GETTING DREAMT: An interview with Martin Shaw

Dr.Martin Shaw is the director of the Westcountry School of Myth and Story in Dartmoor national park in the U.K. Author of the award winning ‘A Branch from the Lightning Tree’, he is currently completing a further two books that compromise a trilogy of ideas around myth, wilderness and storytelling.

Why is storytelling important?

Well, storytelling is a huge word - spreading out into movies, theatre, fabrications. If we narrow the field a little, and think of it in the context of an oral telling to a group of people then my thoughts get clearer.

Stories that have roots before the invention of the printing press are forged in the crucible of many generation’s consciousness; and those ideas have been elevated to the form of images: a bird coming to a castle window with a strand of blond hair, a woman asleep by a deep pool of water - they are possessed of a lively intelligence that sweeps past the normal frame of intellectual questioning, but do not deny hard thinking either. A story well told is to do with waking up, not an ‘enchantment’, we wade through that most days already as a consequence of being out of step with our own story.

The stories that we once told that linked us to the elegance of a leopard or the breasts of an Irish mountain now become an unhelpful, mantra-like ‘narrative’ of our own damage and disappointment - in other words a story that is maybe not useful to be carrying. Grief is important of course, but beauty needs to ride alongside. Within a deep story they become the same, they have a container.

So it’s important because it’s a kind of praying.

It lifts up our worry and rapture, and crafts them into an art form and the whole thing seems to edify more than just our neurosis. Myth is a crossroads place where divine winds mingle human concerns with animal patterns with storm clouds with the erotic life of the old gods. What’s not to love?

Myth reminds us in age of constantly implied scarcity that we are secretly a cosmos, if only we have the eyes to see it. I am absolutely at odds with academics and philosophers who imply that myth is a form of societal control - i would suggest that they are referring to a kind of toxic imitation that we see in a great deal of politics and media spin. But that’s not arising from the ground, from the earth, but out of drastically polluted human beings who know how to manipulate emotion through the realm of symbolic image and subliminal ritual.

So there is some odd remembering going on. Tears often come hearing a deep story and a teller alive to its mysteries. Many energies we think are dead and buried within us through shame or dis-connect are frequently just exiled or asleep. Why do we have such big weddings at the end of a story? To invite them back to the feast! We drag our half-dead ass through life with many empty seats at our Round Table. It doesn't have to be this way. At their heart myths are psycho-active, they do to a person what a dream usually does. We lead such busy lives we have to wait till we are unconscious for the dream-information to come through. When you engage with story consciously then you open a door in your waking life for a great torrent of insight to come through. After three days working with a story, i often find with students that we have entered this kind of lucidity. This, more than anyone working alone in a study, is a key to that question ‘what stories do we need right now?’

Can’t we just make up new myths?
No. The conviction of the soul - the ground of where these images eventually become stories - requires time that can’t be sped up to be convenient for modern consumers. Sorry. Myths have no author, they are collectively confirmed through the prophetic power of images that arrive through groups and over generations. And groups that have vivid and daily relationship to the wider living world. No single imagination, no matter how elaborate, can speed that up.

What one imagination can do, is hold a mythic (rather than myth) thread - they can remind us of the power of myth. Jeanette Winterson, Tolkien and many others have been involved with this, and i think it’s great. They are like a beautiful scent from a cafe window that leads you into behold the meal, but they themselves are not the main dish. That's not meant to diminish their stature. So they take images that start to stir and remind us of what stands behind them. I'm really trying to talk about a world that is beyond entirely human motivations.

That is not to say that creative work around myth should stop - far from it. But the setting for real myths to emerge need to be deeper than the environment of the lecture hall. Wilderness, animals, dreams, sex, poetry, singing, delicately constructed ritual can all set the scene for this deeper environment. But, ultimately, we step back to behold the myth that emerges. It comes from some other place. We don’t create it - but we try and induce as much beauty as we can that the images that are ready to come will arise and make themselves known.

I guess what i am trying to say is that we need to Get Dreamt, instead of thinking we control the dream. We belong in a wider, gloriously tangled psyche of liminal culture - the psyche is not entirely within us. That’s a kind of unhealthy anthropocentric worldview. So i think new myths can emerge, but they need a specific environment, a kind of efficacy, for their birthing.

What would you say to encourage emerging storytellers?

