Monday 18 January 2021

Impressions: A summer's day at Kilmartin...

 (The follow-up, when I went into the chambered cairn at Nether Largie South.)

A summer's day -

 the air warm, late afternoon with the sun in the west,

looking into the tomb.

In,

and down.

Then seated: cool, cold on the stones striking into my bones, a relief from the heat of the late afternoon, then becoming colder, and then I no longer was aware of the cold of the stone. I chanted a song that had come to me some months before, which seemed to fit. Over and over, then silence, and waiting.

Eyes closed, I waited, then with open eyes studied the walls, the stacked stones, the large stone slabs of the base, the capstones. Some present-day constructions of meaning were evident in the scratched graffiti, some older than others, though.

In the stillness I waited, and my song still echoed. Still, and silence, and my eyes were closed again, my heart rate increased, a waiting of anticipation.

Thoughts, impressions, voices.

Hazy, with a memory of dissolution, of burnt bone, of merging into the others, into the walls, into the floor.

The community was here, and I was of them, looking out over the valley and awaiting something -- what? Fragments of my poem from the mound surfaced, though these people were far older than their descendants of whom I'd spoken then.

But I did not know, then, where I had waited for words to come, waited for rebirth, waited for those who would uncover walls and floor, let the light into this place that with my eyes shut or even open had become so dark, despite the sunlight that streamed behind me, to warm my back and counter the effect of that so-cold stone: a warmth that I no longer needed, absorbed into this community, part of these presences that permeated walls, roof and floor.

I understood that there were sounds in the silence, voices, whispers, and I was part of the sound...

.. I felt my body trembling as my awareness shifted again, pulling free of the clustering ghosts. No longer one of many but now seeing, or sensing, one who waited, born of earth and sunlight... and I heard my voice singing the song that sends the seeress on her journey, as I made my petition and waited, and spoke again without spoken words, hearing the words in reply, attempting to tug the strands of wyrd, with no thought for what, perhaps, I 'should' have asked.

And listening, as I was given to understand that my words/thoughts/images were now part of the pattern, part of the understanding that emanated from this place...

...and I was now a separate being, and asked again, this time of my own projects and where they should go...

... until suddenly the guardian was before me, and a sound pulled me back, back, the knocking of one pebble against another as I surfaced, dazed, opened eyes, felt the cold of the stone, the heat of the sun, heard the wind moving outside and realized the stillness in the tomb, and saw ... the denim-clad legs of a person who descended into the tomb, and stopped as he saw my backpack and camera bag placed just inside the entrance for precisely this eventuality, as a marker that someone was within.

I stood up, not wanting to have the silence of the stone seat breached, and said 'hello'. He looked in, seemed a little embarrassed, commented that it was interesting, and left... I paced slowly up, and back, and started to hum, letting the sound echo and resonate, then resumed my seat, asking the guardian to take me back, felt my awareness whirling and was again there,

with one who smiled,

for this there were no words, but knowledge yet

of what I must do;

being

and ecstasy,

one-ness and completion

infinite, unbounded, yet

held

in time and place

distilled, this moment,

now.

...until some time later, I saw again the many faces, changing more swiftly now, and the guardian, and then felt the warming sunlight on my back, in time to be aware once again of sound, a quiet chinking of stones.

The three backpackers sitting patiently outside, when I went to the opening and spoke, said 'take your time, we can wait'. But I had done what I had come to do, and so left, with a glance of thanks around the walls, and climbed out, with a smile, not looking back as I made my way down the stones of the cairn, and along the little path and so out, reverting again to a recorder, photographer, as I passed the other cairns of the linear cemetery; later in their building, interesting, but not, today, for me.

© copyright J Blain 1999
all rights reserved

On being a visitor in the countryside

Today I was reminded of a couple of articles I'd posted long, long ago on a long-defunct website; and having found that I'd (also long ago) rescued them to my computer, though I'd re-post them here. These were written in 1999... At that time I was living in Canada, but took an extended 'holiday' back home. So, there are two stories, very different from each other, both from my 'pilgrimage' to the Kilmartin valley in Argyll.

