Parracombe is an easily missed village in North Devon, on the edge of Exmoor. The A39 bypasses it, the steep road in and out of the village being more than a little offputting to the more timorous driver. But they would be missing out on a rather attractive village with an atmospheric pub in which to eat and drink fine food and drink. And they would miss the Church of St Petrock, high on the hill away from the village, now redundant and preserved. It was saved from destruction in the Victorian era by a group that included John Ruskin and we should thank them for bequeathing us a time machine.
It is 'as was'. Box pews, tiered pews for the village band (including a hole in the floor to take the tip of the bass viol), no heating, minimal decoration. I have been there several times and find it one of the most atmospheric churches I have ever been in.
I should say here that I am not a Christian, not anything really but do possess a spiritual outlook, largely of a Pagan nature. I firmly believe there are no right or wrong spiritual paths (I am not talking dogma here, that has about as much to do with real spirituality as a cow pat drying in a field), just horses for courses. Thus I can appreciate places like this church.
There is a lot of overtly Pagan music. Some of it pretentious nonsense. Some of it unutterably twee and precious. Some of it talentless noise. Some of it quite wonderful.
However the most Pagan album I possess was not conceived with anything Pagan in mind as far as I am aware. Back in the 1970s, shortly after the creation of folk rock, there was a short lived group called Mr Fox, created by Bob Pegg and his then wife. The group survived (I think) for two albums only. The one that is remembered most is their second one, The Gypsy, which is a fine album, well worth anyone's trouble to buy and cherish. However, it is their first, self-titled album that I am referring to here. the idea was to produce a suite of songs in the Yorkshire idiom, to make a record that spoke of Yorkshire more than anywhere else. Being a born and bred Southerner, I am not really qualified to say if they succeeded but I can say they produced a set of songs unlike any others that I know. And those songs have a feel that speaks of the land, of Pagan spirituality.
One particular song on that album, The Hanged Man, immediately came into my head the first time I ever went to St Petrock's. Written about a legend from the other end of the country, the chorus seemed to fit the sparse interior perfectly...
'Walk in a valley that never saw the sun
step by the stones where the icy waters run
stand in a church where the village choir once sang
and all along the path way where the dead man used to hang'
Saturday, 9 February 2008
A Seasonal Tale
If you go out on a dark, moonless night and look to the north, to that area of apparent starless sky to one side of the Pole Star, you may, if your vision is exceptional, discern an area that is just a little darker, blacker than the dark surrounding it. And if your vision was way beyond exceptional, you would see that this blackness was, in fact a deep, very deep, blood red.
What you are seeing is the Zan Tak Lorz, but what that may be is a matter of some controversy. Is it alive? Is it intelligent? A God (or goddess, of course)? So distant is it study is not possible. All that is known is that its life is governed by natural cycles and once a year it moves, at breakneck speed, across the cosmos.
On the winter solstice, the ZTL (as it is known) arrives above our north pole. It has been suggested that the closeness of the Earth to the Sun at that time of year may set up some subtle resonance that acts as a beacon for it, but that is little more than speculation.
Once at the end of its journey, it waits for several days. More speculation here – to recover after its journey? To cool down after acquiring the heat of friction? Who knows? Who will ever know? Once ready, it starts to move again, slowly, downwards. Once it is hanging low above the North Pole, it starts to extrude, southwards, following the curve of the Earth, forever remaining a constant distance above the ground and sea. This takes a day or so and eventually, it has become a thin line, tracing from the North to the South Pole. Still an almost black red in colour but some people believe they can just discern a vague white border to the line.
The line complete, it lowers itself even further, almost touching the Earth and, while apparently here, it is not here. While the Earth spins, the line remains still relative to the Earth, as if the Earth was moving past an infinitesimally thin ghost. This moment always happens towards the end of 24th December.
Now, the ZTL has an odd effect on those it comes across. It enhances mood and disposition. Those with a sunny, happy, friendly, well-behaved disposition are made to feel even happier, more friendly, helpful, etc. Those with a more morose, unhappy, disruptive personality, feel such negative feelings even more so.
