The Queen’s Chronicles: GLASTONBURY SPIRIT PART 1

I played hooky from the Goddess Conference twice. On August 1, Lammas, the Summer Cross-Quarter Day, I went to the sacred sites in Glastonbury. I needed to be outside and in nature. So with my partner-in-crime, I hiked over Chalice Hill and on to the Tor, which we climbed on a rare, much too hot day. The view from the top was vast and serene, gorgeously green due to the English summer of incessant rain.

The Tor, which means conical hill, was beautiful, and extremely powerful visually -- especially from a distance. An imposing mound, elevation: 158 M/518 FT squatting alone on a vast flood plain, topped by the remaining tower of a medieval church dedicated to St. Michael. The sight from afar was incredibly stirring. And beckoning.

We walked across fields alive with grass and sheep, climbed over stiles, trudged through muddy muck, lost our way, and backtracked to find the proper path that would take us closer and closer still to the Tor. And then,
after having seen the Tor in the distance -- as an apparition, as an inspiring vision, as a goal -- all of a sudden there it was right in front of us looking formidable and steep.

We climbed. It was steep. And it was horribly hot. And crowded. There were families with dogs, tourists with kids, and pagan pilgrims with crystals and pendulums puffing up the Tor, sweating and panting and joking about how out of shape they were. We soon reached the top and the shade
that the tower offered. I sank onto the stone ledge inside the ruin where it was divinely cool, and stank to high heaven of piss. Charming.

One upon a time, pilgrims ascended the Tor in a statelier manner. Rather than struggling up the vertical slope, they circled it in a labyrinthine spiral, winding up and around in a meditative state. You can still see the subtle, terraced trails. Today, however, the Tor’s grassy sides are eroding and it is important not to walk on it, but to stay on the designated trail. Too bad.

Everyone settled down when they reached the peak. The energy on the hilltop was easy. People sat quietly in pairs and small groups, enjoying the spectacular view and the peaceful ambiance. For me, the Tor did not possess the mighty, in-your-face, obvious power that it is reputed to. Perhaps that, too, had been eroded over the millennia. While I was there, the land under my feet felt bereft of spirit. I now realize that there was, indeed a strong power there, but it was a more subtle, silent, calm, and comforting energy at work that emanated from the earth, and was trancemitted through the people.

On the climb back down, I was moved to touch a particular boulder. It was buzzing with energy. My whole body vibrated in tune with it. I kept my left hand on the rock and I laid my right hand in Daile’s, which set her to vibrating, too. The spirit of the Tor was definitely, undeniably, present. But it was not underfoot. It was safely stored in the rocks, which still ripple with it.

To be continued…