A Witch's Memoir
Helen Guerrero tells the remarkable story of her initiations as a lone witch, young, living rough, and learning the ways of the shaman. Her story begins in the early 1990s when she became an "eco-warrior" with the Dongas Tribe road protest group, fighting for the environment around Britain in campaigns that included Twyford Down, near Winchester. For Helen's immediate group, though, there was an element of shamanism, "in the pre-Roman European wise-woman meaning of the word", she says. She describes her mystical visions, her out of the body experiences when illness brought her close to death, her experimentation with psychotropics and DMT, being kidnapped in India, and much else. Helen now lives in New Zealand. Her story has been serialised here in weekly instalments.
1: Vision quest
I had been introduced to paganism by some neo-pagans whom I met when at university. They practised a very practical form, not overly related to Wicca, which was seen as a relatively new form of paganism. But we focussed more on establishing a living connection with the Great Mother (the Earth) through living close to the earth and learning about hunting and gathering. We lived in benders, a traditional dwelling using hazel poles and tarpaulin (not so traditional!) and had very little to do with modern technology.
Liberty Cap mushrooms were used regularly to break down the wall between earthly realms and spiritual realms, the Great Mother in many forms, and the pagan gods were invoked and music was used to create trance. Often, the visions produced were related to the destruction of Mother Earth by the builders of roads, and many archetypal images would emerge related to the old myths and stories.
A lot of this, I believe, was psychologically provoked by our very real sadness surrounding the destruction of many sites of special scientific interest, and pagan archaeological places initiated by Thatcher's governmental roads programme. So this started my interest in the healing powers of psychotropic plants and fungi, and the use of psychotherapy, in conjunction with ritual, in safe and loving environments. I did not fully form this idea at the time.
Some of the early experiences I had were on top of St Catherine's Hill, a sacred hill near Winchester. Legend was that this hill was the eye of a pagan dragon that stretched down to Cornwall, following the established Michael and Mary ley line. On top of the hill was an ancient beech grove, seen to be the guardian tree. We would have a fire, tended by an old gipsy, Gypsy Jon, who also made great tea and always sat in the warmest, least smoky, driest spot! We had two older shamans who would lead chants and drumming, and the rest of us, mostly women, would dance into trance and then peel away into the darkness for our vision quests.
So those early experiences were very powerful and led me on to my exploration of myself as a witch, the most natural feeling pathway, and somehow very familiar. I realised quite early that I was a lone witch, not a coven member, in fact preferring to commune with nature alone.
We all then moved off out into other parts of the world and continued to explore separately. However, we always came together in some form to celebrate Samhain, Lammas, Beltane, Imbolc, the solstices or the equinoxes. Samhain was often the most powerful vision-quest time, with the veil between the worlds very thin, and always we met in power spots. The West Kennet long barrow, in Wiltshire, and other barrows where the chambers are open, and of course, Stonehenge (that was illegal and the power very uncomfortable - not nice really)
Another place was a very powerful valley in Wales known as Nant Gwynant. At Samhain in Nant Gwynant, a wild witch, Alex, made a powerful brew in a cauldron with yew berries gathered on a dark moon from a graveyard, Liberty Cap mushrooms in honey, mead and herbs. On Samhain, you leave a place set at the feast for someone who has passed and invite them to visit.
While Alex and I wandered over the mountains, chanting and hearing some very haunting cries (I will link this later), her partner Gareth was visited by his best friend who was killed by a bomb in Northern Ireland. They were both in the army; Gareth was hanging out of the back of a truck, whistling at a girl, when they were blown up and he was thrown clear. Gareth and his friend spent many hours together that night alone by the fire. We returned to find him in tears, and alone. I just want to add that Gareth was a very sober Welshman and not prone to believing our "witchy nonsense".
I set up a hammock in the yew tree and proceeded to live within her influence. I can't say how or when I was aware she was female; at this time I didn't know yews could be of either sex. But, very early on, I became aware of a communication between us. I spent a lot of time up in the hammock, playing my Irish tin whistle. I slept every night in the hammock, and spent the days around the tree's base at the camp we set up.
I embarked upon a publicity campaign to bring public attention to the protest, based on wanton destruction of what was once wild land, common land, homes, the Hackney Marshes and, in some cases, still inhabited family homes. One 80-year-old lady had been born and had had all her children in her home and, in fact, when she was finally removed to an old folks' home, she didn't survive the year.
I went to Ireland with some musician friends and we travelled to various festivals playing our music and busking, and my heart became lighter. Eventually, I came to Bantry Bay, and visited a place I had been recommended to go to. Kealkil Valley was the home to a family, the father was Mike, and they owned a self-sustainable home and business, growing and planting trees. I had not spoken of my yew to anyone - whom could I tell? But in Mike I found a kindred spirit. He knew yew trees, and so I got it all off my chest and he understood and sympathised and took me under his wing.
He took me and some others to a Rainbow Gathering near Skibbereen, in the deep south of Ireland, and we spent the first night in a bell tent with rain I had never seen before or since, flooding every available space. We ate soup and sang all night, perched on tables as there wasn't a dry spot anywhere.
The following morning, as the rain cleared, I heard a voice in my head: "Come to me." My yew tree. I had no desire to return to London but her call, after so much silence, was clear as a bell, and I felt I had no choice. So off I hitched to the ferry.
6: A deathly pain
We felt especially strongly towards these heritage sites, after all, English Heritage let Cadbury Castle to a farmer for grazing his cattle, and they were cutting up the land terribly. How could this site be treated so disrespectfully by the group elected to protect it?
We stayed here for some days celebrating Samhain with friends and locals. I was starting to feel unwell at this point and knew I couldn't keep up this way of life for the whole winter. My bender had no woodburner and it was progressively more miserable weather. I ended up leaving to stay with a friend in Glastonbury and, from there, took a bus up to Bangor, Wales, to seek out one of the Dongas from Twyford Down, Alex, whom I knew had a place on the Isle of Anglesey.
As the days passed, I grew aware that I was still weak and that the pain was returning. What was the cause of this illness, this festering wound? What was its purpose? I had my suspicions that it was more learning being impressed upon me by my yew, a theory strengthened by a strange phone call I'd received a few months before. Out of the blue, Alan Meredith, the yew expert whom I had met in London, called me at my mum's; we talked and I spoke of my illness. To my surprise, he complained of a similar problem, and we surmised that exposure to the yew toxin was the cause. Was she still testing me after all this time?
9: Healed at last
The trip was planned for June and was still three months away, so I had time to get stronger. It was a long road to be well in my mind, having been sick for so long. My body was doing well, but I was still feeling weak and vulnerable, and relied upon Jon. That was strange for me, always such a strong independent woman, and I craved this chance to grow again in the midst of adventure.
I know it was hard for mum to let me go but, as ever, she respected my independence and, in her way of setting me free, sent me a card in which she inscribed the song Forever Young by Bob Dylan. I hoped I could be so supportive to my own children when that time came.
10: Kidnapped in Kashmir
He kept us up for hours until we were so exhausted we agreed to get a bus to Kashmir the next day, and booked a wondrous houseboat to stay on Dhal Lake. Miraculously, at that moment, a place to sleep materialised. How foolish we were to buy all this but, of course, used to people being fairly believable, combined with culture shock and exhaustion, you agree to anything. I have to say that, for a kidnapping, for that is what it turned out to be, it was a very polite method.
Yussef was the father of the family we stayed with, a really fascinating man. He housed us, asked us for only what we could afford, and said he knew we would do our best. I helped his wife prepare the meals, and played with his children. He helped us reclaim some of our money that had been taken in Delhi, and lay complaints with the police. He felt it his duty to fight the control the families held over Srinagar. They knew all about it, it was nothing unusual.
