Unite and unite and let us all unite

For summer is a’come unto day

And whither we are going, we will all unite

In the merry morning of May

(From the Padstow May Song)

I have been on a journey. A long, long journey. A soul journey and a spirit journey.

A journey that has taken me from Christianity to Buddhism and back again. But only to stay awhile, for in the long days of lockdown, I began to read – tentatively, then voraciously. Devouring every book I could find on Celtic Christianity. The earliest incarnation of a new religion in this land. A religion that sought to meld the new with the old. A earthy, egalitarian religion that resonated with my seeking mind – my searching heart. And for a while that was enough.

But then came the call, faint at first, to travel again. To explore. To excavate. To dig deeper until I reached the roots. Our roots. The deep-rooted indigenous religion of this isle. The Isle of the Mighty. Albion.

And so I discovered Druidry. A spirituality based on the beliefs and traditions of our most ancient ancestors. But with a contemporary twist. A spirituality that holds a deep reverence for our natural world and for the cycling seasons of nature and life. A spirituality that honours the connectedness of all creation. A compassionate path that values community. A path without divisive dogma. A philosophy that embraces environmental stewardship and ‘otherness’. Where all are welcomed without judgement. Where peace is paramount.

And here I have found a home. And an understanding of my deep desire to wander in wild places, to swim naked, to watch clouds and sing to the wind. To drum up the full moon, then bathe in her beams.

Which is why Beltane is the best of times.

For my Celtic ancestors knew only two seasons – winter and summer. And Beltane, May 1st, marked the first day of summer. No wonder they celebrated – the times of hardship were behind them and days of warmth and plenty lay ahead.

And there was a deeper meaning too. For this was also a festival of fertility and fecundity. In Pagan eyes, a time when God and Goddess unite in the act of love. And from this Divine Union come the crops and the creatures. The wild and wonderful diversity of life.

Which is why it’s a wild and wonderful festival. A festival steeped in sexuality.

____________

So what better way to celebrate than to wake before dawn and dance up the sun with Morris mates? As I have done for year after year. High on the tors of Dartmoor.

An then a hearty breakfast, sprinkled with a seasoning of songs to celebrate the traditions of distant times.

All this and still only 8am!

A whole day ahead. A day of exploration. A day of walking, wild-swimming and wonder. A magical day. A mystical day. A day of becoming …

A day that took me to Scorhill Stone Circle.

Dating back over 4,000 years, this is one of the largest Bronze Age monuments on Dartmoor. Sited in a rugged setting, this striking circle appears to align with the Midsummer sunset and would likely have been used for religious ritual. Here too, tribes would have gathered to trade, marry, forge alliances and make important decisions.

But now it is a place of silence. A place of secrets.

A place where the murmuring of bees is broken only by the soft moan of a breeze. A place to rest. To reflect.

A place to imagine.

A place where rituals are rumoured still to occur. A place for hand fasting. A place to make love.

And a place without shade!

For by now the sun was soaring and his heat was searing. And from down the hill I could hear the sound of flowing water. Inviting water. Calling and coaxing. Irresistible.

Here, along the course of the North Teign River, Bronze and Iron Age settlers once streamed for precious tin, and the granite channels created by their mediaeval counterparts remain clearly visible. Channels that served to speed flow and so sift sediment from ore.

But today my interest was not industrial archeology – it was the cool pool that lay beyond the channel.

And soon I had stripped, slithered and slipped into her balm. Golden with peat and the reflection of gorse flowers.

And how good that felt.

As being naked in open water always feels.

For in these moments – these sacred moments – comes connection.

An intimate connection. Yes, a fusion. A fusion with the elements – with air, fire, water and earth. A sensual union with the Spirits of Place. A togetherness with generation upon generation of ancestors who similarly stripped and sought solace from the sun, right here. For I am just a link in a chain of succession. A chain of swimmers that flows and fades back through time.

Lunch on the bank and then the shortest of strolls downstream, past waterfalls and rapids to where the North Teign and Wallabrook meet. Here lies the Tolmen Stone. Steeped in folklore, this massive granite boulder has an almost perfectly circular hole that has been drilled and ground through its heart by centuries of stones, rotating in the rushing waters of winter.

Local tradition has it that squeezing through the hole acts as a cure for all manner of rheumatic conditions and in Celtic lore, passing through a holed stone is an act of purification, a way of escaping bad luck or infertility.

Well, on this occasion I did not pass through the Tolmen, which might explain why the next stage of my expedition served to remind me that my knees are becoming a tad arthritic!

A slow, steady climb towards Kes Tor (aka Kestor Rock) accompanied by the call of a cuckoo and the ever-present song of the skylark – a quintessentially Dartmoor sound at this time of year.

And then, another bird…

Painting by Linda Ravenscroft

Yes, a magnificent raven, perched on a rock and looking straight at me. Staring. A piercing, knowing look. Sustained for many seconds – maybe a minute – before launching into a low, languid widdershins circle around my startled figure and then settling again. Still watching.

An omen. A warning.

Black as beak. Firm as feather.

Should I turn back?

For a moment I felt the solitude of this pace, dagger-keen.

And yet I was not afraid, for I was not alone. To quote a friend, I was “walking with the Moor”. The very best of company.

And perhaps this was not a threat, but a challenge to transform. To change. A Beltane invocation to leave a season of darkness and enter a season of light?

I strode on- and now with a spring in my step. A feeling of fearlessness. A feeling that I too could rise and fly.

To the summit of the tor, where I stood skyclad, facing into the warm wind and watching the sun welcome the western horizon.

A lofty moment of transcendence. Of transfiguration. Wrapped only in the breeze. A moment of knowing. A moment of belonging.

Whilst behind me lay the reason for my visit:

The Druid’s Basin.

The title of this place harks back to Victorian antiquarians who argued that this natural feature had, in fact, been carved out by Ancient Druids. Here could be found the purest rainwater for their rituals – or more darkly, it was created to catch the blood of human sacrifices. But rest assured – there is no reliable evidence that such practices were ever undertaken by Druidic Priests…

Phew!

In Neo-Pagan circles, cauldrons have a deep significance as places of change. Places of re-birth. So it seemed only appropriate to climb in. Until I looked at the water – so far from pure that I half expected some new life-form to evolve and emerge at any moment! So that temptation was easily resisted.

I passed some time here – but sadly, time was not in rich supply and I soon felt the need to retrace my footsteps, which by now were tired and heavy. Trapped within leather, my throbbing feet were clearly rebelling in belligerent style, and the only way to quell their fury was to head back to the river.

And there, a little downstream from the Tolmen, was the most perfect of pools.

Slipping in, I swear there was a hiss of steam as feet thrilled to the chill of the water and knotted muscles relaxed into a moss-soft armchair, formed by boulders on the river bed.

Heaven on Earth.

Hard, oh so hard, to rise, dry and slowly climb back across Scorhill Down and towards the stone circle. Here, a hiker had pitched his tent and amiably offered me a bowl of noodles. He wanted to know more about the place and I was pleased to assist, But I had to warn him that he might not be spending the night alone. Undeterred, he cheerfully waved me farewell as I walked on, accompanied by the lilting music of his flute.

But from somewhere, far away in time, came another sound.

Barely perceptible, but unmistakable.

The sound of voices joined together in a ritual chant …

_________ /|\ _________

If you would like to know more about Modern Druidry, please visit:

The Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids http://www.druidry.org

The British Druid Order http://www.druidry.co.uk

Or you can check out my YouTube films @DruidofDumnonia