The Daily Blog experiment – Australia Zoo

Even though it wasn’t on my bucket list, I ticked off a bucket list item, yesterday. (And yes, I know it’s not a daily blog if it’s not daily, but I’m with my grandkids, so shut up). Australia Zoo.

ThirtiesGirl and her family have been Queenslanders for five years. While I secretly hope they will come to their senses and move back to Victoria so I can get weekly grandkids doses, I know they love the Sunshine Coast lifestyle. I have to say, it’s enticing. Warmer weather, slower life. I’d have moved already if it wasn’t for my parenting-caring-guardian responsibilities with ThirtiesPerson. Who DOES NOT WANT TO MOVE NORTH, THANKS.

Here are: PizzaBoy, myself, Miss J, Logie B, and Super C.

We hit the ground running with an early soccer game for Logie B, then off to the zoo.

Cheetahs, tigers, and lemurs, oh my!

I haven’t been to any zoo in years, so it was good to get amongst wild animals again, and see some up close that I’d never seen before. The lemurs are just as cute as you think they are. Those long fluffy tails – why can I not have one of my own. And if you’ve ever thought something similar, go read ‘The Conglomeroid Cocktail Party’ by Robert Silverberg. I don’t care how that story turns out, I still want a lemur tail of my own.

As you can see, it rained. Welcome to northern Australia and monsoon season. It was still warm, but the lemurs and many other animals were moving towards their heated shelters. And yet, we humans were waking around, buying up cheap plastic ponchos. (@Australia Zoo, how do you justify the plastic ponchos when you’re all about reducing plastic use in the world, especially one-use plastic?)

The giraffes, zebras, and rhinos live together in a large communal enclosure. This giraffe seemed to be going out of his way to bug this zebra, continually breathing on, nibbling, licking and nudging. I guess your older brother can be from another species, and you can bug him like the brat you are.

The croc show in the Crocoseum was headed up by Bindi Irwin’s husband, and two young women. This pale croc is called Casper, and ‘always brings 110%’. Must’ve been a slow day, because he shlumped around. Then again, this show must be a bit like a sushi train. If you don’t fancy the rats and chickens today, meh, because you’ll have another opportunity in a few days.

Even so, I cheered and yelled ‘Crikey!’ with the best of them.

Super C and I kept commenting on the ‘excellent bin chicken show’, whenever some wild ibis landed and poked around. “This is what I flew north to see,” I told him.

“I moved here for this!” he replied.

And I don’t care what species these snakes actually are. Miss J and I called them the Stacks On snakes.

By the end of the day, we were all chilly, and worn out, so home to dry couches, soft blankets, and down time on iPads.

I’m really happy to have had this day with my family, and to have made some new memories.

Tales From the Tor – England Tour Day 11.5

Last time I Tor Travel blogged, I had just left the fairy dell of Trewethett Mill.

From there, we trundled off in Anarchy Annie, our little travel bus, all of us already warm, and getting warmer, as the day heated around us. One whole mile down the road and we pulled onto the side of the road and walked up, turning onto the path that lead us to the glen. I had my white Cancer Council hat on, and wished I didn’t. I was sweating into the hatband, and when I sweat hard, I get a peculiar ache around the external occipital protruberance, both sides, right where my neck joins. My scalp gets wringing wet, and I truly ache from how much sweat is pouring out of me. This is no Fine Victorian Lady’s ‘glow’. This is working class sweat. It makes me want to scratch my scalp off, but madly going at my head is considered unpleasant for all around, so I confined myself to occasional pokes at the area.

Off we went. Narcissia kept up a strong pace. She walked far ahead of the rest of us as we strung out along the dappled dirt path. Ferned and mossed embankments rose on both sides for some of the path, and others, the creek was visible. No breeze at all.

I took plenty of photos, even as my energy plummeted, and I trudged along, knowing if I threw a hissy fit and quit, I’d still have the long walk back to the bus, and then have to hang around without lunch or cold drinks until everyone came back. Besides, I had my swimming togs in my backpack, and I was going into that water. I’d already said out loud I was doing it. I couldn’t back out.

Onwards.

Sometimes small insects hung in the air, and a few times, we walked through clouds of what I presume were thrips. Suicidal ones buzzed at me and stuck to my wet face and body. I no longer cared. Like a blown horse, my head hung, and I flopped one foot in front of the other.

Steep steps at times, like knee high. Good thing I’d not missed leg day at the gym, although we’d started calling every day leg day on this trip.

