We had no idea where we would be taken for the final visit of the day. We suspected an ancient site as the area is just strewn with them. A brief glance at a map of prehistoric sites had left me wishing we were going to be in the region for at least the whole summer… you would need it to have any chance at all of seeing surviving remnants of our ancestors. We were not disappointed. A short drive and a shorter walk and we found ourselves at the neolithic burial chambers of Dyffryn Ardudwy.
It is immediately impressive and unusual, though the brilliant sunlight reflecting on white stone and the deep shadows cast by a stand of oaks made it difficult, at first, to take in the full scope of what we were seeing. Small rocks cover an area around a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. It…
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We were up and away early again, this time well supplied with munchables on which to break our fast. We may have missed the dawn, but we still caught the echoes of its gilding on the mountains. We wanted to take a look at a stone circle we had noticed at the end of the road, catching a meagre glimpse of the stones as we had driven back to the hotel Even from such a brief encounter, you could tell it was not a ‘real’ stone circle, but a modern reconstruction. However, in Wales, these are still a significant part of the culture.
This one, just outside Tremadog, was built for the National Eisteddfod when it visited the area in 1987. The Eisteddfod is a traditional festival: a celebration and competition of music and poetry. It is held under the auspices of the Archdruid and the Gorsedd Beirdd Ynys Prydain, the Gorsedd…
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Amidst the seemingly pristine field of stones, the old oak tree usually went unnoticed…
Like this group of happy but somewhat weary pilgrims, newly entered via the gate at the top of the narrow, fern-lined path, most visitors stood in amazed silence at the large oval of twin-chambered stonework in front of them, conscious of the oak within the oval of stones but seeing it as out of place and not part of the sacred grove where the revered ones had met… and some had died.
The act of dying-in-place had pervaded the ground so deeply that the oak as seed, some thousands of rounds later, had felt the guiding presence in its infancy; urging it to grow strong and be the most it could be, reaching for the sky and creating a four-dimensional picture of time-meeting-life.
The Oak watched, speeding up its vertically-flowing heart to synchronise with theirs, seeing something unusual, something lacking in triviality in the tired but intent expressions. The act would have cost it dearly, but the nearing of the Fullness filled the sky with energy, and it, like them, fed from the gold-flecked deep blue, above.
Those with the knowing in their eyes sometimes came at the Fullness. Not understanding, perhaps–but seeking to, at least. Few looked at the Oak. Most were captured by the pureness of the field of stones with the twin nipples.
So many stones? said their thoughts. Why were they not taken away for the making of dwellings? Another: What a perfect oval... then the Oak would place into their minds the picture of the great oval of the above, with all the great children, laughing with the evening breeze in its hissing leaves and showing them the wonderful ‘accident’ that time had wrought in a place that should no longer look like this… as though it had been protected, thus.
Which it had, of course. On a hillside which contained the fresh and lovely minds of the schoolchildren and the church a minister who was strangely sympathetic; and whose neighbouring roads included one named Bro Arthur.
As though it had been protected…
The Oak pulled its climbing life back from the outer edges of the canopy and reached back into the pilgrims’ afternoon. They were spread around its base, but not seeing it, taking their photographs. The Oak read their own history of the afternoon. The salty moisture still on their sandy ankles, their heads alive with snippets of wisdom, their eyes full of sun… solstice sun, Sun of the Fullness.
The Oak liked them, it decided. They knew it not, but revered the place. That was enough. The Oak, the alive one, would always help those that loved the place, its home. They that loved the stones always helped it to protect them, like the children and the minister and the great names etched into the landscape.
The Watcher Oak whispered its name to the one who had first seen the aberrations of the light, now avidly trying to capture their images in his machine… and smiling, as she, his companion had done, moments before.
There were two others, two who stood back and studied the joy of the group. Two with a sense of almost mischief in their eyes, delighting in the wonderful feeling of discovery that always greeted those who came here near the Fullness. The Oak, the Watcher Oak whispered to them, the hissing of summer leaves, the story of the great oval in the sky and the small oval of the pristine stones with the twin chambers, below.
