Friday, December 14, 2007

Boleskine House, Former Home of Loch Ness' Great Beast

As Mark and I (now traveling together) were riding the bus on a tour around Lock Ness, suddenly the tone of the tour guide's voice changed completely and he announced, "On the left, you can see just through the trees the home of Aleister Crowley, the self-named GREAT BEAST." The obviously non-Crowley-friendly lad went on to elaborate on some of the more horrific tales of Crowley's excesses.

I was pleased as could be. I had no idea that the home of the infamous magister was located that near to Loch Ness. (I have always seen Crowley as the black sheep of our Pagan/Wiccan family tree--definitely one of the nuttier nuts, but there on the tree of our ancestry none the less.) Our tour guide went on to describe the purchase of the home by Jimmy Paige of Led Zeppelin fame. He added that house was now privately owned and allowed no visitors.

He did allow us to stop at the cemetery on the right side of the road and peer up at the house. He also regaled us with tales of the barricaded, underground passageway reported to have led to Crowley's ritual room in the main house. This was an unexpected treat for me. I am no huge fan of Crowley's although I do feel that he had a lot more to say if you ignored his enormous ego and his penchant to mislead the seeker with his excesses. I feel these misdirections were meant to shock and derail seekers from discovering their own true will.

Even though there are many things to criticize about Crowley's life and teaching, he is still one of the founders of our magickal path. It is reported Gardner met Aleister Crowley in 1946 supposedly introduced by Arnold Crowther. Many of Crowley's ideas managed to make it into Garnder's ancient/new religion which later came to be called Wicca.

The sketch below and the article give you more, excellent, infomation on Bolesskin House. I have credited both the sketch and the article.



Sketch taken from http://www.geocities.com/athens/parthenon/7069/bole-1.html

Boleskine has long been the site of strange and disturbing events

By PAUL LESTER

OF ALL rock's legendary landmarks, Boleskine House near Foyers on the south-eastern shore of Loch Ness is most deserving of a blue plaque.

Or rather, a black upside-down cross. Because it has long been synonymous with The Dark Side. Look no further than Led Zeppelin's The Song Remains the Same, a newly enhanced DVD filmed during the band's notorious 1973 trek across the US. In one of the fantasy sequences that intersperse the live footage, guitarist Jimmy Page is caught in an eerily innocuous pastoral idyll, sitting by a lake next to his 18th-century manor in Plumpton, Sussex, toying with a hurdy gurdy as the song Autumn Lake plays in the background. He turns towards the camera and his eyes, pure Hammer House of Horror, are glowing devil-red. Then suddenly we're in dense, dark woodland lit by a full moon. Page is shown climbing the steep face of a snow-capped mountain with only a corduroy jacket and a neckerchief to keep him warm. To the strains of Dazed and Confused, he fights his way to the top, where a ghostly hooded creature dressed in white and holding a lantern awaits him. It is the Hermit, a Tarot figure representing philosophical enquiry, though here his face is wizened and has a pallor suggestive of death. The whole chilling sequence was filmed on the mountainside directly behind Boleskine House.

With the possible exception of the Rolling Stones, no band in history has ever been as closely associated with the Dark Side as Led Zeppelin. And of their four members, the one with the greatest reputation for the illicit and degenerate is Page. There are many anecdotes about the guitarist numerous apocryphal stories and rumours of carnal and pharmaceutical excess. But the one fact brought up time and again to capture his amoral essence is this: in 1971, as Zeppelin were about to enter their decadent pomp, Page bought Boleskine House.

Page, who later owned the occult bookshop The Equinox in London, bought it primarily because it had, between 1899 and 1913, been the property of one Aleister Crowley. Page was something of a Crowley aficionado, though the extent of his interest is a matter of speculation. Certainly, Crowley's maxims - "The word of sin is restriction!" and "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law" - were adhered to with dissolute glee by Led Zeppelin in their debauched heyday.

