Breakfast in the King Arthur Arms pub. Good to know King Arthur did something in his spare time – opened a pub in his home town. Other than the name, and a set of shiny medieval armour(how did Dark Ages Arthur get his hands on it?), it was a bog-standard English pub. Lots of dark wood, small windows, and standard breakfast fare. There’s not a lot of gluten free options in most pubs, but I made do. At least I wasn’t having to exist on eggs every darned day, a fact that everyone in bus must have been thankful for. No cracks about ‘oh gods, farty Satya is here’. At least, none that I heard.
We piled our luggage into the bus, and Narcissia played Tetris with getting it all in. Then we were off a whole two miles down the road. We walked about a kilometre along a sometimes slippery pathway to the ruins of Trewethett Mill. The ruins are overgrown with moss and flora and it’s a gloriously fae place. It had rained the night before, so underfoot was muddy, but we still managed to conjure up enough rain jackets and plastic ponchos to sit on in a rough circle and do a meditation. As we sat, we all felt our hair being played with, and tiny gentle tweaks to our faces, arms, and legs. Midges? Maybe. I like to think the fae were with us, and playing. I’ve had the experience before in various circles. In one particular circle, the facilitator said it was like watching people with physical tics. We were all smoothing back our hair, rubbing or scratching at various vague itches, or smacking at ourselves to fend off invisible mosquitoes.
Of course, a few people have carved their names into rock walls, and there’s the inevitable Fred Loves Evie business, but mostly, people have left offerings rather than desecrated the site.
The mill was used to manufacture woollen textiles. It nestles in a valley carved by the Trevillet River, and we heard it rushing past off to the side of us.
After the meditation, we were free to wander around, take photos, experience the place. Two small labyrinths are carved into the rock face – one modern, one ancient, and we were invited to trace both with our fingers. I did so. At first, all I thought about was my aching hips as I crouched, but I told myself to drop out of physicality. I dropped into a more liminal space where there was nothing but my right forefinger(Jupiter finger in palmistry) and the slightly rough surface of the rock as I followed the grooves of the labyrinth. I got no more out of it than that, and didn’t know if I was tracing out the modern or ancient one. But that was enough, that small opportunity to go beyond ‘this aches, that aches, why am I so fat, I hope I don’t fall over, am I doing this right’.
The ruins were soft, covered in moss, fern fronds, and some places were so squishy underfoot that I didn’t go into them.
Beyond the mill was the river, and the water beautifully clear and cold. I wondered to MidWife if it was like the river in Scotland where, if you dipped your face in the water, you were blessed with eternal beauty. We did it in Scotland, and I decided to do it here, but instead of dipping right down, because there wasn’t really a place to do it, I splashed the water on myself, and it was welcome after the closeness of the meditation space, and heat of the morning.
I’m thankful I was with a group who didn’t feel the need for constant chatter, and screaming ‘look at me’ photos. Oh don’t get me wrong, we did a bit of that, too, but not everywhere, and we had the sense to know when places were special.
The sunlight was dappled, and much of the place shaded, which I liked. Cheers to all redheads who can burn on a winter’s day.
From here, we walked back to the bus, uphill of course, because isn’t everything in England up a hill, or up stairs, and trundled off to St Nectan’s Glen. The day warmed up, and so did I.
My next post will be my St Nectan’s Glen experience. Photos will be added to posts soon, I promise.
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