The rocks were the central theme of this trip and although I loved them desperately, there were also other inspiring spiritual sites that moved me deeply.
We went to a Maize Maze on the Gower. Though this was not a spiritual site, it was a spiritual experience. We walked up and down paths cut through acres of corn stalks trying to find our way to the center and then back out again. Easier said than done. Blind byways and alleys always led to dead ends. Turn around and try again. Turn around and try again. And again. And again. Until we were completely turned around and disoriented.
I am usually a very patient person, but after a half hour of this, I got very antsy and had a momentary doubt that we’d ever get out. I had never felt claustrophobic before and so I really surprised myself when I panicked. But that is what a spiritual experience does: it allows you to see yourself in new ways.
That night, at the end of a very long day, we walked into a minor miracle. We had driven through several towns and villages looking for a good place to sleep, but we did not find anything very tempting, so we just kept going on hoping to find the perfect B&B. The last town we came to was Burry Port, which was skuzzy and unappealing, but it was getting dark and we were bushed, so we went to the pub that advertised B&B accommodations.
In the bar, I noticed a life size painting of Amelia Earhart and commented on it. Well! It turns out that on her famous transatlantic flight she was supposed to land in Ireland, but she was off course and landed her seaplane in the harbor of this town. She then stayed over in this same pub! The breakfast room was a museum/shrine celebrating her feat and stay in Burry Port. This seemed like such a lucky coincidence. Amelia and I, after all, were/are both members of the esteemed Society of Woman Geographers.
Another place that moved me deeply was Dylan Thomas’ home at Laugharne. His writing studio was in a tiny boathouse the size of a one-car garage, which perched on the edge of a hill overlooking marshland with gorgeous tall fronds of water grass and graceful wading birds. Even though I had never seen pictures of it, I had actually dreamt of this very place the night before. Except in my dream it was my writing studio.
Yet another place that was not a spiritual site inspired my spirit. Castell Henlleys is an archeological dig and reconstruction of an Iron Age settlement from the 6th Century BC. It was so well done and evocative that it was easy to imagine life 8000 years ago and realize how sophisticated it was in its creativity and skilled mastery of material, tool, and technique. Another spot where I felt oddly at home.
Several people suggested that I visit the church at Nevern and I am so glad that I did. Nevern is basically a sign on the road. A pub/inn. A social hall. A house or two. A good salmon fishing river. And the church. The church is early Norman and has a 1000-year old Celtic Cross in the churchyard. The gravestones are grey, worn and covered in lichen. There was a particularly touching tombstone for the 64-year old school marm.
Inside the church, each kneeling bench was covered with a colorful hand-stitched tapestry pillow with a different design drawn from Celtic iconography, made by the church ladies. There were at least 100 of them and they made for a really cheerful, cheer-filled sanctuary.
A river, the Nevern, runs through the churchyard. Along one side of the yard is a stone wall where you can sit and watch the river go by. The churchyard is planted with an amazing variety of some 100 different kinds of flowers and surrounded with ancient holy yew trees. Among these is the famous Nevern Weeping Yew that oozes a bloody red-colored sap. I collected some in a film canister to use in some appropriate future ritual. All in all, this was a very special spiritual site.
We didn’t really see much wild life. Some interesting birds, and that’s all. But there were sheep everywhere. And cows. And some horses, all domesticated. But one day on the moors we came across a pack of wild horses that belonged to nobody. They roamed free. They danced and pranced and scuffled and played on the open moor. They must have been used to people feeding them, because they were quite approachable, though skitterish. The most amazing thing about them was their mane, which was extremely long and wavy. They looked like so many equine Veronica Lakes.
I had been told about a special site called Ty Canol. One woman wrote me that in her opinion it was the most sacred spot on Earth. Well, I had to see this for myself. But that was not easy. I had to find it first. Everyone from the B&B keeper to the post office keeper to the tourist bureau clerk to the park ranger had heard of it. Most had been to it. But everyone told us that they got lost every time they tried to find it. It began to take on a Shangri-La/Brigadoon quality that only made me more dogged in my pursuit. For three days we tracked down leads and faulty directions, to no avail. But I was determined. There is always a test of faith before one is allowed to partake of the sacred.
On our last day in the area we drove up and down and around the maze of roads and dirt tracks that somehow kept us going in circles around where we knew it had to be. Finally a farmer carrying the cutest terrier in his arms came up to the car to ask if we were lost. He told us we were five minutes away and gave us very explicit directions. As soon as I saw the dog, which was the reincarnate spirit of my beloved bud terrier, I knew that this would be it, and that we would get to Ty Canol.
Which we did. In five minutes, just as he said. We parked the car and entered a cattle gate and followed the path up a rise and onto the moor. We walked for quite a distance and passed three large natural rock formations before we got a glimpse of the magic wood. Ty Canol, which means “little house” is the oldest oak forest in Europe.
I always think of oak trees as being mammoth, but these were small and knarled . They looked like giant bonsais. The oak leaves were tiny, only about an inch and a half long. Entering the woods was like crossing into another world, universe, dimension. The floor of the forest was rock strewn and sculptural with crevices, outcroppings, and exposed root systems, all of which was completely covered with a thick carpet of moss. The filtered light reflected the acid green of the moss and permeated the air all around. It was like being in a terrarium. The moss absorbed all sound. The silence was profound.
The ground called to me and I laid down upon it, luxuriantly comfortable on the deep moss mattress. I scattered some of my dear friend Jimmy’s ashes around and thought that this would be the nicest place possible to spend eternity. If ever there was a sacred grove, this was it. And there I was, in this impossibly, breathtakingly gorgeous place, basking in its beauty and power. Soaking up as much of the serene majestic energy of this holy wood as I possibly could.
I did bring back the feeling of that place and a certain longing for it. And also a certain nostalgia for all of the spirit sites and stones, which is why it has been so important to me to document this journey before it fades. Which I have now finally accomplished! I am satisfied and relieved. I have saved my memories from extinction.
And so now, having done so, I can turn my attention once again to the here and now.
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