One of the two began pacing the oval, while the other watched. With delight, the Watcher Oak read their intent, sending the inner breeze to clear their minds of doubt. Yes, the leaves hissed, that will do wonderfully…
And so it was that the two asked the rest to align themselves in the North, at a place where the radial from the centre of the oval projected. They were greeted, in turn, by the woman of the North, who spoke softly of their journey around the oval to the south, the reflection of her radial, then bade them make pace it in silence and in reverence.
Around the small oval, below – and around the great oval, above – they walked, individually, slowly and with reverence. He – the other, the man of the South, the place of the sun’s Fullness – stepped from the Watcher Oak’s shadows to intersect each one, bidding them hold the beauty and the energy of the Fullness and take it into the darkness of the West – and the greater darkness of the North. Oval meeting great tilting oval, life in its roundness recognised and honoured.
They had come with a phrase in their heads: Authority. The Watcher Oak took it and replaced it with another: Inclusion in Life; then the rustling leaves kissed them farewell, for now.
But it did not loose its eye on the thread of their immediate lives. Drawing from the golden energy above it, followed their moves as they returned, sated, to their temporary dwellings, and later, replete and happy, as the sun set on the mellow waters.
The rose. At the limits of its perception into space-time, the Watcher Oak smiled as the morning’s plans were changed and one – the memory man – took them on a journey to the landscape of his childhood, within the glory of a green, tree-lined valley named Pennant.
There, they sat and carried out the last of their readings, by a river that was crystal clear and full of the blue sky.
The Watcher Oak strained to follow them into the valley, losing contact at the bend in the road where the sheep were herded for shearing; the woman of the great heart weeping for their fear.
And then the long curve to the next part of the valley took them from its golden sight. The Watcher Oak could follow no more. Just before the seeing was lost it passed their keeping to a child oak growing on the side of the valley.
With distant leaves hissing, it held them, briefly, one last time. Then, they were gone…
Across the miles, it gathered its strength, returning to the guardian task for which it had been born, rejoicing in its inclusion in the glory of outer life on this new and most beautiful day.
In the returning Fullness it was embraced and loved. Its roots reached deep into the ground… and it was good… In the ancient place the Watcher Oak watched.
——- End ——-
Other parts in this series:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three,
©Stephen Tanham
All right reserved, text and pictures.
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Harlech Castle
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“Patrick McGoohan’s, ‘The Prisoner’, displays many thematic similarities to Franz Kafka’s, ‘The Castle’ and ‘The Trial’.”
Authority
Pages One-Five-Two and One-Five-Three
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No 8 (Light)
O God, the longer I gaze upon your face, the more acutely do you seem to turn the gaze of your eyes upon me!…Thus when I meditate on how that face is truth and the best measure of all faces, I am expanded into a state of immense wonder…
Those who look upon you with a loving face will find your face looking at them with love… Those who look upon you in hate will similarly find your face hateful. Those who gaze at you in joy will find your face joyfully reflected back at them.
– Nicolas of Cusa
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“Nature reduces all physical constructs to rubble and all mental constructs to hot air.”…
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No 9 (Dark)
O…
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In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.
Tolkien.
I know very little about seagulls. We do get them here where I live, far inland, raiding the landfills… but they seldom cry. There is something heart-aching about that sound that pulls at the soul with an indelible longing. And always, when I hear them, those lines from Tolkien wander through my mind. It is not a discontent with what is, but rather a yearning for the possibilities of what might be; a feeling very similar to that of childhood and the first sight of a summer sea. That too was carried on the cry of the gull. And we were heading for the beach…
The plan had been to take the train into Harlech and walk back…
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Leaving Portmeirion and its mysteries behind, we drove across the estuary to Harlech in search of lunch. Stuart and I had parked beneath the Norman castle that morning when we were in search of breakfast. The imposing bulk of the walls, towering high upon the castle mound, still makes a powerful statement today. I was glad we had seen it from beneath in the grey morning mist, with the remnants of its curtain wall enclosing the rock, as it allowed us to get a true impression of its scale and erstwhile might.