Once again, the younger members of the group were keeping an eye on old duck me, to make sure I didn’t keel over, or trip going up a step. Thankyou.

The air was syrupy, and it was hard to smell water through it. I’d had the luxury of being out in the countryside for a few days now, so the smells of nature were no longer new to my city nose. The greens were vibrant around me, and everything was growing and glowing strongly in the summer sun and heat.

The group reformed at three fallen logs that were covered in coins inserted into the wood. Offerings for the fae folk, I was told. I did want to scratch my head then. Was it all metal the fairies didn’t like, or just iron? Tolkein’s elves liked a bit of head bling, at least in the movies. Oh right, offerings for the spirits of this place. What they wanted with stacks of old mouldy coins, I didn’t know. There were so many coins pressed into the logs that I wasn’t surprised when I was told by staff at the cafe later that the logs were replaced every now and then, to provide space for a whole new gang of coin shovers.

We all inserted coins into the logs, like the good tourists and spiritual people we were, and off we went again, slogging along towards the cafe. All I could think of was sitting down, drinking about 50 litres of cold something, and perhaps having a little stressed cry.

Finally, up the last few steep steps, slippery from nearby water, and into the cafe. I could do little but just sit. I shook, trembling all over, and my vision was blurry. MidWife bought me cold elderflower lemonade, and I downed as quickly as the fizz would let me. And honestly, my mind will never let me just enjoy something. It has to keep up a running commentary of utter bullshit. “If you drink now before you eat, it lessens the digestive juices you’ll have to dissolve your food. You already suffer from reflux sometimes. Why are you doing this?” Shut up brain, I needed the fluid before I could even contemplate food.

The sugar and cold did me good, enough so that I reduced my trembling to occasional leg quakes, my heart rate went down, and I stopped feeling sick. I ordered food, and while I waited, scoffed a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Justification: I’d sweated out salt too.

Next to our table was a wooden wishing tree, where people had written their wishes onto flimsy cardboard leaves and attached them to the tree with ribbon. “Happy, healthy, strong, creative, wild Satya” I wrote.

I sat long enough that I recovered my equilibrium, and ceased sweating enough to drown a buffalo. Let’s hear it for fizzy water, sugar, salt, air con, and food.

The next stop was, of course, the gift shop, where there was jewellery aplenty, and useful blue hand towels for those who decided to dip in the water but hadn’t brought a towel. Brilliant. I bought one, because we had more sitting on damp surfaces ahead of us on other days.

Then, down the walkways to the waterfall and creek itself. St Nectan of Hartland supposedly was a monk who moved from Ireland to Wales. He spent some time in Trevethy as a hermit, and it’s believed he carved his cave above the waterfall some time in the 6th century. According to legend, he rang a bell in times of stormy weather to warn people of danger in Rocky Valley.

Rushing water sounds grew as I descended the stairs(yep, moar stairs). The the bottom was the shallow run off from the waterfall, which poured through a circular hole in late Devonian slate(according to the website; according to me, black). Part of the Trewillett River.

MidWife, DansGirl, and I changed into our swimming togs, much to the surprise of people sitting around the edges of the water spill. No changerooms. Undies off under our skirts, bottom half of bathers on. Take arms out of sleeves, remove bras. Haul up bathers as best we can. Take off clothes. Ta dah – 3 women over 40 in their togs, ready to go wading. I noticed a few people with young children up and left.

The shallows tumble over many, many pebbles and stones, and plenty of loose shale. Which made stepping into the freezing water barefoot a challenge. MidWife and I hobbled our way through the water. My feet ached, stinging, and then going numb. Sometimes I couldn’t feel rocks under my feet, but certainly my instep sensed the hard shape of them.

Nearer the waterfall, the shale deepened and our steps were more unsteady, but we blundered on. We were going to get under that water, no matter what. The rest of the women on the tour, and a few onlookers(who may or may not have been stunned at our little white bodies) watched as we edged closer. MidWife held my hands as I dipped my shoulders under the cascade, and screamed from the cold, then emerged. We posed for photos, and then DansGirl waded out and MidWife held her hands as she leaned all the way back and stuck her head under.

Phones were out, and cameras. We were BRAVE women, or CRAZY, or something.

Oh, that freezing water was agony, and so welcome after that very long hot walk. And I’d done what I’d said I’d do – get under the waterfall. I was pleased with myself.

After a bit more wading, we gathered to far side of the creek, and did a meditation. I drifted in and out of focussing, as I took in the sounds, smells, and even the taste of the water on my lips.

