Fishing by a river on the Somerset Levels
Yesterday and today have been an exploration of Glastonbury and Wells, and very briefly Yeovil. The small town of Glastonbury nests comfortably on the Somerset Levels and has a peaceful life. This belies the religious upheavals it has witnessed in the past. All that remains of the 12th century abbey are those spared by the Dissolution of the Monasteries in 1539. Even less remains of the earlier 10th century structures raised by St Dunstan that were destroyed in 1184 by fire.
More ancient associations are legendary and less convincing, be it the last days of King Arthur or disciples of Christ bearing the Holy Grail. The truth of legends can be never be ascertained. If they could be, they would cease to be legends. So long as human imagination and enquiry into the unknown exist, legends will continue to live and grow. They will continue to have a place in our lives. Legends exist for the individual at one level whose faith and belief give force to their mythical character. On another level they exist for society to come to terms with an uncertain history, to fill in the gaps that are not just historical. However, the spirits of these legends, if we can imagine them to be real, need not fulfil any purpose; they exist for their sake, in the minds of men.
St Dunstan introduced the Rule of St Benedictine to Glastonbury and to England. The abbey grounds contained everything that a person would need so that a monk would have no reason to visit town. All his waking hours would have been occupied in prayer, service, study and work as prescribed by the Rules. One can see a parallel here with Tibetan monks of the Himalayas. Some of these rules are words of wisdom that we too in these modern times could employ profitably.
The tower on the tor
The best attraction of Glastonbury is the Tor upon which stands the 14th century St Michael’s Tower. “Tor” is a west-country world of Celtic origin which means hill. There opens a 360 degree view from the summit, across the Levels and into the surrounding counties. If one should desire to be impressed by English countryside and the beauty that it holds with a natural simplicity, then the view from the summit would satisfy such a desire – a patchwork of green fields separated by hedges stretching towards distant hills, the cattle grazing the slopes of the tor, clouds moving with the wind and kissed by the afternoon sun.
For a small town, Glastonbury has numerous shops of a specific kind, more than what we would expect. It is soaked in a spiritual atmosphere, not just of Christianity, but of Asian philosophies too. Bookshops specialise in spiritual literature. Souvenir shops sell goods and talismans from the Far East banking on the exotic and mystic allure of their philosophies. Tapes on meditative music and meditation are a common sight. There is a Buddhist temple, an Indian retreat, and most likely others I have failed to notice. Yet, for all these that are to be seen, this “spiritual soaking” has little more than commercial appeal. I wonder if it has any intrinsic value. At least in the East, spiritual progress is seen to be possible only under a guidance of a guru, on a personal level that relies neither on organization or advertisement. It relies only on the relationship between the guru and the shishya developed by and developed along with the sound principles of philosophy that bring them together.
But I shall hardly remember Glastonbury for its presumed spirituality. I shall remember it as the place where I first tasted cider. Lovely! I have found out today that there are two varieties of Somerset ciders: Kingston Black and Yarlington Mill. I record it here for the sake of it although it means little to me.
I walked many miles yesterday on the Somerset Levels. I thought my boots would suffocate under a thick coating of cattle shit and mud. It appears, they enjoyed it. My trousers were splattered in mud. Following the first splatter, they cared little and walked free of care. Along a river I found someone fishing. An open cylindrical net dropped down from the river bank into the flowing waters. He throws all his catch back into the river through this net. I continued on my walk, wandering with an unconscious purpose. Across the Levels, the Tor of Glastonbury beckoned this wanderer of the countryside.
