being still

20.05.95

Photographed the lady stone next to some barbed wire. She’s old at 3000 to 5000 years and looks like someone with a cloak. Later that day I photograph near the presely hills. We stop for crème tea and pudding.

21.05.95

We put in at an old post office in Rosebush for lunch. I ate beans, apples, sage, and drank a Chandy which is a mix of lemonade and butter. Then treacle pudding which is some kind of cream or custard.

22.05.95

The stones of King Arthur appear. I am lost in a foggy day.

23.05.95

Third day of my hike and come upon standing stones at ffynnon drudion with a parish and farm.

24.05.95

I am near Newport now and photograph trellyffaint.

25.05.95

I have found the whit church. This is one of Terry’s favorites. There is so much foliage here.

02.06.98

I am visiting Lord Cawdor’s land. There are sheep scattered and on the ridge is Lady Margaret’s seat—a manmade place for her to sit and look out at her estate of 360 rooms.

03.06.98

I meet with the Philpot’s. the stone sits in their backyard. They tell me that an earlier owner of the home found the stone a nuisance and hung laundry on it. Later in the day I visit Mr. B in his backyard. There were 2 stones embedded in mounded hedge with a white 200 year old house in background on road. The seem to face the sea. Submerged at the neck. Grey as the color of the sky with brilliant green foliage around. House is in center of wider circle. Power lines seems to lineup with points in circle. His father's favorite stone was near the gate. He always painted it white. Stones uncovered when father cleared land by hand. Mr B's favorite stone in back garden because it seemed so big to him as a boy. Adders live in the stones in hedge because it is warm. Showed me photograph of his parents where there are 2 burnt out white spots on photo in landscape. Rarely have people asked him about stones. “I don't know much about them, I should really.” Living there since he was seven years old. While I was photographing, 30 seagulls circled over the yard.

04.06.98

The stones I have visited all seem to have a certain posture to them and either sit, stand or recline in their individual settings. There is always a sense of comfort and calm about them and a quiet feeling of ownership of the surrounding as though we are the ones visiting and they are the ones staying. I am not overcome with any strong emotional feelings. When I have to leave the site, I often look back several times. I'm not sure why. Perhaps to reassure myself it is still there: perhaps my reluctance to leave and make a departure as though I should stay longer; perhaps I haven't stayed quite long enough as though I am leaving someone's home and the conversation hasn't truly ended yet and I am leaving while they are still speaking to me. I find I even sometimes speak to the stone—asking mundane questions, “How do you like it here? Are you comfortable? I'm going to leave now, all right?” Of course these are rhetorical and I don't really expect any confirmation that I've been heard. I don't stay long enough to have a strong impression of personality—more of the way they gesture or posture in the setting. Sometimes I just want to rise up about 10 feet so that I can have another perspective or perhaps I want to see the top or I want to fly above. So far touching or lying on the stones doesn't feel quite right.

05.06.98

I have a chance to speak with conversation with arabella friesen. The warren was where rabbits were cultivated. She remembers a legend about a golden bedstead—the frame of a bed being buried near the stone. A man with a sensor came looking for it. Perhaps the bedstead is nearby. The warren had a quiet feeling of anxiousness. Untouched and ancient. Irritated by the name as she doesn't associate stone with the devil. She is a baroness. Dreamed over and over of view of warren where standing stone lies. I photographed her in front of this view.

10.06.98

It was here at the Harold Stone that I touched the electric fence and was shocked to tears. I remember as I felt the shock I looked up and was directly across from the stone and I wondered for a moment if the stone had done this or was somehow warning me. I did recover and now know how the cattle feel.

12.06.98

When I met Frieda and Peter Rowe his hands were enormous and had the feeling of deep leather worn soft with wear. Thick like clay. Her face was windblown like the stone.

13.06.98

Sometimes I feel that my head is spinning and the stones and landscape all swirl around like a pudding dish and I fear I can't remember each of them separately. Not so for the people. They stand separately and with great dignity in my mind. Each of them has graciously spent time with Terry and I and opened their doors and rambled about in their history searching for a bit of story or tale to share with me. In the course of it tea has been drunk, Christmas cake eaten, and gifts exchanged. Time seems to slow down for the moment and rather than a somber mood, there is laughter and a sense of good grace in having the stones to discuss. Sometimes I think about how they—the people— look in the landscape. Do they look like the stones that they live near to?

