The Lake of the Goddess

Following my magical fortnight in Poland, I lingered in Slovakia for a couple of days and then flew to Switzerland for a week with my buddy Slaven. Lausanne was hideous. Just hideous.

And the only thing worse than the weather was the company. Obviously we had no fun together.

 None whatsoever.

From Switzerland I bussed down into Italy. My friend Cesar married two days later in San Gimignano, a picturesque Tuscan jewel of towers and stone. On the same day that marriage equality was legalised in the United States, I found myself in a Catholic cathedral watching my friend marry the woman of his dreams. I don't think this is irony, but Alanis Morisette confused me for the rest of my life, so it may or it may not be.

As the sun went down in the Tuscan sky, we drank and danced and I had a great deal of fun… too much fun. At some point my memory goes blank.

The next day, with barely 24 hours left in Italy to complete a holy pilgrimage, I hitched a ride to sultry Florence and then dragged my hungover body onto a train for Rome. South east of Rome is a lake called Nemi di Lago – Lake Nemi, or ‘Diana’s mirror’. The ancients believed this lake to be divine, and dedicated the waters to the Triple Goddess, Diana Nemorensis (one of the triplicate deities from whom the Christian church appropriated the Trinity doctrine, not to mention from which the cult of Mary worship evolved). Her sacred grove on the lakeshore was tended by a warrior-priest called Rex Nemorensis (King of the Grove). Rex Nemorensis lived by his wits and his savagery, knowing that a contender for his position might appear any day. The priesthood could only pass to a runaway slave who had nothing left to lose, for whom the prospect of a temporary respite before a violent death was still preferable to returning and being killed. He was required to break a bough from the sacred oak tree in the grove if he could, and then kill the current priest in a fight to the death. Rex Nemorensis was one of the earlier examples of the historically recurrent Messiah motif – the divine king who must die and be reborn.

If you cannot imagine why I desperately needed to visit this place then you do not know me. I arrived in Rome at 6pm – much later than desired – and narrowly made a regional train connection with only three minutes to spare. After an hour I reached Albano Laziale and failed spectacularly at finding a taxi to take me the remaining 9km to my destination. My hope began to fade and I imagined myself dejectedly giving up on my mission. But a kind Romanian woman named Maria took me under her wing and escorted me on a public bus to the village Genzano, walking distance from Lake Nemi.  

As I arrived at the Lake, the sun was receding from the top of the hills with an evanescent ruby glow. I descended to the shore with mounting excitement, already basking in the success of my mission. Dragonflies hovered above and swallows danced. The sky darkened into navy hues, turning the moon into a dazzling cosmic pearl that cast a spell upon my brain.

When I finally left the water and put on fresh clothes, fireflies had come out to dance in the night air. Like guardian spirits of the Lake, these haunting will-o-wisps pulsed golden light to the rhythm of a human heartbeat and filled the air with a sparkling magic effect. I walked alongside the Lake, flooding the space around with me with love and appreciation, even when I reached the dark grove that had lurked ominously in the twilight on the way in. Here the darkness solidified and took on foreboding forms. I could feel the resentment of the dead for the living. How many priests of Diana died violently in that place? The echo of their brutal deaths still remained and I could feel their menace and hostility pressing against my mind. So I opened my arms wide in surrender and let them do their worst, knowing that I offered something more appealing to them than revenge.

“You are loved!” I said over and over to the malignant shadows, “you are loved!” 

The fireflies surrounded me all the way up to the top of encircling hills and I both laughed and cried for joy, energised and vitalised as though from a night of deep rest.

“From the still glassy lake that sleeps
Beneath Aricia’s trees
Those trees in whose dim shadow
The ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer,
And shall himself be slain”

Witches in the Woods

Kashubia is an area in the north of Poland where the Goths landed 2000 years ago and mingled their blood with the resident Slavs, thus giving birth to the Kashubian people. In Gdynia on the north coast, I stayed with a friend who designed a five day adventure through the Kashubian countryside; the first day brought our dusty feet to the cemeteries of Uniradze.

A day of hiking then took us to the small town of Stężyca, after which we witnessed a religious festival that effectively shuts the country down for half a day.

We went kayaking on the lake for a while before hiking onward to the stone circles of Węsiory.

