Big-Chief Red-Wood and the Ochre Stair…
The Science-Men are adamant he was never there.
Even if he was he would not fit into any of their boxes.
All that’s needed now is a good Earth with lots of foxes!
Did Turpin’s Troupe
Deep in the Soup?
That Devil’s cast of scallywags
and wild haired, grinning hags…
who still adorn the plastered walls
in Glory’s glossy prima-face.
There now to tease and please
the local populace.
And tell their tales of times much less genteel
when stench and reek
roamed every wayward street.
But how, to climb up an’ out
the grime of fetid mire
where every winsome wench
would rightly kiss and tell…?
Black Jake, alas
went on the make…
and now he’s hoisted higher
than ol’ church spire…
where they watch him fry in hell.
It is a familiar conundrum.
Whenever we come across sites like this, and we seem to come across more than a few, there is an inevitable question.
How much of it is natural?
Without question much of it is, but the more one finds that is not natural then the more one tends to question that which was initially assumed to be so.
On our most recent jaunt we came across the suspicious looking stone above.
To my mind that was very obviously a positioned stone.
It is an interestingly enough shaped stone in itself but more than this, it seems almost inconceivable that it could have fallen like that or have been left by retreating ‘Ice Giants’.
But then there arises the inevitable following question.
So why was it positioned in this way?
And to this question, unfortunately, there is not always a readily forthcoming answer.
But this time we were lucky.
Question: ‘When is a stone, not a stone?’
Answer: ‘When it is a nose (and an eye).’
Never look back!
It is good advice, unfortunately, in story-telling this advice, when given, is never adhered to.
They are all concerned with Soul.
The Soul that turns to look back is caught in time.
It may be an ‘intention thing’, like trying to serve two masters, do not walk one way and look the other.
There are any number of mythological monsters depicted in this way to prove it.
Tiamet…Nergal…The Dread Beast of Mercia.
The hero ‘slays’ them all, by moving forward.
But going back to take another look, that is different.
That is part of going forward.
And it is also inevitable.
This time we inadvertently found ourselves following our own advice from one of our books.
We started at Hordron’s, that hoary old receptacle of time, went on to Strines, the ‘Peacock Pub’, and finished up at the Old Horns Inn.
And this time when we got to Bradfield, ‘Castle Hill’ was illuminated.
No need to wonder where we will be heading next then.
But first, we had another encounter with one of our mounds to experience.
We needed more photographs.
Were duly forthcoming.
Once we had braved the curiously over friendly sheep…
…A flutter of recognition flicked across his gaze.
“What is it?” Asked Wen, her icy tone slicing through the summer haze like a frosty stare.
“There’s an old lay, I can’t quite remember how it goes…”
“I don’t know, something about a green valley between two hills…”
“And a sentinel of stone which has to be appeased…”
“Before entry into the living rock is granted…”
“The last bit goes on about the embrace of a One-Eyed God, or something…”
“By Odin, I know that place!” shrieked Wen, leaping to her feet.
Moments later the Beast was again roaring along the lane.
Anyone would think she was glad to be back on the road…