Which is how, every year, good children of all ages everywhere are visited by someone very special at midnight on Christmas Eve and wake up in the morning to find they have received a present that is just what they had always wanted. And the rest? They have a year to get it right next time.
If you go out on a dark, moonless night and look to the north, to that area of apparent starless sky to one side of the Pole Star, you may, if your vision is exceptional, discern an area that is just a little darker, blacker than the dark surrounding it. And if your vision was way beyond exceptional, you would see that this blackness was, in fact a deep, very deep, blood red.
What you are seeing is the Zan Tak Lorz, but what that may be is a matter of some controversy. Is it alive? Is it intelligent? A God (or goddess, of course)? So distant is it study is not possible. All that is known is that its life is governed by natural cycles and once a year it moves, at breakneck speed, across the cosmos.
On the winter solstice, the ZTL (as it is known) arrives above our north pole. It has been suggested that the closeness of the Earth to the Sun at that time of year may set up some subtle resonance that acts as a beacon for it, but that is little more than speculation.
Once at the end of its journey, it waits for several days. More speculation here – to recover after its journey? To cool down after acquiring the heat of friction? Who knows? Who will ever know? Once ready, it starts to move again, slowly, downwards. Once it is hanging low above the North Pole, it starts to extrude, southwards, following the curve of the Earth, forever remaining a constant distance above the ground and sea. This takes a day or so and eventually, it has become a thin line, tracing from the North to the South Pole. Still an almost black red in colour but some people believe they can just discern a vague white border to the line.
The line complete, it lowers itself even further, almost touching the Earth and, while apparently here, it is not here. While the Earth spins, the line remains still relative to the Earth, as if the Earth was moving past an infinitesimally thin ghost. This moment always happens towards the end of 24th December.
Now, the ZTL has an odd effect on those it comes across. It enhances mood and disposition. Those with a sunny, happy, friendly, well-behaved disposition are made to feel even happier, more friendly, helpful, etc. Those with a more morose, unhappy, disruptive personality, feel such negative feelings even more so.
Which is how, every year, good children of all ages everywhere are visited by someone very special at midnight on Christmas Eve and wake up in the morning to find they have received a present that is just what they had always wanted. And the rest? They have a year to get it right next time.
It's Friday, It's Five O'clock, ...
There's an air of expectation in town tonight. It's Friday night, the weekend starts here and it's the show of the week. With a waiting list of over two years, unless you
know someone who knows someone... Best bibs and tuckers are out in force, the slick suits with the razor sharp creases, the acres of taffeta and satin sewn into evening dresses fit for a queen. Not that she is ever here, although it is rumoured she watches and even joins in.
The limos pull up outside the biggest theatre in the land, the broad pavement ever more full of excited couples waiting the signal to enter. A buzz of anticipation as
pleasantries are exchanged, last week's show discussed, "Did you see...?" "Wasn't he funny?" "I never thought..." "Did you get it?" "I cannot wait for..." "Yes, it cost
George an absolute fortune but it is a once in a lifetime experience", and so on.
The lights are down, the orchestra strikes up with the theme song, TV cameras pan across the audience, some of whom are already chuckling in anticipation.
Silence and darkness.
A single spot, aimed at one side of the stage...it must be...yes! It's Mr Spinge!!!
A man walks from the side of the stage across in front of the curtain while the spot follows him. Of indeterminate age, he is dressed in a brown, broad check suit, with a
matching trilby. Halfway across he stops, turns his head slowly to look at the audience, as though he has only just noticed they are there. He raises his eyebrows
slightly, only the front row can see this hut everyone knows from the close-up on the TV each week. The house reverberates with hysterical laughter, Mr Spinge is a firm
favourite of the nation. He turns his head back, slowly, and continues his walk across the stage and into the wings on the opposite side. Act over.