A poet, novelist, painter and mountaineer, Crowley became a counter-cultural icon in the 1960s (his face is one of the many on the cover of The Beatles' Sergeant Pepper - on the top row, second from left, next to Mae West), when his views were seen to have anticipated the permissiveness of the age. But it is for his alleged practices in the occult that Crowley is best known, and that earned him the nickname The Beast, alias The Other Loch Ness Monster. The tabloid press of the day were fascinated by and fearful of Crowley in equal measure, dubbing him "the most evil man in Britain" and reporting on his supposed dreadful exploits, including human sacrifice, devil worship and black magic. According to Crowley's writings, he bought Boleskine to perform a ritual called the Abramelin Operation, an angel-summoning ceremony "requiring intense and lengthy meditation in a temple or secluded place". Stories of unexplained ghoulish occurrences in the area during his time at Boleskine are numerous. There is one of a local butcher accidentally cutting off his hand with a cleaver after reading a note left by Crowley. Another concerns the disappearance of a housekeeper. A third tells of a local workman employed by Crowley who went mad and tried to kill him.

A low, pink-walled mansion situated across the water from the snow-capped Meall Fuarvounie 21 miles south of Inverness, Boleskine House was built in the late 18th century by Archibald Fraser - it remained in Fraser family ownership until Crowley bought the estate. According to legend, a church once stood on the ancient site. When it caught fire the congregation was trapped inside and burned alive. The nearby Boleskine Burial Ground is notable for the remains of the original chapel and a grave watcher's hut: the grave watcher was employed to prevent body snatchers from defiling the graves.

Not surprisingly, a tunnel between the graveyard and the house is said to be best avoided after dark. As for Boleskine itself, it has long been the site of all manner of strange and disturbing events. In 1965, for example, an army major who lived there killed himself with a shotgun. Malcolm Dent was invited by Jimmy Page, his boyhood friend, to supervise the restoration of the house after the guitarist bought it. While Page himself only spent a total of six weeks there in the two decades he owned it, Dent lived in it for years, raising a family there. Apart from random slamming doors and moving chairs and rugs, not to mention the odd headless spectre, Dent had to contend with streams of ghouls making pilgrimages to Boleskine because of its association with Messrs Crowley and Page.

"I knew Jimmy had some weird interests, but that was about it," Dent said at the time. He was less respectful of Page's acolytes. "I have them from every corner of the world. A lot of them are nutters. Many are downright dangerous lunatics. There's a constant procession of these sick-minded people." Often Dent would have to bolt the doors and windows at night to prevent their access to the grounds. "They're a damned nuisance, a real pain," said Dent.

Page sold Boleskine House in 1992. Subsequent owners, ignoring its turbulent history, have run it either as a private residence or as a guest house. And, judging by the graffiti in the graveyard, it's clear Boleskine still attracts a certain type of tourist, with a penchant for the macabre.

"We don't get too many enquiries about it these days," the woman at the Inverness Tourist Information Centre tells me. "But those who do seem to be drawn to it for its unusual history. Things like the tunnel between the house and the graveyard, which is meant to be haunted by witches." Is it a frightening place to visit? She pauses. "Well, it's certainly... curious."

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

On from Inverbervie--

I spent about two weeks exploring Inverbervie, Stonehaven and Aberdeen, Scotland while I stayed with my friend John. The folks on the northeast side of Scotland seem to spend most of their time in the pub and not pay too much attention to the world around them. (Actually, most of Scotland seemed this way to me.) Of course, the Scottish economy is pretty grim. Despite this, they still haven't lost their sense of humor or fun. Most of the Scots that I met were low-income, unemployed or retired and living in council houses. The oil industry that used to employ most of the Scots from this area is dying rapidly and many are out of work.

It was a very different way to live for me. Americans are so driven to achieve. It is so refreshing to be in a place where you can just sit in the pub with some friends and have a good laugh. Unfortunately, the driven American finally surfaced and I realized that I was wasting away my precious vacation time sitting in the pub with John and his buddies. So--off I went toward the highlands.

There was another lad from Glasgow that I had been exchanging emails with for months. This was Mark. Mark had sent me flowers and indicated quite an interest in me. In a moment of redheaded craziness, I emailed him and said, "Well, if you want to meet me so badly, meet me tomorrow at the Inverness train station at 4:00 PM. I will be arriving from Aberdeen." Mark says it was quite a flurry of activity, but he managed to be packed and ready to meet me with a rose in his hand and wearing his best suit when I climbed down off the steps from the train. How he knew exactly where to be and at which pair of steps off the train, I will never completely understand. The rest, they say, is history. It took a couple years, but I finally married this wonderful, wacky Scotsman. Unfortunately, it didn't last and we divorced a year later, but it was wonderful while it lasted.

