left Lyme Regis early the next morning for Bodmin, and I felt as if I cheated the place, I really did. What I saw of it was lovely, but we should have gotten there earlier in the day to do it justice. In the middle of the night, however, I had made some accommodation with my disappointment of the day. I woke up about 3 a.m., unable to go back to sleep due to the jet lag and decided to sit at the window and watch the sun rise over Lyme Bay. It was hushed, just me and the ghosts, and something inside me relaxed into the moment, letting go of expectations and letting this trip be what it was, not what I thought it should be. Gradually, the sky lightened, the gulls began to cry, the birds to chirp, and the dawn found me at peace. It turned out to be a really good trip.

Here's what I wrote while I watched the sunrise.

And here's the first postings of my new photo album. I had these posted at another site that went belly up and never got around to reposting them. I'll gradually be adding the pictures from the trip as time permits. As I said, I do believe the pictures got better as the trip progressed. These first ones are not that great, but I did get reacquainted with the SLR after awhile.

( And here's just the pix of Lyme Regis, such as they are. )

Live life, live love. Hope you had a really good day.


( Here's a pretty photo for you. )