Baby Bear…

 

Carreg Coetan Arthur

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 Otherwise, ‘Arthur’s Quoit.’

Of which there are a goodly number dotted about our Blessed Isles.

Which makes me wonder…

It is hard not to regard this Arthur as a giant too.

And indeed the folk record cares little whether it be a giant, or a king, or a saint who is responsible for placing the stones, only that their provenance be marked, and their links not forgotten.

The link at our previous site was with an isle and maybe if one were to sail from the isle to the mainland it would be useful to keep the stones, or the mound in sight. And if they couldn’t be seen it might have been unwise to set out at all…

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The link at this one  is with the setting sun on the now obscured horizon.

Now, a quoit is a ring thrown over an upright in the game which, like a lot of games, employs distinctly coital symbolism.

It would be easy to re-construct the ring, perhaps, the earthen mound covering the chamber would only need to have been circular in shape.

But the ‘upright’ might be more difficult…

Unless it were a beam of light?

Such a notion is certainly counter intuitive but it may widen our notions of being up-standing.

We begin to wish we had paid more attention to the ray diagrams of our youth and those interminable physics lessons.

Fortunately, someone else has already done the maths, although quite how is still something of a mystery, to us at least.

According to the estimable Mr Robin Heath, the midsummer sun set of 2800 BC would cast its light through the ‘v’ at what he calls the back of the monument but which we may want to call the front.

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One  has to wonder about a culture concerned enough about its environs to construct such a burial chamber.

A crucible for the last rays of the summer sun.

May it be that the structure was a calendrical instrument long before it was a tomb and that the bones eventually placed in its midst were once those of people connected to its construction and or continued employment?

When appropriate we still sometimes bury the tools of someone’s life long trade, or rather service, with ‘them’.

Such notions have  wide ranging ramifications for recent theories of psychological crystallisation, but that is another story…

*

*

This being such a small portal there was little enough room for the reader so the Companions gathered around the periphery for another recital of the ‘…Prayer’.

The reading caused shivers which, given the designation we had somewhat irreverently foisted upon the structure, seemed curiously apt.

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Mother Bear…

Carreg Samson

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With a total disregard for tradition we tackled our ‘just right bowl of porridge’ first .

It is strange to say, perhaps, but this particular conglomeration of, once covered but now exposed, structured stone did not, initially, feel particularly motherly.

For one thing there seemed to be a general reluctance for people to step inside.

Was this fear, awe, reverence… ?

Perhaps it was a commingling of all three emotions…

The structure does cast an illusion of wanton precariousness.

Those undressed slabs of rock together comprise an impressive sight and tonnage.

The bones of our ancestors were once interred here.

More recently it has served as a sheep shelter.

Whatever it was it was soon dispelled as we got ‘down and dirty’ in the chamber in order to read a contemporary ‘Druid Prayer’.

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There is a theory about male and female standing stones.

The broader, squatter, shorter stones being deemed female whilst the taller, thinner, longer stones are deemed male.

It struck me that if the Cap-Stone were upright it would probably be regarded as a male stone.

According to another theory the Cap-Stone would definitely be male, irrespective of whether or not it is standing, for it has seams of white-quartz running through it.

From this angle though the Cap-Stone, in its present state, looks like nothing so much as a bird skull.

Which notion may cause pause for further thought…

Was there a deeper level of symbolism at play than the familiar Womb-Tomb equation?

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*

There is talk in the official literature of a possible second chamber and certainly from this angle the Cap-Stone looks quite badly broken.

It would also explain the curiously lonely looking ‘stone figure’ to the right.

Whichever way one approaches the structure it is hard to shake the resemblance to a modern day coffin with pall bearers…

Except, perhaps, this one…

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The Cap-Stone possesses contours which closely resemble a distant Head-Land.

This is best seen in image one.

When the structure was covered in earth and grass this resemblance would, presumably, be even more accurate, especially if seen from a distance.

The portal ‘looks out’ across an ocean which has an island in it.

It is from this Isle, legend tells us, that St Samson flicked the stones to land and take up their present position.

So, St Samson must, at some stage in his story, have been a giant.

*

Save-bury…

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“So here’s to you, Mr Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you can know…”

“You have no idea just how many times I have heard that.”

“Sorry, still, at least we now have your attention.”

“And having got my attention?”

“Ah, you are everything we hoped you would be, but are you more?”

“There’s only one way to find out…”

“Rumour has it, that there are stones bigger than those now visible on the surface, still buried at Avebury.”