We had lunch in its shadow, looking back across the estuary to the mountains. Snowdon dominates the skyline here, almost everywhere you go, and I was torn between the desire to wander those hills and a need to get close to the sea. The hills make my heart sing…they always do, no matter where they are. There is…
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Apart from its sheer presence in the landscape, the castle at Harlech has a location that is breathtaking – perched high in the elevated centre of the small town, looking back down the valley at a vista that embraces the area of Porthmadog, then slides your eye leftwards to take in the whole of the Lleyn Peninsula.
On our scouting trip in May, we had searched for a location that would meet the needs of the third of our main themes: authority. Our first sight of Harlech Castle decided it. Seen from below – a straight line of a road that runs close to the magnificent beach – it appears that the castle sits on top of the hill with little else around it. In fact, it is in the centre of the town; logical, as the modern town has developed around it from early times.
There are two roads (photo below). One follows the line of the sea, the other climbs a slow and winding curve through the lush Welsh countryside and enters the town at its heart. Parking is a challenge, but the castle and associated tourist centre offers a small number of places directly adjacent to the castle grounds.
Keeping a party of several cars together on such a trip is always a challenge, though we have all got better at it over the years – to the extent of developing our own ‘protocol’ about who stops if the next car gets out of sight of the rest. It’s a simple thing but it can help to avoid disconnected delays that can easily add up to a cream tea…
How do we react to authority? It depends on many things, including age. As young children, the authority of the caring adult is paramount in the relationship by which that child is moulded to fit into its society. This is seen as necessary, yet robs us of much of our spiritual originality. Most would agree it is essential for the child’s survival and prosperity, even though, beyond the original love of the home, it forms the first great ‘container’ of reactions that eventually create the personality. From there on, that hard container is wrapped around the soul in an increasingly dense way.
Later in life, and as our personal power grows, we may feel so aggrieved about the society in which we have matured that we literally go to war with in – as the Prisoner did in the McGoohan series. Seen as a superficial spy story, the man was on a hopeless quest, seen as someone reclaiming his spiritual originality, it takes on a quite different shape. McGoohan’s character was at war with himself…
As a child, holidaying in Wales, and captivated by its beauty, I marvelled at how many castles this ancient race had built to defend themselves, little knowing that this was completely wrong. Most, if not all of the Welsh castles were built by English kings, such as Harlech Castle’s creator, the military and battle-hardened Edward I.
Their purpose was to provide fortified and administrative outposts for the English ruling class, in a country transformed by 1066 and the Norman conquest. Edward I built Harlech Castle to secure the lands he had won from Llywellyn of Grufford, the Prince of Wales. For two-hundred years after the Norman invasion, there had been continuous wars between the conquering Marcher lords and the Welsh princes. In 1267, the Treaty of Montgomery recognised Llywelyn as Prince of Wales, in return for annual tributes and subservience. Llywelyn later lost most of his power an authority in further skirmishes which cost him all but his title.
When you realise that you are inside a foreign power’s redoubt, the secure and ruthless architecture takes on a different flavour, and there is a sadness that such a proud and folklore-rich race lived under the English yoke in such a bloody way; though it is probably true that the Welsh of that time were as warlike as the English.
The model above shows how the castle was originally created. Much of it remains, as least as a visitable ruin. The model illustrates that, at the time of its construction, between 1283 and 1289, the castle was next to the sea, whereas today the long line of dunes constitute a barrier of nearly a mile between the lower part of the castle (and the foot of the town) and the coast.