Your Character Is Beautiful: Forget agism. You could be eighty nine or fourteen years of age, each has its charm. Also that storytelling can hold many different atmospheres - introversion and grace as well as big flourishes of language. As they say, ‘there are many ways to kneel and kiss the ground’. A certain confidence is useful and a loyalty to your true character, even if that is naturally quiet and undemonstrative. To speak from that position is far more attractive than hastily cobbled together techniques to dazzle and audience with showmanship. In times like these, a little humanity tuned up to an art form is far more powerful.

In the U.K. there is a whole wave of women who have come through the School of Myth here on Dartmoor and have continued deepening their practice as storytellers, dancers, artists. They are not waiting entirely for the next trip over to England by someone as wonderful as Marion Woodman, they are stepping up to the plate themselves. They are all very different thinkers, but give me a sense of tremendous hope for new information flooding into this re-emerging art form. In my wider travels it has been a very tender experience to see an Alaskan fisherman tell his first Grimm’s story at seventy five, or a Miwok Native American work deeply with a Russian fairy tale.

Remember that stories choose you, not the other way around. Just as the migrational patterns of animals are changing, so are the patterns of stories, and both have something to say about the other.

Shadow-Boxing: If there is a character within a story you want to tell that you are utterly repelled by, or who’s motivation you could never relate to, then you aren’t ready to tell it. It will lack the authentic. Storytelling requires conscious knowledge of your own devious, un-faithful, bizarre, jealous, teeth-gnashing and hobbled character as well as the one we place on the job C.V.

Tight-Rope, No Net: Practice learning stories not from lines on paper but from hearing them orally and sketching the images in a kind of line. Tell the story without notes, as if you were talking to a dear friend. Get out into corn fields and high deserts and underneath indigo night and tell them to the wind and the crow. Seeds have a longing to be courted by true human story-language down there in the dark soil.

Most folks don’t want flawless recital, they just want to know that you have a heartbeat. Weird gaps, sudden laughter, openess to the ‘music of the room’, these are all good things. You, in all your nutty beauty, are quite enough.

This is Art: Never leave a story in quite the shape you found it. Don’t mess with the details but add some subtle flourish that makes it real to you and the life you and your audience are having - this gives energy. Don’t cut and paste, don’t add huge sections, don’t remove the difficult, but let it settle in a truthful rhythm. Why else would it want to told by you?

Be Warned: certain people will complain about this. Let them. They are pedantic preservers of an often ‘written’ version of the story. Their motivations are complex, and are best avoided. Ultimately, i think that dwelling in the paradox of the tradition bearer and the innovative artist is a fine tension to work out of.

Why are you so insistent on poetry?
Because poetry is the natural expression of any mythic experience. Because poets are usually the best mythologists - they don’t choke the images they encounter, they honour them. Because, for thousands of years, to deepen in either disciplines you had to be in love with the other. They are two salmon leaping in the foamy curls of life’s great river, catching moonlight in their jaws. For the storyteller, knowledge of poetry is good bread: one poem known by heart equates to three months on a degree program. More possibly.

How relevant are these ideas to the contemporary revival of oral storytelling?
Well, that remains to be seen. One thing i do notice is the level of competence in much storytelling i have seen recently. There is an overall polish and a kind of linguistic pre-meditation that ensures the whole experience goes down quite smoothly thank you very much.

The message for aspiring tellers seems to be: apply for an arts council grant, script a piece of work and carry it round the art centres in an unchanging shape for six months, then do it all again. A question i would have is: what separates that from a one person show - a piece of theatre? Why is it regarded as storytelling? Does this distinction even matter?

One of the joys of this revival is that it is so recent that these questions can be asked in a genuine spirit of enquiry. I’m not trying to shame anyone.

There are some folks suitably weathered by life that have turned this approach into a deeply moving art form. But you only have to look at them to see crows in their hair, and bones round their neck. In other words they already have their hand in the well of dreams. They’ve earnt it. They’ve arrived there after a long journey and incredible views. But what happens if you try the ‘pro’ model without the disappointments, hallucinations, grandiose failure and bland success that lead to that position?

I also wonder what gods are being served in this arrangement - the deity’s of conscious revision and memorization, the written word rather than the improvisational, the strategic rather than mystic. I guess it’s partially the difference between regarding a story as something you can wander around the country on a lead and a muzzle, and clambering on the back of some winged beast with a sense that it has an inner-directive that you are best to follow.

