I wrote a small verse yesterday and then created this internet meme with it, which you’re very welcome to share if it sings to your heart.
It features the famous white cliffs of Dover and the 11th century Dover Castle, which, because of its strategic importance, has been called the Key to Britain. The white cliffs of Dover remind me of the Mabinogion stories about the head of the giant Bran, which was buried facing across the Channel, to protect the Isles of the Strong Door. Continue reading
When I first tried to read Katharine Maltwood’s A Guide to Glastonbury ‘s Temple of Stars, I ended up with a terrible headache. Even though I’d studied mythology and archaeology for decades, this 1920s identifier of the Somerset circular landscape temple seemed so ‘other’ to me, and her ideas far too dense, like an overpoweringly and sickeningly rich scented pot pourri from another time. However, now – several years later – I’m picking up her books again and reading them with ease and joy. It’s almost as if she’s talking to me personally at times – as if she’d written for an age when we would have more knowledge about our ancestors and thus be more able to pick up her quiet nudges and gentle allusions which are threaded throughout her writing like delicate and refined gold knotwork. Continue reading
I carry the memories and stories of my ancestors in the blood of my race, in my DNA; these are unique to the Celts and Anglo-Saxons, and they form the basis of my spiritual consciousness and my cosmological understanding.
I love my race and will do all I can to preserve it against the riding tide of globalism which would destroy all diversity of blood in the name of diversity, and stifle all freedom of thought in the name of freedom, and cull us all in the name of protecting the Earth, because they want to destroy our inner wisdom.
I honour and respect your race too, and I encourage you to do all you can to preserve it if you are also to develop spiritually by learning from your ancestral spirits.
Luna Hare was cold. His cream-coloured fur glistened with frost under the crystal white Snow Moon, and his long, silky ears pricked as he heard echoing to him, across the pitch black night, the chilling howl of Wolf. He was stone cold petrified.
We’ve been having a bit of discussion about whether Glastonbury is meant to be the location for the New Jerusalem. Most of those who think it should be might benefit from reading this article and gaining another perpective on the issue.
So let’s start from the beginning …. Continue reading