"Oh, he's so funny!" "So clever" "How does he do it every week?" "A genius" The adulation for Mr Spinge buzzes around the auditorium for a few tens of seconds until
stifled by the curtain raising to reveal an idealised pastoral stage set, painted trees, green hills behind them and a few bales of straw scattered around the stage. One of
these has Lily Lobelia sitting upon it The audience applauds wildly
Lily Lobelia is in her 40s and looks it. Her act, as always, is to dress and act as a young girl, singing innocently of her hopes in love. She has blond hair that hangs in ringlets, almost certainly a wig. Her dress is flounced and too short, coloured a vivid red as befits her name. It has long sleeves to hides the rows of small bloody scabs on her arms. She holds a parasol to protect her delicate skin from an imagined sun. Which is ironic, given the quantity and thickness of makeup she has plastered herself with, in a vain attempt to hide the syphilitic sores about her mouth. Lily is famous
throughout the land for her amorous exploits, her hospital stays, her addictions. This should all contribute to a distinct lack of career but, in fact, adds a frisson, all the
associations mean she is, in a way, her own paedophile violator. And the audience love her for it.
Lily's lisping love song over, she waves and smiles sweetly, she thinks, to everyone and then staggers off to a syringe and a bottle. Rapturous applause follows her.
Comedy, music, what more could be offered? The curtain drops.
Darkness and silence.
A single spot, aimed at the comer of the stage. Not Mr Spinge again? Surely no one could expect any more from him? An angular, gangly lad walks on. "Who's he?"
"Someone new?"
A slight cough and a confident smile, " Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Rimbaud Ree and I am going to entertain you "
"That's for us to decide" "How dare they put something new on the bill!" "What is he going to do?"
The lad produces some balls from his trouser pocket and begins to juggle them. Two, three, four five...and so on until he has something like a dozen balls/lying through the air in ever changing trajectories.
The crowd are restless, what is this show-off trying to prove? Why do they think that anyone could be entertained by such a display? Restless mutterings thrum through the theatre as displeasure is communicated.
Ree continues to juggle, a look of total concentration on his face, oblivious to the audience's lack of appreciation. The balls are looping higher and higher, disappearing out of view, when...a look of horror on the lad's face and the balls start to fall onto the stage floor... "I've shit meself! " he wails and runs off.
Relief spreads through the audience and he is forgotten almost immediately. When "And don't come back!" is heard from offstage, they cannot even begin to understand
what it is in aid of.
The show must be nearing the end now, the finale, the reason for coming, is nigh.
Darkness and.. .a drum roll. A drumroll that carries on and on, reaching a crescendo as the lights come on, the curtain raises and shows...
An empty stage.
The lights dim, leaving the stage bathed in a dark silvery blue. Where can he be?
A figure appears at the back of the stage.
He sidles forward. An old man, angular, thin, misshapen. He seems to find breathing, moving, standing still painful. Dressed in a too tight black suit, white hair spilling over his forehead, he licks his too big lips and
"Hello"
"I used to love my mother. "
"Even when she beat me, I deserved it"
Raucous laughter echoes around the theatre.
"When she beat me I was getting her attention "
"I was being noticed"
"A wonderful feeling"
The old man looks tremulously over his shoulder, as if expecting something or someone.
"My old dad loved me as well"
"But you don't want to hear about that"
"Yes we do" The audience all scream in unison.
But further exposition is rendered impossible because the audience are screaming approval - the Lads have appeared! One slides down from the ceiling on a rope, one
climbs up out of a trapdoor, three run on from the wings and one, it appears, was sitting in the front row. Of course, they are all carrying their famous baseball bats,
their little children as they call them, so we are told in the programme notes, they never speak themselves.
The old man whimpers and starts to lick his lips wildly - terror causes a dry mouth.
He tries to speak but the Lads are circling, weighing the children in their hands.
Laddie looks at the audience and grins, lifts the bat into the air as if to ask "Shall I? "
"Yes!" comes the resounding response and the bat spins intricately as Laddie swings it into the old man's abdomen. Hitherto silent, the orchestra strikes up a jaunty tune as next Laddo then Ladda then Laddington then Ladabad then Laditch each swing their bats into the old man. He falls to the stage and the Lads continue to hit him.