In the middle of the water were a number of stone cairns, built by those who wanted to say “I was here” without graffiti. I’ve learned that, quite often, minute creatures live under the stones picked up to build a cairn, and it’s better to leave them where they are. But people want to leave something to say ‘was here’.

Clouties, or cluties, are ribbons or strings attached to trees and bushes at sacred sites, with a wish whispered into them. I’ve seen strips of lace, calico, cotton, thread, satin ribbon, silk, and once, even a baby shoe tied to a tree. However, many of these take a very long time to decay, and some not at all, and are not natural to the environment. So, raffia has become popular. Raffia fibre comes from raffia palms and will at least decay. Most raffia is dyed, so…questionable? Anyway, we each had a strip of raffia to tie to a tree or bush. Most of the cluties were tied to the bush nearest the steps, so I went a little further afield.

“Oh honey,” I said to a thin, unclutied bush, “let me tie this to you loosely, because I dig that you don’t like restriction any more than I do. Who needs lacing and corsets, right?”

And I left my strip of yellow raffia behind with a wish that mirrored the one I made upstairs on the wishing tree. Why do multiple wishes when one will do? Everything I want can stem from those thoughts. If I’m strong, healthy, have stamina, a good outlook, then the writing, the travel, the dance, and everything else will flow.

After walking back our bus, we got underway to Bath, which would be our home for the next 7 nights.

Tales From The Tor – England Tour Day 11

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.

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 10

Today, I just couldn’t. No matter how much I wanted to see local sites, and St Michael’s Mount, I needed another day out. We can talk all we like to Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, to autism, to ADHD, to postmenopause. Whatever we like. It’s me. I need time alone to reset, rest, indulge how ever I want without anyone else’s time table.

After the group left, I read a little, and did what I thought was a favour to everyone. I took our big bags of shared laundry to the local laundrette. I gave the laundry lady my unscented washing sheets. When I returned later in the afternoon, she’d washed and dried everything with the heaviest scented whatevers in the world. Seriously lady, how are you not dead? I hung everything up in our lounge area, and rotated putting stuff on the outside stairs bannister to air. Holy crap, but that shit was strong.

(I made sure I wore all that laundered stuff first, so I could wash it again quickly and not have the scent infest my suitcase.)

I spent my day pottering around Tintagel. In and out of shops, down side streets. I met the Queen of Tintagel. A local black cat who is owned and cared for by a family, but considers the whole high street, every house, and all shops to be hers. Cars stop for her as she crosses roads. I fully expected drivers to leap out and throw down a cape for her. I met her first on the footpath, and a little later in a shop. She strolled in to roll all over the floor and rest in a patch of sunshine. Later, she was in another shop. She owns Tintagel in a way Igraine never did, and Morgaine didn’t want.

In the mid afternoon I took myself up to Camelot Castle, a hotel that heavily features the art of Ted Stourton on the walls, and in coffee table books. I got some pics of the ruins of Tintagel from the side of Camelot and some fine view of the Atlantic Ocean. I took afternoon tea in the dining room. People, it pays to be nice, and chat to waitresses and waiters, and ask them about themselves, and how they came to be working where they are. I got the nicest alcove in the place, an extra biscuit with my tea, and all the dining room coffee table books were placed on my table. Not a work said when I took photos of various pages. I even got recommendations of the best places to sit outside to watch the ocean. All of which I took advantage of, and my lovely waitress, Mairie, enjoyed seeing my Australian change purse and the ‘exotic’ coins. I gave her a five cent piece which she said she was going to turn into a small pendant. Little things go a long way.

My day in Tintagel was full of fun. I tried on felt hats, held dresses up against myself, had a lovely chat with the waitress in the tea rooms, and generally pottered about. I even got time to make some brief travel notes, and read a bit more of TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE. I’m not much of a one for Regency romances, but I have watched the first two seasons of BRIDGERTON, and Eloise and Penelope are my two favourite characters. So I read those two books.

When the group got back in the evening, I joined them in the pub downstairs for dinner and heard about their day. I had some Regret of Missing Out, but on the whole, I was content with my own day.

That Atlantic Ocean is incredibly blue in a way the Pacific isn’t. As for the Great Southern Ocean and Bass Strait – I refuse to qualify their murky depths.