12: Kubla Khan
It was coming close to full moon, and I needed to get to the Salt Lake to meet the boys. In Leh, pictured, I met some French birdwatchers, Francoise, Edgar and Jean-Jacques, who were travelling to a lake to spot some rare species and I was welcome to hop on board. We drove south for hours, eventually crossing a high pass and descending into the most vast valley I have ever experienced. The Valley of the Gods; words cannot describe the enormity of this landscape. Even our driver, a native of Leh, could not spot the pass to take us into the Salt Lake valley, and drove up and down for hours and miles until, by chance, he spotted some hidden tracks and headed down them.
Liberty Cap mushrooms were used regularly to break down the wall between earthly realms and spiritual realms, the Great Mother in many forms, and the pagan gods were invoked and music was used to create trance. Often, the visions produced were related to the destruction of Mother Earth by the builders of roads, and many archetypal images would emerge related to the old myths and stories.
A lot of this, I believe, was psychologically provoked by our very real sadness surrounding the destruction of many sites of special scientific interest, and pagan archaeological places initiated by Thatcher's governmental roads programme. So this started my interest in the healing powers of psychotropic plants and fungi, and the use of psychotherapy, in conjunction with ritual, in safe and loving environments. I did not fully form this idea at the time.
Some of the early experiences I had were on top of St Catherine's Hill, a sacred hill near Winchester. Legend was that this hill was the eye of a pagan dragon that stretched down to Cornwall, following the established Michael and Mary ley line. On top of the hill was an ancient beech grove, seen to be the guardian tree. We would have a fire, tended by an old gipsy, Gypsy Jon, who also made great tea and always sat in the warmest, least smoky, driest spot! We had two older shamans who would lead chants and drumming, and the rest of us, mostly women, would dance into trance and then peel away into the darkness for our vision quests.So those early experiences were very powerful and led me on to my exploration of myself as a witch, the most natural feeling pathway, and somehow very familiar. I realised quite early that I was a lone witch, not a coven member, in fact preferring to commune with nature alone.
We all then moved off out into other parts of the world and continued to explore separately. However, we always came together in some form to celebrate Samhain, Lammas, Beltane, Imbolc, the solstices or the equinoxes. Samhain was often the most powerful vision-quest time, with the veil between the worlds very thin, and always we met in power spots. The West Kennet long barrow, in Wiltshire, and other barrows where the chambers are open, and of course, Stonehenge (that was illegal and the power very uncomfortable - not nice really)
Another place was a very powerful valley in Wales known as Nant Gwynant. At Samhain in Nant Gwynant, a wild witch, Alex, made a powerful brew in a cauldron with yew berries gathered on a dark moon from a graveyard, Liberty Cap mushrooms in honey, mead and herbs. On Samhain, you leave a place set at the feast for someone who has passed and invite them to visit.
While Alex and I wandered over the mountains, chanting and hearing some very haunting cries (I will link this later), her partner Gareth was visited by his best friend who was killed by a bomb in Northern Ireland. They were both in the army; Gareth was hanging out of the back of a truck, whistling at a girl, when they were blown up and he was thrown clear. Gareth and his friend spent many hours together that night alone by the fire. We returned to find him in tears, and alone. I just want to add that Gareth was a very sober Welshman and not prone to believing our "witchy nonsense".
2: The tree that talked
I had come across the initiation theory in writings about native tribes, and through modern writings, and wasn't sure how to approach this in terms of finding someone whom I trusted or knew well enough to guide it. I had heard about places in Wales called monkholes, which were possibly natural caves, where initiations took place.
The story was that the initiate was taken to the cave, given a brew of some sort and closed into the cave for a number of days to commune with spirits. This sounded unlikely for me, and so I read more in this area. I felt I was a lone witch, and communing alone felt right to me - but how to embark on an initiation?
At this time, I came across a protest in London against a road extension that threatened a whole stretch of land and homes. I became heavily involved in this and witnessed some terrible destruction of ancient trees, one a sweet chestnut, a favourite of Winston Churchill as a young boy.
At this time, I came across a protest in London against a road extension that threatened a whole stretch of land and homes. I became heavily involved in this and witnessed some terrible destruction of ancient trees, one a sweet chestnut, a favourite of Winston Churchill as a young boy.
As I became more embroiled in this "cause", I found myself in a deserted garden, on the route of the bypass. In this garden there was a yew tree. I felt immediately drawn to this tree and, alongside some friends, we decided to squat on the land and set up a protest camp. We called it Leytonstonia (see picture below, which has the yew tree in the background). The laws of the UK allow squatters certain rights and so we were not behaving illegally. We settled down to wait out the time up to the workers preparing to build.
I set up a hammock in the yew tree and proceeded to live within her influence. I can't say how or when I was aware she was female; at this time I didn't know yews could be of either sex. But, very early on, I became aware of a communication between us. I spent a lot of time up in the hammock, playing my Irish tin whistle. I slept every night in the hammock, and spent the days around the tree's base at the camp we set up.I embarked upon a publicity campaign to bring public attention to the protest, based on wanton destruction of what was once wild land, common land, homes, the Hackney Marshes and, in some cases, still inhabited family homes. One 80-year-old lady had been born and had had all her children in her home and, in fact, when she was finally removed to an old folks' home, she didn't survive the year.
I contacted David Bellamy and the tree preservation society and was visited by a yew tree expert, Alan Meredith, who issued a tree protection order. He confirmed that the tree was female and roughly 200 years old. When I confided in him that I had become convinced she was talking to me he was completely unsurprised and confirmed that this was something he heard from many people of all walks of life.
On an historical level, the yew tree is the tree of life and death, according to druidic law. It was believed that yew lived eternally, putting up new shoots from roots and branches that reached the ground, slowly dying in the middle and growing into wider circles with hollow centres. Indeed, in India and the UK there are trees that are beyond ageing, even one written about as already ancient in the Magna Carta.
On an historical level, the yew tree is the tree of life and death, according to druidic law. It was believed that yew lived eternally, putting up new shoots from roots and branches that reached the ground, slowly dying in the middle and growing into wider circles with hollow centres. Indeed, in India and the UK there are trees that are beyond ageing, even one written about as already ancient in the Magna Carta.
The yew is also toxic, the word coming from the latin taxus, which is the genus for the yew. The seeds, needles and sap are highly rich in cyanide, and yet the fruit was known as Traveller's Joy, sweet and rich in vitamin C and highly prized, though carefully eaten. I became very attached to my tree, and ended up spending four and a half months living with her. Every night I slept in her branches, through snow and rain - and then spring came. I knew the day was looming when the workers would come for the eviction.
3: Blood rites
In the past, I had always held out to a certain point and then come down to avoid arrest or some of the abusive methods that special patrol group officers were known to use. I had experienced their use of pressure points at the eviction and destruction of a 400-year-old sweet chestnut, and was nervous.
Also, I was known as an agitator and had been watched by private detectives the whole time; I found out later when they tried to serve an injunction to stop me protesting. It seems ridiculous now; I am such a peaceful person and was never aggressive, always holding others back when they lost their tempers, and making friends with the security guards and workers and trying to see their point of view.
However, this time it was more personal and I truly loved this tree, a living being with a soul. I had created some defence systems using mattress skeletons, tied around the trunk and lower branches, difficult to penetrate and impossible to use a chainsaw on. Others put nails into the trees to encourage kickback from the chainsaws but I did not agree with that.
However, this time it was more personal and I truly loved this tree, a living being with a soul. I had created some defence systems using mattress skeletons, tied around the trunk and lower branches, difficult to penetrate and impossible to use a chainsaw on. Others put nails into the trees to encourage kickback from the chainsaws but I did not agree with that.
At this point, I was quite willing to risk myself for the publicity and to protect the tree. I had a lot of media watching and was trying to use it to educate the country about the need for the protection of nature and also the homeless situation in London: 300,000 homeless sleeping rough over winter, and thousands of empty houses.
