Mara's (more or less) Monthly Musings from Wales

May 30th, 2008
A Pause in the River of Time
Wayside shrines are an important feature of many landscapes in countries as far apart as Japan, India and Ireland. They are usually designed to provide a place of contemplation, a break from the clamour and daily stresses of our goal-oriented lives, a portal opening into silence, a pause for prayer. Modern Western landscape planning has no time for this kind of window onto the eternal, but there are still ancient places of spiritual refuge for those who know where to look. Like pools in the riverbank of Time, they offer still waters amid the relentless onward flow of modern life.

I came across one of these a short while ago in South Wales, only a few miles out of the busy county town of Carmarthen. I was walking out of the village of Llansteffan down a path which led to the sandy estuary shore of the River Towy. On a warm but cloudy May morning, the path was bordered on one side with cool green ferns, their fronds interspersed with the glow of bluebells and the white stars of stitchwort. On the other side an old grey stone wall followed the path, with a small wooden green door set in it halfway down. There was something about the latch on this door that invited entry. It opened easily, giving way to stone steps that led steeply down into a tiny roofless chapel - roofless that is, unless you count the profusion of honeysuckle and wisteria that overhung the whole place.

A plaque on the wall identified it as the holy well of St. Anthony – Ffynnon Shon Antwn in the Welsh. St Anthony was a hermit who lived in the Egyptian desert for twenty years. He returned to civilization as a man of great wisdom and inspired others to live simple, ascetic lives in monastic communities. Celtic Christianity was highly influenced by his example, and the early Church was characterized by hermits and anchorites who lived in caves and forest settings in the wilds of Ireland, Scotland and Wales, often connected with a nearby monastery. Unlike the medieval abbeys of the Roman church, these were simply-fashioned huts of mud and wattle clustered around a central oratory used for prayer and devotions. It is likely that their way of life continued that of their predecessors, the Druids, with whom they had much in common.

A carving of St. Anthony stared out from the wall with a compelling gaze. Someone had placed wild flowers in his hand, in remembrance of his affinity for nature. I knelt by the well where white shells from the nearby beach had been cast. I found out later that the well used to be visited by those in search of healing, and in living memory has been used as a wishing well. A white quartz pebble, cast into the water, was said to guarantee your wish would be granted, so perhaps the white shells took the place of the quartz. I responded to the invitation of a small stone bench to sit and meditate for a while. My eyes were still closed when, about ten minutes later, I clearly heard a voice telling me to look up. When I obeyed, I saw the image of St. Anthony lit with a single ray of sunlight, suffused with immense beauty.

Foolishly, I wanted to hold on to the moment, and ran up the steps and out of the chapel to find my husband who had the camera. By the time I returned, even though it took less than a minute, the light was gone. I had allowed 21st century technology to invade this sacred space and had broken the spell.

The experience reminded me of the time I went to Nevern Church in Pembrokeshire, famous for its high carved Celtic cross, ogham stones and ancient yew trees. I had visited it as an awestruck pilgrim in my younger days when I couldn’t afford a car and had to walk through the woods and across fields, following the tracks of centuries of pilgrims before me. Eager to see this numinous place again now that I had moved to Wales, I decided to drive there after a visit to the launderette in the nearby town of Newport. But somehow, arriving with a load of crumpled washing in the car spoilt the whole experience, turning it into a mundane stop in the middle of a busy day, because I had not slowed down enough to access the inner state of mind so essential for visiting holy ground.

Wayside shrines are gateways inviting us to enter into a timeless experience of the sacred – but only if we slow down and open up to our own inner landscape first.

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March 20th, 2008

The Mount of Angels

It’s Spring Equinox and the national flower of Wales – the daffodil – is in full bloom in all the banks and hedgerows, their green stems emerging from drifts of snowdrops like paddlers in sea-foam. The growing warmth of the sun inspired us to make a pilgrimage down the coast to Carn Ingli, the Mount of Angels. Here the 6th century Irish hermit, Saint Brynach, communed with the angelic beings who give their name to this rugged peak. Before his time, Celtic tribes built a hilltop settlement
here, and the remains of their hut circles
can still be seen among the tumbled
rocks of the summit.

St. Brynach was said to live in a cave not far from Carn Ingli among the oaks of an ancient woodland believed to be haunted by the Fair Folk, the Welsh faery race. We clambered over rocks covered with emerald-green moss among the ancient gnarled trees with their bare, twisting branches. Local folklore tells of a time when there was a Druid college in the woods. Neophytes were initiated at Pentre Ifan, the great stone dolmen that overlooks the woods from a nearby hillside. It was once known as the Womb of Ceridwen, the goddess of Welsh Druidry. Although it is now open to the elements, it was said to have once been enclosed for rituals of death and rebirth through the Goddess herself.

As the sun went down, we stood gazing through the pillar stones of Pentre Ifan at the darkening outline of Carn Ingli. In the surrounding fields, lambs frisked and gamboled around their more sedate woolly mothers. Watching the unbounded energy and joie-de-vivre of these young creatures, it made sense that the Spring Equinox is the time when the Sun enters Aries, the sign of the Ram. A new cycle of growth and creativity has begun and here, in this most ancient of places, the Old Ones and the newborn rejoice together.

February 7th, 2008

Candlemas Bells
The snowdrop, in purest white array,
First rears her head on Candlemas Day.

My first winter in Wales has been illumined by the sight of drifts of white snowdrops growing all along the banks and hedgerows of the lane on which I live. These delicate flowers are also called the “Fair Maids of February” and the “Purification Flower” in some parts of Britain. Snowdrops are known as Candlemas Bells for the old rhyme says that the snowdrop first raises her head on Candlemas Day, February 2nd.

This also happened to be the day of the first event at the Chalice Centre, so as you can imagine, their white bells graced the green linen altar cloth on this day when a group of twenty women gathered to celebrate the Festival of Bride with me.
It was on account of this occasion that the day before found me standing in my wellies by the stream that flows along the bottom of our valley. I was gathering rushes to make a traditional Bridget’s cross, the way I’d learned on the Isle of Iona last summer. This was not at all easy with cold wet fingers and my first lamentable attempt fell apart and dropped in the mud. But it got easier, and soon I was weaving the stalks in a sunwise motion and the ancient living pattern of the sun’s circuit miraculously took shape in my hands. Now this living symbol of the return of the Light is raised high above the hearth-fire, blessing and protecting our home for the coming year.

January 6th, 2008

Wassailing the Apple Trees
2008, numerologically speaking, is a ‘1’ year (2+8=10=1) and so it’s a year of beginnings. This is certainly true in my life as this is the first New Year in my new home in West Wales. I haven’t lived in my native Britain for almost 30 years, and the phrase that describes best how I feel about my return is “passionately rooted” – it’s a deep visceral feeling of being home that’s almost beyond words. 

I also thought about the people throughout Wales and the West Country who performed this custom for centuries.  They greatly depended on their orchards, with whom they had a deep and abiding relationship. Every member of the household, even young children and the sick, attended the ceremony, because it was considered so important to give back to the trees in return for the bounty given so freely. This sense of giving back instead of continually taking puts us in right relationship with the Earth, an attitude we would do well to cultivate today.

Links:
For our wassail invocation, see: A Ritual for January
A Huge Collection of Wassail Bowl Recipes