(Gossip: upon approaching Camelot Castle, there were two young people trying to selfie with some flag or other, so I offered to help them out. Honestly, young people, take some interesting pics. I made them jump in the air with the flag, and that made a much better pic than the static one they wanted. Camelot Castle in the background, and their bright yellow peace bus to the side. They told me they swam through Merlin’s Cave at high tide. I was impressed. Later, I talked to a woman who said that the assistants who stand at various points around the Tintagel site were put on high alert when they’d seen the couple go down to the caves, and not come up again and the tide came in. The local rescue team were alerted and about to be deployed when the couple reappeared. They said they had a right to experience the caves in an authentic way. Dickheads. Upon reflection, I don’t know how they’re supporting themselves as they travel the world in their yellow peace bus, but it’s an endless tour, and somehow peace will come to the world as they take Instagram pics of their peace flag in various locations. I roll my eyes at this. I think of myself working three jobs and paying taxes, and get off my lawn.)

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 9.2

As we drove, the weather closed in, and we pulled into the car park in Tintagel to persistent but fairly light rain. Out we got, umbrellas and rain jackets at the ready, and it was 4pm. We were just about the last people to get tickets and walk across that long bridge that replaces a thin spit of land linking the mainland to the now-island of Tintagel castle ruins.

This is where, it’s said, Uther Pendragon came to Igraine, wife of the Duke of Cornwall, under an enchantment of disguise, a glamour, cast by Merlin. From that night, the future King Arthur was conceived, and the next day, all was revealed. Duke Gorlois was killed in battle, fighting against the High King, and Uther married Igraine shortly afterwards. Arthur was born in wedlock, but everyone knew he was conceived from adultery, casting a shadow over his eventual right to rule.

So, an important part of our Return to Avalon.

I’ve visited Tintagel once before, five years ago, but I was recovering from a nasty virus and didn’t have the energy, in hot summer sun, to climb up all the steps to the summit, and see Gallos, the 8′ tall sculpture of a ghostly man wearing a crown, and holding a sword, looking out to sea, as if guarding the coast against invaders. English Heritage says it’s not meant to represent a single person, but represents the general history of the site as a medieval fortification and trading post with the Mediterranean.

However, if there’s a person in the world who doesn’t think it represents Arthur, I’ve yet to meet them.

I worked slowly and steadily, treading carefully on wet steps and gravel, making my way through the ruins, wondering at each ‘room’ or wall. Someone had left a bottle of body lubricant in the chapel. I removed that. I didn’t find it funny. To me, Tintagel is a meaningful place, and even though I’m a pagan and witch, not a Christian, perhaps some of my ancestors worshipped there. Besides, I have a committed Christian husband and have been aware, this whole trip, of doing right also by his belief system. PizzaBoy would have removed that. So I did too. Also, pollution – plastic bottle.

Ever upwards, and every now and then, I paused. But, the past five years have seen me change naturopaths, acquire an integrative doctor, get a Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis diagnosis rather than a fibromyalgia diagnosis, fully transition through menopause and stop having hot flushes mostly(spicy food, too much sugar, and too much caffeine still set me off), and have my autism and ADHD diagnoses. Armed with all that, and understanding myself so much better, I’ve much more stamina and strength. I made it all the way up, and knelt before Gallos/Arthur.

To one side, a young Asian lass was having an Instagram photo shoot, with no indication that she was anywhere but on some anonymous cliff top. No Tintagel, no Gallos, no ruins. Just her and the wind and rain, and the mainland behind her. It was very hard to get photos without her poncing and posing in the background.

There she was in pale pink wafty clothes, and the bland, smooth face of stacks of make up, and pore-disappearing creme, and her beleagured photographer/boyfriend trying not to step in puddles. Sitting and posing, one hand to her face. Change half a centimetre, 20 more shots. And then off they went, back to the mainland, while I’m kneeling in a puddle before Arthur, saying: “I am your liege woman.”

The rain and wind picked up as I made my way slowly down the stairs, holding on to the wet metal railing all the way, and sometimes almost climbing down steep steps. My knees creaked like old dunny doors.

How Igraine must have felt, married off to Gorlois, an older man, when she was a young woman, still really a girl, and brought to Tintagel. Lonely, cold, windswept. Her husband away defending the coast most of the time. She suddenly mistress of a whole castle, and household, with the village beyond. Cold, bleak winters with the chill seeping into stone walls. Grey sky, steel grey ocean stretching out to the horizon, and enormous gulls crying along with her. She likely didn’t fear Hell, she probably thought she was already there.

