Down a Tunnel to a Hollow

Down a Tunnel to a Hollow.

  Copyright 2013 Keith Gwilliams

  Down a Tunnel to a Hollow.

  Along the Welsh coast, on the roads leading north, there are frequent tunnels, where the mountains actually approach the seashore. They are of varying lengths, but as far as I can recall none are so long or shaped that you cannot see the end.

  It was in such a tunnel, not in Wales but certainly that type of terrain, that I lost my way.

  No, I don’t mean, I lost my way and then came across a tunnel. I lost my way in the tunnel. I was on foot, and before I entered I peered along the path. I could clearly see the entrance, the exit at the other end, and could also see that there were no obstacles on the ground nor any breaks in the walls.

  I am not unused to finding my way in unfamiliar surroundings, and could rely on my map-reading to be accurate, telling me in this case that the road went on towards a town of particular interest to me, and where I could purchase certain items that I had been saving for, over a long period of time.

  With no thought of danger nor even apprehension, I entered the tunnel, and, as is my wont when surroundings have no visual interest, I allowed my mind to wander through the avenues of personal history that were left without satisfactory conclusion.

  I have heard the expression ‘the ground came up to hit me’ in connection with fights and accidents, and I have tried to imagine just what would be the bodily sensation in such a situation.

  There is also that description of embarrassment ‘I wish the ground could open up and swallow me' regularly used by those prone to faux pas.

  At one moment I was mentally contemplating my navel, the next experiencing something midway between the two expressions described above. The tunnel floor rapidly declined, forcing my speed to increase to a breakneck pace, and my movement took on a smooth gliding descent towards the far semicircle of light that was still the end of the tunnel.

  It was not a scramble or a tumble such as Alice's entrance into Wonderland, but more like a smooth head-first slide down one of those modern waterchutes at the leisure centres.

  Instead of the shock of entering a pool of cold water, I found myself soaring above a beach, stretching for miles in a north-south aspect with sea to the west, and cliffs to the east.

  Encroaching onto the shore in north, the horizon was broken by trees that had crept down from behind the hills, and to the south, from the top of a pyramid shaped building, wisps of smoke gave evidence of activity within.

  Nor was I alone!

  As I landed much more gracefully than I would normally have expected, it was almost natural to find myself part of a community of people going about their daily chores. It is difficult to explain their reaction to my presence. On the one hand they did not ignore me, but on the other they did not react with surprise at my being there. They merely acknowledged my existence as if I had always been there, some waving as close friends will, others carrying on with their tasks without break.

  I felt right. These were my people. I didn't know them but in them I recognised myself and my needs. My hopes and my aspirations were being played out around me and I felt good.

  In the midst of one group appeared to be a communal meal going on round a large bonfire. The weather was warm so the fire was not for comfort, but more for an expression of energy or a focal point for activity.

  No-one appeared to be doing anything alone. All were in some way interconnected but without the intrusion that can sometimes occur in this type of familiarity .

  Some were net-fishing in the sea, or searching the multitudinous rockpools that littered the bay.

  In another area, cooking was going on: elsewhere a building was receiving attention. All in was harmony, nowhere was dissension.

  My attention was caught by a slight movement on the building.

  The approach to the summit was by way of steps scaling the steeply sloping face, ending at a broad landing from whence a doorway showed dark against the pale grey of the unidentifiable rock of the building.

  I have said there was a slight movement but I must correct myself. It was more like an announcement of an invisible presence, a beckoning gesture where there was no hand in sight.

  So strong was the sense of invitation, that I felt myself ascend the steps seemingly without effort, until I stood on the platform before the door.

  Should I enter or stay outside?Entering was certainly not on the agenda, because I felt myself gently led (?) until I had turned to face the edge overlooking the people below

  My hands almost without conscious will raised themselves in benedictory style, bringing my arms into my line of sight, displaying the sleeves of along flowing white robe which had somehow replaced my habitual anorak.

  It was reasonable to assume that my gesture meant something to the crowds - perhaps a call to worship. Please do not mistake my intention.

  The call was not to worship me, but more to take part in an expression of joy based on all the good things that were surrounding us. All I was doing was waving the starting flag.

  Activities below changed in the instant.

  Some sang, stamped and clapped to an intricate rhyme and rhythm that flowed and changed throughout the musical spectrum. Quite ordinary recognisable instruments were produced from hitherto unseen hiding places and were introduced into the overall ethereal concert being produced by this happy crowd.