It was the proximity of the sea that made Harlech such an effective fortress. In times of siege, supplies could be brought in by boat directly to the lower jetty, which was highly fortified. Harlech had its own English lifeline…
Our final act within the castle was to climb the spiral stairway of the west tower – something that proved quite a challenge. Breathless, we reached the top, to gaze in wonder at the commanding view it afforded. Very little could be hidden from the eye based here. One might say the same about the way our own governments seem hell-bent on overseeing all our lives, in the name of such ’causes’ as safety and terrorism. Same psychology, different mechanisms.
Our group had split into two to explore the small town. We reunited at the famous ice-cream shop and were to be found, silent and entranced, sitting outside the shop/cafe in the Welsh sunshine.
Two parts of our Saturday remained. One – the finale – was still unknown by all but two of us; the other followed the castle visit as we gathered on the quiet end of a beach, two miles south of Harlech, to admire the sun, now descending towards the western sea, and shared our final readings of the day.
The day could hardly have gone better… but it was not over, yet…
——- to be concluded in the final part (7) ——-
Other parts in this series:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three,
©Stephen Tanham
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Our visit to the actual village of Portmeirion ended quietly, but with an interesting mosaic of happenings. We rejoined our colleagues, silent in our own conclusions – for everyone must find their own in a place like this, and there can be no right or wrong, for the author, McGoohan, is long departed.
We took the beautiful coastal walk which would bring us to the place of the final set of Portmeirion readings, high up in the forest once more. There is only so far you can take a walking mediation like this. After a while, you need to step back and let the ‘now-ness’ of the actual place take over. This part of Wales, just south of Snowdon, is spectacularly beautiful, and days as fine as this was are rare in a British summer. It was important to move on and, in doing so, to bring our wonderful adventure in the ‘Village’ to a close.
The Truth can only be in the now. Each of us discovers this in their own way. Even the wisest of books can only point us to that eternal basis of the ‘real’. We live in an organic body; a body which is undergoing cycles around the sun that will eventually lead to its death. Death is programmed into the genes of the human being. It could have been otherwise but it is not. We, therefore, have to look within our lives – that sequence of the moments of now – for that which is eternal, for we will not find it in our bodies.
We might say that in an act of fully experiencing the now we bring together two worlds. What those worlds are and their significance in our lives is a matter of personal discovery. The past weighs on us in the form of our beliefs, fears, memories, likes and dislikes. This accumulation becomes something that we have no choice but to assume is ‘us’. But that is false. What is us lies ‘beneath’ that layer of detritus, and it is the job of mystical schools to tease it out and have it take its rightful place. The inner part of our being – the soul if you like -will use ‘the accumulation’ as cleverly as possible to fashion an effective instrument of consciousness and action in the world it must inhabit. But it is only by realising that we are really kin to the inner and not the outer that freedom can be truly viewed.
A fuller perspective would show how the nature of our experience is closely tied to what we need the most in order to, finally, see the real.
It was apparent that a certain amount of levity had entered the day, on the back of the noonday sun, no doubt. It certainly wasn’t alcohol; tea and coffee had been the only liquids consumed. We set off back along the shore path, for the final time, when, in the nature of these days, an event happened…
This one was prompted by Sue announcing that she could live in the small lighthouse, built by Clough Williams-Ellis, as one of his jocular landscape features and on the basis that the new Portmeirion village didn’t have one. It was obviously conceived as a piece of humour – it looks like it was rescued from a ‘Clangers’ set – the 1970s children’s TV show. True to form, Stuart climbed up, as well, and they set about deciding what renovations would be needed before it was habitable.
Much mirth below. Proceedings halted for while, until we could move on, again.
Sue’s new house… her architect gives it the once-over…
I have another photo of the two of them up a tree – the next item in our mosaic – but we have an agreement, usually honoured, that we will not publish photos without the subject’s approval. Instead, here’s a photo of the tree with John about to size up the possibility of sitting on its bent and horizontal trunk. For the second day in a row, our chess champion was about to contribute some mystically-themed reading, many of which he recited from memory.
