IMBOLC WALK
This year I will walk the land at each of
the eight old earth based festivals – I start here at Imbolc. These are the
tales of my journies for anyone who wants to share them and maybe at some point
join me. I walk the land to remember who I am, to drink it all in, to feel
free, to observe and interact with whatever I choose in a weave of spontaneous
motion. I walk to celebrate, to witness, to remember and to process the old trails where
many have gone before. I want the birds to know I love them for
their songs and their beauty, I want the trees to know that I value all their
gifts. I see trees as an ancient race of beings, once venerated by all now half
forgotten by many. I want them to know that there are still people who care
about them.
I won’t be “wild” camping or “wild”
swimming in this blog. I’ll just be walking and swimming. This separation of language does
nothing to improve our sense of place in nature. Everything is nature, just
at various stages of tameness. If we are to preserve it for future generations,
that patch of grass at your bus stop needs as much care as your secret “wild”
swim spot.
I decided to walk the land as I don’t wish
to make the great transition of death thinking in my last seconds “I wish I’d
seen more of nature”. As my feet pad along the footpaths, green lanes and
fields of this land I want to exit a
world so heavily overlaid with traffic noise we just accept it as normal. Its
not “normal”. Traffic roar is a relatively recent thing, distinctly abnormal. Personally I can’t
wait for us to evolve beyond it for the noise pollution alone. Places that I
visited as a child are now invaded mercilessly by the roar of cars. Our cities are defined by them. I am
one of these car drivers, I’m not proud of the fact. When I walked in the Himalayas
five years ago I was struck by the beauty of walking for just one day and all
I could hear in by the evening in those mountains was the voices of people and the bells around
the necks of the animals. Bliss.
For this Imbolc walk I’ve discovered that I can walk to an
ancient holy well right from the boat on the Kennet and Avon where I live.
Before I set out I’ve decided to decorate the spring at the canal side. Some
people regularly collect water to drink from it. No-one’s died yet. I take
flowers, catkins, feathers, rose quartz and honeycomb to symbolise the hard
work of the bees soon to bring their abundance as the spring returns. I place a few drops of rose tincture in the running waters to represent a flow of gratitude from the heart and I
clear the debris from the basin beneath. I get chatting to someone who has set
up a refugee kitchen at Calais, and we talk about this and other things.
The next day I pack up and set off across
the valley for the hills around Bath. There is something so satisfying about
setting off from your own door and walking until the tarmac runs out. The day
is squally, with bright sunshine interspersed with showers of light rain. It's like
someone is throwing a watering canful over me. I check my directions with someone
in a shop and walk up a country lane on a steep incline. I stumble upon the
gate to the holy well in St Mary’s church after a while. I meet someone by the spring who shows me a trick to make the tiny flow run faster to fill my
bottle and tells me an old woman believes the spring has been running since 675
A.D. As we fill up our bottles a tiny frog leaps from its hole in the pipe,
perhaps affronted we have disturbed its rest. The water tastes great. As it’s a
holy well I hold my hands under it in the hope that the infection I have had
for months on the palms of my hands will heal up.
It’s very peaceful here. There is a
tranquil garden around the spring and the church nextdoor sits separately.
Robins join me and sing from the nearby branches and the sun peeks out. It
reminds me of a smaller version of the Chalice well gardens. I drink hot ginger
tea. I am on a 24 hour fast as part of my mission. It’s to symbolise thanks for
everything the earth gives to me by not taking food for a day and to sharpen my
senses. I have emergency rations in case of an unexpected blizzard.
On entering the church, I am struck by……. something. It’s quite small and simple but beautiful. I am alone and the stone
walls blot out any exterior noise. I do some reading and realise this church is
over a thousand years old. I look to the old stone walls. Over-sized plauqes
tell you of someone or other who died and was extremely important. Well rich
enough for a plaque anyway. I find myself trying to see beyond these bulky
plaques to the simple stone walls behind. I want to know what this church was
like in the 11th century. What were the human concerns shared here?
What did life mean to people? What was their sense of self? What did they celebrate? What were their
priorities? I am sure part of their thoughts were towards food for their families, shelter, good health,
good crops……In some ways no different to what we need today and yet so different. If I met
an 11th century ancestor I wonder if we could communicate…..
After sitting awhile in the church I emerge
into the light and strike out on a ridiculously steep and smooth, muddy
footpath rising behind it. Sliding up with a full backpack (I’m in training for
walks where I will be camping out) I meet the man from the spring sliding down
in a comedy crossing of ways. Checking a map I head out on a loop around the
valleys, taking in high vantage points and getting involved in more comedy mud
slides down into the valleys below. I sit for a while in a beautiful mini grove
of beech trees. I nestle right into the base at the roots, as the wind whips
wildly around. Bright sunshine and scudding clouds still seem to beat most of
the rain away. I pass other beautiful wintry trees, squelch through more mud
and gather rushes for an Imbolc doll. Crossing a stream I begin a steep ascent
and on my empty stomach think I am going to peg out. I drag myself up the last
stretch and follow a much flatter route across the top of the valley to link
back up after a while to my beech tree field.
I complete the loop back to the well and
sit there for a while as the light fades. Another robin serenades me. I chat to
the church warden who tells me they close the village road for the whole of
March to let the large numbers of breeding toads across. This brightens my
heart. I head for home in the dark and watch the stars come out. I tramp the
last bit down the tow path with slightly sore feet and climb on board to get my
wood burner going. The Imbolc walk has been bright, extremely windy, slightly wet and definitely adventurous. I am not sure what my learnings and gifts from it are yet. So I just sit beside my fire, thinking, weaving a Brigid's cross, grateful for my warmth and shelter. Just like my ancestors.