I woke up in the middle of the night at storytelling festival recently gabbling ‘too much Apollo!’ over and over in the dark - so i guess i have a desire that we keep the story gods polytheistic.

At the same time, someone like Trickster needs other energies to rub up against, otherwise its boundary transgressions have no vitality, it needs an organised centre to bounce against. So as storytellers we could examine in which temples are we leaving our story? What are the energies served? In this regard monotheism would be a disaster.

In ‘A Branch From The Lightning Tree’, i wrote a great deal about the difference between the pastoral and the prophetic within myth and its telling. Whilst the prophetic can be glimpsed to an extent in risk-taking and dramatic new turns in the organizing of a story, i think if it entirely anchored to a script then we muzzle the powers of what arises in the room in that moment.

This will be laughable if you regard a story as a psychological device, or allegory, or entirely under your control, but, if you, like almost every tribal group that has ever existed, regard story as ultimately an independent energy that sweeps in and out of the human condition, than it’s worth some serious consideration.

Don’t get me wrong - i value technique, engagement, eloquence, as much as anyone - i think a certain sense of quality control is crucial in this art form, and all this can denote it. But what i love, and what i long for in storytelling, is psychic depth.

In England we are sceptical of myth being co-opted by psychology as a superficial garnish for the client’s inner states, or just lost in the self-help quagmire of the new-age movement. But the fact remains that story activates deep, troubling, occasionally healing rumbles in the psyche of the listener. And knowledge of those tremors, and why they affect you so deeply and not your neighbour, is part of the business of becoming an adult, and, i think, a decent conveyor of stories. To imply that all of that can be conveyed within the story without deeper exegesis is a cop out - we are not mythically literate enough as a culture anymore to do that. But god help us from most dusty academics who claim they can do just that.

I am interested in some other route. Herme’s ‘third ear’ or the blue in the magpies tail. It’s a route that is clearly not for everyone, and i make no claims that is essential for all the wider forms of storytelling.

I am interested in what Francis Ponge calls ‘the new encounter’- “hope therefore lies in a poetry through which the world so invades the spirit of man that he becomes almost speechless, and later reinvents a language...true poetry is what does not pretend to be poetry. It is in the dogged drafts of a few maniacs seeking the new encounter”

So i guess this is high stakes poker i’m talking about. That a storyteller could crack open the sky on a level of Georgia O’Keefe or Ted Hughes. Why not! (laughter)

So yes! to focus, technique and some self-criticism within storytelling - we really need it, but we also need the dark ecology of wild eruptions, spontaneity, listening to a wider community of information than just the human - something of the bardic spirit i suppose. Not bard as tenured poet of court, but bard in the fantastical sense of one alive to the wider mysteries.

Twenty, thirty, years ago in the U.K., storytellers like Ben Haggarty were toughing it out on the frontline of this re-emerging form and asking difficult questions. His essay ‘Seek out the Voice of the Critic’, is just one of several suitably uncomfortable reads for anyone assuming this is ultimately an art form without teeth. His inventive sweeps of thinking are bracing but informing. The call for standards and his distinction between roads of teller (i.e. hearthside and professional) cut through alot of mush. So i think some questioning, some brooding, is vital within this revival. Where is it lacking? Does efficacy still ride alongside entertainment?

As professionalism becomes more distinct within the art, my interest also moves towards the inner-literacy of teller, the tangled connections between myth, speaker and wider world. It's that which i have a longing to see more of, and develop in my own practice.

Copyright School of Myth 2012

Approaching cocktail hour at the Great Mother Conference

brushing sacred dirt from my boots

(thank you Janice Applegate for photo)

Well, it's been a few weeks. I've been on the road: the Great Mother Conference in Maine was an astonishing display of inventive, creative uprisings - some of which came from a seven day telling of PARZIVAL - as women, men, children, magpies, passing butterflies, all got involved. Just a fantastic experience.

Last weekend of the year programme this weekend, and mythtelling in the tiny moorland town of Mortonhampstead a week wednesday - though i suspect tickets have sold out for that now. So...this is for all those going through Great Mother de-compression as they attempt to hide their feathery bits and swishing tails under beige cardigans and golfing pants. Or not. Something on two Greek deities, Hestia and Hera. Why are they interesting? well, for many reasons, but partially because they reveal the role of loneliness within relationship, and the kind of adventure that can come from just sitting still.