Mark and I spent a couple days exploring Inverness and getting to know one another. It was magickal. Every moment that I ever spent with him IN Scotland was magickal. It seemed it was when we were outside of Scotland, that things ever became less than magick for us.

Monday, October 29, 2007

Stonehaven and Arbroath Abbey


Dunnottar Castle


The town of Stonehaven, Scotland


Stonehaven Harbor


My friend John taking pictures of Arbroath Abbey

Arbroath Abbey was founded in 1178 for monks of the Tironensian order by King William I. Arbroath Abbey is most famous in Scottish history for its association with the Declaration of Arbroath. In this document of 1320, Scotland’s nobles swore their independence from England declaring, "as long as a hundred of us remain alive, we shall not on any condition be be subjected to English rule."

A visitor centre provides an insight into the abbey’s history and an exhibition on the Declaration is within the Abbey.

Location
In Arbroath town centre on the A92.

Region - Perthshire, Kinross and Angus.
Grid reference NO 643 413.
Postcode DD11 1EG.

Public Transport
Regular trains to Arbroath. From Arbroath train station, walk 6 mins to Abroath Abbey.

Contact
Tel 01241 878756

Opening times
Summer (1 April - 30 September), Monday to Sunday, 9.30 am to 5.30 pm
Winter (1 October - 31 March), Monday to Sunday, 9.30 am to 4.30 pm

2007 Admission Prices
Adult £4.50 Child £2.25 Concessions £3.50

Accessibility
STB Category 2 (Shop - STB Category 1)- Gravel paths and grassed areas allow access to most of the ground level of the abbey, (except the sacristy), and interpretation boards in the nave. There are displays on abbey life in the ground floor of the Abbot’s House, and on the declaration of Arbroath in the ground floor of the Gatehouse. Due to the turnpike stair, there is no disabled access to the upper floors of the Abbot’s House, Gatehouse range or South transept.

Visitors can enjoy the herb garden along the south wall of the abbey church.

The visitor centre provides a walk through audio-visual with a sound loop system. There is also a staff operated platform to enable disabled access to the upper viewing area.

Disabled parking is available adjacent to the visitor centre.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Inverbervie

Inverbervie 0001 (lunch at Salutation Hotel pub)
Inverbervie is a small town on the north-east coast of Scotland, south of Stonehaven, in the Aberdeenshire council area. The Inverbervie name derives from Inbhir Beirbhe, meaning Mouth of the River Bervie in Scottish Gaelic. Inverbervie manages to support three pubs and an award winning chip shop. The local "Bervie Chipper" won an award for the best fish and chip shop in the UK in 1998.

Here you see my friend John in his favorite pub in Inverbervie. I had a great time at the pub with John and learned all sorts of new things. I learned that the beer in Scotland is high test compared to the "pish" we drink here in the USA. (I had three pints and when I went to sit on my bar stool, I missed and promptly fell flat on the floor.) I learned that "ladies" drink half-pints and men drink pints. (Brazen red-haired Yank's who fall off bar stools drink pints, of course.) Don't tell your friend in Scotland to sit his "fanny" down on the bar stool next to you. It will cause beer to come out his nose while he laughs his head off. (In Scotland, "fanny" is a part of the female anatomy we usuaaly don't talk about here in the USA.) When you are in Scotland amd you get "pissed," you are usually too drunk to stand and in a great mood. (I like their meaning for "pissed" a lot better. It's a lot more fun. A lot of things in Scotland are a lot more fun.)

Loch Lomond


My first task was deciding whether or not John was an axe murderer. Once he passed that test, we motored off toward Inverbervie where he lived. Ever the considerate host, he traveled by way of Loch Lomond giving me a chance to take the high road and meet him "On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond."

As we traveled at breakneck speed (which I later learned is very normal for all Scottish drivers) I had glimpses of breathtaking beauty through my clenched hands over my eyes. There are about 23 islands that are considered a part of Loch Lomond. Above is Tarbert Island a picturesque private island in the loch. At slower speeds, I would have enjoyed it a lot more, but then we would have taken more than the allotted two-and-one-half hours to get to the pub in Inverbervie. I also learned that the national sport of Scotland is a tie between footy (soccer/foorball) and drinking and that the Scots take to both with an abandon that humbles even the best of us Yanks. These lads can really put it away!