I had a friend, John, an older shaman, who came regularly to support us and generally hang out. He became convinced that he was seeing visions of blood on the trunk of the tree and tried to persuade me to not risk myself. I decided to counteract this vision, and with each full moon, when I bled, I poured my blood on the trunk and cast spells to keep me safe from harm.
I had a friend, John, an older shaman, who came regularly to support us and generally hang out. He became convinced that he was seeing visions of blood on the trunk of the tree and tried to persuade me to not risk myself. I decided to counteract this vision, and with each full moon, when I bled, I poured my blood on the trunk and cast spells to keep me safe from harm. She also bled every full moon, as spring came on, and I daubed myself with her blood during these spells. I was very careful not to ingest the sap but, one day when I whistled to attract a friend, I put my fingers in my mouth, and that night I collapsed with mild poisoning symptoms.
I recovered the next day, and was far more careful. In retrospect, I see it as the start of a four-year process of initiation, because I was certainly exposed to low levels of toxin the entire time, without realising. But I had asked for an initiation and this tree had decided to carry it out.
Summer solstice was approaching and I was pretty exhausted and under emotional strain. We weren't particularly popular with the locals and had a few nasty visits. Actually, there were more friendly ones, but the nasties were more memorable. And police were constantly outside the site as eviction day drew near.
Then, out of the blue, I was offered a trip to the Arran folk festival in Scotland, driven all the way, everything paid for, and I would get to stay with an ex-policeman and a current top-level Greenpeace activist. This man had been involved at Greenham Common as a police sergeant, and had spent a lot of time at the camp and, in his capacity as a policeman, had worked hard to protect the protestors from the sexist police who worked under him. I was invited by his son to go on this trip.
Then, out of the blue, I was offered a trip to the Arran folk festival in Scotland, driven all the way, everything paid for, and I would get to stay with an ex-policeman and a current top-level Greenpeace activist. This man had been involved at Greenham Common as a police sergeant, and had spent a lot of time at the camp and, in his capacity as a policeman, had worked hard to protect the protestors from the sexist police who worked under him. I was invited by his son to go on this trip.
Everyone said I should leave, it was only four days, I needed the break, and they would look after my tree. I refused. In the end, I asked the tree (believe me or not, this is just how it was for me) and she said "go, I don't want you here" in a very resounding voice. So I went (I was quite hurt!).
Of course, I didn't really believe we were monitored; I didn't think we were that important. But we were, and on the morning of the summer solstice I began to climb Mount Goatfell in Scotland as the eviction of our trees began. They took the opportunity of my absence. A man who slept in my tree was violently removed and received some injuries, although nothing too serious, just malicious. My tree was chopped to pieces.
Of course, I didn't really believe we were monitored; I didn't think we were that important. But we were, and on the morning of the summer solstice I began to climb Mount Goatfell in Scotland as the eviction of our trees began. They took the opportunity of my absence. A man who slept in my tree was violently removed and received some injuries, although nothing too serious, just malicious. My tree was chopped to pieces.
4: The yew tree calls
At the summit of Goatfell I would like to say I knew, I certainly felt, some freedom and, as I climbed down, I was followed by a white owl (my totem - another story) and arrived back to receive the news. But when I returned to my tree, I found devastation. She had really been hacked to pieces and I was utterly heartbroken.
Funnily, I didn't get the feeling she was dead. There was a tiny sliver of the trunk still attached but I don't know if I noticed that at the time. The message I was receiving from her was clear and loud: she didn't want me to see her - she had been raped and I was to leave immediately.
Throughout this entire experience I never once questioned what I was hearing. My father is a psychotherapist and I was brought up with Jungian philosophy and my general feeling of was it all "real" or not wasn't the point. Despite that, I will argue to my grave that this wasn't an imagined or delusional experience.
Funnily, I didn't get the feeling she was dead. There was a tiny sliver of the trunk still attached but I don't know if I noticed that at the time. The message I was receiving from her was clear and loud: she didn't want me to see her - she had been raped and I was to leave immediately.
Throughout this entire experience I never once questioned what I was hearing. My father is a psychotherapist and I was brought up with Jungian philosophy and my general feeling of was it all "real" or not wasn't the point. Despite that, I will argue to my grave that this wasn't an imagined or delusional experience.
I left London then and travelled to St Catherine's Hill, and then Glastonbury where I became more and more distraught. Guilt, misery, post-traumatic stress syndrome, lack of direction. I was overcome and just couldn't see the way forward. For whatever reason, I suppose to protect myself, I was not required to "save" the yew tree and, of course, I wouldn't have been able to, and probably would have been hurt in the process. But that was not my path.
I went to Ireland with some musician friends and we travelled to various festivals playing our music and busking, and my heart became lighter. Eventually, I came to Bantry Bay, and visited a place I had been recommended to go to. Kealkil Valley was the home to a family, the father was Mike, and they owned a self-sustainable home and business, growing and planting trees. I had not spoken of my yew to anyone - whom could I tell? But in Mike I found a kindred spirit. He knew yew trees, and so I got it all off my chest and he understood and sympathised and took me under his wing.He took me and some others to a Rainbow Gathering near Skibbereen, in the deep south of Ireland, and we spent the first night in a bell tent with rain I had never seen before or since, flooding every available space. We ate soup and sang all night, perched on tables as there wasn't a dry spot anywhere.
The following morning, as the rain cleared, I heard a voice in my head: "Come to me." My yew tree. I had no desire to return to London but her call, after so much silence, was clear as a bell, and I felt I had no choice. So off I hitched to the ferry.
At this point, I need to mention another incident, from a month earlier. Over my life travelling, I have been followed by two symbols which turn up constantly, and I see them as signs that I am following the right pathway. One is owls, the other, dolphins - toy dolphins, pictures or whatever. So, in Ireland, I needed to visit the Dingle Pensinsula and see a tame dolphin which lived in the harbour. We slept there under some bushes and, early one morning, I rose to go busking and then head off round the coast to see the dolphin.
As soon as I struck the street, I found a 20 punt (now euro) note lying on the ground. No one was around, a gift from the gods, and I put it in my back pocket and forgot all about it, which was odd because that was a good hour's busking on a lucky day. I saw the dolphin only from a distance; he was a bit of a show-off and came to boats, not hippies playing Irish whistles!
I arrived at the ferry terminal to find that it cost 20 punts to cross to Wales, and not a cent on me... or so I thought. I'd forgotten that in my back pocket was... the 20-punt note.
5: First initiation
Twenty-four hours later, I arrived at the protest houses in Clairmont Road, soon to see one of the biggest non-war evictions in Europe. I met friends and spent the night, hearing that my tree was still there - nothing had been built yet nor had the destruction wreaked been removed yet.
I called my mum. Now she was a very special lady and, despite worrying endlessly about her wayward daughter, supported me and was proud of my passion. She always visited our sites, ate dinner with us, and watched the sunset, playing the drum while I whistled away. I wanted to get some wood from my yew while there was time, and could she help? She would meet me in the morning.
I woke to a drizzly late-summer day and, with a rusty bow-saw, proceeded to the yew tree. I was really scared about what I would find but, to my surprise, she had produced thousands of berries. She seemed happy, light even, and a feeling of freedom was in the air. We couldn't believe it. We ate, sawed and collected seeds and wood, drenched to the bone. Mum piled the wood into her car and, tired and hungry, we left. Next morning, the workers came and the site was cleared. My tree had finally gone.
I don't know if they knew I had returned - we were all being watched (I still hardly believe that) - or if we just got the timing right. For whatever reason, I was able to complete the circle. I felt I had passed an initiation. I had trusted in my relationship with the yew. I had listened to her instructions. I had passed a test. This surely is the meaning behind initiation.
To be trained in shamanism is one thing, but if you don't have a real relationship with something invisible, behind the reality of day-to-day life, then there is just empty ritual. This was the first initiation. There are always more than one. They cover different planes of existence: physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, ethereal and then, maybe, death.