First, the 'Dog Story'!

This is what the title 'On being a visitor in the countryside' belongs to.

I had an interesting trip to the UK this month (July 1999). However, this item is about the most ridiculous occurrence that I met. It intersected with my life in strange ways, being a factor impelling me into one of the most intense and powerful experiences I've had. But that's another story. Here is the ridiculous part, occasioned apparently by someone else's inability to exercise courtesy, or read signs.

The Kilmartin Glen, in Argyll, is sheep and cattle country. Beautiful, lush, grazing. Sheep country brings with it some rules, particularly where it's also a tourist area where people go to see 'the monuments', and usually spend about 5 minutes per attraction as they whiz round. One rule is written on numerous signs: keep the dog on a very short leash.

Loose dogs in sheep country are bad news, especially when lambs are young. Even the best, well-mannered, thoroughly polite and charming city-bred dog is likely to react to sheep and lambs: either they're for herding, they're for play, or they're prey. Any of these reactions, for the sheep and the farmers, is really bad news.

On my last day in Kilmartin, having spent the day on foot on back roads and track, looking at the very substantial amount of interesting material that was to be found, I headed back for the environs of Kilmartin itself, the vicinity of the Temple Wood circles. I planned to visit the strange 'X' formation, the Nether Largie Standing Stones, across the side road from Temple Wood, and nearby the chambered cairn at Nether Largie South. I thought of doing some meditation at the stones. The chambered cairn was calling to me, had been calling since I arrived in the glen, but at this time I was resisting. I got a lift from Kilmartin to the Temple Wood turn-off, walked up the side road, went through the gate to the little lane between fields that led to the stone 'X', and once more read the notices: keep dogs on a short leash; this is sheep country. Along the lane, through another gate, and here was the stone formation. I walked around, camera handy, and then...

There was a dog. Bounding up to me, not sure whether to be friendly. A large, golden dog. (I'm not good at dog breeds, but it was lovely. Golden retriever?) 

At first I was merely irritated: can't the owners read? This isn't a local dog. Besides, how can I sit by the stones and meditate with a dog bouncing around? As the dog bounded closer, I took a deep breath and -- how do I explain this? -- became my fylgia. The dog stopped short, looked at me, whined slightly, and acted submissive. Fine, except that I had instantly become its pack leader. It then followed me, rather subdued and well behaved now, and keeping a little distance even when it got in the way, as I went around the stones, took my photos, gave up on the meditation plan, and wondered where the hel these owners were. Then the impact of the signs kicked in. This was a loose dog in sheep country. I could see no people. There did seem to be a car, down by the main road, down another little lane like the one I'd entered by, but no signs of people there.

So, OK, the responsibility for this dog was now on me. There was a farmhouse nearly, on the side-road that I'd come in from, opposite the little path to the chambered cairn. I started heading for there, managing on the way to shut the dog in the lane, where I could continue to see it as I headed for the farmhouse. Just before I reached the gate, a young man came out of it on a bicycle, I waved and he waved and stopped.

'Hello,' said I. 'I was down by the stones -- there's a loose dog there, and I can't find the owners. I was coming to let someone know.'

'A dog.' He said. (This wasn't a question.)

'A dog,' said I. 'And no sign of anyone. It's in the lane just now, I shut it in.'

'Right,' he said, 'Thanks!' and headed off on his bike. I in turn headed for the chambered cairn, and stood by it, watching the show.

He stopped at the lane, opened the gate and took firm hold of the dog's collar. At this point, some people finally materialised from the other direction: the owners, at last. He took the dog to them, and I could see the gestures even if I couldn't hear the words, pointing to the signs, pointing to the sheep. People and dog headed off.

I took some photographs of the outside of the cairn, put away the camera, stood a few minutes letting myself become one with the surroundings, the scenery, the landscape: then took a deep breath, and clambered down into the tomb...


Copyright © J Blain, 1999.
All rights reserved.