Each strike is met with cheers from the audience, each name is chanted, each Lad acknowledges his supporters and hits the old man again. When it looks like the old
man can stand no more and is about to breath his last, a voice barks from offstage
"Now Lads'. We want him fit again for next week, remember!"
The Lads stop circle around the old man and take their leave, each kicking him in the groin as they leave the stage, like some grotesque morris off.
The audience's bated breath is tangible. Have they gone too far this time? Will this be the final curtain call?
The bloody, broken heap stirs and somehow he drags himself to his feet,
"Th... " A bubble of blood comes from his nose, partnering another from his mouth. He coughs blood up, to the audience's hilarity,and tries again,
"This wee... " He crumples to a heap and slowly, oh so slowly, heaves himself back upright, coughing more blood up as he tries.
"This week's wor... " He seems to fall asleep while standing there, dripping blood from his mouth. A sudden jerk, more coughing,
"LOVE to SONG in three. Goodnight"
Darkness and silence.
Show over.
There's an air of expectation in town tonight. It's Friday night, the weekend starts here and it's the show of the week. With a waiting list of over two years, unless you
know someone who knows someone... Best bibs and tuckers are out in force, the slick suits with the razor sharp creases, the acres of taffeta and satin sewn into evening dresses fit for a queen. Not that she is ever here, although it is rumoured she watches and even joins in.
The limos pull up outside the biggest theatre in the land, the broad pavement ever more full of excited couples waiting the signal to enter. A buzz of anticipation as
pleasantries are exchanged, last week's show discussed, "Did you see...?" "Wasn't he funny?" "I never thought..." "Did you get it?" "I cannot wait for..." "Yes, it cost
George an absolute fortune but it is a once in a lifetime experience", and so on.
The lights are down, the orchestra strikes up with the theme song, TV cameras pan across the audience, some of whom are already chuckling in anticipation.
Silence and darkness.
A single spot, aimed at one side of the stage...it must be...yes! It's Mr Spinge!!!
A man walks from the side of the stage across in front of the curtain while the spot follows him. Of indeterminate age, he is dressed in a brown, broad check suit, with a
matching trilby. Halfway across he stops, turns his head slowly to look at the audience, as though he has only just noticed they are there. He raises his eyebrows
slightly, only the front row can see this hut everyone knows from the close-up on the TV each week. The house reverberates with hysterical laughter, Mr Spinge is a firm
favourite of the nation. He turns his head back, slowly, and continues his walk across the stage and into the wings on the opposite side. Act over.
"Oh, he's so funny!" "So clever" "How does he do it every week?" "A genius" The adulation for Mr Spinge buzzes around the auditorium for a few tens of seconds until
stifled by the curtain raising to reveal an idealised pastoral stage set, painted trees, green hills behind them and a few bales of straw scattered around the stage. One of
these has Lily Lobelia sitting upon it The audience applauds wildly
Lily Lobelia is in her 40s and looks it. Her act, as always, is to dress and act as a young girl, singing innocently of her hopes in love. She has blond hair that hangs in ringlets, almost certainly a wig. Her dress is flounced and too short, coloured a vivid red as befits her name. It has long sleeves to hides the rows of small bloody scabs on her arms. She holds a parasol to protect her delicate skin from an imagined sun. Which is ironic, given the quantity and thickness of makeup she has plastered herself with, in a vain attempt to hide the syphilitic sores about her mouth. Lily is famous
throughout the land for her amorous exploits, her hospital stays, her addictions. This should all contribute to a distinct lack of career but, in fact, adds a frisson, all the
associations mean she is, in a way, her own paedophile violator. And the audience love her for it.
Lily's lisping love song over, she waves and smiles sweetly, she thinks, to everyone and then staggers off to a syringe and a bottle. Rapturous applause follows her.
Comedy, music, what more could be offered? The curtain drops.
Darkness and silence.
A single spot, aimed at the comer of the stage. Not Mr Spinge again? Surely no one could expect any more from him? An angular, gangly lad walks on. "Who's he?"
"Someone new?"
A slight cough and a confident smile, " Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Rimbaud Ree and I am going to entertain you "
"That's for us to decide" "How dare they put something new on the bill!" "What is he going to do?"