“Does it, indeed. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do…”

*

*

All – Ex – Andros…

  One is All…

In Alchemy there are no short cuts.
Many are those who have spent a life-time seeking its treasure in vain.
On the other hand, everything it promises to reveal is freely given at the outset.
One need only attend properly to its stories and dictates to succeed in the quest…
*
THE TREASURE OF ALEXANDER
In my native land where I was an orphan there stood a stone statue upon a golden column on which was written:
‘Behold! I am Hermes, he who is three-fold in Wisdom. I once placed marvelous signs openly before all eyes; but now I have veiled them by my wisdom so that none should attain them unless he be a sage like my good self…’
On the breast of the statue one could read:
‘Let him who would learn and know the secrets of creation and of nature look beneath my foot.’
I reflected on what this might mean and started to dig beneath the plinth…
Before long I came to a dark underground chamber in which winds arose and blew without ceasing.
I could go no further.
Exhausted by my toil and full of chagrin at my failure I sat down to rest and immediately fell asleep.
It was then that an old man appeared, resembling myself in build and appearance.
‘Arise and enter into this chamber so as to obtain a representation of nature!’ He said.
‘I cannot,’ I replied, ‘for I can see nothing in the darkness, and the winds that blow there will put out every torch flame.’
‘Then why don’t you put your light into a glass vessel…’ He said.
I immediately awoke, set a light inside a glass, as instructed, and entered the chamber.
There before me sat an Ancient Man on a Golden Throne, holding in his hand an Emerald Tablet on which was written:
‘This is the secret of the world and nature… the knowledge of creation and the cause of all things’…
*
All…Ex…Andros…
Could anything be clearer or simultaneously more obscure?
How many Fairy Tales commence with a ‘Native Orphan’ who ends by first recognising and finally realising their ‘High Estate’?
And what should be made of our immobile Stone Figure which stands upon Gold?
He is a God, no less, yet he points not at heaven above but below to the earth.
Or of the Old One who appears in dream as our ‘bodily’ twin?
A simulacrum…
Nature’s representative advises we still the flickering, buffeted flame of our minds eye in order to see…
Deep in the Dark of our Earth the enthroned kin who holds…
A Jewel in the Crown…
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The Eye-Guy…

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SPOILS OF THE ABYSS

 When Pryderi, Lord of Underhill, was treated for the

 injury done to his arm by Tyrnonos, Thunder-of-Water,

 his leech, Nudd, found that he was unable to save the limb; so

 he hacked it down to a stump and put a silver hand on Pryderi which

 was so cunningly crafted that it had all the movement of a natural hand.

*

Yet still Pryderi had no end of pain and trouble with the arm

and he was forever lying sick in his bed from the grief of it…

*

“Not a particularly auspicious start, and no sign of our ‘Eye-Guy’.”

“Give it time.” …

“Did they have ‘bionic’ hands in those days then?”

“A ha… I don’t know, did they have ‘bionic’ hands in those days?”

“I think not.”

“We are dealing with the Crafty Folk here, remember?”

“I still think not.”

“So, to what can the silver hand or arm refer?”

“It would be useful to know which we are dealing with, actually.”

“Some sources specify hand, some specify arm, and this lack of precision may itself be the clue to our non literal interpretation. You’d think they’d know!”

“You would.”

“Let’s settle on limb, then. To what can the silver-limb refer?”

“If it’s silver it could have something to do with the moon?”

“I think that’s a very auspicious start.”

“Or a tree?”

“Even better, what sort of tree?”

“A birch tree.”

“Now, I know that is an incredibly auspicious start.”

*

 

Tell-Tale Signs…

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…There is lots of real depth in this little story.

It is culled from the pages of, ‘Folk Tales of the British Isles’ and is full of that rare and ever dwindling commodity known as Folk Wisdom.

This re-telling then is necessarily based on the translation of Sean O’Sullivan who reports thirty-two other versions of the tale none of which, sadly, now appear to be freely available.

The tale fairly bristles with three-fold quandaries and displays an initial three-fold structure which ultimately, and to the apparent chagrin of the story-teller, shifts to four.

This inter-play between Form and Content can hardly be accidental.

Ostensibly an answer the riddle tale, as is the way with these things, it throws up more questions than it answers.

At the forefront of which are:

Why does Death curl around the hearth ?

Why does a tied sheep stand for Strength?

Why is Youth  housed below stairs?

There are more, loads more…

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Mountains White as Clouds…

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… “As I see it,” continues Wen, “we have two possible identities for an Old Woman who tends a Herb Garden and can be described as an Enchantress, or an Ogress…”

“Only two?”

“She is either Mother Earth or she is Mother Nature.”

“The first is very old and the other is much, much older than the first.”

“The different versions may even be emphasising different roles.”

“Basile’s Ogre would be Mother Earth.”

“The Grimms’ Enchantress would be Mother Nature.”

“Or, we may be able to argue for a combination of both the roles in one character?”

“That’s what’s been bothering me so much,” says Wen, “I can’t help feeling there ought to be a third Mother.”

“Which would be Petrosinella or Rapunzel.”

“No names, you said.”

“Ah, so I did…”

“Perversely, I almost feel like the third role should be Mother Sun.”

“Why?”

“Because the Herb Child has sun rays for hair.”

“And the Prince would be?”

“The Prince would be Father Moon.

In the Grimm tale he visits at night and has his blindness banished by the Sun’s tears.” …

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Ancestral Dawn…

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What is interior to us,

Is exterior to them.

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What is exterior to us

Is interior to them.

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