Making Plans to Travel to Scotland--

I touched down at Glasgow International Airport, now BAA Glasgow. My friend, and host for the next two weeks, John, was patiently waiting in the arriving passenger's lounge for me after I cleared customs. Now, I know and you know that it is dangerous to meet men you have never met before alone in a foreign country and the even more foolish to depend on them to provide you with room and board and to help transport you around on your travels. Do not try this yourself. It was foolish and I was quite fortunate.

John was just as warm and personable for the entire two weeks I stayed with him as he was online and over the telephone. We had conversed in depth for weeks and I felt like I knew him well. I didn't and ultimately, we did not get along well. What we thought may have been a budding romance ended up as just a passing friendship. BUT--he was an unfailingly polite and gentlemanly host and provided me with a great place to stay, a full Scottish breakfast every morning and an escort around Scotland while I got my bearings and got used to living in an English speaking, but most foreign country for this USA isolated Yank. John was a fine example of a Scottish gentleman and I was a very lucky lady. Later, I realized just how fortunate I was.

For those of you who do not have a stellar host like John waiting to pick you up at the airport on the other side of the pond, I recommend an invaluable travel service provided by Transport Direct.

http://www.transportdirect.info/TransportDirect/en/?abandon=true

RESEARCH is the key to a good trip-PLANNING, PLANNING and more PLANNING. READ everything you can find about the area to which you are traveling. You can get brand new travel guides for discounted prices from book services like Alibris or on E-bay. Completely map out various itineraries and contingency plans. I find these cautionary measures the key to being safe and prepared while overseas. This is easy now with the Internet and even easier with the wonderful system of tourist offices available on the web for most of Europe and the British Isles. You can find all the information you would ever need about Scotland at http://www.visitscotland.com/.

Friday, October 26, 2007

Back to the Beginning: The First Trip - or - How Getting Fired Was The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me



It's funny how the things in life that change us the most are also the ones that happen completely by surprise. The picture above is of me and some of the crew from my college bookstore, about a month before I got fired. That's me hiding on the right in the back row. If you had asked me on this day, I would have told you that I planned to run this bookstore forever, if I could. After I left, the store played musical managers for a couple years and then sold out to Barnes and Noble. I guess I was a hard act to follow.

This sounds like a sad story, doesn’t it? Well, actually, running that bookstore is one of my best life memories and getting fired was one of the most fortunate things that ever happened to me. I was at a place in my life where I was dying to travel and once I was assured of getting my severance and unemployment; travel I did, and in a big way.

I left that job in March of 1997. I spent a month researching the British Isles on the Internet. I fell in love with the Standing Stones of Callanish on the Isle of Lewis way out on the Outer Hebrides Islands of Scotland. This became my first travel goal. My second travel goal became meeting people on the Internet with whom I could stay while I was traveling in Scotland. I met several wonderful folks this way and spent time with all of them during my travels. There’s nothing like a local for a tour guide.

I have already told the story of my first steps out of the USA and into Iceland on my way to Scotland. In my second adventure, I will show you around Aberdeen, Stonehaven, Inverbervie and other spots in northeast Scotland escorted by my new friend John. I also made a trip to Arbroath Abbey.

See you in Scotland!

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Catkin Lodge in Amesbury, England



Catkin Lodge in beautiful rural Wiltshire is AA 3 Star rated accommodation and is the nearest Bed and Breakfast to the ancient Stonehenge Monument. Catkin Lodge is only 15 minutes from the historical City of Salisbury with its magnificent Cathedral and Old Sarum Hill Fort.

In addition to this, Terry, the owner and host is an intelligent and talented fellow. I completely enjoyed my stay at Catkin Lodge and recommend it to everyone interested in lodging in the area. The rooms were clean and comfortable and the big, old fashioned tub was a great place to soak walk-weary bones at the end of a long day of sight-seeing.