I was now at a loss. I didn't want to connect with the land again and then lose it to destruction. All the anger over the world that destroyed beauty in the name of progress was gone from me and all that was left was emptiness. I slung around the squats of south London, went to parties, tried to connect with the underground scene of the early 1990s, but nothing much worked.
Slowly, I became aware of a pain inside me that wasn't emotional but physical. I wasn't used to not being really healthy and I ignored it. I connected with old friends in Somerset who lived on the land in benders, and they invited me to visit. Gratefully, I left the city.
I stayed with them in Brian's field, and they told me their plans. They were building handcarts, simple ones balanced enough to need very little strength to pull them. They planned to walk around Somerset visiting ancient hillforts and pre-Roman sites. I was caught up and helped to build a communal cart. We had tarpaulins, hazel bender poles and bits and pieces essential for a working camp. In the early autumn of 1994, we left on our walk.
There were eight or more of us. We walked a long way the first day and set up camp in a paddock that evening. Each day was similar: walking, singing, talking, enjoying the passing season. It's not for nothing the poets enthused romantically about England and her true beauty. After some time, the rhythm of walking healed my heart and soul.
We arrived at Cadbury Castle late one cool evening, and gazed up a muddy bridleway with some trepidation. Though the carts weren't heavy, they were hard to handle up a slippery slope. Some walkers were descending and they offered us help to climb halfway to a flat spot. They also offered us hospitality and baths at their home, which I certainly took them up on a few days later. I never once questioned our right to squat these areas. As far as we were concerned we were the guardians of the land, living gently on the earth and loving her.
I called my mum. Now she was a very special lady and, despite worrying endlessly about her wayward daughter, supported me and was proud of my passion. She always visited our sites, ate dinner with us, and watched the sunset, playing the drum while I whistled away. I wanted to get some wood from my yew while there was time, and could she help? She would meet me in the morning.
I woke to a drizzly late-summer day and, with a rusty bow-saw, proceeded to the yew tree. I was really scared about what I would find but, to my surprise, she had produced thousands of berries. She seemed happy, light even, and a feeling of freedom was in the air. We couldn't believe it. We ate, sawed and collected seeds and wood, drenched to the bone. Mum piled the wood into her car and, tired and hungry, we left. Next morning, the workers came and the site was cleared. My tree had finally gone.
I don't know if they knew I had returned - we were all being watched (I still hardly believe that) - or if we just got the timing right. For whatever reason, I was able to complete the circle. I felt I had passed an initiation. I had trusted in my relationship with the yew. I had listened to her instructions. I had passed a test. This surely is the meaning behind initiation.
To be trained in shamanism is one thing, but if you don't have a real relationship with something invisible, behind the reality of day-to-day life, then there is just empty ritual. This was the first initiation. There are always more than one. They cover different planes of existence: physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, ethereal and then, maybe, death. I was now at a loss. I didn't want to connect with the land again and then lose it to destruction. All the anger over the world that destroyed beauty in the name of progress was gone from me and all that was left was emptiness. I slung around the squats of south London, went to parties, tried to connect with the underground scene of the early 1990s, but nothing much worked.
Slowly, I became aware of a pain inside me that wasn't emotional but physical. I wasn't used to not being really healthy and I ignored it. I connected with old friends in Somerset who lived on the land in benders, and they invited me to visit. Gratefully, I left the city.
I stayed with them in Brian's field, and they told me their plans. They were building handcarts, simple ones balanced enough to need very little strength to pull them. They planned to walk around Somerset visiting ancient hillforts and pre-Roman sites. I was caught up and helped to build a communal cart. We had tarpaulins, hazel bender poles and bits and pieces essential for a working camp. In the early autumn of 1994, we left on our walk.
There were eight or more of us. We walked a long way the first day and set up camp in a paddock that evening. Each day was similar: walking, singing, talking, enjoying the passing season. It's not for nothing the poets enthused romantically about England and her true beauty. After some time, the rhythm of walking healed my heart and soul.
We arrived at Cadbury Castle late one cool evening, and gazed up a muddy bridleway with some trepidation. Though the carts weren't heavy, they were hard to handle up a slippery slope. Some walkers were descending and they offered us help to climb halfway to a flat spot. They also offered us hospitality and baths at their home, which I certainly took them up on a few days later. I never once questioned our right to squat these areas. As far as we were concerned we were the guardians of the land, living gently on the earth and loving her.
6: A deathly pain
We felt especially strongly towards these heritage sites, after all, English Heritage let Cadbury Castle to a farmer for grazing his cattle, and they were cutting up the land terribly. How could this site be treated so disrespectfully by the group elected to protect it?
We stayed here for some days celebrating Samhain with friends and locals. I was starting to feel unwell at this point and knew I couldn't keep up this way of life for the whole winter. My bender had no woodburner and it was progressively more miserable weather. I ended up leaving to stay with a friend in Glastonbury and, from there, took a bus up to Bangor, Wales, to seek out one of the Dongas from Twyford Down, Alex, whom I knew had a place on the Isle of Anglesey.
Alex and Gareth had an old cottage they were looking after, really two rooms in a small stonewalled paddock, two communal benders and two goats. They offered me their hospitality and I settled in for the winter. We occupied our time with walks, picking rosehips, milking the goats, playing music. Slowly, winter progressed and my pain became more and more acute. But I felt unable to admit to it; it was somewhere I couldn't talk about, and I must have been falling very ill and lost the ability to communicate my concerns.
I slipped home for Christmas, enjoying spending time with my lovely mum, but unable to sit upright any more, such was the pain. Mum was suspicious but, not wanting to worry her, I kept quiet. Mum drove me back up to Anglesey and we spent some blissful days wandering the isle and coast and visiting barrows and high places, magic stones and valleys.
I slipped home for Christmas, enjoying spending time with my lovely mum, but unable to sit upright any more, such was the pain. Mum was suspicious but, not wanting to worry her, I kept quiet. Mum drove me back up to Anglesey and we spent some blissful days wandering the isle and coast and visiting barrows and high places, magic stones and valleys. I remember the day she left so clearly. When I was a child I had a dream. I was abandoned by a fence, looking over a snowy dark winter landscape to my home, but could see no lights on and felt nothing but loss. So disturbed was I by the dream that my father, a psychotherapist, attempted to help me come to terms with this vision using hypnosis, but succeeded only in bringing the emotion of the dream to the very front of my consciousness.
When mum dropped me off, to walk across the fields to my bender, I knew this was the dream I had had all those years before. She was miserable and worried and I was miserable and in agony. She knew by now how much pain I was in but still something stopped me from facing it, and she left me, promising to go to the doctor. Well, there was no time. That night the infection spread and by the next day I could barely crawl. I was left alone in my bed. Gareth and Alex were having relationship troubles and just didn't really see me; their concerns were all-consuming.
When mum dropped me off, to walk across the fields to my bender, I knew this was the dream I had had all those years before. She was miserable and worried and I was miserable and in agony. She knew by now how much pain I was in but still something stopped me from facing it, and she left me, promising to go to the doctor. Well, there was no time. That night the infection spread and by the next day I could barely crawl. I was left alone in my bed. Gareth and Alex were having relationship troubles and just didn't really see me; their concerns were all-consuming.
I fell deeper into illness and lost time. At some point, I left my body and the pain behind, and looked down upon myself, with nothing but relief and bliss. I have no doubt I was dying. But something decided I was not meant to go yet.
A friend from Bangor, a city boy with no car, not much money, but a strong heart, had decided, out of the blue, to hitch out to see me. He had just felt the need to come, and found me close to death. He lit my burner, got Alex to make some soup and got into bed with me and rubbed my poor lost body till I came to life. He stayed for the night, warming me and talking and comforting me in my terrible pain.
