A tale of three wells

I made it to Glastonbury. I’d like to say that the overcast broke for just a moment, parallel rays of sunlight illuminating the Tor at an oblique angle, a welcome, something sublime. I can’t. If it had, I probably would have made a different choice. 

Glastonbury Tor

In the event, after entering the precincts of Glastonbury, I turned left off an ascending residential street, up a flight of steps into a pasture, a half dozen shaggy haired longhorns on the ground, heads raised, following my movement up Wearyall Hill. The Tor, evident in the distance a mile or so ahead, is itself positioned on a steep climb across the intervening low spaces that were once arms of the sea and marshlands, making the hills of Avalon appear as islands. I climbed past the decorated remains of the vandalized hawthorn tree, a Mediterranean type that flowers twice a year, not native to England. It is a cutting, legend tells, of the original thorn tree from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, miraculously rooted when touched to the ground, a plaque nearby to mark that spot. Cloth, ribbons, Tibetan prayer flags puff lightly in the mild breeze. Had the sun graced the moment, I likely would have continued to the Tor. That my Airbnb host was going to leave soon for work and I needed to secure my room before she did, was my excuse for not carrying on. 

The Vandalized and Decorated Holy Thorn

In truth, I wanted to ditch my backpack and, hoping for sunshine, planned to climb the Tor the next morning. I turned into town, down Magdalena Street toward the High Street. 

The pilgrim resource center is not like the centers at either Rome or Compostela, tens or hundreds of pilgrims chatting in line about their experiences, waiting to get their certificates of completion. In a room behind the man at the tourist information desk, a tall handsome greyed woman welcomes me, a middle aged man, large sized, sits in a chair thumbing through the literature. The greeting is pleasant, not emphatic, interested that I had walked most of the way from Land’s End, her mind searching back to try to recall the last time that had happened. A prosaic response from an unflappable woman who seems to have seen it all, representing as she does the seventy or so spiritualities in Glastonbury that the center is aware of.    

I introduce myself.  The woman does the same. To the man, seated, I offer my hand, “I’m Gary. “ He looks up, “I am Buddha,” he says. “Buddha, as in Siddhartha Buddha?” I reply. The woman says that he’s been here a few weeks, as if to somehow explain. 

I ask if, among all her literature, she has something that will tell me about pilgrimage to Glastonbury in the Middle Ages. She offers a work of historical fiction about a young tween who joins the abbey, so not much on that, really. Plenty on goddess worship and other belief systems. With a map in hand that marks sites of import to the Glastonbury experience — the Tor, the Chalice Well, the Abbey, the Goddess Temple, King Arthur’s tomb, the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, St. John the Baptist church, St. Margaret’s Chapel and almshouses - and some hand scratched suggestions for vegetarian food, I exit and plan my tomorrow.

Pagan or New Age or Both

My first impression is that Glastonbury wears its spirituality on store fronts and shop signs. It reminds me of a small Haight Street, sans head-shops, though there is a store that specializes in supplies for growing hemp. A few grifters and homeless, pastel chalk mandalas on the sidewalk, shops selling all things magical, essences, candles, crystals, Celtic jewelry, a Viking store, alternative bookshops, and a local newspaper listing events, seminars, and small group practica, every imaginable life balance regimen represented, all reinforced this first sense of a commercial spirituality at work in Glastonbury. But chance encounters do offer opportunities to peel back the layers of what Glastonbury is and hint to a genuine openness.

Which gets me to the wells. My walk was challenging. I was more often in my body than in my mind. But three well-borne experiences did send me to deeper levels of reflection. My conversation with Trevor about Alsia’s Well, discovered by pagan Phoenicians, dedicated to Demeter, and named for a sixteenth century wise woman, opened up a deep history of this walk that I suspected but did not previously appreciate. Here in Glastonbury and nearby, two other wells, the Chalice Well, steeped in early Christian legend, but evocative of pagan goddess worship, and my strong emotional response to Evensong at the Wells Cathedral, similarly were occasions when I was able to go beyond the pure bodily and sensate aspects of my walk.

St. Patrick's Chapel

Sunshine. The next morning, I awake to a chill but sunny day. After a light breakfast of instant Nescafé and two fig bars, I leave to climb the Tor from the far side, a more pleasant, greener, less touristed approach to the top. The path is familiar. I’ve described it before. Not dissimilar from climbing Bren Tor: field, pasture, dirt track, steps, the top, the Tor. I’d say the appeal was pedestrian not spiritual. Yes, an early church and a tower destroyed in an earthquake, rebuilt, rededicated to Michael, views. I don’t mean to dismiss it. It was historical, interesting, pleasant. I just didn’t feel a sense of arrival. 