Ok, see you up on the moor this weekend!
Mx


The One that Stays

Hestia, goddess of the hearth, eldest daughter of Cronus and Rhea, is not known for adventures. But to be in her presence is to be warmed – they say she cannot be distinguished from the hearth fire itself. Squabbling lovers would make their way to her altar for resolution, her hearth was a place of peacemaking and mercy, she had no time for war, she offered sanctuary, refused any sacrifice involving bloodshed. It was not a travelling temple, you had to come to her – she would not and could not leave her hearth. She was immune to the beguilements of Aphrodite, and even Eros's arrows fell lame at her feet. The lady was not for turning.

Ovid claims her as “nothing but a living flame”; in fact she is more elemental than most of the other deities. It is Hestia who draws you not to a voyaging out there, but in, in to that delicious stilling that arises from time by the fire. No heroics, no grand claims, but a limited rather than limitless horizon. But a horizon that encourages strange, quiet awakenings. You don’t come to her for a human reflection, you won’t find it, she’s not a giddy friend, but an eternal principle, a light that never goes out. Why would something like that need to travel?

Hestia is a refuge that some have found when enforced: by prison walls or a body that refuses to work. As hearth fire she is public, available to all, but her inducement is to go within. Hestia has a link to our story; it was a kindled fire that would be taken from her embers that would serve as talisman when Greek colonists wandered into the wilderness. When they reached or founded a new village, Hestia’s embers forged the new fire. So while she herself does not travel, she carries a boon for those who do.

In our lives, Hestia is a soul bridge - the turn inward. The delight of padding the empty house in early morning light as all busyness seems to be bustling along some place outside. The joy of locking the door. A constantly open door is an insult to many sacred things. She is a great settling, a room dappled by firelight not bulb, deep reflectiveness, immune to erotic trance, a stationary constant in the squabbling hysterics of the gods.

And for those who cannot take the voyage, then maybe they gather by her hearth and dream alongside – intricate and boisterous dreams. Of course, stories get told by hearthsides, it is the natural seat for any mythteller. There is a joy in staying back sometimes.

Marriage and Vision
Now we come to a new temple, the temple of Hera, wife of Zeus. She holds marriage in a deathly firm grip. Hera is less about the ideal partner, or romantic love as such, more about the constant, sometimes frantic desire for coupling – to be part of a couple. Bearing in mind that Zeus is actually her brother, it is hard to imagine a more intimate, intense, weirdly tangled familiarity than a Hera marriage offers.

The absent husband will be met with wrath. Men and women staring woefully into their coffee, desperate for a mate, any mate, are in the thrall of Hera. When the coupling occurs, magical gifts at her altar are the labour of making house together – picking colours, choosing curtains, cleaning drains, fitting washing machines. You are bound together in murderous proximity.

In the case of say William Blake and Marion Woodman, this is not a marriage to a human but to an art. The desire for a meaningful work can descend on us just as strongly as romantic love as we age. The soul reveals the desire for significance, for heft, for some psychic resonance over and over, and will crash our lives against the rocks until we take notice.

Hera is not a mother figure but three faced – Hebe: a young girl, light loving, full of laughter. Then there is the Matron: the strident, powerful matriarch, established and in the midst of life. Then finally Chera: the most mysterious of the three. Why? Not because she is old, but because she is left, alone, all to herself, a distant figure. A Queen of Swords, a Sigune in Parzival, the Grail story.

Within Hera's realm of marriage, these three do not play out in historical progression but in a sporadic bursts, maybe all in one day. The part that is left, that floats lonely by the side of the dance floor, will always be in the mix, always add poignancy, distance and questions to the wider binding that Hera insists upon. It is a useful loneliness, and would benefit us all to understand its part in our own marriages.

For those who experience the binding through art, it is the intimacy of the studio, the careful selecting of oil paints, the refusal of party invitations, that serve as Hera’s altar gifts. You meet Chera in the times you are distant from your work, suffering writers' block, can’t find connection to the engine you are fixing, house you are painting, literature course you are completing. In truth, it is this dance of distance and intimacy that gives the relationship its longevity.

