Well last weekend there were reports that even Dartmoor Rowan Trees inched forward in the soil half a foot to catch a poem or two from Coleman and Lisa, the wind itself curled around St. Lawrences chapel to catch the refrain of David's cello. Several hundred souls joined us at various points of the weekend to make the very first Westcountry School of Myth and Story conference a heart-busting, soul leapin' success!
Even the Totnes Times described 'Colemans hypnotic drawl..just loving the words of Rumi..David Darlings dexterity..the delicacy of Lisa Starrs poems and the splendid tales of Martin Shaw'.
We had the rare luxury of two days time together before the conference. Whisky was uncorked, steak and stilton pie was consumed in the Rugglestone Inn in deepest Dartmoor. Once the armwrestling, tattoing and bardic battles subsided, we even slept a little, in a mythopoetic heap under a sympathetic Hawthorn bush. They are a great caravan of inspiration to travel with, and i suspect this is only the beginning. If you'd like to see us in your town then send beguiling love messages, used £10 notes and a game plan to email@example.com .
So, a big thank you to all swaggering Magpie Queens and Punch-drunk Hermits that rolled through our doors. See you on the Year course! I also want to call attention to a wonderful new retreat centre on the Moor, BONE HILL HOUSE
more information abides at the above website. Not only did it provide nuturing and restful accomodation for Coleman, David and Lisa, its doors are open for facinating retreats and personal journeys of many kinds. The views are staggering, food wonderful, with hosts like something from the old stories (no, not Baba Yaga). A very exciting find-great allies of the School of Myth.
Jay Leeming is at St lawrences chapel this saturday-7.30 £4, with me and Chris Salisbury telling stories at Embercombe this Friday from 8.00pm.
I'll leave you with one of Jay's-see you at the front on Saturday night. Must rest now.....
An oar is a paddle with a home. This arrangement seems awkward at first, as if it were wrong; the wood knocks in the oarlock, and would much rather be a church steeple, or the propeller of an old airplane in France. Yet as it bites deep into the wave it settles down, deciding that the axe and the carpenter were right. And you, too, are supposed to be sitting this way, back turned to what you want, watching your history unravel across the waves as your legs brush against the gunnels. Your feet are restless, wanting to be more involved. But your back is what gets you there, closer to what finally surprises you from behind: waves lapping at the shore, the soft nuzzle of sand.