The lad produces some balls from his trouser pocket and begins to juggle them. Two, three, four five...and so on until he has something like a dozen balls/lying through the air in ever changing trajectories.
The crowd are restless, what is this show-off trying to prove? Why do they think that anyone could be entertained by such a display? Restless mutterings thrum through the theatre as displeasure is communicated.
Ree continues to juggle, a look of total concentration on his face, oblivious to the audience's lack of appreciation. The balls are looping higher and higher, disappearing out of view, when...a look of horror on the lad's face and the balls start to fall onto the stage floor... "I've shit meself! " he wails and runs off.
Relief spreads through the audience and he is forgotten almost immediately. When "And don't come back!" is heard from offstage, they cannot even begin to understand
what it is in aid of.
The show must be nearing the end now, the finale, the reason for coming, is nigh.
Darkness and.. .a drum roll. A drumroll that carries on and on, reaching a crescendo as the lights come on, the curtain raises and shows...
An empty stage.
The lights dim, leaving the stage bathed in a dark silvery blue. Where can he be?
A figure appears at the back of the stage.
He sidles forward. An old man, angular, thin, misshapen. He seems to find breathing, moving, standing still painful. Dressed in a too tight black suit, white hair spilling over his forehead, he licks his too big lips and
"Hello"
"I used to love my mother. "
"Even when she beat me, I deserved it"
Raucous laughter echoes around the theatre.
"When she beat me I was getting her attention "
"I was being noticed"
"A wonderful feeling"
The old man looks tremulously over his shoulder, as if expecting something or someone.
"My old dad loved me as well"
"But you don't want to hear about that"
"Yes we do" The audience all scream in unison.
But further exposition is rendered impossible because the audience are screaming approval - the Lads have appeared! One slides down from the ceiling on a rope, one
climbs up out of a trapdoor, three run on from the wings and one, it appears, was sitting in the front row. Of course, they are all carrying their famous baseball bats,
their little children as they call them, so we are told in the programme notes, they never speak themselves.
The old man whimpers and starts to lick his lips wildly - terror causes a dry mouth.
He tries to speak but the Lads are circling, weighing the children in their hands.
Laddie looks at the audience and grins, lifts the bat into the air as if to ask "Shall I? "
"Yes!" comes the resounding response and the bat spins intricately as Laddie swings it into the old man's abdomen. Hitherto silent, the orchestra strikes up a jaunty tune as next Laddo then Ladda then Laddington then Ladabad then Laditch each swing their bats into the old man. He falls to the stage and the Lads continue to hit him.
Each strike is met with cheers from the audience, each name is chanted, each Lad acknowledges his supporters and hits the old man again. When it looks like the old
man can stand no more and is about to breath his last, a voice barks from offstage
"Now Lads'. We want him fit again for next week, remember!"
The Lads stop circle around the old man and take their leave, each kicking him in the groin as they leave the stage, like some grotesque morris off.
The audience's bated breath is tangible. Have they gone too far this time? Will this be the final curtain call?
The bloody, broken heap stirs and somehow he drags himself to his feet,
"Th... " A bubble of blood comes from his nose, partnering another from his mouth. He coughs blood up, to the audience's hilarity,and tries again,
"This wee... " He crumples to a heap and slowly, oh so slowly, heaves himself back upright, coughing more blood up as he tries.
"This week's wor... " He seems to fall asleep while standing there, dripping blood from his mouth. A sudden jerk, more coughing,
"LOVE to SONG in three. Goodnight"
Darkness and silence.
Show over.
I spend as much time as I can on Dartmoor. It's never enough due to other commitments, so when I get up there it is always a treat. What do I like about it...?
...it is convenient. Always on the horizon from my town (if you are in the right place), I can get to its outskirts within 20 minutes.
...other than a few very minor roads, little more than farm tracks, around its edges, there are really only two roads, crossing around the centre, on the whole moor.
