Monthly Archives: April 2017

Carrot and Coals IV…


The name Arbor Low is of Saxon derivation, originally ‘Eordburh-Hlaw’ meaning the Earth-Work Mound.

Wen smiles, “Where did you dig that up from?”

“I have my sources, you know.”

“As your text only specifies Saxon, are we to presume that the Angles had a different language.”

“Quite possibly, but it says something else too.”

“Go on…”

“It tells us that as the Saxon name has stuck, then they very probably attended to the site more than any of the other later cultures.”

“It’s very descriptive isn’t it?”

“If a tin were involved…”

“Funny you should say that because tin may be very much involved not least because it is essential in the manufacture of bronze and there was a thriving tin trade between Briton and the Near East.”

“It seems odd to associate the word manufacture with these people.”

“That’s precisely what it was though.”

“Oh yes…”

“The mound, presumably, refers to Gib Hill?”

“Which is also, presumably a much later name, indicative of a much more barbaric culture?”

“Strange isn’t it, the same mound is accorded the most venerable dead by one culture and the most despicable criminals by another.”

“People have no grasp of what they do.”…

“A gibbet is an iron casing with iron spikes which penetrate various parts of the body; a sort of metal crown of thorns for the whole body.


“If the mound was a moot as opposed to a toot-hill then the two functions might not be mutually exclusive. The laws would be proclaimed from the mound and any transgressions of that law would also be rectified there.”

“Moot and Toot?”

“A moot is spoken, a toot is heard.”

“But then again the name could also be specifically designed by later generations to keep people away.”

“I once worked for a company who took over a hospital building and converted one of the operating theatres into a restaurant.”

“People, I have recently heard it said, have no grasp of what they do.”…

Egg of the Id…


A story should be taken to heart

And incubated

Brooded upon

Mulled over



The subject of a good story is always you.

Every one of you.

Not you as you are.

You as you could be.

And, perhaps, really ought to be.


Good stories are a part of that science of the soul

which insists that your world cannot be changed

without first changing yourself.


Even the most seemingly insignificant story

can pick up your soul and shake it like a leaf in the wind.

Where then is the world

you thought you lived in?


Only after the incubation

The brooding and mulling

The savouring…

Should the story be left

To fly free

In the world.

– Count Jack Black

Carrot and Coals III…


…I have to wonder about Wen.

Even before the ‘Wen’ thing she was a little too eager to run off to all the farthest flung reaches of the known universe at the drop of a hat.

The ‘hat’ in this case being any and all tangential references of any sort whatsoever to our quest; the merest hint of anything French for example and she was ‘champing at the bit’ to get over there.

Now, I am as keen to explore that particular land mass as the next fellow but if we are to do this thing properly… well, we really have to be called.

And this ‘calling’ is a tricky business.

The Scotland thing is a case in point.

It certainly looked like that was a good idea.

We had stuff to look at en route and stuff to look at when we got there and friends who could put us up and… and then the coffee pot exploded and we ended up heading off in quite the opposite direction.

You see, if it looks like you are not going to follow the calling… stuff happens.

Arbor Low is another example only this time, I think, we got it right.

The Stonehenge of the Midlands they call it but I was never very impressed with that because I knew the stones were laid flat.

Still, it being so close and all it was surprising that I had not got over there sooner and Wen, apparently, had kept passing the turn off to get there on her way home but never had the time or the inclination to go check it out.

That is the calling…

“Is it low as in a cow’s moan or is it low as in ‘cow’?”

“Who knows?”

“I’ve heard it pronounced both ways.”

“I’ve heard it pronounced both ways too.”

We both said it simultaneously though…

 “We have to go to Arbor Low.”…


Carrot and Coals II…


…I wait until I see Wen’s shoulders shaking with grief then go and collect her.

As I said earlier, I do not really know why she has to keep punishing herself in this way.

Foolishly, we walk back along the tops heading straight into the wind, which rips into us viciously its cold-laced edges buffeting, stinging and biting into our exposed flesh mercilessly.

The Telling Stone plays the same trick as the Mark Stone from earlier, looking twice its normal height from a distance and then halving in size as we move up close.

“How do they do that?”

“I really don’t know but maybe it’s not them at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s us.”

“Maybe it is.”

“You have to put your hands on the stone.”

I put my hands on the Telling Stone… nothing.

Also foolishly, we walk onto the cairn beyond.

It always starts to rain at the cairn and sure enough today is no exception providing a fitting end to another rather harrowing sojourn at Bar-Brook-One.

“She said something about finding a white stone,” says Wen.

This time when we get back to the Silver-Bullet it is the Bake-Well Tart that gets the fondant treatment.

It was supposed to be going back to Bucks with Wen, not inside her stomach.

“There’s a white stone in Revelation,” I reply, redundantly.


Carrot and Coals…


…Wen seems intent on punishing herself again.

I know. I know she probably has little choice but personally speaking I would be more than happy if we never went back to Bar-Brook-One… Ever! That  is not going to happen but given the inevitability of this eventuality, I have come to see it as something of a duty to prevaricate Bar-Brook-One at any and every opportunity I get.

These days I get plenty of opportunity.

Given that we drive past Rowan Cranny Falls at least twice a month on our way to and from Lodge Meetings it could only have been a matter of time and time, as we now know, does not actually exist.

