Although we didn’t know it at the time,
Ballowal Barrow is a ‘Faery-Fort’.
It is situated close to a now disused tin-mine
and miners, during the late nineteenth century,
upon finishing their night shift, are said to have seen
lights burning over the barrow and faeries dancing there.
It would explain the sense of caution with which we approached the site.
Getting on the wrong side of the Faery-Folk is never advisable.
And it did feel like we were being watched, observed, or monitored, by something.
Still, as our intentions at these places are generally honourable we managed
to escape with our wits, more or less, intact.
Though, curiously, for the evening was still young, our sojourn there signalled the
end of adventures for that day.
Perhaps, they had some thing in store for us on the morrow…
Beyond the forest’s leafy shade,
The hooded one, with giant’s pace
From pinnacle to pinnacle
Leap’t silently, in moonlit grace…
In eremitic solitude
In caverns deep to meditate…
Within, the riddle of the night,
A key that will elucidate…
Beyond the stones, to four once nine
To where the goddess meets her mate
And heavens dance at winters turn
Bends earthwards to illuminate.
“No one in their right mind believes that stones can walk.”
“Despite the fact that the Folk-Record is unequivocable on this point.”
“It is also unequivocable about stones dancing, and drinking from streams.”
“I may be able to clarify the streams. They may be underground.”
“They may even be telluric currents, but you promised.”
“That, unfortunately, is deductive reasoning for you. It was the only bit of wall we had not checked.”
“We had so checked it… last time.”
“Only from a distance and that does not count.”
As it turned out there proved to be another bit of wall we had not checked.
Also distant and too far away to consider once the snow started.
I mean, really started.
There were compensations though, like the trees and the wildlife.
“Are you sure it isn’t the Throne-Stone?”
“Not near enough to the wall and the gate.”
“But the wall is a mnenomic. Your mind could easily have contracted the distance.”
“Not the right size, or colour.”
“Like that’s not easily accounted for.”
“Maybe you’re right and I’ve discovered a new species of stone, which can walk!”
“But that would be a New-Old species of stone.”
“So perhaps it just went for a stroll, again.”
“What, in the snow?”
…That night the world took on strange colours and my dream-girl became a tree.
If I were a Druid I would say that I had fallen under the sway of a wood nymph, a Dryad…
She is certainly very beautiful and pulls me away from the busy road where traffic endlessly flashes through the ever screaming air…
She always wins.
I always turn from the road and allow her to take my hands in hers.
We roll down the embankment conjoined…
We roll together
for all eternity
but then collide with the bole of the tree
and she is gone.
I am late.
I am expected in Leicester and now my only option is to catch the last train.
The last train to Leicester is a slow train and also appears to be experiencing difficulties.
Stopping where there are no stations.
That sort of thing.
It becomes clear that many of my fellow passengers are not going to get to their destinations and as the ticket inspector makes his round they discuss alternatives together.
As this is an unfamiliar route I assume that Leicester too is now out of the question.
A strange thing about the ticket inspector, although this is a new route and I have never met him before, he knows my name…
…and uses its familiar form.
“You’ll be in Leicester in twenty minutes time.”
Not only does the ticket inspector know my name and use its familiar form, he is also incredibly accurate.
My alarm clock is due to go off in precisely twenty minutes time.
… Just then there is a flurry of wings, and squawks and screeches overhead and we turn our attention skyward in time to see an enormous buzzard chasing off two ravens from the precincts of Uffington Castle.
“Oh, Don look!”Cries Wen, “the hawk of the morning has chased the shadows of the night away.”
As if on cue a sky lark flies up from the ‘fairy thorn’ with as an incongruous a cacophony of song as you are ever likely to hear in such a setting…
As the ravens fly into black specks and disappear in the mist another buzzard glides into view and we watch the two mighty birds soar on the up-draught for awhile as if spiralling around some unseen cone of power.
It certainly feels like we have been accepted into something although I am not quite sure what.
I make a mental note to look up the origins of the phrase, ‘…the Heart of Albion’…
The acrid smoke hung heavy in the night air.
They would feast tonight.
But for now she plaited the strands of horsehair from the white mane.
A gift from the gods she would treasure…
A blessing as she shared the meat roasting in the pit on the plateau.
The flames cast a dull glow across the faces of the clans.
They were expectant, eager yet solemn.
They were waiting…
Book One of the Triad of Albion
Stuart France & Sue Vincent
The Initiate is the story of a journey beyond the realms of our accustomed normality.
It is a true story told in a fictional manner. In just such a way did the Bards of old hide in the legends and deeds of folk heroes, those deeper truths for those ‘with eyes to see and ears to hear’.
Don and Wen, two founding members of a new Esoteric School, meet to explore an ancient sacred site, as a prelude to the School’s opening event. The new School is to be based upon a nine-fold system and operate under the aegis of the Horus Hawk.
The trip does not unfold as planned.
Instead, Don and Wen, guided by the birds, find themselves embarking upon a journey that will lead them through a maze of spiritual symbolism, to magical mysteries and the shadowy figure of the Ninth Knight.
As the veils thin and waver, time shifts and the present is peopled with shadowy figures of the past, weaving their tales through a quest for understanding and opening wide the doors of perception…
Now available via Amazon worldwide.
It is clear that every ‘great philosophy’ is, no more and no less than, the confession of its author.
To explain how a philosophy’s highest flung claims have been derived, therefore,
we need only ask, ‘what really makes its author tick?’
The desire to know, is not, then, the Mother of Philosophy.
For, look, here one desire, and now there, another, has put knowledge
to use as a means to, shamelessly, further its own ends…
The fundamental desires of Man have always been ‘philosophers’.
And each of them is only too happy to present itself
as the be all and end all of existence!
As master of the others.
All Man’s desires are tyrannical.
And for the philosopher, everything is personal.
His ideas, inevitably, bear testimony to the hierarchy of his secret desires.
Friedrich Nietzsche, philosophical and psychological genius of the nineteenth century, in his book, ‘Beyond Good and Evil’, presaged the breakdown of the Western Aristocratic ruling elite and the irresistible forces that led to two catastrophic world wars. This new poetic interpretation of his master work teases out still relevant lines of thought for the reappraisal of our rapidly disintegrating current world order.
The question of value goes to the heart of who we are, what we are and why we think we are here… A tendency to make certain assumptions about our environment appears to be intrinsic to our nature, yet the meaningful existence we crave can only ever be granted by a ‘higher power’ which we now seem loathe to recognise outside of ourselves… We have always looked to those best qualified to answer our most fervent questions but what if they too have fallen foul of the ‘Auction-House of Things’… And what of the Beyond?
Pieces of Nietzsche: A Thinker’s Bias
They would look a little like this…
And for those still in need of perspective…
‘TAKE A LOOK AT THESE HANDS’…
If these stone structures are produced by ‘nature’s hand’,
it may be salutory to consider ‘modern man’s hand’ in contrast,
which has, by quarrying, made a ‘bit of a mess’ of what was once
a ‘hill-fort’ possessing as much beauty as that of Carn les Boel or Carl Wark.