It is an amazing experience to walk only a short distance to find all traffic sounds have disappeared to be replaced by the sound of the ever-present wind blowing through the grass and around the tors and the singing of the skylarks. It is, for me, a spiritual experience. I get a real sense of my insignificance in the face of a much larger reality while, at the same time, my place as part of a greater, interlinked whole.
...the air is clean. As some of the highest land in the south-west, it gets the full blast of the prevailing winds without any polluting filter between itself and the Atlantic. So pure is the air, after a while walking on the moor and you feel positively light-headed.
...it offers as easy or as hard walking as you feel like doing. A gentle stroll, with minimal exertion or a testing up hill and down dale hike, with a real sense of achievement, it's up to you.
...despite the wilderness, isolation and often testing conditions, it would be wrong to think things up there haven't changed since time began. It is a heavily man-affected landscape. Woodlands have cleared and replanted with the uniform, sterile, coniferous plantations. Everywhere you can see evidence of past habitation and, from the density of remains in some places, quite populous habitation.
...as would be expected in such an ancient landscape, legends abound. I have recently found this website, which contains a wealth of material on such matters.
One such legend-laced place is Wistman's Wood, one of the few remaining pieces of the ancient oak woodland that used to cover the whole of the moor. It is a reasonably gentle walk of a bit over a mile from the centre of the moor at Two Bridges. One visit a year or two ago elicited this...
In Wistman's Wood
O'er Wistman's Wood,
Littaford Tor:
Granite watchman
Where buzzards soar
In Wistman's Wood
The fairies play
'Neath stunted trees
On boulders grey.
In Wistman's Wood
An old witch tells
Her granddaughter
Of age-old spells.
In Wistman's Wood
In twisted oaks
A monkey climbs
While telling jokes
In Wistman's Wood
The veil is thin
The Otherworld
Is clearly seen
With tor above, river below,
Old trees within and nacreous glow,
In Wistman's Wood the elements...
...Of life are all in evidence.
...it is convenient. Always on the horizon from my town (if you are in the right place), I can get to its outskirts within 20 minutes.
...other than a few very minor roads, little more than farm tracks, around its edges, there are really only two roads, crossing around the centre, on the whole moor.
It is an amazing experience to walk only a short distance to find all traffic sounds have disappeared to be replaced by the sound of the ever-present wind blowing through the grass and around the tors and the singing of the skylarks. It is, for me, a spiritual experience. I get a real sense of my insignificance in the face of a much larger reality while, at the same time, my place as part of a greater, interlinked whole.
...the air is clean. As some of the highest land in the south-west, it gets the full blast of the prevailing winds without any polluting filter between itself and the Atlantic. So pure is the air, after a while walking on the moor and you feel positively light-headed.
...it offers as easy or as hard walking as you feel like doing. A gentle stroll, with minimal exertion or a testing up hill and down dale hike, with a real sense of achievement, it's up to you.
...despite the wilderness, isolation and often testing conditions, it would be wrong to think things up there haven't changed since time began. It is a heavily man-affected landscape. Woodlands have cleared and replanted with the uniform, sterile, coniferous plantations. Everywhere you can see evidence of past habitation and, from the density of remains in some places, quite populous habitation.
...as would be expected in such an ancient landscape, legends abound. I have recently found this website, which contains a wealth of material on such matters.
One such legend-laced place is Wistman's Wood, one of the few remaining pieces of the ancient oak woodland that used to cover the whole of the moor. It is a reasonably gentle walk of a bit over a mile from the centre of the moor at Two Bridges. One visit a year or two ago elicited this...
In Wistman's Wood
O'er Wistman's Wood,
Littaford Tor:
Granite watchman
Where buzzards soar
In Wistman's Wood
The fairies play
'Neath stunted trees
On boulders grey.
In Wistman's Wood
An old witch tells
Her granddaughter
Of age-old spells.
In Wistman's Wood
In twisted oaks
A monkey climbs
While telling jokes
In Wistman's Wood
The veil is thin
The Otherworld
Is clearly seen
With tor above, river below,
Old trees within and nacreous glow,
In Wistman's Wood the elements...
...Of life are all in evidence.
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