This site is considered by many to be evil and haunted, which is the most enticing invitation imaginable.

The second great site is the Guardian circle - this has been in place for thousands of years, and yet no moss grows. Other such circles have accumulated dirt and moss, growing over to create the appearance of a mound. However inside the core of the Guardian circle, the stones are clean.

Night fell, transforming the forest into an inky, deceptive morass. We left with quickened steps as the juniper bushes moved in the corners of our eyes, shifting between the pine trunks like shadows of the dead. Beneath a blushing, sleepy sky, under the vigil of Venus and Mars, we walked into the village with the company of bats and a serenading chorus of frogs.

After another day of hitch-hiking and walking through countrysides scattered with giant stork nests, we encountered the neolithic circles at Odry. It is uncertain whether the stones were placed to mark locations of strong natural energy and then used as burial grounds by later generations, or if burial of the dead was synonymous with the creation of astronomically aligned stone momuments. 

On two separate days, we spent hours at the beach hunting for pieces of amber. It is not the time of year when violent winter storms dredge up the debris of prehistoric forests from the floor of the Baltic ocean, but there is still treasure to be found.

Magic and mystery in the Cornish mists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of trees and trains in Transylvania

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

The Ruins of Gymes Castle and other Slovakian adventures

I first visited Slovakia exactly four years ago in 2009 and remember being utterly confused and overwhelmed by the Bratislava bus station. My first bus ride at that time took me past a ruined castle on a hilltop that I dreamed of  visiting one day. Thus it was with considerable satisfaction that I finally did so. I navigated the buses with ease and skill this time, eventually arriving at the village of Jelenec (with no help from the miserable hags at the Nitra bus station) (Jelenec is prounced 'Yel-en-ets'). With my 15kgs of luggage I walked into the countryside past decaying communist structures until I found a path up the hill. The signs were confusing, but a steady trail of oak leaves kept me on track.

The windswept Gymes Castle far excelled my expectations, becoming the most enchanting and exciting ruins I've ever seen. I ran around in a flight of euphoria, climbing every tower, entering every tunnel and following every twisted path that led through and around.

There is never enough time to linger long and I enjoyed another cross-country run down the hill and into the town to catch my bus.

The next day I took a short train and bus to Cachtice (pron. Chuck-teet-sa), where an hour's walk took me up to the castle (below) made infamous by Elizabeth Bathory the Blood Countess.

Faced with an 80 minute wait for the next bus, I did what any sane person would do and ran 5kms along the train tracks.

Navigating the public transport with Germanic efficiency, I reached the next ruins of Castle Beckov (pron. Bet-skow... above).

Early on my third day I travelled north to Povazsky Bystrica and walked out and up to the ruins of the castle there (above and below).  Definitely worth the heavy-laden hike.  My hips are on the verge of betraying me.

I then headed into Zilina and found that I'd lost my credit card again.  I rushed back to the train station and found it in the possession of an old man selling cheap candy on a card table.  He wanted a gesture of gratitude so I happily handed over 20 euros, knowing how much more it would mean to him and how much less it cost than losing my card.

A little later than planned, I continued my mission out to Lietava Castle (above and below).

On the fourth day, I walked past the ruins of Strecno Castle (below).  After reading that entry was only permitted with a tour guide I decided that this would not work for me in the slightest.  

Further down the river, the forested ruins of Stary Hrad (below) awaited, and they were truly delightful. I climbed a wall to get into the tower that called out to me and blissed out.

I have seen some of the most stunningly pretty people in Slovakia. Some women looked like Disney princesses come to life and I've seen the occasional guy who could easily be my Prince Eric. The best things in life are free and that includes dreams.

On my fifth day, after a night in the mountain city of Poprad, I visited my 8th and final ruined castle of Slovakia: Spissky Hrad (above and below).

I concluded my physically strenuous tour of ruined castles in Slovakia with a day at the north Hungarian city of Miskolc. They have cave baths. And just when you think you've been through all the twisting tunnels you find another pool system with hotter water, darker lighting and a Solarium with illuminated stars and an eerie soundtrack of whispers, laughing, chanting or moaning and the occasional cry. It was very 'Chamber of Secrets' meets 'Night on Bald Mountain'.

(Not my photo, because mine didn't begin to capture it).