Here is another link to their website.
http://www.catkinlodge.fsnet.co.uk/

Terry makes coffee for us Yanks in a wonderful French coffee press and presents an incredible full English breakfast in a smart breakfast room full of his own paintings of Stonehenge and the Salisbury area. In my own office back here across the pond, I have two of Terry's prints and two more on the landing upstairs. Just seeing his talented artwork was worth the stay at the Catkin and the rest was just a whopping plus to the good fellowship I enjoyed.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Glastonbury--


My day in Glastonbury was the highlight of my 2002 Samhain trip to southwest England. Morning dawned unexpectedly beautiful--sunny and warm for early November in England. I woke to birds singing and incredible coffee brewed in a fancy French coffee press. After a decadent bath in a huge claw-foot bathtub brimming with “real English lavender” bubble bath, I enjoyed a yummy traditional English breakfast with two interesting students—one Greek and one French--and Terry, our B&B host. (My B&B in Amesbury, Catkin Lodge, was 5 minutes from Stonehenge and “simply smashing.” See more details abut this fine accommodation at the end of this article.) My host and fellow breakfasters assured me that the drive to Glastonbury was about an hour, perhaps a bit more. With sun was shining brightly, off I went with map in hand in search of the graves of King Arthur and Guinevere and the mythological last resting place of the Holy Grail.

The route to Glastonbury from Amesbury follows the A303. The A303 is a "dual carriage way" (two-lane highway), but not limited access like American interstates. During the day, it's quite nice. There are two lanes, so the folks going 80 in the 60 mph zone can whoosh by as quickly as they like. I found it a bit difficult at first remembering that the LEFT lane is the SLOW lane. The beeping of an irate “lorry driver” enlightened me quite quickly. At night, as I returned, I found the A303 quite dangerous and choked with rush hour traffic in the early English dark. Roundabouts replace exit ramps and are confusing and dangerous. I circled one roundabout twice before I fought my way into the proper lane. The A303 switches back and forth between 1 and 2 lanes, with little notice or reason, so someone like me driving on the “wrong side of the road” for the second time, the first on crowded highways like this one, has a lot to anticipate. The narrow streets and lanes never cease to amaze me or the places where people will risk their lives to pass you: hills, corners, anywhere they feel like they are being held up by the silly American (Yank) woman actually following the speed limit. At least I had an automatic transmission, thanks to Auto Europe, a car rental company I highly recommend to all my fellow travelers. Automatic transmissions, which we take for granted here in the US, are uncommon in the British Isles and Europe.

Glastonbury Tor showed itself first, rising high above the city, shining with the first sun in 2 days reflecting off its stones. The streets of Glastonbury are the same nightmare as all southwest England's streets--unbelievably narrow, with the right of way determined by the largest vehicle or the most aggressive driver. I saw two “street people” here in Glastonbury, one woman with her dog, begging money from her seat on the sidewalk, and on the other side of the street a musician of sorts, an older hippie-looking fellow with a flute and drum, with the typical collection hat open in front of him. These were actually the only street people I saw on this trip, although a well-dressed gentleman at Salisbury Cathedral asked me if I could loan him 80p for the bus. I answered him negatively with my best Yank accent and he hurried away.

The streets of Glastonbury are alive with Pagans of all types. Shops are very revealing in their names, "Man, Myth and Magick," "The Goddess and the Green Man," "The Crystal Star," "The Goddess Temple," and many more. How they make any money at all crowded there together in one crystal mecca is hard to say, but business appears to be good as all the shops were crowded with tourists and locals as well. This is the alternative community's “Shangri-La” in Britain. Classes, seminars, and demonstrations of every kind abound. There are readings of all types, reflexologists, herbalists, an amazing array of “ists” and “isms” for everyone. Vegetarian foods battle with coffeehouses and traditional British pubs. One gustatory highlight is a wonderful bakery aptly named Burns the Bread, reflecting the humour of the establishment’s owners.

Names like Kathy Jones, Nicholas Mann, John and Caitlin Matthews, and others you will recognize scream out at you as you wander the bookshelves in the 20 or so bookstores. I could spend millions here on books, and I noticed that the books that I picked up were often signed by the authors. There were signs for workshops and presentations held everyday and everywhere. There are all types of Wicca and Pagan "things" that I have never seen in any American stores. But then again, I have never seen this many "New Age" shops in one place. American pagans should sit up and take notice of this wonderful place! At The Crystal Star, I met Antares, a “name” that describes him pretty well. His soft-spoken manner belied his hard sell, but he was friendly and ACTUALLY talked to you, which is something most Brits have yet to learn about American shoppers. We LIKE to be waited on. Everything Antares showed me could be marked down just a little bit more if I showed a spark of interest, but didn't immediately add it to my stack. Antares parted me from £49, and I'm happy that I spent every pence. He also shared his past lives and his feelings that Samhain should be quiet and personal, not a “festival,” but a time to honor the ancestors in sacred silence and ceremony, and that he had been regressed back into his past lives recently, once of which was attending a boy's school in Glastonbury, by an American psychologist who was absolutely “brilliant.” I gave Antares my card and told him to stop by if he was ever stateside, especially at Beltane or Samhain.