I head down the more frequented path, back in the direction of Glastonbury center. At the base, I turn to find the White well, a small patio type forecourt with placed rocks, strewn flowers, water bubbling from a stone-built, gated building, dark interior, signs warning to refrain from photography out of respect for the spiritual nature of the spot, all combining to make it feel anything but.

Chalice Well

Then there is the Chalice Well. I turn the corner, and enter the gardens. It is difficult to describe this spot. I stop to chat with Timothy, manning the ticket office. I am not good at guessing ages but I'd say a bit younger than I, perhaps ten years, hippily clothed in neat, pristine eastern raiment, a Fu Man Chu (perhaps non-PC, but the approved style name of American Mustache Institute) hanging down to the jaw line. We chat for a bit about what brought him here and what brought him back, my walk and the Chalice Well. In retrospect, I sensed an opening to go further, but I did not realize it at the time. I often look back and only then recognize the open doors I've passed by. We could have spoken more, if I had asked him, perhaps even met up later to talk about Glastonbury as a community. Lost opportunity.

On entry I feel the feminine nature of this place immediately, verdant, almost a botanical garden, paths leading to pools and watercourses, large yew trees in which one might discern aged faces in the bark, trees for hugging. There are several small groups of predominantly but not exclusively women, each with a leader, a spiritual guide speaking softly. Quiet, gurgling fountains drown out the street noise, waters swirl hypnotic. Trevor, on the first day of my walk, had opined that "pagans see all good as coming from the Earth, Christians from the sky." The Chalice Gardens radiates its good from below. 

I approach the Well slowly, quietly, passing a woman, barefoot, skirts hiked up, wading in a pool of water that runs from the it. A healing ritual. It’s the kind of place where quiet is not requested. It just happens. The only people there are those who want to be, approaching the well with respect, some with reverence. Though it is the site at which it is said that Joseph of Arimathea hid the Holy Grail, it is not a Christian religious aura that permeates the space. It is decidedly pagan. It is more Goddess than God, more personal than prescribed.

I stand for long moments, drawn to the deep, dark of the well, framed by a crown of green clover and ivy. My breathing slows and I relax into a thoughtless calm. I climb a grassy path into a small meadow. To my right a priestess addresses a seated ring of souls, placing drops of essential oils in their cupped hands. In her peripheral vision she sees me going by and interrupts her progression to approach me, offering the essential oil to me as well. I thank her and cup my hands but cannot discern the flower or herb from which it is made. Not so strong as Rosemary, perhaps Thyme. "Cup your hands over your heart, " she instructs. I was going to continue on my way, but that gift of inclusion made me stop and take a bench, not part of the group but near to it. I cannot fully join, despite the invitation.I do not want to intrude. I don’t really hear what she says from the bench where I am seated, but I feel the quietude and relax in the spring sunshine. Another lost opportunity?

Wells Cathedral Church

By late afternoon, I return to my room, a simple, well curated vegetarian lunch feeding a quick nap that leads to a solid sleep that threatens my early evening plans, a musical meditation at the Goddess Temple, trying to get a sample of another ilk of Glastonbury’s new age spirit. But I am too late. Seeing a bus and acting on impulse, I hop on for the six mile ride to the city of Wells, named for three wells there, dedicated to St. Andrew. It was granted city status in the Middle Ages and is England’s smallest. Evensong at the Anglican Cathedral Church is what draws me here. Checking my phone for the time, I realize I will be late for the five o’clock service. I arrive at the cathedral fifteen minutes too late. I am allowed to enter the cathedral but the chapter-house where the service is being celebrated is closed off after Evensong begins. I can hear the distant choir but I am separated from the rite by the altar, the space behind it, and the rood screen. Then I see the verger, who catches my eye, whispers to ask if I would like to join the service, my disappointment reversing to a silently mouthed thank you as he leads me quietly to an empty seat on an otherwise full pew. Another opening up, this time accepted.

As I’ve mentioned before, these rites do not reflect my own spirituality, but I take comfort in the music, the voices, the acoustics in this soaring space. I feel the ages of reverence and contemplation there. Slowly, the music and my thoughts merge and I drop my head into my hands. I am still able to sense the aromatics from the oils placed in my cupped palms hours earlier. I inhale deeply, emotion wells up, and I relax into my thoughts. There are still things that need to be worked out.

All told, a nice walk, a fun time but it seems I still have some distance to travel.