Loneliness exudes from the very rocks and land, with the Atlantic biting at the cliffs every day.

The Lady Morgaine, or Morgana Le Fey was born there to Igraine and Gorlois, half sister to Arthur. Did she have sea magic in her veins? Did she send enchantment on the howling winds?

Below the castle ruins, at low tide, are a series of caves, one of which is dubbed Merlin’s Cave. It’s quite the popular destination. I have visited it before, but when we were there, it was high tide, and under water. Low tide was midday and our timing just wasn’t right.

We arrived at our pub Bed and Breakfast in Tintagel, all chilled, slightly damp, and ready for a hot meal and bed. I never thought I’d be sick and tired of chips, but honestly, by this stage, I’d had enough of them.

We all fell into bed, for the next day we’d be up and at ’em again.

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 9.1

This day, the group packed up, and were in the bus in good time to head off further into Cornwall. Our first stop was LanHydrock House, now in the care of the National Trust. The words ‘stately pile’ came to mind, but I think it’s better preserved than that. A ‘magnificent late Victorian country house with garden and wooded estate’, says the website, and indeed, it’s a huge house, and extensive grounds. Plenty to photograph, but can I be honest, it’s just not my groove to check out how the gentry live/d, for the most part. I’ll confess some mild curiosity, but I’m much more interested in the servant quarters. It’s a demonstration of obscene wealth. In the drawing room, I guess it was, there was a sign, a quote from Lady Something, along the lines of ‘thank goodness we had that silk screen, so that we didn’t have to watch the servants cleaning’.

In the entrance were a couple of tables of things that had original price tags on them from when a lady of the house sold off some stuff to keep the place going. “Dear, I suppose we can do without that stuffed peacock, yes?” Apparently, American and German tourists regularly ask if they can buy something off the tables. Well, yes, if you have price tags, even elderly ones, people will think stuff’s for sale.

On the ceiling of the drawing room are extensive carvings, some depicting some pretty interesting and graphic sex scenes, including a thruple. There was no tv, no Netflix back then. I guess you lay on your swooning couch and made up stories in your head about the people up above. Bible stories? Perhaps. There’s everything in the Bible.

Of course there’s a gift shop with many Ye Olde Country Garden tea towels, cups and saucers, and faux gold sugar tongs.

Meanwhile, I was impressed with the dairy, creamery, meat kitchen, bakery, cakery, and what-have-you in a whole other building than the main house. How they got food over to the dining tables hot is beyond me. It wasn’t even a matter of a dumb waiter. A Whole Other Building.

The servants’ dining hall was set up, and apparently you can book to have your fancy dinner, or wedding there. Not in the main house where the posh people ate, but definitely in the commoners’ hall. How unlike Hampton Court Palace, where you can book to have your wedding in the hall, and sit in the seats used by Henry VIII, and whichever wife. I know which one I’d opt for if I had a spare million or so. I’ve not priced either, but they wouldn’t come cheap.

Lanhydrock House could up their game considerably by having the kitchens in working order and showing visitors how food was prepared back in the day. Extra $$$ to have a meal prepared by the kitchens, or go to the canteen and have a Cornish pasty and an ice cream.

We lunched in the canteen there, and then got underway further south. Ever onwards on our soul journeys, deeper into Arthurian territory, and closer to Avalon.

Tales From The Tor – England Travel blog Day 8(second day 8)

Once again, due to the piecemeal fashion of my notes, and Facebook posts, I find my numbering system of the days up the spout, so here is the second Day 8. It’s not the same day as the previous Day 8. It’s the next day. I blame wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey things.

We were back late from the Fairy Festival the previous night, so were a little late in rising. I had already determined I wasn’t doing the second day. I needed time out from noise, people, and some solid rest. Down time. However, I wasn’t going to miss a late morning visit to Carnglaze Caverns, set on the southern edge of Bodmin Moor(a place preserved in folklore, and spooky tales). The caverns were hand-dug for slate, after the open cast quarry wasn’t producing what was needed. Three large caverns were carved out, and there’s shafts(unaccessible) for copper and tin mining, all building part of Cornwall’s heritage.

