I had already scheduled a stay in England after Lammas to visit Stonehenge and Avebury. I had been fascinated by these and other Neolithic sites for a long time and had thoroughly studied the major source books including Gerald Hawkins' Stonehenge Decoded. Now, with Avalon in mind, I booked a B&B in Glastonbury as the center of my pilgrimage.
Glastonbury is about 200 miles west of Dover where my ship was to disembark. The challenge of driving all that way on the wrong side of the road was exacerbated by the facts that the rental car was a stick shift (yep, shifting with the left hand) and that the rain and wind were howling. Not to mention the traffic circles, called roundabouts, which have spoked exits in all directions, usually identifying only the next hamlet and not the major destination beyond. It wasn't too bad, once I learned the basics. "M" means "motorway" -- four lanes of traffic sitting for hours in gridlock with not a bathroom in sight. "B" means tiny lanes twisting between walls and hedgerows where people drive 70 mph. Simple, yes?
Stonehenge was a surprise. I expected this massive astrological calculator on Salisbury Plain to be visible miles before I reached it. The plain, however, is actually an undulating sea of rolling hills and Stonehenge pops up quite suddenly as one crests the nearest rise.
Highways constrict the site too closely. The roar of traffic mixes with the whine of artillery shells fired at the nearby army range. The hoards of tourists are roped off a respectful distance from the stones. None of this subtracted, however, from the awesome grandeur of these massive stones as they silently stand witness to the turning of the solar and lunar wheels.
Further on is Cadbury Castle, a large hill girded with trees and topped with the remains of ancient ramparts. This is purported to be the remains of Camelot. As I ascended the steep cobbled road, now long since fallen into disrepair, I recalled Bradley's description of the difficulty Morgause had in finding this way on a misty night. It was exactly as she described it. Cadbury is a bit remote, with no crowds or highways. A national trust territory, it is leased out as a pasture, where the silence is broken only occasionally by the moo of a cow.
The foundations of the former walls still peek out here and there under the turf and an inescapable feeling of presence dominates the site. I mount the rampart and gaze across the lowlands. There! Rising in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun: the Tor -- the sacred mound of Avalon! My heart skips a beat. I feel that I have suddenly passed through a veil into another world, another time.
The Tor is a prominent, steep sided, breast-shaped hill surrounded by lowlands that are actually below sea level. Before drainage and diking, the Tor had indeed been an island in a marsh. Next to the Tor, separated by a gentle cleavage, is a smaller rounder breast called Chalice Hill and further to the west is another rise called Wearyall Hill. On the high ground between the Tor and Wearyall Hill nestles the small town of Glastonbury, the ruins of the massive abbey, and the orchard of Avalon.
As elsewhere, the early Christian church sought to usurp holy places to its own benefit, and erected a monastery atop the Tor. All that remains today is the empty bell tower. In this evening twilight, as I beheld the objective of my pilgrimage, I preferred to see this tower as a nipple rather than a scar.
Dawn. The lowlands are cloaked in mist and a stiff breeze blows ragged shreds of cloud over the top of the Tor. The chill damp lashes my face as I witness the gradual brightening of the eastern sky. I have climbed the Tor for ritual. My altar is the concrete round behind the bell tower which points to landmarks invisible in the distance. I cast a circle and call the directions. I invoke the Lady and She comes. There we pray between the worlds and the mists of Avalon envelop us.
The rest of the day is spent exploring Avebury, the avenue of standing stones, burial mounds, and Silbury Hill. The distant past is almost tangibly present in this corner of England.
Dawn the next day is clearer. The Island of the Lady is surrounded in healthy, living green. Crops wax full, cows and sheep grow fat, apples ripen. The air is fresh and spider webs glisten with the dew. In the cleavage between the Tor and Chalice Hill nestle two springs, a red spring from Chalice Hill and a white spring from the base of the Tor. They take their color from the mineral deposits in the earth below. The red spring has been lovingly enshrined in a beautiful garden with flowers, pools, and meditative stations. Before it leaves the garden, the water is channeled into a waterfall constructed as a series of yonis, cascading from one to another until it finally pours into a pool of two intersecting circles - the Vesica Piscis.
I drink the water and bless myself. Then I sit under an apple tree in the garden in sight of the Tor. The sun bathes me and the Mother's heartbeat beneath the hill stirs my own. Minutes turn into hours in this temple beyond time where past, present, and future lose their meaning. Enchanted Avalon has filled my soul.
In the evening I come to taste the waters red and white one more time before I depart. The white spring had not fared as well as the red. It had been boxed up in a stone reservoir building in the 19th Century as a water supply for the town. A spigot spills its water onto a small terrace which contemporary pagans have decorated in its honor. Ribbons bedeck the tree there and a spiral molding bids the water linger awhile before passing down a drain. But surprise! The reservoir building is open. Inside I discover a pagan coffee house and gift shop! The white spring spills forth from its ancient cave in the wall and is channeled in canals along the floor, past an altar, around the tables, and then finally out of the building. There I find a chalice -- a cup plain and unadorned, holy in its simplicity. The Goddess has clearly called me here. In joy I purchase the cup and fill it from both springs, climb the Tor, place the cup on the altar, and call the directions. The powers of Avalon fill the chalice and the Lady blesses it. Now my pilgrimage is complete.
There are stories that Joseph of Arimathea brought the grail to Avalon and that Arthur and Gwenhwyfar are buried here. Bradley uses these tales in the fabric of her story. Nicholas Mann recounts this and many other mysteries of this enchanted place in his book, The Isle of Avalon. Other writers, like Chris Barber and David Pykitt in Journey To Avalon claim Avalon is really the island of Bardsey off the Welsh coast and Arthur is really Saint Armel who is buried in Brittany.
But it doesn't really matter. The Tor and the springs existed long before any people set foot on this sacred isle. Avalon is blessed not by who is buried here, but by the Mother who chose it in the mists of time long past for one of Her special shrines. Today, by our direct personal experience of the Lady in this place, we share in the everlasting life of Avalon.
As apples ripen and mornings cool, we come to Autumn Equinox. This year I shall remember the apples of Avalon and the promise of the ever-renewing cycle of life that they symbolize. Blessed Be!
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