Magic and mystery in the Cornish mists

On the morning of Sunday October 6th, I took a train from Paddington to St Austell, Cornwall for another literary pilgrimage.  On the first page of Over Sea, Under Stone by Susan Cooper, the three Drew children arrive in St Austell and are taken by the mysterious Merriman Lyon south to the fishing village of Trewissick, which is a thin veil for the real village of Mevagissey (below).

For a while I frolicked in this fantasy world of The Dark is Rising sequence, walking the fog-draped coastline and picturing scenes from the book.  A perpetual Cornish mist rolled in from the sea which was to plague me further, despite my foolishly optimistic hopes.

At the nearby Lost Gardens of Heligan I discovered a wonderful New Zealand garden and even experienced an encounter with the Grey Lady (above).  She is said to haunt the place and it would appear to be true.  Nearby rested her companion the Mud Maid, though I think she does not like this name and wishes that she were called instead the Green Maid.

For my third day I planned a complex series of buses and trains which I started off promisingly by missing the first bus.  An old man drove me directly through another route to drop me off at at place where I caught that very same bus, and I then continued my convoluted route to a place of great magic: Tintagel Castle.  Beleaguered by the sodden mist I climbed down onto the beach and christened my visit by entering Merlin's cave.

Again with all my luggage on my back, I climbed the 123 tall stone steps to the top of the medieval castle where I saw very little beyond the inside of a cloud, though on a lower level there were some views of the ruggedly beautiful coast.

It was plain to see how stories of wild magic grew in such a place.  Eventually the clouds kissed the earth and my reasons to linger melted away into the obscuring fog.

I hitch-hiked east, detouring south at the last minute when I learned that all the hostels on Dartmoor were full (due to a trashy event in Tavistock called the Goose Fair, a tradition allegedly 500 years old, but in reality long since dead as today's Goose Fair contains no geese and is just a vulgar frenzy of noise, lights and second-rate junk, with each lumbering local walking slower than the last).  A pair of fabulous French women picked me up and drove me into Plymouth where they kindly offered me a pitstop at their flat before I continued on to my hostel.

The following day I walked into the middle of nowhere in Dartmoor for the wildest secondhand bookshop I have ever seen.  At the end of a winding stone road sat a decrepit old farmhouse that was filled to the rafters with secondhand books.  The building was hundreds of years old and as dank as you can imagine, so many of the books were mouldering and musty.  Nonetheless, I left with a pile of minor treasures and made my way to St Michael de Rupe's chapel at Brentor (below).

The blue sky belies the freezing winds that shrieked around the stone eaves or the grey vanguard of stormclouds that approached steadily over the moors.  I took shelter inside its walls, watching the rain pelt the angel in the stained glass window and then resumed my trek toward civilisation.

The weather was crisp and clear the following day, so by bus, thumb and foot I journeyed into the very heart of Dartmoor for a perfect afternoon at Wistman's Wood.  This ancient tract of twisted oaks is perhaps my most sacred place on earth.

I took off for Estonia and was reunited with one of my old friends (below). 

Of trees and trains in Transylvania

I emerged from the Cluj Napoca train station in Transylvania to a cacophonous murder of crows above my head.  The great black cloud writhed and clenched like the churning thoughts of a maddened brain and I was mesmerised. 

My first significant stop was Sighisoara (above) to visit the Breite Oak Reserve, home to ancient oaks many centuries old, including one venerable king of 800 years.

When I arrived on the serene plateau, the sacredness was palpable.  I set off with my map to find the King of the Oaks, but found my way blocked.  There was a skeleton of a tree in the other direction who insisted on my attention before I could proceed further.  He was long dead and with an aura of rot.  Woodpeckers had drilled holes around the trunk like cavities in a tooth and silver slug trails glittered around the fungi-laced openings through which insects crawled on business of their own prerogative.  Flies crept upon the mould that lined every crevice and spiders both dead and alive littered the ground where his gangrenous feet plunged into the earth.  He was hideous and yet somehow beautiful.  He was the ugly gatekeeper and without passing his test I would never have been allowed into the ephemeral world of the oaks.

 

 Before long I felt another tug upon my mind, both strong and insistent.  An oak some way off held my vision captive, demanding my next encounter.  I set off indirectly and she chided me, "Is not the straightest path the surest?"  I arrived to find a distraught old lady with half her side hollowed out and burned to ash.  She was desperate for communion and within seconds of putting my hands on her, I felt a torrent of emotional pain.  Never before have I experienced another mind swimming so suddenly in mine and I began immediately to cry.  Like a battered woman who is accustomed to being abused by every man who touches her, this sweet old tree was so used to being hurt that her anguish was overwhelming.  Just as humans overflow with emotion when moved by a loving touch, she poured her sorrow and grief into me and even now, recounting the experience causes me to weep freely.

Afterwards she gave me a leaf to put in my pocket and then I was allowed to approach the king.  I headed in his direction but when I drew near I felt strong opposition.  "No further!"  I turned around and put my bags on a stump surrounded by stinging nettles, then opened a drink so that I might be courteous and offer him a libation.  I took a sip to demonstrate that it was good (royal etiquette), but when I approached him again, he bade me, "Take off your shoes and hat."  How like a king.

I did as I was commanded and he let me come near the third time but I knew that I was not to touch him.  I did not need to.  I stood as close as possible and very soon, exquisite tremors began to go up and down my spine. I stood for a while in ecstatic paralysis, then eventually became aware that there was something I needed to find.  I found nearby a staff of his wood that had a smooth patch for my hand and peeling bark everywhere else that made the dry sound of a rattlesnake's tail when I walked.  With this staff I was permitted to go where I liked, tread the ancient paths between the trees and meet whom I pleased.  After another hour of doing exactly this, I returned to the King and laid the staff against his trunk, for to do otherwise would be most unseemly.  I embraced the wounded lady one more time and walked back to town in the dying light.

My next destinations were marred by inclement weather.  In Sibiu there was a mountain chill that sank into my marrow and despite voyaging into the Cindrel mountains, I saw none of them.  Apparently they are beautiful when not shrouded heavily with cloud.  Brasov was much the same, and the rain turned quickly to snow that fell silently and steadily until there was no point in staying to visit castles or forests.  My train to Bucharest was scheduled 2.20pm - 5.10pm.  At 6.00pm we were still in the station, watching the world freeze through a seamless veil of falling snow.  Eventually we set off, only to become stuck in the mountainous middle of nowhere with fallen trees on the tracks ahead.  As midnight crept closer, the tension on the train heightened and I sat watching, waiting and nervously sanitising my hands.  Near 11.00pm I escaped with two men and caught a taxi through the mountains and 150km into Bucharest.  The driver was fond of high speeds and passing trucks on the bend.  I was lucky to survive.