There’s a quick briefing, and hard hats are handed out. By chance, I was given a blue one to match my dress. We descended fifty steps into the first cavern, where water seepage has, over decades formed a deep, still pool of fresh water. Modern underwater lighting gives it a green cast, and it was beside this magical, underworld, fairy pool that we drew up seats, and Narcissa took us through a meditation, and sound session. Other visitors to the caverns stopped by to listen. The echoes around the chamber were beautiful. Narcissa has a lovely, strong voice. I remember many years ago, when I was regularly singing kirtan every Friday night, and singing it for myself during the week, my voice became a lot stronger, and more able to stay on pitch, and in tune. Narcissa sing a great deal when leading and facilitating groups, gatherings, and events. I found myself envying her voice, and kept having to bring myself back to my own present experience, where I’d chosen to express voice through writing, and my hands, rather than throat and mouth.

While occasional drips fell from the ceiling, and one single drip ran off a small stalactite and created a series of outward ripples on the pool, we each had our own experience of meditating in the caves. MidWife said that she was a flatlander and that underground wasn’t her natural habitat. Even though I’m strongly, astrologically Earth signs, underground only felt comfortable for me because of the water nearby. Scorpio Moon and Neptune in direct alignment – water sign. Caves are okay for me, as long as I know where the exit is, and no one tells me how far underground I am.

It’s said the old miners kept aside the crusts of their Cornish pasties to give to the cave fae who lived there. There’s a model of one such creature hidden away in a small crevice, only visible to those who stop on the prescribed 30 minute walk through to look around, and most especially UP. Again, when I can transfer my photos from my phone to my computer proper, I will add pics to the posts.

After doing the obligatory photo snaps around the cavern, after our meditation, we emerged back into the summer heat and light. There are beautiful gardens and surrounding woodlands, and a walk around is a must, looking all the while for small fairy figurines. I opted to sit in the shade rather than tramp around, because I was tired and felt clumsy-footed and unsteady. The stairs around the gardens were steep, and in some places, the slates were loose. I saw myself perhaps falling into nettles, so I sat, and enjoyed seeing small birds flitting around, and butterflies doing their thing.

The gardens were packed with summer wildflowers, ones that I only see in English wildflower specialist gardens in Australia, so getting to see what has been written about and painted so often was a real treat.

After we left the caverns and gardens, we went for lunch as a group, then back to Woodland House in Cawsend where six of the women got ready for a second day at the festival, and me and one other lady stayed behind to rest. I didn’t sleep, but I did get some reading in. I was desperate to finish TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE by Julia Quinn.

Everyone was back by around 9pm, and it was an early night for all. The next day, we were off, further south.

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 8

Arising from our beds, we readied ourselves for a full day at the 3 Wishes Fairy Festival. I was dressed by Leafy Creations, an Aussie lady who prints leaf veins onto fabric, and cut leaf shaped dresses, skirts, and leggings. I prepped for the day with a green swing top, and knee length leggings. Some of the girls made me up with make up and stick on bedazzling, and I was ready to go. I was the least extra of the group, and really felt it. I’ve had a lifelong love of extra, too much, and all the things on everyone else, but when it comes to me, it all feels like far too much. “When too much bling is barely enough” doesn’t apply to me. I want this to change. So I allowed bedazzling, even though inside me was screaming: “She’s touching my face!” and “She’s taking a long time with that eyeshadow. Do I look like a drag queen now?” Turns out, I didn’t look like a drag queen. I looked barely bedazzled pretty.

At the festival, I somehow immediately split off from the group. It wasn’t planned, and I did miss out on the Mad Hatter’s tea party, but instead I was served tea and cake at the Tea Emporium stand. Honestly, Tea Emporium? Jars of Liptons and Clipper? Come on! I was expecting all sorts of bespoke herbal concoctions with fairy names: Oberon’s Brew, Titania’s Fairy Forest, Puck’s Ker-Blam Ginger Spice. That sort of thing. Not peppermint, English Breakfast, lemon and ginger, green. There wasn’t even a chai. Booooo!

My day was spent wandering from vendor to vendor, pausing sometimes in a music tent to listen to an artist, or just sit and look at costumes. I talked with a lady pirate who popped a small pin with a tiny red rose on my top. She said that now I could boast I’d been pegged by a lady pirate.

I also engaged in the following conversation with a young lad.

Me: Why don’t you guess how old I am.

Boy: 21.

Me: Thankyou, but I’m much older.

Boy: 104?

Me:…..yes.

Boy:…..you must be dead…

Me: Steady on, lad. I’m still a bit jetlagged, that’s all.