As for myself—standing out are the 2 dreams of lightening finding me in the grass and then having an electric shock as I gazed on the Haroldstone. The chill I sometimes experienced at the end of the day. The ticking noise that twice chattered at me from my camera bag. Most of all I hope I can do these stones and their people justice. I feel a great sense of responsibility.

15.06.98

The first stone had so many views to cherish as though it had multiple personalities. Approaching the thistles burned my legs and I stepped high as I approached. The base of the larger stone seemed so neatly planted like a cake on a piece of doily. After this I consumed a huge piece of chocolate pudding cake which sat in a puddle of chocolate syrup and cream; steaming up from the bowl. It felt monumental as the stones had. Eaten of course at Rosebush.

16.06.98

When we first stopped the car I had no idea why. Then Terry gave a nod and I had a sense of the stone’s presence. I would have driven right by without his help.

17.06.98

Terry loans me his boots to make the hike in. the weather is so cold and beating rain. When I photograph the Cerrig Meibion Arthur they do seem like sons leaning toward each other and then other times bending away.

16.12.01

Phase one starts. My luggage seems heavy but needed. No dilemmas while going through security but almost two hours from car door to gate. I still can’t quite fathom that I am leaving the country. I look around at fellow passengers and imagine why they depart for London. Some people are already sleeping, slouched in their seats using whatever apparel they have to shield their eyes from the gray green light. It’s hard to know where you are. By the time I reach the gate, the flavor of the crowd is international with a preponderance of English and Irish accents. Uniformly we are all dressed for comfort. This flight consumes a day of my life…a bit of a time warp as I will be in London tomorrow morning when I land. Off now, somewhere between San Francisco and London. The language has changed to talk of evening, dinner, sleep. Mid-day evaporated as we took off. I notice evidence of friends—Joanne’s pen, Jane’s ribbon, Julia and Jace around my neck. History and adventure as I practice pronouncing Welsh greetings. Outside it is two colors. Bright clear blue and iridescent white.

17.12.01

An extraordinary 24 hours. At the moment I am about to finally go to sleep in a cozy bed. I’ve drunk my ginger tea and made 2 fires in the fireplace. Split wood—gathered kindling—all with my handy flashlight. Over Greenland I saw the northern lights. Instant ignites of white green streams. Starting from nowhere and bursting upward. And then as we landed in London the sun began to rise and slide sideways over the course of the day. Now to sleep. Perchance to dream. Goodnight moon.

20.12.01 early morning

These last few days have had starts and stops and my frenzy to accomplish what I need in light of a sense that all might shut down Christmas and beyond. Now that I’ve moved into the right cottage(I spent the first night in the wrong house—a little like the three bears.) I like it here very much. I make a fire at any possible opportunity and then have a cup of Welsh tea. That’s about all I need to keep me happy. Tonight I will be alone here and I hope to read and rest.

Yesterday I took a walk with Christina to Barafundle Bay—a pristine and solitary beach on a bay that connects with both the Atlantic Ocean and North Sea. I continue to be swept away by Wales and its beauty. On our walk as the evening set everything turned a soft pink. It’s a little like being on the edge of the world if there was an edge. Peaceful and take-your-breath-away natural phenomenon. The sheep watch as I hike—bundled in their coats of wool they are ready for gale wind or biting cold. So far the place is hospitable with just enough cold to make me shiver if I haven’t got a jacket fastened.

The time is swishing by and I only have two more nights at Stackpole Quay. Work has gone so very well. I think I’ve got it now. Not sure what exactly I’ve got, but I don’t feel wanting.

20.12.01

This was a day of so much input and stimulation. It started with a rude refusal by the farmer’s wife…”just go see YOUR stone…” but then I befriended the nursery owner and shot him with fake statuary—trying to reclaim the morning. In the afterwards Christina and I revisited Mabesgate stone—this time it looked like the fin of a giant sea creature and the clouds made an amazing halo with tendrils above it. The stone in the afternoon Maen Llwyd sat unassuming in the entry garden to the museum. I was greeted by a young man who said,” I moved it in ‘87”…mimicking a chant with a glitter in his eye.

The light faded so quickly and then once again the short rose period. Where everything turned pink…then the stone was silent under a navy sky with crescent moon. As I drove the last part of the driveway at Stackpole, I turned off the lights and took in the darkness everywhere. I don’t think I have ever been in such a dark place with no one for miles. Except my companions…the two horses who seemed to move to the cliff on my left and grazed in the moonlight. I arrived home and started up the stairs. 6:33 PM. My alarm clock was ringing. It was set for 6:30—AM?. It all seemed so odd, as this morning it was set for 7, but instead had changed it’s mind.