The next day he put me in Alex's car and they took me to the doctor, who rushed me to hospital. I had an internal abscess, the size of a tennis ball, septicaemia, and nearly died. The blissful relief of Pethadin cannot be understated here. I was rushed into surgery and my parents called.
Thus was the beginning of the next stage of my initiation process. It was to be a deeper, longer and more profound process than that of my yew tree, though it was to be more painful and difficult than I suspected at the time.
Thus was the beginning of the next stage of my initiation process. It was to be a deeper, longer and more profound process than that of my yew tree, though it was to be more painful and difficult than I suspected at the time.
7: Falling in love
I languished on my mum's sofa. I struggled each day to climb the stairs to the bathroom without crying. It became clear I wasn't healing, but relapsing. I had no strength, all I knew was pain, boredom, grief for the freedom I had had, and loneliness for the wild places. But I had mum; she was more than my carer, she was my friend.
It was decided I should have a second operation. Under the anaesthetic, I lost a part of myself. Given over to the hands of strangers, I felt more and more divorced from nature. But I regained strength, and the pain receded.
My longing to return to the life I had had overwhelmed me and, when I heard about a gathering, I decided to go. I was still uncomfortable and on edge with old friends, none of whom knew where I had been for the last four months. There was a protest against a Heathrow runway extension, and Billy Bragg was rumoured to be coming. Sure enough, he spent an evening around the fire, singing and jamming, and time with that working-class hero did a lot to shift some of the strain from my soul.
Beltane approached, and two close friends, busker Paul and Becky, were to be handfasted and asked me to do the ceremony at Fairmile camp on the A30 (pictured above). I found the horse-drawn folk already there, also those from the handcart walk, and some Dongas from Twyford. My mum was invited by Paul and Becky, who loved her well from her camp visits and their shared love of tea.
The ceremony was beautiful, the weather perfect with dancing, music and, to my surprise, love. I bumped into Jon, an old friend of Fluffy Darren, an inspirational activist famed for his work at The Church, a squat and community centre in London. I had met Jon on a visit to Cornwall where he lived in one of my favourite places, Polzeath, scene of many family holidays. We shared a connection and neither of us suspected how far this bond would take us. I shared my troubles with him, and he offered to share my burden. Timing is everything, they say, and I certainly needed some help and a good friend. Our journey started there, on Beltane, the night of lovers. As I gained confidence, and we fell in love, our relationship grew, and we approached what would turn out to be the biggest journey so far...
Before I finish this part of my story, the end of my illness, second initiation, and events that took me from England, I want to recall one of the power places I experienced. Nant Gwynant Valley, as I mentioned earlier, is an atmospheric, powerful place, and a constant beacon to me. Always, when things got too much, I longed to return to that evocative place.
Once, I was attending a gathering on the shore of the lake. Some liberty caps were passed round, not many, three or four each, just enough to loosen the earthly ties. Fraggle and I took a walk to the lake edge. The moon was near to setting; Snowdon was to our right shoulder. Mist on the lake was lit by the last of the moon's rays. We looked out, to see a clear shape on the water.
"Do you see what I see?" Fraggle whispered. "I see a boat..." I replied. "Me too." she answered.
This was a little more than a boat. The image is imprinted on my memory to this day. I would call it a longship, with a tall curling prow, masts, oars, and shields along the side. It was still and desolate. We were filled with an intense sadness, and were crying. The moon set and, with that, the vision in the mist and moonlight disintegrated. I have no explanation; I was neither drunk nor stoned. The vision is as real to me today as it was then. We returned to the fire, shaken, and kept our counsel for fear of ridicule. But next day, a friend mentioned the same vision, having seen it from the other side of the lake.
Years later, Fraggle told the story to a friend and was rewarded with some information. This is hearsay, I have no idea of the truth of it. When the Irish Celts were making forays into Wales, the Welsh were pushed into the mountains. Some hid at Nant Gwynant. When they knew the Irish were coming, the Welsh put the women and children on a boat and pushed it out on to the water. The waters were higher then and they used boats to travel through the valleys, carrying them when they couldn't sail. The Welsh were defeated, someone set fire to the boat, and the rest perished.
I have no evidence to back up this tale. I know what I saw and felt. You only have to visit the valley to feel its great power. The quartz crystals that line the mountains hold the memories.
It was decided I should have a second operation. Under the anaesthetic, I lost a part of myself. Given over to the hands of strangers, I felt more and more divorced from nature. But I regained strength, and the pain receded.
My longing to return to the life I had had overwhelmed me and, when I heard about a gathering, I decided to go. I was still uncomfortable and on edge with old friends, none of whom knew where I had been for the last four months. There was a protest against a Heathrow runway extension, and Billy Bragg was rumoured to be coming. Sure enough, he spent an evening around the fire, singing and jamming, and time with that working-class hero did a lot to shift some of the strain from my soul.Beltane approached, and two close friends, busker Paul and Becky, were to be handfasted and asked me to do the ceremony at Fairmile camp on the A30 (pictured above). I found the horse-drawn folk already there, also those from the handcart walk, and some Dongas from Twyford. My mum was invited by Paul and Becky, who loved her well from her camp visits and their shared love of tea.
The ceremony was beautiful, the weather perfect with dancing, music and, to my surprise, love. I bumped into Jon, an old friend of Fluffy Darren, an inspirational activist famed for his work at The Church, a squat and community centre in London. I had met Jon on a visit to Cornwall where he lived in one of my favourite places, Polzeath, scene of many family holidays. We shared a connection and neither of us suspected how far this bond would take us. I shared my troubles with him, and he offered to share my burden. Timing is everything, they say, and I certainly needed some help and a good friend. Our journey started there, on Beltane, the night of lovers. As I gained confidence, and we fell in love, our relationship grew, and we approached what would turn out to be the biggest journey so far...
Before I finish this part of my story, the end of my illness, second initiation, and events that took me from England, I want to recall one of the power places I experienced. Nant Gwynant Valley, as I mentioned earlier, is an atmospheric, powerful place, and a constant beacon to me. Always, when things got too much, I longed to return to that evocative place.
Once, I was attending a gathering on the shore of the lake. Some liberty caps were passed round, not many, three or four each, just enough to loosen the earthly ties. Fraggle and I took a walk to the lake edge. The moon was near to setting; Snowdon was to our right shoulder. Mist on the lake was lit by the last of the moon's rays. We looked out, to see a clear shape on the water."Do you see what I see?" Fraggle whispered. "I see a boat..." I replied. "Me too." she answered.
This was a little more than a boat. The image is imprinted on my memory to this day. I would call it a longship, with a tall curling prow, masts, oars, and shields along the side. It was still and desolate. We were filled with an intense sadness, and were crying. The moon set and, with that, the vision in the mist and moonlight disintegrated. I have no explanation; I was neither drunk nor stoned. The vision is as real to me today as it was then. We returned to the fire, shaken, and kept our counsel for fear of ridicule. But next day, a friend mentioned the same vision, having seen it from the other side of the lake.
Years later, Fraggle told the story to a friend and was rewarded with some information. This is hearsay, I have no idea of the truth of it. When the Irish Celts were making forays into Wales, the Welsh were pushed into the mountains. Some hid at Nant Gwynant. When they knew the Irish were coming, the Welsh put the women and children on a boat and pushed it out on to the water. The waters were higher then and they used boats to travel through the valleys, carrying them when they couldn't sail. The Welsh were defeated, someone set fire to the boat, and the rest perished.
I have no evidence to back up this tale. I know what I saw and felt. You only have to visit the valley to feel its great power. The quartz crystals that line the mountains hold the memories.
8: Testing times
I was feeling much stronger, and the need to be free as a bird overtook any common sense that my 24-year-old self may have had. So Jon and I decided to travel with a gaggle of travelling friends to a Rainbow Gathering in Slovenia.
Rainbow Gatherings are a movement started by a Native American elder in the States who felt we needed to re-learn the skills required to survive close to the earth. They tended to be pretty big in Europe, and it promised to be a great adventure.