The trip through Glastonbury Abbey was picturesque and beautiful but devoid of anything spiritual for me. I took a ton of beautiful photos but little else. I saved The Chalice Well and Gardens for last, and it was definitely worth the wait. The Chalice Well was an extraordinary place, charming enough to calm the soul, even without the extra benefit of the mystical water from the Chalice Well with its mythical healing properties. The flowers in the gardens, even in November, were incredibly beautiful. The babbling of the red and the white springs cooled the head and soothed the soul. I was lulled into a feeling of happiness and relaxation that held me steady through the harrowing drive home. I waded in the chilly waters of the healing chalice pools, drank the water from the chalice fountain, and filled two water bottles with the precious water. I watched small voles scamper through the amazingly lovely English gardens full of herbs, lavender, roses, morning glories, and larkspurs. The Chalice Well Gardens are an enchanted fairy garden full of beautiful, blooming flowers, even in the cool November air. Inside the gardens, all the rest of the world just fades away. I've had this feeling in other such places, but this was definitely one of the best places I've ever visited.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

My First Trip Outside the USA--Iceland at Beltane--

At Ostara, on March 20, 1997, I lost my job as manager of the college bookstore where I had spent the last five years of my life. You know what they say--no good deed goes unpunished. In retrospect, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I suddenly realized that I had one full year of unemployment in which to find another position. I decided to do something absolutely crazy wonderful. I had a bit of money saved up and I was going overseas-Scotland, Ireland, Wales, England, maybe even further. I was 41 and in pretty good shape for me. Time to head across the pond! I had been dreaming about Scotland and Ireland for too long.

I searched for discount airfare and found a flight to Glasgow on Iceland Air. During the course of booking the flight to Glasgow, Iceland Air offered me an inexpensive two night stop-over in Reykjavik. I had no intentions at that moment of going to Iceland, but since I was a foot loose traveler, I thought, “What the heck...”

I stepped out of the plane from my first trans-Atlantic flight on April 30, 1996--Beltane eve--in a place where Paganism is one of the official state religions. (In 1972, after a long campaign by poet and Gothi Sveinbjorn Beinteinsson, Iceland once again recognized Nordic Paganism as a legitimate and legal religion.) That night, I watched breathlessly the many bonfires lighting up the hillsides which I could see glittering in the darkness from the window of my hotel room. I could hear the wild shouting of celebrations echoing from the hills around the hotel. The night was literally on fire with excitement.

After my own small Beltane ritual in my room, I submitted to jet lag and slept like I hadn’t since the date of my unemployment. Beltane morning, I awoke and drank a toast to the first day of summer with my wonderful Icelandic coffee. (Who knew that the Icelanders took their coffee so seriously?) I decided to take the Golden Circle tour offered from my hotel and it was one of the most wonderful tours I ever set upon.

The tour is still offered by Reykjavik Excursions and is affiliated with Iceland Air who made all this possible for me to enjoy. They also offer a special discount on the tour to Iceland Air passengers. The quote below is from their promotional brochure. The pictures of Gullfoss, the largest waterfall in Iceland, are mine.

You can walk around the world-famous Geysir area, a geothermal field where hot springs are in abundance, geysers explode and pools of mud bubble. The Geysir museum is included as a main feature of this area, an informative multimedia exhibition that vividly shows how the forces of nature shaped the country and the people.

One of many highlights of the tour is the volcanic crater, Kerið, and another is the Gullfoss waterfall, the queen of Iceland's waterfalls, tumbling down a deep gorge. Finally, but no less spectacular is a visit to the Þingvellir National Park. This is the place of the most historic events in Iceland and exceptional beauty. Þingvellir is the original site of the oldest existing parliament in the world. The Great Atlantic rift is clearly visible, a rift which is slowly pulling Iceland apart along tectonic plates.

Locations visited include: Hveragerði greenhouse village, Kerið volcanic crater, Gullfoss waterfall, Geysir hot spring area and Þingvellir National Park.