I like it very much here. I’m finding my own community slowly and branching away from depending on Terry. Some of my better travel decisions so far have been: Shawl. Black coat. Long underwear. Renting a car. Laptop. Flashlight. Thong sandals. Some I could have left behind: Jewelry. Wool Irish socks. Too many books.

I hope tonight to have time to make one painting…at least.

23.12.01

My mind is over packed and almost jumbled with experiences from the last 24 hours. First on Saturday I made a series of random decisions which landed me at the doorstep of Arabella Friesen, the countess’ daughter who I had met in 1998. It felt so ironic and almost as though there was a built in tuning fork. Then to St.David’s and the Grisham’s—an amazing warm and friendly family that I loved being in the midst of. My room faces east so I can watch a slow brightening of the sky in the morning. A walk to the coast with Bob. Here the tide is 18 feet.

On Sunday I headed out to Joan and Brian Carlisyle’s house. And that was the beginning of an amazing series of events. Their house—little pen coed—is a grand farmhouse that stretches a great distance. Her son lives next door and then the diary cows reside. beyond that a conference center they have created. We traveled for the day—I photographed her with a dousing stick sensing a ley line near a river. I tried it as well, but the stick was limp in my hands. Then to ringing bell stone. A stone that rings if danger is near. After this to Benloy stone where Mary lives. To watch these 2 women in the landscape was something. Both weathered and rugged and sure-footed in the muddy path. We returned to Joan’s house brightly lit by a orange and gold sunset that set for hours—making imaginary island of dark clouds and golden paradises I longed to visit. We turned orange as well.

I got a chance to carol the dairy cows with Joan’s family and neighbors. The cows listened intently as we sang all the carols with songbook and mulled wine in hand. They liked Silent Night the best. I liked Jingle Bells. Dinner was had around a hearth you could walk into and stand up. A thick slice of Farmer’s cheese, potatoes from the farm. A dark wet drive back to St. David’s with no one in sight and hills that roll and weave to the sea. I need to sleep.

26.12.01

Wow. I was really exhausted. I slept ten hours and had 2 very complete dreams. The wind has died down and doesn’t whistle anymore. There have been gale force winds of 80mph—confusing the internet and making connections impossible. My dream was about catching up. Forgetting luggage. I’m alone and if I miss something its because I haven’t done it myself. This is the quintessential effort in self reliance and I think that’s why some people don’t travel alone. I made a list last night of everyone I’ve met. Fifteen people. No wonder my mind is spinning.

28.12.01

Rising at 7 AM. I feel I’ve finally settled in and my daily pace is more normal and not quite so hectic. That means saying no to some events. I start to wind down on this project. I’ve done very well I think. There are so many stones. I feel I’ve scratched the surface, but my goal is not to do a survey. These are big topics and mine is a little book. Outside it is pitch black. The wind is supposed to be more than a gale today. I can hear it outside already. Inside it is still and quiet. I met with the head of the art department—it all becomes concrete. Do I really want to be away that long? It is definitely a possibility. I’m a kite with a short tail. I have now successfully passed December 22, December 25, and after New Year’s these holidays will be history. I look forward to these next couple of days. Then I can just play in Edinburgh.

29.12.01

I have come here to finish my project and now I climb back in my little car one more time, this time to go over the hill. The stones seep into my thoughts and dreams. I can’t help but notice the way the weather clears while I am photographing and then covers over again when I am finished. I don’t think this has much to do with me, but the stone doesn’t seem to mind being looked at. I didn’t linger much this time—a pressure to finish the job I think. Twice I saw stones I had visited before as well as people I had photographed the last time. That was satisfying and felt friendly and complete and reassuring. I was reassured to know from my own experience that they are still here. Showing the Welsh my photos—they had no problems understanding my perspective. Frieda said the photo of her was wonderful and so strong. She said the being still seemed more to do with me than with the stones. Peter Rowe when seeing the picture of her and the stone said, “now there’s competition there!”