We were to travel on the bus of a friend known as Delvin Deeper. Somewhere close to midsummer, we left the port of Dover. Travelling through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, busking for petrol and food, we made our way slowly south. I had no passport and so, as we crossed each border (there still were borders then), I would hide in the back of the bus. I had no fear of being caught (the folly of youth!) but travelled as though a guardian angel protected me. The Rainbow was indeed an experience; dinner circles so large you couldn't see the other side.
After this, we journeyed to Italy, busking at fiestas, and encountering a drug culture that shocked and scared me. I am a firm believer in the use of psychedelic herbs and fungi, with respect and ritual, to aid spiritual healing and, indeed, we considered ourselves explorers in this field, learning skills forgotten since the time of the shaman. But, in my experience, the use of chemicals and herbs purely for recreational purpose both impede and eventually destroy humanity's progress.
As the days passed, I grew aware that I was still weak and that the pain was returning. What was the cause of this illness, this festering wound? What was its purpose? I had my suspicions that it was more learning being impressed upon me by my yew, a theory strengthened by a strange phone call I'd received a few months before. Out of the blue, Alan Meredith, the yew expert whom I had met in London, called me at my mum's; we talked and I spoke of my illness. To my surprise, he complained of a similar problem, and we surmised that exposure to the yew toxin was the cause. Was she still testing me after all this time? We left Italy and came to Greece, then Crete, where we found an empty beach on the southern coast to rest and make camp. What languid days, sunbathing, fishing, swimming. There were four of us now, Jon and I, and Adam and his girlfriend. Adam was training to be a hypnotherapist and, upon confiding in him, he offered to see if we could discover the root of my illness and aid my healing. He suggested we go to a canyon, out of the hot sun, and there I lay on the ground, with Jon and Adam's girlfriend to my head and feet.
Slowly, I surrendered to Adam's voice and found myself in a vision. It was dawn, I was in the desert, and taking leave of my love. This woman was tiny, as was I and, though we were both utterly heartbroken, knowing we may never see each other again, we knew we had no choice. I was undertaking a male rite of passage, and could no more avoid it than I could avoid the necessity of eating. The clearest part of this vision was holding her tiny hands in mine, and the memory of those hands is clear.
Quickly, it was over, and I was high in the sky, then down again into a second vision. This one was frightening. I was in an alien ship, one strange being at my head and one behind me, committing some unknown act upon me. At this point, I panicked and came immediately out of hypnosis, my fear so great that I flipped over in mid-air on to my front. Adam, calm and collected, immediately returned me to a deep state and then brought me out slowly, so that when I sat up I was smiling at my companions' shocked faces.
9: Healed at last
Later, after waking from my third and final operation, I realised the true meaning of that second vision: the alien ship was a surgeons' operating theatre, the two beings, an anaesthetist and a surgeon. The mind's stories, though confusing, and bizarre, are rarely empty of meaning, if we can only learn the ways to interpret them.
After this, I realised the importance of returning home to rest and return to the surgeon's hands. The wound festered, and I needed to find a way to remove the poison from myself. Jon helped pay for my flight home and went on to pick apples in Holland to raise the money we had spent on the tickets.
When he returned, and while waiting for the surgeon to set a date for my last operation, we decided to return to a farm community in West Wales, near Cardigan, to live out the fast approaching winter.
Jon and Glen, another protest friend, had built two treehouses there, cosy, dry, benders, secured 30ft up oak trees (pictured below). They had learned these skills from the protest camps on Solsbury Hill, near Bath, and built such solid homes that they lasted many years. Jon's was unoccupied, and so we moved in. We were on the edge of some woods, at the centre of which was a sacred, peaceful waterfall and deep pool. This was our shrine and our escape, and I received some great healing in my time here.
The date of my third operation was set for the December 21, 1994, my father's birthday, the winter solstice. It seemed perfect for me, for this was to be the end of this difficult road. I was strong enough to bring my power back into my own hands. I would use the surgery to initiate the process, but would complete the work myself. I undertook to perform a ritual in which I called upon Hecate, Guardian of the Crossroads, guide to the dead, to bring the death of this illness. I had learned enough of pain and weakness, and was now to learn of strength and determination.
Upon waking from this third operation, I knew something was different. This time, instead of blank empty time, I remembered every moment of the procedure as if I watched from above. I recovered quickly and, initiating a lifelong interest in herbs, I made my own ointment and infusions. Goldenseal, fenugreek, lavender and tea tree became my daily friends until, eight months later, far from Wales, I realised I was finally and completely healed.
After this, I realised the importance of returning home to rest and return to the surgeon's hands. The wound festered, and I needed to find a way to remove the poison from myself. Jon helped pay for my flight home and went on to pick apples in Holland to raise the money we had spent on the tickets.
When he returned, and while waiting for the surgeon to set a date for my last operation, we decided to return to a farm community in West Wales, near Cardigan, to live out the fast approaching winter.
Jon and Glen, another protest friend, had built two treehouses there, cosy, dry, benders, secured 30ft up oak trees (pictured below). They had learned these skills from the protest camps on Solsbury Hill, near Bath, and built such solid homes that they lasted many years. Jon's was unoccupied, and so we moved in. We were on the edge of some woods, at the centre of which was a sacred, peaceful waterfall and deep pool. This was our shrine and our escape, and I received some great healing in my time here.
The date of my third operation was set for the December 21, 1994, my father's birthday, the winter solstice. It seemed perfect for me, for this was to be the end of this difficult road. I was strong enough to bring my power back into my own hands. I would use the surgery to initiate the process, but would complete the work myself. I undertook to perform a ritual in which I called upon Hecate, Guardian of the Crossroads, guide to the dead, to bring the death of this illness. I had learned enough of pain and weakness, and was now to learn of strength and determination. Upon waking from this third operation, I knew something was different. This time, instead of blank empty time, I remembered every moment of the procedure as if I watched from above. I recovered quickly and, initiating a lifelong interest in herbs, I made my own ointment and infusions. Goldenseal, fenugreek, lavender and tea tree became my daily friends until, eight months later, far from Wales, I realised I was finally and completely healed.
Following the operation, I was growing stronger, and feeling more confident than I had in years. We were offered some work, planting native trees, on a local farm. We set up a camp and Jon and I worked together planting more than five times the trees that had been cut down in our years on the road protests.
This seemed a fitting way to draw a final line under the whole experience.
With the money, Jon and I, along with our good friend Glen, were planning a trip to India, then on to Australia to visit Jon's brother. I was unsure if I was yet strong enough for this, but Jon and Glen swore they would take care of me and support me and we would be fine. This seemed a fitting way to draw a final line under the whole experience.
The trip was planned for June and was still three months away, so I had time to get stronger. It was a long road to be well in my mind, having been sick for so long. My body was doing well, but I was still feeling weak and vulnerable, and relied upon Jon. That was strange for me, always such a strong independent woman, and I craved this chance to grow again in the midst of adventure.
I know it was hard for mum to let me go but, as ever, she respected my independence and, in her way of setting me free, sent me a card in which she inscribed the song Forever Young by Bob Dylan. I hoped I could be so supportive to my own children when that time came.
10: Kidnapped in Kashmir
On June 6, we flew out of Heathrow to Delhi. Wow, what a culture shock arriving in India! The crowds, heat, smells, chaos, it overwhelms the senses. In a miasma of experience, we stumbled out into the heat of the night to find some transport into the city. In the end we took a bus, which dropped us off somewhere near the centre, but we had no idea where. A taxi pulled up and we gratefully climbed in asking him to take us to a guesthouse.
Little did we know that we had been introduced to the Kashmiri mafia. We found out later that they wait especially for westerners arriving on the late planes, as their story works better at night. Apparently, there had been a terrorist bomb, Kashmiri terrorists, and all the guest houses were shut. By way of proving this, he took us to a place and showed us that no-one could be made to answer the door. But, he knew the tourist office was open especially for westerners arriving at this time. We fell hook, line and sinker.