“I nearly got up at four this morning and headed out there alone,” says Wen pensively over breakfast.

I glance out of the window at the howling wind and lashing rain, “You couldn’t have picked a finer or more appropriate day.”…


…Thankfully the course of the stream, or, more accurately perhaps, the brook, does afford us some protection from the elements.

In fact, it is quite pleasant down here.

The avenue of stones which Wen pointed out last time, and which I was not totally convinced by is, when observed from this angle, undoubtedly and without question, precisely that, and we spot an enormous Mark Stone which, when we take a closer look, proves not to be all that huge after all.

This is something else we will need to address.

The well-established physics of the material world do not seem to hold sway at these sites.

In fact, they seem to be reversed.

Distant stones look big and the same stones up close look tiny.

That is not supposed to be the way it works.

“Perspective,” yells Wen and moves back off up the brook ignoring a perfectly safe and feasible crossing point which I take, gratefully, if not gleefully, my spirits lifted by the rushing and gurgling sound of the water.

We move in tandem now each of us on one side of the brook and without thinking too much about the symbolism of this, it does feel exactly right.

We might be tracking some legendary beast to its lair and in another time and in another place, perhaps, we are.

It would probably have to be a questing beast…

“I have to cross at a particular point,” yells Wen, “in line with the barrow.”

My gaze follows her outstretched arm to the raised hump of the barrow, which shines as if lit on the horizon of the moor, and when my focus returns, Wen has crossed the brook and is heading up Rowan Cranny Falls at an alarming rate of knots.

We skip like mountain goats now crisscrossing the falls and fancying they are our home environment, until Wen settles at her spot and I carry on a little higher, roll an offering to the spirits of the place and commence picking out faces in the rocks behind the falling water…




Field of Sheaves IX…


…He leads her away almost carrying her.

 They disappear into the blackness beyond the ring of flames.

They choke on the oily smoke, blind with tears.


Within the flames

A voice sings, farewell, to the stars…


The fires glow against the horizon behind them.


She cannot see them with her eyes but she feels them still.

She will always feel them.

Red… Like the Rowan.

Red… Like blood.


The Way-Stone sits beneath the canopy, marking their route in its curves and lines.

She has never seen this place but she knows the value of the carved rock.

They have been here.

Her people…the rock is clean…scraped of its moss.

She knows its language.

She can read the white pebbles placed carefully in the hollow.

Three nights ago they were here.

And safe; they have vanished into the heartland and the stones tell the way.

She sweeps away the pebbles.

There will be no clue left for others to follow.

They will see the stone with eyes that cannot read it.



Field of Sheaves VIII…


…The Clan of the Raven has withdrawn to the hills, to a high place in the sacred lands, nearer the centre.

Their fires are dead, their hearths are cold, the hilltop silent under the moon.

Others come.

Others not known to the Gods

Others who would abuse the knowledge and the power of this sacred place

…Their campfires burn beyond the far hill, a day’s sight from here, they herald both an ending and a beginning.

Within the walls of this highest place, where they have lived in peace, lie deep secrets.

Envy has brought the others.

They do not know as we know.

They are not ready to read the heart of the Land…


…The Clan withdrew, beyond sight.

The walls and palisade are stacked with oil-drenched wood.

The bowl shattered into a thousand shards.

The blade is broken.

The sacred flame extinguished.

Only the crackling blaze before them remains…


…The Lady of the Rowan Crown smiles encouragement and nods her head.

The girl-child, seeded with knowledge and Knowing gasps in smoky grief.

The Guardian passes her the flaming brand.

Blinded by tears, yet she smiles at those who stand beyond the flames, the two and the arc of those who remain with them, ghosts already in the twilit darkness.

She turns, supported by the Guardian and thrusts the brand into the tinder.

The flames crackle and leap, high, into the night sky…



Field of Sheaves VII…


…But anyway, back to the wood-stone.

The authorities are agreed on its antiquity.

It is either Bronze age or Iron age if that can be termed an agreement which in ‘sense-speak’ translates as very old or really old, and, either way, stones crafted in these ages are not supposed to do or be what this stone is and does which, strange to say, makes me think that it is really very old indeed…



‘Where are you?’

‘Over here!’

‘Over where?’


‘Oh, wow!’

‘Nowhere near where it’s supposed to be, of course… So how did you find it?’

‘I went back to the track, the proper track, found the portal trees, passed through them, and it’s more or less in a straight line but at a slight angle down from there…’


For the record then, we think that the wood-stone is a landscape model showing a hill-fort and an adjoining ritual site.

There is a processional way around the outskirts which leads into the site and also a river or possibly two streams running through it and a burial ground bottom right as we look at it…

Yet, these people were not supposed to be working in Three-Dee. But that is what we think it is and if you think about it, I mean really think about it, they must have been working in this way to achieve the incredible feats of engineering that they did.

And there can be no doubt that these sites, all of them, without exception, are incredible feats of engineering…


‘Earth works for you when you let it.’

So where is the landscape which is so cunningly depicted in the stone?

That is what we do not yet know.

Wen thinks it is close to the stone, and relates to the wood before it actually was a wood.

I am not so sure.

Knowing the immense scale on which these people constructed their visions, it could even be Wincobank Hill, and that is where we are heading next…