Category Archives: Stuart France

Mysteries…

mystery

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“You’ll know it,” he said, “by the stone stairs and the hawk’s head over the lintel.”

I was expecting a carving, or a painting, or possibly even, an offering, not half a cliff-face…

Nevertheless, it had still been a bugger to find.

The light was fading when I tip-tipped down the stone steps and stood before the crudely imposed entrance.

I stepped inside…

A dim glow lit the interior and the odour of old incense, clung…

He stood and turned, a huge bull of a man.

“What took you so long?”

“I got here as quick as I could.”

“Coffee?”

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Into the Hill…

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…And the Wood-Stone started to glow,

White it was…

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And I felt an impetus to take flight,

but only as far as the end of the passage…

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Which is just as well, otherwise, I would have missed the golden glow now emanating from the chamber…

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And all the ‘statuary firing up blue’,

as whatever it was lighting the chamber,

slowly made its way along the passage…

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Passed through me…

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Or around me…

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And then out…

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A short time later, still in the chamber, we found ourselves asking the question to which that had been the answer.

And if you are curious to know, how golden was the chamber?

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It was Liquid-Sun.

 

Inner Sanctum…

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Further vindication of our unscheduled return was granted upon re-entering the chamber.

The free standing stone and the facing stone, which were separated by space and shadow, were both now holding the light.

The light that some say would not have been original to the monument.

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From behind, the standing stone still looks like wood…

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…Dark Wood.

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Still a little perplexed by the experience the previous day at the ‘Chant-Eater’ we ran through the nine-fold chant and this time got some good effects.

The middle three seemed to resonate most favourably which, being the heart triad, would make a lot of sense here.

After which we re-made our dedication…

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Our timing was beginning to appear propitious…

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But then we noticed that the ground was turning red…

The Hill in a Dark Grove, reprieve…

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We had known for some time, courtesy of Rupert Soskin, that the resident stone of the inner chamber at Bryn Celli Ddu is part of a petrified tree trunk.

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And once we had our eye in it became apparent that other ‘chunks’ of petrified wood had been used in the construction of this chambered tomb.

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At least two, and almost certainly more, of the ‘entrance’ or indeed ‘exit’ stones and the lintel of the passage itself readily conformed to the strange specification.

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This was very exciting, for while we may have been able to extrapolate a workable symbolism behind the use of such material for the stone of the inner chamber, this symbolism was, perhaps, not so readily applicable to the surrounds of the passage-way…

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And was also, possibly, an indication of a more utilitarian function for these stones.

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The mind… began… to boggle.

Verily, Verily…

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The thing is…

It is impossible to ‘do’ such sites in one visit.

In fact, it is not possible to ‘do’ such sites at all.

If anything, they ‘do’ you, if you allow them.

As we were about to learn…

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The stone I was interested to get a closer look at is a, one would hope,  carefully positioned, replica.

The original, carved stone, is now in a local museum for safe-keeping.

The orientation of the tomb is, according to the authorities, towards the midsummer sunrise, so time-wise, at least, we were half a year away.

But I think it is clear that something is going on here with sun and stone, especially as it becomes obvious that a second outlier in an adjacent field also lines up with the stone and ‘passage-way’…

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All things which would have been missed had we not returned when we did, but the best was yet to come…

Never Look Back…

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The first thing to remark, apart from the increased Avian Activity Quotient…

Was, the difference an hour makes.

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Was it simply the movement of the sun?

The progress of the day…

Or had the site responded to our earlier visit?

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Given our theories on the sensitivity of these sites…

It could well be either, or both.

One thing was certain…

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We were seeing more…

And were about to see a lot more.

The Road Home…

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Wen and I are back on the road which leads past Bryn Celli Ddu…

We had to double-back to the hotel because someone called down ‘Cloud City’ before we left.

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“Don’t you mean, someone forget their wash-bag?”

“Anyway, it was good to finally get to the Hill in a Dark Grove.”

“Pretty literal with their names aren’t they?”

“There is one thing that puzzles me, though…”

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“…There were no trees.”

“Nor is a mound a hill, exactly.”

And I didn’t get any shots of the stone at the back of the mound.”

“We’ll miss the museum completely if we go back.”

“We won’t be long and we’ll still make it to Beaumaris in time.”

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Harbinger…

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It has been surmised that the future enters our past in order that the present may form…

Sometimes it certainly feels a little like that.

For one thing it has been twenty-seven months since our last sighting of a Heron which, if memory serves, occurred immediately prior to our sojourn in Bryn Celli Ddu…

Whatever the books on symbolism or divination say, in my experience, the Heron is a harbinger of change…

What sort of change and when that change is to take place is often quite another matter…

But change…

…Is coming.

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Stepping Stones?…

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Three days of fog and endless trek…

Suddenly the mists cleared to reveal a shrouded figure struggling with his boat.

“Sprung a leak, dammit,” he said scratching within the folds of his hood.

The sound of bone on bone.

“…Course, you normally have to pay,” he said, eyeing me and snorting, “but as you’ll be crossing under your own steam…”

I looked down at two large pennies in my hand.

“…you can keep ’em.”

A low snort again rang out…

The thin, black draped arm, was theatrically withdrawn to reveal the stones.

On the far-bank the sun was rising.

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Son of Chaos…

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There is a sound in my room.

It should be a commentary for the visuals which play upon the walls just below the ceiling but it warbles like a wayward tape machine in my soft, pink, newly formed ears.

All that remains of the story is a collection of mismatched noises, fake moans and tired, exasperated sighs.

Picking out the sense is a delicate task, nuances of truth a no-no, and of your sweet voice… nothing.

Just the words, daubed in graffiti red, dripping in splodges, down the white walls…

“Don’t do as my father does. Do as he says.”

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