We were taken to an office where a gentleman made us tea and spent some time trying to find us a place to stay. In the meantime, he questioned us about our trip. Where were we headed? Manali, in the mountains, to relax and get used to India at a slower pace. Well, the rains had washed the road away and the only way in was through Kashmir. Oh, Kashmir was beautiful this time of year, Dhal Lake, the mountains, we couldn't come to India and not visit Kashmir. What about the fighting we asked. Ah, only on the borders, the city is safe as anywhere.
He kept us up for hours until we were so exhausted we agreed to get a bus to Kashmir the next day, and booked a wondrous houseboat to stay on Dhal Lake. Miraculously, at that moment, a place to sleep materialised. How foolish we were to buy all this but, of course, used to people being fairly believable, combined with culture shock and exhaustion, you agree to anything. I have to say that, for a kidnapping, for that is what it turned out to be, it was a very polite method. We were ushered to someone's home, slept, then were put on a bus. Viewing the waking city from the bus was just about all I could cope with at this point, and I relaxed back to enjoy the sight. The journey took two days, and I won't detail the various toilet stops along the way, no one needs to have that image in their mind's eye. Suffice to say, I will never complain about London's public toilets again.
The Himalayas appeared, and at first I didn't believe what I was seeing. I thought I was looking at clouds, so high were these peaks. Then my mind shifted and I realised they were mountains. I relaxed and began to feel excited, this was an adventure beyond anything I had experienced so far.
Our bus pulled up many kilometres outside Srinagar, and we were hustled off into a waiting taxi, assured constantly by the use of our names with each new person we met. On arriving in Srinagar, we were taken immediately to the shore of Dhal Lake, put on a boat and rowed out to a sumptuous houseboat. I couldn't believe the beauty I was seeing. I had not imagined we would be staying in such a rich and decorative place. I knew India was cheap but this was astounding. We collapsed exhausted on Maharaja's beds and relaxed. Eventually, we met the owner and his family, and were offered tea. Ah what bliss...
Then out came the price list, all was not included as we had been informed. Each item was more than we could afford, and our budget just would not stretch. We informed the owner we wouldn't be eating on board but go ashore and, to our shock, the owner became furious. We could not leave, we would be drugged and kidnapped by rebels, we had to stay on board as had been indicated in Delhi. He had not been paid at all and would not allow us to leave.
11: Escape from conspiracy
Shocked, we retired to the roof to quietly discuss our predicament. Well, we could eat here tonight and in the morning the boys would try to reach shore. It was a perfect evening, romantic and picturesque, with the ring of Himalayas all around, smells and sounds filtering across the serene lake. This was where all the rock stars came in the Sixties, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones; we should try and relax and enjoy ourselves.
But it was not meant to be. The owner insisted on spending the evening regaling us with the terrible situation facing Kashmir as the war progressed, how poor they all were, how dangerous Srinagar had become. He filled our imaginations with fearful scenes, and then retired.
The next day, before the owner appeared, Glen and Jon managed to attract the attention of a passing boat and persuade him, with money, to take them ashore, and left to explore. I don't know why I stayed, perhaps to protect our belongings, and we possibly believed it was very dangerous on shore. When they returned that evening, it was with very different news. Apparently, Kashmir was controlled by a few wealthy families who picked up new arrivals in Delhi, and tricked them into spending all their tourist dollars with them and none other. In the rest of the city, the Kashmiris struggled to make ends meet.
When the owner discovered their return, he became severely abusive and threatening, and we felt very insecure. We had paid an awful lot to stay for the week, believing it to be all-inclusive, and were really stuck if we could not get some of it back. That night we packed, and left the boat and found a family to stay with on the river. We felt foolish, but also happier to have made a decision to leave this foreign conspiracy we had been caught up in.
Yussef was the father of the family we stayed with, a really fascinating man. He housed us, asked us for only what we could afford, and said he knew we would do our best. I helped his wife prepare the meals, and played with his children. He helped us reclaim some of our money that had been taken in Delhi, and lay complaints with the police. He felt it his duty to fight the control the families held over Srinagar. They knew all about it, it was nothing unusual. After two weeks with police and the ruling families endlessly fighting, we received half of our money back. On recalculating our finances, things were tight, and when we worked out our budget and paid Yussef what we could afford, it was clearly not enough and, though disappointed, Yussef said nothing. We all felt horrible, but we were not rich westerners, though rich in comparison to them, and had six months to survive on 100 rupees a day, which was very little, a room often costing 50-75 rupees.
Years later, when hitching to Golden Bay, New Zealand, I took a ride with a man who was flying out the next day to Delhi, then travelling up to Srinagar. I happened to have a fair amount of money with me, thanks to some successful busking, and decided to take a risk. I asked this man to take the money to Yussef, and gave him the address. I acted on a whim; he had a copy of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying in the car, and somehow that was enough for me to trust him.
Three years later, back in the UK, I received a letter from Yussef, thanking me for proving his belief in humanity was well founded, and telling me of his family, and life in Srinagar. All was well.
From Kashmir, we took a government bus up into Ladakh, along a seriously terrifying route, the likes of which I may never have the courage to face again. We saw many a broken wreck at the bottom of a ravine, and put our trust in fate. We arrived in Kargil, home of the widest variety of bedbugs the world will ever know, and from there decided to walk and stay wherever we found a bed.
From Kashmir, we took a government bus up into Ladakh, along a seriously terrifying route, the likes of which I may never have the courage to face again. We saw many a broken wreck at the bottom of a ravine, and put our trust in fate. We arrived in Kargil, home of the widest variety of bedbugs the world will ever know, and from there decided to walk and stay wherever we found a bed.
12: Kubla Khan
Travelling with my two adventurous friends, ex road protestors, tree-hut builders and musical partners, made me brave. We walked and took in the Buddhist culture of Ladakh, meeting the happiest people I have met anywhere on my travels.
As a child, my father had fallen in love with Tibetan Buddhism, and we had lived at a community called Lam Rim in Wales, near Raglan Castle. Overseen by a Tibetan monk, Geshe Damcho, and populated with a German chef, yoga instructor, two picture-perfect hippies, Dick and Flo, who made ocarinas, mother and daughter nuns Amela and Sutim, and Mike the beekeeper, it was the idyllic place of childhood dreams. I learned Tibetan in Geshe-la's room, eating his cheese crackers while he meditated, and was present in all the ritual and ceremonies, if it wasn't a school night.
So in this Buddhist country I felt so very relaxed and looked around me with eyes that could relate to the words, and ears that knew the language. Even the tsampa and butter tea was familiar. Upon arriving at a guest house next to an ancient Buddhist monument, I tried a phrase or two in Tibetan, and ended up in conversation with the owner, confiding in him about some childhood experiences in Lam Rim.
To my surprise - although why I still get surprised at such events I'll never know - he knew of Lam Rim and Geshe Damcho. His son, the eldest and a monk, had just left to live in Lam Rim, with the plan of helping Geshe-la who was now old. Coincidences abound in my life. I would not believe them if they hadn't happened to me. Of course, I was instantly a guest and introduced to their Geshe-la, who produced a hunk of meat out of his bag, the size of half a goat. We drank butter tea together an smiled a lot.
From here we walked and then hitched to Leh, the capital. I was not wholly recovered, though much stronger. I was having blood sugar problems, and often struggled to find food that didn't upset my sugar levels. This made me unpredictable at times, and Jon and Glen announced that they needed some time off from me and wished to go deeper into the wilderness for a real adventure without me. At first I was upset, but recovered, and wished them well. We arranged to meet at a Salt Lake, on our map, on full moon, three weeks from then.
