With my current novel, I’m in an interesting position. Now I find myself back there not in person, but in story. The New Age movement is going strong here, yet another layer of belief to cloak the place.
Today, Glastonbury is a place where those seeking spiritual enlightenment are drawn. The religious practices that have been carried out in this one place span from the Neolithic to the Celtic, early Christian, and beyond. I lived outside of Glastonbury for about 3 years, and I never tired of walking around the town and exploring the many sites that make it truly unique. For many it’s the heart of Arthurian tradition, and for some it’s the resting place of the Holy Grail. It’s a place that was sacred to the Celts, Pagan and Christian alike, Saxons, and Normans. Removed from the fantastic orgy that is the music festival, this small town in southwest Britain is an ancient place of mystery, lore and legend. It’s a great party, but to me that’s not the real Glastonbury. One thinks of thousands of people covered in mud as they wend their way, higher than the Hindu Kush, among the tent rows to see their favourite artists rock the Pyramid Stage. To most, the mere mention of this town’s name will conjure images of wild, scantily clad or naked youths and aged hippies.
I’m walking into fabled mists today and, historically speaking, I may be on shaky ground.
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