The humour continued for a while, as the sea views dropped off along the climbing path. Then we were in the forest, again, and the mood changed, becoming more reflective. At the top of the steep gradient, we found a peaceful glade, and, with the delightful company of a very tame robin, carried out our readings. We had all forgotten the theme of this part of the day, which is just as well, as our next destination awaited and offered a much more fitting place. It’s important to be open to change on these occasions. The nature of any ‘mystical journey’ is defined by what happens between the building blocks you put in place; though it must be said that without the building blocks there would be no gaps with which the spirit can work…
Stuart and Sue contributed a great deal to the weekend with their ‘bibliomancy readings’. At each place, someone from the group would be asked to open the selected book at a page of their choosing. Then, another person would pick one of the readings from that spread of pages. The reading would then be made. It is a matter of record how much such a method of selecting, using an appropriate book, can throw light on the topics of the day.
The reader is referred to Stuart’s blog where the whole sequence of his and Sue’s trip is narrated, in order of how the bibliomancy reading were selected and given.
Soon, though, it was time to leave this beautiful cove, and to take advantage of the perfect weather to visit another – though one in a very different landscape and from a very distant period in time. The spirit of levity still dominated the day. We said our goodbyes to Portmeirion, knowing we had established a strong enough connection to draw us back for further visits.
Just around the estuary, a very much older landscape beckoned, one that was to fit very well as our theme moved from ‘acceptance or resistance‘ to ‘authority‘.
Thirty minutes by car away and seven centuries in time, the Men of Harlech were waiting… The prisoner might have established his attitude to Portmeirion, but the iron first of the establishment was about to respond in stone.
——- to be continued ——-
Other parts in this series:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four,
©Stephen Tanham
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Just so good…
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“Tell me,” said Joshua, “why is that person carrying a lamb to the city ?”
Judas Thomas said, “So that he may kill it and eat it.”
Joshua said, “Whoever has come to know the world has discovered a carcass, and whoever has discovered a carcass, of that person the world is not worthy.
Damn the soul that depends on the flesh.
Damn the flesh that depends on the soul.
How miserable is the body that depends on these two ?
Together they are like a dog in a cattle manger, where neither the dog nor the cattle can eat hay.
During the days when you eat what is dead you make it alive, but when you are in the light, where the dead are not alive and the living will not die, what will you do ?
If the body came into being because of the spirit then…
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“There are a lot of ugly looking lions in Portmeirion.”
We shrink from wondering whether or not one of them is devouring the Buddha’s missing right forearm.
“And lots of steps.”
“Number Six spends a lot of time in the village running up and down steps.”
Run up one set of steps in Portmeirion and a Mansion becomes a Two-up-Two-down.
Run down another and one is accosted by a plaster-cast-christ declaiming on a balcony from which depends a black sheep.
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“Soft clothes?”
“Perspective. One is spatial, the other, intellectual.”
“Clever that.”
Here, the ridiculous jostles with the sublime to unfeasibly pleasing effect.
“It’s nothing more than a clutter and jumble of odds and sods, lovingly reassembled into, well, something, uncluttered and well ordered.”
“Much like memories, perhaps.”
“Or what memory makes of experience.”
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In the corner of that courtyard there, a manicured tree sprouts in-front…
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The road through Snowdonia was spectacular…at least, once we had left behind the rush hour traffic on the main coast road that delayed us. Realising we might miss the pre-evening drinks, my companion sent a text to say we would be a little late, while I tackled roads I would otherwise have loved to play on. It had been a long, fabulous day and we were looking forward to a shower and a change of clothes before dinner. It was not until we reached the hotel in Tremadog that we found the message alerting us to a change of plan and a scramble to reach the restaurant in time for dinner.
The tide was out when we reached Borth-y-Gest, a Victorian village on the Glaslyn estuary. Boats were beached on the sands of the little harbour and distant clouds blurred the view across the river to the Rhinog Mountains. After…
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Sun in Gemini 
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