This Land of Ours  (Somerset)      

Can you see the dark clouds gather as they gracefully conjure themselves toward a myriad of mendacious shapes? Are these the same clouds which Fay Weldon glimpsed from the sanctuary of her back garden and then wove into her fine imaginings? The Tor rising up like a dark force, not always harbouring the kindest of intentions- a place of sacrifice to the once gods-  now filled with the wanderings of too many lost spirits. And so, they say, within this mound, this hillock, this tiny slice of Albion lies The King-  the true King waiting to be called at our most needful hour – or so the legend goes. The one who will deliver us from the lies and untruths of the day towards a clarity of perception and knowing to save our very souls. We live in hope.

Listen as the hill breathes, feel it tingle through the soles of your feet. Arthur lives. So many stories therein, the one of my friend -from years back- being chased down the hill by a wind while pregnant with twins. And a voice calling after her ‘Call him Michael.’ Which she duly did- never mind about the girl child, she will take care of herself and she did. The same friend whose husband died when he reached the Tor one hot and sunny day as he gave himself up whilst still holding fast to young Michael’s hand when he dropped, and my friend felt the chill from miles away as the air ambulance hovered. 

It’s a strange place which holds different things for different people- some love it and feel drawn, compelled even by its indignant force. Personally, I wish myself a million miles away as I feel the weight suffocating me, repelling me, with something that I just can’t pin down. How do you feel? Is it merely nothing but a Marmite mound? But Arthur lives and of that I am convinced; I hear the clash of swords. The good moon rises as she draws herself up while collecting the blessings of the Earth Goddess- golden and full of fertile promise- and bigger than anywhere else on the planet. This isle of ours is the most haunted in the whole world, so do you ever ask yourself why it is here that the ghosts gather in such profusion and what it is that they actively seek? And then there’s that unicorn oft glimpsed in that orchard- the one  not far from here, but I won’t tell you exactly where for that is for you to find. But if you dare to venture in pursuit make sure it’s at near dawn or just before dusk, for the orchard is close at hand.

But for now the myth and the magic mix and stir as the true King rises (much taller than I imagine) with his beautiful true queen demurely at his side, a gentle playful smile alight upon her face, a huge braid of hair heavy and slung like a serpent across one shoulder. She lifts her downcast ‘Diana’ eyes at the knight who bends one knee before them both as she places her colours securely upon his lance before he goes forth into battle. And yet more knights amass appearing quickly in the rising mist which clings so oddly to skin and bone and heart and mind. They climb with stealth into the ever darkening sky upon muscular steeds which fly them across the landscape, reflecting briefly in the flat waters below, those same waters which now fill fields.

As the breeze brings with it a scent of apples fresh from orchards with cider brandy strong upon the breath, we begin to wassail. And so the music drifts, becoming stronger and more strident, down the hill and into the crowds below where the people move like a human magic carpet, dancing and shape shifting in time to their own individual rhythms of their own individual lives. And Elton John plays on until the Carnival is over.

Somerset – this land, this miracle. This Tir na Nog, this land of the ever young. This Ynys Avalon, this Isle of Glass as it is known in differing tongues. But whatever language you care to employ- for us it will always be home from wherever we have come.