Today I finished off the visit with a walk on the coast. In the course of it, I was snowed on, saw a water spout on the sea, brushed the end of a rainbow, saw watercress growing in a small cold stream rushing to the sea. I suppose I will never really feel finished here. Tonight is the 29th and one of the stones will dance and join other stones at midnight. I wanted to go and visit. There is even a full moon. But my bones are tired and it is bitterly cold out. And truthfully, it frightens me a bit. I’m not sure I want to witness anything at all. I know I wouldn’t want to photograph it. I think its best left in my imagination or for another time. Things here are just different. As Terry said, “The stones reveal themselves to you if you are interested.” I remember as a child reading about a fairy that lived in the backyard. I so enjoyed her little tin can house. This has been a full and overfilling experience.

31.12.01

The last day of this year and I move from one country to another on the eve of 2002. David Brinson once again was friendly and hospitable. We looked at old maps of cities from the 14-1500’s. He’s doing a book on an Englishman who was tried for a crime—very esoteric. He seems to spout so many historical facts—like an overstuffed folder wanting to share in a dear way. We took Molly and Sarah the dogs for a walk in a beautiful park and watched a golden yellow full moon rise at 4:45PM.

On my drive to Cardiff I saw 3 rainbows, snow on the outlying Preseli hills and a short snow flurry. I felt a tug leaving Wales. I’m not sure if I’ll return. I notice since my trip began, my rings are more shiny and silver. Odd. But true. Maybe it’s all the butter and sugar. I wrap myself in my ‘travel shawl’ and wait for the train to Crewe. To Edinburgh. Still 40 minutes away and all this luggage to manage. No one else seems to have any luggage with them. I don’t really understand that. I don’t feel like I’m in Wales anymore—it feels English here and a big shift from west Wales.

05.01.02 midnight

I feel restless and in limbo. Slowly I have found some places in Edinburgh that resonate and make me feel comfortable. Ironically, the woman who runs this bed and breakfast(no breakfast though) has left and I am once again alone. This has been a recurring theme this trip and all 3 places I stayed in have been isolating. and yet not so uncomfortable. I just get tired of it now and then. Another day and I begin my journey home.

I’m slowly growing to enjoy Edinburgh. The darkness here is penetrating. Today I slept until 10:00AM. Unbelievable. But by 2:30PM the fog was moving across a green field and the sun was slowly disappearing. I revisited my favorite café and happily walked the paths of the botanical gardens. Old buttons from a Scottish woman and a single playing card with the name Anderson. I made new bracelets from beads and buttons bought here—I gave 2 away—to Frieda the one with the bead from André’

I’m not sure how to spend my last day here. There is one more museum. I think I shall return again to Maxi’s my favorite café. I think my head and heart have begun to clear. It’s been a relief to not struggle with language and makes Great Britain appealing. But there is a certain lack of taste, a propriety; a plainness and primness. I don’t relish. Mostly in England, although Edinburgh feels English as well. I have hopes for this coming year—a publisher for my book; a new romance; a more socialized social life; good health; more attention and kindness to my family and friends; a position teaching somewhere else for 3-4 months where I can take Figaro. That seems like a lot. I heard an expression today I will try to remember. A mother introducing her grown sons as “mae wee sons.”

all in all these 3 weeks have softened my heart, dazzled my senses, demanded my intellect, expected my organization, relied on my pragmatism, touched my deepest feelings, glittered my eyes, slowed my gate, quickened my gate, tired and refreshed me, prepared me for returning home.

07.01.02 morning

Finally I’m now on an airplane and beginning my travels south then west to home. So far most everything has gone smoothly. I always hold my breath a bit until I’m on the last flight, but Britains are punctual and courteous and seem to be very embarrassed when they are not. Edinburgh disappeared from the window of my taxi quickly. The day has a gray even tone to it. There is no seeable sunlight. I haven’t had any rainy weather to deal with. A bit of sleet and snow just before Cardiff; a snow flurry on the hike with terry. My last evening in Edinburgh was surreal. I chose to watch a film at the museum which turned out to be about 4 diverse families celebrating Thanksgiving in Los Angeles. I laughed heartily and completely forgot I was surrounded by Edinburgh-ers and their city.

Walking outside, night the color of wet slate had descended and I headed for my favorite restaurant, the New Bell on Causeway for another great meal and a smooth and sultry taste of ale—certainly my most sensuous experience on this trip. I don’t think I’ll return to this city. It’s too English and the darkness in winter and coal-burning fires dulls the senses. This morning’s news—violent sports fights in Cardiff; rail strike in Scotland; struggle about the euro currency; frozen lagoon in Venice; the flight of a Taliban to freedom on a motor bike. I think I shall miss most the BBC radio. I wish we could have that at home. Home again. Home again. Jiggity-jig.