A week with the Celts

Five years ago, I took my first steps into the Celtic world.

 

Guided by David Campbell and Ruth Kirkpatrick, a sense of the ancient and a sense of always arose.

We learned in the old way:

Eye to eye.                            

Mind to Mind.

Heart to Heart.

 

The tale of Beira and her washing that covered the mountains of Scotland every winter, the dream-makers way up in the misty mountains, the love-spot of Dairmud, Firetail, Oisiin, Finn McChuil.

Each tale seems as familiar to my ear as the voice of my mother, wishing me goodnight as she turned out the light each night. 

 

Hush, hush, time to be sleeping

Hush, hush, dreams come a creeping

Dreams of peace and of freedom

So smile in your sleep bonny baby.

 

Those stories, swathed in a mist from long, long ago, are echoed by the books and films that are around me on my bookshelf.

Lord of the Rings; The Name of the Wind; Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe; Legend; Ravenheart

 

As I listen, a sense of belonging washes through me,

                                                                                                a warmth in the heart

and a strange sadness.

Empty shielings.

Tumbled down stone walls.

 Trampled heather.

Fire and peat.

 Tattered cloth and empty baskets.

 

It is all so far away.

 

Concrete. Steel. Highways. Motorways. Car exhaust. Adverts. Slimming pills. Plastic packaging. Mobile phones.High rise. Low rise. Apartment blocks. Locked doors. Security systems. Empty beer cans. Fried Food.Twitter. Facebook. Broadband. Sky. Skype. Synthetic soil. Monoculture. Synthetic sounds. High definition television. Imported apples. Wireless router.

 

Where is our proud highland mettle

Our troops once so fierce in battle

Now stand, cowed, huddled like cattle.

 

The heroes of old are dead.

 

No use pleading or praying

For gone, gone is all hope of staying

Hush, hush, the anchor's a-weighing

Don't cry in your sleep, bonny baby

 

The Scotsman who fought alongside Bonnie Prince Charlie were shipped overseas. The wise women at the edge of the village were named witches and burned to dust. The druids diminished and faded into the sun over the Cornish seas. Stonehenge is a tourist attraction.

 

So where do we go now?

Where are we? Who are we and what are we to do?

 

Contemporary myths are toxic imitations of the old.

 The old myths are pinpricks of the eternal.

Dr Martin Shaw

 

The stories are the thing.

The stories we tell. The stories we find. The stories we listen to.

 

We must carry on telling and we must carry on listening.

The land holds the footprint of heroes,

the herbs still retain the magic of the wise women

and the wild bees still dance to the druid’s drum beat.

 

I do not tell stories just because I want to.

I do not tell these stories just because I love them.

I do not tell these stories just because they are beautiful.

 

I tell these stories because they ask to be told.

They whisper from the wood and sing from the stone.

 

The heroes of old are dead, but their stories live on.

Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely, and, if something can be remembered, it *can* come back.

Doctor Who – The Pandorica Opens