The more I travel the countryside, the more it appeals over the humdrum of London. The impression of England in India is one of wealth, prosperity, fashion and high lifestyle that are the visible icons of modernization. This is reinforced by an identity that London casts over the rest of the country. However, London is a melting-pot of many cultures thriving on an English fabric that has itself been transformed over time by many influences that are now part of it. The true spirit of the land is then in the villages, the cottages, the village pubs, the open fields…
Cheese presses in the Rural Life Museum
A close partnership between man and nature for the happiness of both is the essence of this country life. A culture that does not respect nature can never rise in estimation or be worthy of admiration. As times changed, country lifestyle has suffered the most but the change has not all been unwelcome. It has been a change necessary for survival, survival of itself and the larger society. The replacement of manual labour by machines has not spared any phase of the agricultural year. At times of war, such changes have been critical. With this has come the loss of a simple, communal way of living and all the joys of ploughing, ridging, sowing, weeding, mowing, haymaking, rick building, thatching, reaping, binding, stooking, threshing, winnowing, milling, hedging, ditching, barking… Peat digging no longer exists today the way it was decades ago. Sheep dipping, sheep shearing, dairying, gorse clearing, cider pressing and cheese making exist today but in more mechanised forms. Country life is not an easy one. The depression of the 1870s and the subsequent years have shown the appalling truths of such a life. Many are the causes of such changes and we have become victims of our own progress however that may be defined. When in Glastonbury, a visit to the Rural Life Museum is not to be missed. One of the most interesting things to note here is the vast array of words and phrases that are part of a country vocabulary:
straw lid, cheese vat, double cheese press, coracle, clam, clog, wheelwright, smith, settle, dolly, mangle, rick teaser, hay rick, sickle, scythe, pomace, cider, pattens, sheave, billhook, mitten, billycock, waggoner, heel rake, flagon, pikel, crock, frock, smock, willow rattles, shovel, dibber, bee skep, hayknife, pitch fork, hay grab, flannel shirt, postillion
It is noteworthy that we hardly use most of these words today, even in a country setting. As society progresses and transforms its own lifestyle, so too comes the transformation of words and an evolution of language. New words and expressions take the place of older ones. A language that does not keep pace with the changing times is sure to meet a natural death. In this regard, English has done well. We are already living in an age in which the vocabulary of everyday conversations is dominated by words of technology and gadgets.
No weekend travel can be complete without visiting a church or a cathedral, for which the traveller is sure to cross at least one in his self-determined path. The Parish Church of St John the Baptist at Glastonbury with its prominent tower and crocketed pinnacles can be seen for miles across the Levels. An evening church musical telling the story of Nativity wasn’t exciting and the aging choir was appalling. The Parish Church of St Cuthbert at Wells is unique in its 16th century ceiling. Similar to the church at Glastonbury, the tower rises above the west front rather than at the crossing. This becomes clearer when I am told that the tower at the crossing had collapsed. The best, of course, is the Cathedral at Wells. Even in wet weather, it thrills, along with the Bishop’s Palace, the moat and the Vicar’s Close. The apostles on the west front, the tierceron vaulting of the Chapter House, the scissor arches at the crossing are notable. Another visit to this cathedral in better weather is necessary but with so much to cover of this country I wonder if I will come this way ever again.
I stayed for evensong at the Cathedral. An elderly couple were in disbelief when an unconventional piece (Nova! Nova! – Chilcott) was sung. One should suppose that the Church too must evolve with the times. With every such visit I question the purpose and approach of the Church in an individual’s quest for spiritual happiness if not liberation. At least this weekend it has become clear that the Church has played an important role in aspects other than religion. It is possible to trace one’s ancestry by referring to the well-kept records such as the Baptism register. Likewise, one can gather much from epitaphs, effigies, sculptures and the like that survive. Sunday was not just a day for rest and spiritual reflection but also for social bonding.
I shall end this weekend’s accounts with a quote from Mary Strode, Ackworth School, 1806 as recorded at the Rural Life Museum in Glastonbury:
Solitude is the hallowed ground which religion hath, in every age, chosen for her own. There, her inspiration is felt, and her secret mysteries elevate the soul. There, falls the tear of contrition; there, rises towards heaven the sigh of the heart; there, melts the soul with all tenderness of devotion, and pours itself forth before him who made, and him who redeemed it.
