Down a Tunnel to a Hollow (Illustrated)

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.

  Those about the fire formed a hand-to-hand circle and spun clockwise round the flames in ever increasing circles as others caught up with the dance.

  The meal became a feast as cakes, biscuits, bread, fruit, nuts, food and drink of all description were passed from person to person - each taking according to need and then passing on.

  I was beginning to feel that this was the way things should be, but I was not being allowed to rest in my satisfaction.

  I felt myself soaring again, much as an eagle or hawk might to gain a celestial view of a quarry. I was not shapechanging as many of the legends and folk songs describe, but emulating these creatures in the natural environment.

  Upwards we sped!

  We? Yes, I had been joined by a guide dressed much as I was but with a much greater air of purpose and assurance than I could muster.

 

  Beyond the top of the cliff the ground descended slightly until it formed a natural arena about a circle of stones wherein were gathered a group of druids. So that was what I was supposed to be!

  Again I found myself part of a fraternity, following a well-trodden path, spiritually speaking, in surroundings that had suddenly become home for the time being.

  In an ever-changing scenario, my guide led me from the circle of Celtic priests, between the stones, to a road along which I perceived a band of Arthurian Knights, not mounted but entering a doorway which, unaccountably I was standing beside.

  Singly they passed but unlike previous companions on this dreamlike landscape, they totally ignored me, looking straight forwards, not even allowing eyes to seek out my face nor indicate my presence. Such is the discipline of all warriors in the ranks of the nobility.

  I followed the knights in to find the classical round table, with one seat vacant - mine!

  My priestly garb had given way to the armour and tabard associated with chivalry, but without the colourful embellishments of the assembly around me.

  Gradually the drabness gave way to a shining which, as I sat, extended into the apparition of a sword held out before me.

  It must be understood that everything I was doing throughout this lost time manifested as being quite normal and in context but it was at this point in my story, that my compulsive actions moved out of the sedate and into the apparently irration
al.

  I was inexplicably moved to cast the sword across the table, not in violence but in exuberance, and leaping to my feet I found myself in an ecstatic but nevertheless controlled form of dance, close to where the sword now stood quivering, impaled slightly off centre in the tabletop.

  At the peak of my cavorting (for such it was) I again grasped the sword, pulled it from the grasp of the wood and flourished it high above my head in an almost rainbow cascade of light.

  Simultaneously, I realised that the sombre expressions of the assembled knights had given way to smiles of joy matching my own, and the percussion accompaniment to my dance was the rhythm of their mailed fists pounding the table at my feet.

  I was not allowed to perform for much longer, for within seconds the noise had diminished into the background and the room had given way to blue skies as again in flight I glided over the countryside, at the side of my bearded guide who had silently rejoined my journey.

  He led me again downwards, this time into a clearing amongst some trees in a small wood. Once landed the density of timber created a completely guarded sanctuary, peaceful and private.

  As I turned towards my guide, it was obvious by his expression and stance that he was about to take his leave of me, but not wholly with regret or a sense of loss in either of our hearts.

  The feeling was much more an anticipation of a not too distant reunion where we could resume our teacher/pupil type relationship.

  His hand, as he retreated in space and time, indicated behind me, and on turning, I was greeted by a maiden in a short white tunic beckoning me towards the wall of trees.

  The term maiden may sound archaic but remember that I am describing my experience and feelings as accurately as language will allow.

  Following my new companion, I found that a previously hidden pathway led from the west of the grove, and passing through a natural archway walked out of my dream.

  The bookshop was ordered chaos.

  Books piled upon books, stacked and almost but not quite tumbling from shelves.

  Customers endlessly streamed in and out of the door leading to the old-fashioned street outside, and equally visited other curio and essential shops found in this township where tourism was a constant source of funding regardless of season or weather.

  The orderliness took the form of careful categorisation of titles, subjects and authors as found in the best-run libraries. So it was with little trouble that I found the section on the history of the Celtic peoples and cultures and choose a book.

  Several months ago, a colleague had suggested that this subject would be worth investigating and had told me of the extensive collection in this particular bookshop.

  That evening, in my lodgings, I settled down. Lounging carelessly on the bed, having thrown off the majority of my outdoor clothing, I prepared to delve into my recent acquisition.

  The story it told seemed vaguely familiar!

  Keith Gwilliams

  25 November 1994

  (Some of you may recognise the origin of the title as being part of a contemporary popular song

  The Windmills of My Mind

  If you know all the words think them through - do they sound Druidic to you?)

  On reflection I have been thinking about some modern songs and am no longer

  surprised when their content show up as expressing a Druid thought.

  For Instance

  All my life 's a Circle (Harry Chapin)

  The Circle of Life (Disney)

  Colours of the Wind (Disney)