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Shortly after the ‘Leaf and Flame’ event in 2016, the outline for, The Feathered Seer, workshop took shape for us on the edge of an ancient necropolis overlooking Big Moor.

The seeing that day, be it courtesy of the seasonal sun light, or more esoteric manifestations, allowed us to work out one possible function of the Barbrook 1 stone circle.

And this ‘rudimentary ritual’ was replayed in original situ later that year for the group of Companions who attended our Living Land workshop, ‘Circles Beyond Time’, in September.

Naturally, it also formed the basis of R3 of The Feathered Seer and its working proved to be one of the most intense undertakings we have ever experienced.

What the ancients knew was that only the querent holds the answer to the question, but that the clues to those questions are everywhere played out in living experience.

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Exploring the Inner…

The Fox, I have already shared. Yesterday, as I walked Jumble down the track, instinct drew me to the gate at the end (two down from the Fox Gate). I stopped. A deer stood before me, delicate and beautiful in long green grass, powered by sunlight. The Hart. So apt. Another, and indeed the first, of Sir Gawain’s hunting trials as set by the mysterious Sir Bertilak, the fox being the final one. In the context of the poem, the archetypal fairy tale game of three, chivalry and, from another source, love.

As I walked on, I began to free-associate: Thoughts of the rut, of stags fighting, of the Young Stag battling the King Stag for the good of the Land; of the White Hart, the Wasteland and Grail question; the fact that even prey animals can inflict damage; the whole essence of flight (both needful and needless) and the…

For five years, it was Steve who was the principal writer of the annual workshops. I don’t think any of us had really considered that it would ever be otherwise. We contributed, both ideas and certain sections of the weekend, but he had established a format and set a standard. All who attended knew they could trust him to deliver.

The morning of the first meeting after the River of the Sun workshop, Stuart and I had been talking about an idea he’d had for a workshop long ago…something he had been thinking about, on and off, for years. The Green Man had been coming up a lot in our lives…perhaps that was what had brought the idea to mind once more. We tend to trust the synchronicities that lead us along these odd pathways…especially when they go all ‘bells and whistles’.  You never know where they might lead, and…

They placed him on a bier and tended his bruises and the flow of blood from his elbow. Bandaged and victorious, he was carried into the Temple of the Jaguars from where, elevated high above the level of the Ball Court, he  was invited to watch the start of the new game, below.

He wondered if this was just for him; wondered if his presence in this harvest of spirituality was an extension of the grace as witness… or whether the difference in time and place didn’t matter, that condition and readiness were everything, and, once fulfilled, the dawning horizon’s fingers of purpose would weave their anciently-spun magic, no matter what the era in which they were invoked.

They gave him water for his parched body, then a sweet liquid that contained a contrasting brew of bitter herbs.

In trust he drained the cup…

When he woke, it was…

The car once more full to bursting, ready for the long drive south, and my companions either back at work or heading for the airport, I went to collect Nick from the hostel, ready for a morning in the hills. There were a few things I wanted to show him before he headed south himself and we began with a drive across the moors, following a spectacular little backroad we had stumbled across on our travels.

We were heading for the Derwent Dams. My sons had been fascinated by old aircraft in their childhood. We could all tell the sound of a Merlin engine…and every one of us would abandon the table when we heard that note that told us the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight was passing overhead. Lancasters were a favourite plane and it was inevitable that the Dambusters, 617 Squadron, would feature in the stories they…