I saw the following sights:

• a lady in a fluffy bee costume
• a knitted ancient goddess statue with knitted green witch hat
• a girl dressed up as a mermaid, in a swimming pool
• a red fairy wheeling her small dog around in a dog stroller, and the dog wore fairy wings
• the lady pirate had a red model ship as a fascinator
• a thin man in a black leather wide-brimmed hat, black scoop-necked top, long blue bead necklace, granny glasses, long pixie hem skirt, white Docs
• a parading Titania and Oberon
• an Ursula

In the evening a Celtic band kicked off, after many sound checks. After all those checks, the sound should have been fantastic but the sound guy made them rubbish. Anyway, they were loud, long, and I had to hang around wearing both my Loop ear plugs and my noise cancelling headphones to deal with it. I kept trotting out to the toilet, or to stand at some distance away.It started raining so I took shelter under the tent of a vendor who’d closed for the evening. A man and his partner were there, and the man was determinedly drinking a bottle of Johnny Walker. He had a definite plan. Get off his face. Go into the big tent. Jerk off to the music while dancing This he did. I know. Because he outlined his plan to his girl, then carried it out within viewing distance of me. Lucky me.

The most enjoyable part of the evening, for me, was sitting on the ground with a damp dog in my lap, who needed all the scritches and pats. When he and his owner left, I scouted around for another dog, but no. I guessed I’d just have to stare at the band, and wait for them to finish. I was at the mercy of when the group wanted to leave and they were all having a fine time, dancing and singing. I do not live a rock’n’roll lifestyle. Joan Baez is more my speed.

We were home near midnight and it took me a while to wind down and go to sleep. I was lucky these three nights. I had a room to myself.

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 7

Today was Salisbury Cathedral. Seeing the huge spire from the car park was awe-inspiring, and, ignoring the mundane cars and concrete, walking around until I could view it with greenery to the fore was rewarding. On the street on the way to the cathedral, was The Salisbury Bug Cathedral, a model of the real thing, but a bee and bug hotel. I am now inspired, and insist PizzaBoy build a bug St Paul’s Cathedral for our yard.

The cathedral itself is mighty, imposing, but also built with beauty in mind. Everywhere are arches to rest the gaze from straight lines and corner. (Also good to know that one of the public toilets has been twinned with a toilet in Malawi, and a tap has been twinned with one in Ethiopia.)

I stopped to appreciate a medieval contraption for ringing the bells, and it reminded me of Riff Raff maniacally winding a wheel in THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. MidWife pointed out that every flag, banner, cushion cover, altar cloth, and drapery would have been sewn by women, and that not one was mentioned in the history books. The unseen work of women supporting churches, and men, is everywhere in the world, and there’s not one plaque or note.

Some of the animal carvings in the room that houses the Magna Carta leave something to the imagination. Had these stone masons seen animals before?

It was good to see ‘The Making of Magna Carta’ with samples of the vellum, oak gall ink, and swan or goose quill used.

No photos are allowed in the special chamber containing Magna Carta, alas, but I bought a tea towel with the image on it. Now, when I dry my dishes, I can think on my rights as a previously divorced woman not to be forced to remarry. Mind you, the actual wording is ‘widowed’.

From Salisbury, we stopped by Burley, home to the famous witch Sybil Leek, and the New Forest coven. A few shops were visited with a cry of ‘jewellery!’ The usual witchie tat was for sale, with many shops replicating each other’s wares.

Wild horses abound in Burley, with a 2000 pound fine for touching them. I wanted to snap pics, but whenever I tried, they darned well knew, and all I got was horse arse, or a pale leg as the horse trotted around a handy corner.

On the road again, we passed a small white farm house, possibly once a creamery, and lo, it was a McDonald’s transformed to match the local landscape. Inside was typical Macca’s, but outside, you’d not guess.

We then dug into our trip south into Cornwall, and found our home in a rambling house.

Tales From The Tor – England travel blog Day 6.3

While all the fun of the Stonehenge Visitor Centre called, lunch was a priority. Breakfast at the Ibis Hotel at 8am was a fair while ago, and we hadn’t yet learned, as a group, to buy plenty of bus snacks.

Lunch was the usual gluten and dairy compromises(oh to be vegan, rather than have sensitivities to gluten, dairy, tomato, chili, and many other of the nightshade family, because England has really gotten on the vegan wagon, but sucks to you if you’re gluten-free). Ah, my first can of elderflower lemonade. It still doesn’t hold a candle the elderflower drink I had in the visitor centre at Culloden in Scotland, but I relished it anyway. Cold, wet, refreshing, that hint of elderflower.