This entire area is quite amazing from a geologic perspective, as well as for someone who has an interest in Norse mythology. The bookstores and coffee shops of Reykjavik are full of copies of the Icelandic Sagas. In addition, it was just outisde Reykjavik that I made a purchase that has blessed my life ever since that day. While wandering through the Hveragerði greenhouse village, I came upon a traditional weaver of Icelandic wool. On her loom she had a magickal creation of sea blue and green. She looked at me and she could see the longing in my eyes. She said, "I am just about ready to take this off the loom, do you want it?" I asked her how much it was and she even translated the krona into USD for me. She said, "For you, $90." As you can see from the photo below, this cape got a lot of wear in Scotland over the next two years of my journeys and I wear it every winter to this day.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Brighid and Her Sacred Well

Brighid and Her Sacred Well
by Branwenn WhiteRaven


(originally published in Circle Magazine: A Quarterly Journal of Nature, Spirit and Magic)

Part 1: The Choosing
Candles shimmered and glittered everywhere in the small apartment in Washington, DC, transforming everyday reality into another place, another time. The smoke of our sage and lavender incense rose and whirled around us. Face to face, our bare feet scrunched and slid on the salt strewn on the floor. While my partner Bran chanted a blessing, we entered the doorway into trance. Suddenly, the roar in my ears stopped with a deafening silence. There were no sounds, no words, no movement, no thoughts. For a second, I ceased to be, my heart stopped, my breath froze. My eyes closed tightly, but the surrounding landscape formed and reformed around me, hanging between the worlds.





Bran stopped chanting and jumped back, immersed in his own visions. The candles trembled. A flame shot up over my head. A voice filled my mind, filled the room, filled my womb. Pictures flashed through my head of a single standing stone thrust up from the treeless green hill. I stood in a circle with eighteen others, who over and over repeated the words, "Brid is come, Brid is welcome." I had no concept of where I ended and the song began.


A light flared again above my head in the chilled flat. Bran's voice called my name over and over. Candles were burning down, guttering out in the grey February dawn. A voice filled my universe. "You are mine! You are my daughter!" My eyes opened and I saw the fear and concern in the eyes of my lover. "Are you all right?" he asked. I replied, "I am Brighid's. I am. I have been called..." My words trailed off, becoming indistinct. "Mother," I breathed, "I have come and I am yours."



The frigid air around me was chilling, and I paled. Bran took me by the arms and gently led me back the long hallway to our tiny room. I fell, tumbling into the bed with the motion. My eyes closed and I stood again on the hillside with the eighteen priestesses of Brid. I chanted. I was called and I had been chosen. Once again I spoke, with calm dedication in my eyes. "Brid, I have come, and I am yours."




Part 2: The Origins of Brighid
Brighid, the Goddess to whom I had dedicated myself, is the Celtic Goddess of inspiration, healing, and smithcraft. She is one of the best examples of the survival of a Pagan Goddess into Christian times. She was canonized as St. Brigit by the Roman Catholic Church and various stories are given of Her origins and Her life. She was a Druid's daughter, described in the Carmina Gadelica as the "daughter of Dugall the brown." She is reported to have predicted the coming of Christianity and to have been baptized by St. Patrick. Popular folk tales describe Her as the midwife to the Virgin Mary, and She is thus always called upon by women in labor. The Christian St. Brigit was a nun, and later an Abbess, who founded an Abbey at Kildare in Ireland. She was said to have had the power to appoint the bishops of Her area, an unlikely role for an Abbess, made stranger by Her unusual requirement that these bishops also be practicing goldsmiths.







In ancient times, the Goddess Brighid had a shrine at Kildare, with a perpetual flame tended by nineteen virgin priestesses called Daughters of the Flame. No man was permitted to come near Brighid's shrine and neither did Her priestesses consort with men. Even food and supplies were brought to the priestesses by women from the nearby village. When Catholicism overtook Ireland, Brighid's Fire Temple became a convent and the priestesses became nuns, but the same traditions were upheld and the eternal flame kept burning. Each day a different priestess/nun was in charge of the sacred fire and on the 20th day of each cycle, the fire was miraculously tended by the Goddess/Saint Herself.