Alone, I allied myself with another Englishwoman and we planned a trip to an enclave called Dah. It was up near the Afghanistan border, and we could visit for only five days at a time. We bought our pass, and took the bus north.
When I was living in the treehouse in Wales, I had the opportunity to experiment with some DMT, a substance we produce when dreaming, and familiar to our systems. This was derived from nutmeg by a shaman friend. Jon and I did some research, and decided to smoke it in a pipe.
As I inhaled, I looked down at the glowing embers to see a small imp rise up and wink at me. At this point, I was transported out of this world. My initial vision was row upon row of iridescent blue peacock feather eyes, similar to that described in The Temple of my Familiar, a book I read later. Then I arrived in what I can only describe as Kubla Khan. All around me was life as pure energy, without form, but encompassing form.
Steiner describes this as being reality behind reality. It was perfect, and real, the waterfall, flowers, insects, beings, all of it. I took a breath, and was torn back to manifest reality. My heart broke, but in that instant I was told: "Beauty, like the sunrise and sunset, is beautiful because of its passing. You always have the choice between love and fear, and you, Helen, will always choose love." The voice was clear as a bell. I returned to complete normality, but changed somewhat by my vision.
Why do I mention this now? The village of Dah, with its flower people, was the Kubla Khan of my vision.
As a child, my father had fallen in love with Tibetan Buddhism, and we had lived at a community called Lam Rim in Wales, near Raglan Castle. Overseen by a Tibetan monk, Geshe Damcho, and populated with a German chef, yoga instructor, two picture-perfect hippies, Dick and Flo, who made ocarinas, mother and daughter nuns Amela and Sutim, and Mike the beekeeper, it was the idyllic place of childhood dreams. I learned Tibetan in Geshe-la's room, eating his cheese crackers while he meditated, and was present in all the ritual and ceremonies, if it wasn't a school night.
So in this Buddhist country I felt so very relaxed and looked around me with eyes that could relate to the words, and ears that knew the language. Even the tsampa and butter tea was familiar. Upon arriving at a guest house next to an ancient Buddhist monument, I tried a phrase or two in Tibetan, and ended up in conversation with the owner, confiding in him about some childhood experiences in Lam Rim.
To my surprise - although why I still get surprised at such events I'll never know - he knew of Lam Rim and Geshe Damcho. His son, the eldest and a monk, had just left to live in Lam Rim, with the plan of helping Geshe-la who was now old. Coincidences abound in my life. I would not believe them if they hadn't happened to me. Of course, I was instantly a guest and introduced to their Geshe-la, who produced a hunk of meat out of his bag, the size of half a goat. We drank butter tea together an smiled a lot.From here we walked and then hitched to Leh, the capital. I was not wholly recovered, though much stronger. I was having blood sugar problems, and often struggled to find food that didn't upset my sugar levels. This made me unpredictable at times, and Jon and Glen announced that they needed some time off from me and wished to go deeper into the wilderness for a real adventure without me. At first I was upset, but recovered, and wished them well. We arranged to meet at a Salt Lake, on our map, on full moon, three weeks from then.
Alone, I allied myself with another Englishwoman and we planned a trip to an enclave called Dah. It was up near the Afghanistan border, and we could visit for only five days at a time. We bought our pass, and took the bus north.
When I was living in the treehouse in Wales, I had the opportunity to experiment with some DMT, a substance we produce when dreaming, and familiar to our systems. This was derived from nutmeg by a shaman friend. Jon and I did some research, and decided to smoke it in a pipe.
As I inhaled, I looked down at the glowing embers to see a small imp rise up and wink at me. At this point, I was transported out of this world. My initial vision was row upon row of iridescent blue peacock feather eyes, similar to that described in The Temple of my Familiar, a book I read later. Then I arrived in what I can only describe as Kubla Khan. All around me was life as pure energy, without form, but encompassing form.
Steiner describes this as being reality behind reality. It was perfect, and real, the waterfall, flowers, insects, beings, all of it. I took a breath, and was torn back to manifest reality. My heart broke, but in that instant I was told: "Beauty, like the sunrise and sunset, is beautiful because of its passing. You always have the choice between love and fear, and you, Helen, will always choose love." The voice was clear as a bell. I returned to complete normality, but changed somewhat by my vision.
Why do I mention this now? The village of Dah, with its flower people, was the Kubla Khan of my vision.
13: A missed rendezvous
We arrived at an oasis where willow trees had been planted to hold water in the land from the rushing mountain river. Everywhere were apricot groves and in all the gardens flowers bloomed. These people were an enclave from Alexander the Great's journey to India; they had stopped here and made it their home. Some were blonde-haired and blue-eyed, and they rejoiced to see us two blonde blue-eyed English girls.
We stayed with a family and, to my horror, some Israelis were well established there already. I say horror, because these Israeli men were lounging about, smoking chillums and ordering the family to bring them food and tea as if they were kings. I am not a fan of such tourist behaviour, and desperately wanted to be disassociated from these westerners.
When invited to have tea downstairs with the family they were obnoxious and rude and I found myself apologising time and again, though I didn't even know them. To relieve myself of their company I went up to the roof and played my whistle, much to the delight of the eldest daughter, Tashi Tsomo.
One morning, I was woken early by Tashi who, admonishing me to be quiet, called me out of the room. I dressed and went out to find herself and her father waiting for me. We walked up a valley, sharing breakfast and songs, until we arrived at a paddock hewn out of the valley side, and filled with apricot trees. We spent the day harvesting, eating and drying apricots on the rocks. For every fruit we ate, we cracked the stone and ate the kernel. They were sweet and fragrant.
Somehow, these people knew I felt most at home doing the work that rural people did, and I was grateful to spend this day not as a tourist but as myself. I found out last year that the people in this region have no cancer for eating the kernel of the apricot supplies B17, a compound that kills cancerous cells and nourishes healthy cells. It was hard to go back to reality from this beautiful place, but I felt immensely healed and strengthened from the time I spent there.
It was coming close to full moon, and I needed to get to the Salt Lake to meet the boys. In Leh, pictured, I met some French birdwatchers, Francoise, Edgar and Jean-Jacques, who were travelling to a lake to spot some rare species and I was welcome to hop on board. We drove south for hours, eventually crossing a high pass and descending into the most vast valley I have ever experienced. The Valley of the Gods; words cannot describe the enormity of this landscape. Even our driver, a native of Leh, could not spot the pass to take us into the Salt Lake valley, and drove up and down for hours and miles until, by chance, he spotted some hidden tracks and headed down them. On our map, the village, Thukje, we were heading for seemed a normal size; in reality it was not. All that was there were some groups of rocks that were nomadic huts, a monastery, and a monk whom I can only describe as insane. There was nowhere to stay and no people. Luckily, the group looked after me; what they thought of me, I couldn't say, for the nights were below freezing and all I had was a sleeping bag and some supplies.
Each day, I strained to see the distant horizon for signs of two walkers, but nothing and no-one appeared. We went to the Salt Lake and saw birds and yaks and shimmering mirages, but no Jon and no Glen. The group were leaving the day before full moon - what was I to do? I headed back to Leh with them. Halfway up the pass, I was overcome with a sense that I was going the wrong way. Jon and I had a back-up plan, to meet at a village south into India; they would leave a message at the post office there. Ignoring the looks, I stopped the car and flagged down a bus going south, thanked them and jumped aboard.
The bus was picking up some English mountain walkers who made no attempt to disguise their utter disgust at this hippie they were landed with. They were not happy and attempted to evict me, although how I could inconvenience them I could not imagine; they had toilet tents and porridge and English tea, what was the harm of little me? They harangued and insulted me, and ordered me off in the best of British lordly fashion. Little did they know I was a veteran protestor and, digging in my heels, I stoically refused to move; they would have to bodily evict me and I would go limp if necessary. I knew all the tricks. In the end, the bus pulled off with me on board.
To be continued ...