The Visitor Centre was magnificent, with incredible visual displays and enough information for my history geek self to geek on out. Great strides have been made in excavating and x-raying around Stonehenge to discover the lives of the builders.

Some of the others took the bus up to see Stonehenge from behind the ropes, but I knew we had after-hours private access, so I wanted to hold off until then. My last time inside the stones was 2012, before dawn, in pouring rain, where I watched FairyFloss have a long talk with the Greek/Roman god Apollo as Sun God.

When I last visited Stonehenge, I felt something was taken from me, a key to my writing life. For a long while afterwards, I was ready to go back and demand its return. However, like parts of Stonehenge that have fallen or been shifted over the years, my mental health and my writing focii have shifted. Some things have fallen away, others resurrected in a different way. Last year, 2022, was my second Saturn Return, in astrological terms, which Amaia, the other facilitator of this tour, said was a reckoning up of my life, a re-assessment as to what mattered most.

What comes up, over and over, is to use my remaining years(I plan to live to 150) to write the shit out of everything on my computer, and create a whole lot of new stuff.

Onwards to the gift shop. MidWife and I concluded that we love looking at kitschy crap. Little knitted dollies? Sure. Snowglobes of Stonehenge? Great. Felt dolls of neolithic men and women? Yep, I’ll take a photo of that. There were the usual coffee table books, historical accounts, suppositions, theories, postcards, pop-up Stonehenge books that looked very vulval when opened up, sarsen and bluestone jewellery, and there was a man selling mead.

In the middle of the gift shop was a replica of two standing stones, with a lintel over them. They were life-sized, and likely made out of plaster-of-paris. An American tourist was trying to find the price on them. They were for decoration only, but he really wanted to buy them. How he thought he’d pack them in his suitcase to take home to Ohio, I don’t know, but I helped him look, for my own amusement.

I bought myself a pair of faux gold standing stone earrings, as part of the pact MidWife and I had – buy only jewellery to stay within our luggage allowances.

Late afternoon into early evening, our group went for dinner, then returned to Stonehenge. We were taken by bus to the stones, and allowed past the ropes inside the circle. Stonehenge pops up out of the landscape, smaller than you think it will be, but still impressive, dark, and imposing. Ravens, smaller than Australian ‘Little Ravens’, and much smaller than the Tower of London ravens, pecked around the landscape, keeping a careful eye on us. One legend says they are the guardians of Stonehenge, and the larger sacred landscape of Wiltshire and Somerset.

My focus narrowed to the sound of my feet on the ground, and Stonehenge growing larger as I walked. As a group, we stood between two of the stones, and with respect, asked to enter.

“Ancestors, I am here,” I said to myself.

There was no great sense of permission given, no feeling that Stonehenge was giving me back anything it might have taken in 2012, but I felt very present in my body suddenly, and was ready to experience with all senses, every moment. I kept reminding myself to feel daytime heat radiating from the ground and the stones, see the colour of the sky, look at the changing hues of the setting sun, listen beyond other visitors who carried on their normal conversations as they ticked Stonehenge off their mental bucket lists, and got their selfies.

“Mark said that we should try the lager next time we’re in that pub.”

“What’s your data plan like then?”

“Alice, did you want to get ice cream after this?”

They weren’t going to disappear suddenly, so I tuned them out. We sat in circle again, and yes, we all took plenty of photos, including selfies, and group shots. But we also wandered off, each to their own experience, to listen to the stones, feel any vibrations, do the forbidden and lightly touch them, and yes, I licked Stonehenge again. Last time it tasted of moss and rain. This time of nothing. It felt…tired. Or maybe that was me.

Two guards stood to the side, and our guide talked mainly to the others. We all noted that she emphasised, before we got off the bus, not to get naked. She was insistent. We wondered if the brass bells we all wore on our backpacks prompted this. “Oh, aye, we have a right lot of hippies here. Better tell them not to nude up. They seem the sort.”

If you look hard enough, or out of the corner of your eye, faces appear in the stones, like a Rorschach Test. I was reminded of a scene in a Diane Duane novel, where one character imagines she’s back on a planet she worked on, and huge stone creatures only partly in the ‘real’ universe were speaking to her, and there was a smell of burning. I thought at any moment, the sleeping stones would say something, or move.

The sun set, and with it, our time inside the circle. I dearly wanted to stay longer, sleep amongst the stones, dream with them, but we were all herded back onto the bus, counted, and counted again. Back to the Visitor Centre, back on our own bus, and off to Cricket Field House, our home for the first few nights.