For more than a thousand years thereafter, the sacred flame was tended by nuns. In 1220 CE, though, the Bishop became angered by the no-males policy of the Abbey of St. Brigid of Kildare. He insisted that nuns were subordinate to priests and must open their abbey and submit to inspection by a priest. When the Brigidine nuns refused and asked for another Abbess or other female official to perform the inspections, the Bishop was furious. He decreed that the keeping of the eternal flame was a Pagan custom, and ordered the sacred flame to be extinguished. Despite this persecution, St. Brigit remains to this day the most popular saint in Ireland, along with St. Patrick. In the1960s, though, Vatican II declared there was insufficient proof of St. Brigit's sanctity, or even of Her historical existence, and She was decanonized, so that the Roman Church's campaign against Her became successful. Recently, however, despite the initial protests of the Roman Catholic church, two nuns, by the name of Sister Mary and Sister Phil, have reestablished the worship of St. Brigit at Kildare and have relit Her sacred flame, which burns once more. The first modern Candlemas/Imbolc celebration at the ancient site of Brighid's sacred well in 1997 drew hundreds of people and grows every year in popularity. The flame of Brighid's love burns brightly once more.



Part 3: Brighid's Sacred Well
In the summer of 1998, I was called to Ireland by Brighid. Specifically, She called me to come to Kildare to visit Her cathedral. The train ride from Dublin was filled with faery-tale scenery, after which a short walk brought me from the picturesque old train station to the cathedral. It was as beautiful as I had expected, since I had already seen pictures of the site in books.


As I walked around outside and inside the cathedral, though, I was struck with how empty I felt, or more specifically, how empty the cathedral and the grounds felt to me. I found the tiny plaque that indicated the hole in the lawn where the sacred Pagan fire temple had once been. For me, though, everything there was sterile and bare, devoid of any mystical or magical feeling. I was very disappointed. I had come thousands of miles to see St. Brigit's Cathedral, but was very saddened by what I discovered there, so I instead trudged into the town of Kildare. I stopped at an information kiosk in an antique building in the heart of town to see how I might redeem the rest of the day. I poked through the pamphlets and brochures, but nothing struck my fancy. Even more dejected, I left the information center and headed out to look for something to do to pass the time until the next train left.



As I came to the main intersection in town, I noticed a signpost indicating Brighid's Holy Well, with an arrow pointing to a road that led out of town. Suddenly brightening, I headed down that road to see what adventure I could find. I thought the signpost had said that the well was a mile away, but I have found that in Ireland distance is similar to Pagan Standard Time, and is a very unstable measurement.



About two miles into my journey, I started to wonder whether I had missed some important turn in the road. Before I gave up and turned around, though, another sign with yet another arrow pointed me down a gravel road. By the time the road had turned into a narrow path, I finally saw a park, or at least something that looked promising, up ahead in the distance.


Finally reaching the entrance to Brighid's Holy Well, I breathed a sigh of relief. The small park was absolutely delightful. The lawn within the park's fence was green and lovely. I had no idea how amazing the day would turn out to be, but I could feel that something incredible was about to happen. I walked reverently to the spot where in legend Brighid had supposedly healed the lepers, and put my hands into the soothing waters. I was totally engrossed, saying the Genealogy of Bride, when I stopped and suddenly looked up into a face so beautiful and familiar to me that I didn't jump or feel alarmed.







I asked this faery apparition if she was the guardian of the well and she answered with a huge smile, "Yes. Did you call me?" My new faery guardian, one of the human members of Solas Bhride (the nuns associated with Brigid's cathedral) was named Tara. She looked enough like me to be my real sister, with red hair, blue eyes, generous figure, and all. She took my hands, pulled me up, and said to me, "Come, Brighid has sent me to take you to meet Sister Mary and Sister Phil."






One of my most cherished possessions is a letter from Tara telling me how Brighid brought her to the well that day and how glad she was that she listened to the summons. Tara and I spent the rest of that day together, and, much later, she gave me a ride back to the station so I could catch the last train back into Dublin. We talked and talked and drank huge cups of tea at her home just a few minutes from the well.



As promised, Tara took me into town and introduced me to Sister Mary and Sister Phil, the Brigidine nuns who have reestablished the worship of Brighid in Kildare. I had taken some water from Brighid's holy well and Sister Mary gifted me with a candle lit from Brigid's eternal flame. I use that votive candle to light each candle on my altar every time I do ritual work.


Sister Mary has re-lit Brighid's flame and keeps it burning in her home. Every time I light a candle now, I see Sister Mary, Sister Phil, and my guardian faery friend, Tara. I, too, have become a Daughter of the Flame, and a guardian of Brighid's Sacred Well.







Photos and article by Branwenn White Raven