The seriousness of Hera’s binding instigates resolution to the leap of innovation, it roots it down into investment, monthly payments, regularity, even boringness. Books can’t get written without slog, albums recorded without repetition, Rome doesn’t get built in a day. Hera extends loyalty to the vision, to the making of house, past immediate personal happiness. So there is some relationship between Artemis and Hera – Artemis opens our eyes to the possible, Hera grips us tight in the resilient form required to see that possibility through.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2012

New Information and Creative Insults

Well, it's been a couple of weeks. I hope all in the U.K. are as pathetically grateful as i am for this turn to sunshine - on my morning run the grassy verges seem to have grown a foot overnight, and are a-bristle with nettles for the un-suspecting leg.

So, i'm excited to present a new weekend coming up at the school - and a big shout out to all past students to sign up today, we still have some places. I get many e-mails from old faces saying they are hungry for more, well, here it is, jump in. Details below.

And below that is the walk i took from a local Tavistock story some months back. Whilst i can't reveal the story here (too long), you will get a sense of the strangeness of following an ancient tale through a growingly modern town. More soon friends....


A NEW WEEKEND AT THE SCHOOL OF MYTH

Myth as Migration, a Wild Land Dreaming
June 22nd-24th
Bytheswood Hostel, Dartmoor, 180 pounds.
to sign up contact tina.schoolofmyth@yahoo.com

Myths of the slow ground, myths that migrate. What would it be like to absorb and even tell stories from a radius of twenty five miles from your door? In the time of the bio-regional, of attention to local produce and business, we pay the same attention to the notion of local myth and folklore. Over this weekend, we trace several idiosyncratic Devon stories – from the arrival of Brutus of Troy, to a Wassailing story from the hamlet of Scoriton in the early twentieth century. These stories form a kind of myth-line across the mossy landscape of Dartmoor.

On this weekend, we will walk the moors individually - stepping into both out own myth and the story of the wider place. The next day we will find ways to see the deeper significance in our solo time – the river underneath the river – and work into a personal myth line that can continue with deeper study.

The weekend is lead by mythologist and rite-of-passage guide Martin Shaw. An example of his own experience of such a myth-line can be found below. This will be the first time much of this material has been taught and essential for anyone interested in the practice of mythtelling.

Walking the Story
As I crest the high moor, I am surrounded by thick, soaking fog. Fog that obscures the purple and brown scored valleys. The descent down towards Tavistock on the far west side of the moor always takes far longer than memory suggests. As I see a small gate on my right, just off the track with a little turning space for a car, I feel the hairs on my arm stand up. Just a mile or so up that track is Wistman’s Wood – home of the shaggy antlered earth god Dyer, vegetative talisman of a low uddered, pagan, black-blood consciousness that is an undeniable part of the great moor's wheel of display. When that rough god goes riding, it is best to fling yourself into the gorse, and pelt across the bog strewn route home to the twinkle lights of old Ashburton. Get a brace of Jameson’s down the gullet, and a horseshoe above the door. Not demonic, that’s just propaganda, but a fierce and elemental fire storm none-the-less. But it’s not the story of him and his hounds that I am tracing, at least I don’t think so.

Even in this padded white world, the porous bank suddenly breaks open as a whip thin, lycra-clad jogger suddenly lurches from behind a copse and then back into the wintery bank of moisture, with barely a wobble.

After a time I see the small white cement blocks dappling the hillside that tells me I am approaching the housing on the outskirts of Tavistock. I arrive at school run time. Mothers push, with tribal aggression, clusters of red-faced toddlers towards kindergarten, fathers crawl past in kiddie car-seat-loaded volvos, balancing scalding coffees between the steering wheel and their hands. The air is hooting with horns, lots of colour flashes from the luminous cyclists and traffic wardens. After the white, muffled world I have just emerged from, it is doubly lucid. It is always a shock to come down from the mountain.

I loiter around trying to find the remains of the Abbey. Surely there is some raised area where a good citizen can gaze through the railings at a frozen chunk of the past. I seem to be going in circles. I come to a sign listing some of Tavistock’s high moments, including the creation of the abbey in 965, indicating that I am almost standing upon it. But no luck, I just can’t see it. I wander the high street – counting no less then four pasty shops and two soap shops. Tavistock must have a lot of very clean pie eaters. I notice several empty cafes and then the obligatory Costa coffee shop, bearing the legend: “we make it the way you like it”. Well, it’s worked. Through the half shaded window I can dimly make out surely the town's entire collection of over seventies – sucking up hot chocolate from outsize mugs through children’s straws, or nibbling on tiny Italian fancies. In an almost empty street, the one truly corporate emporium brings all the (elderly) chickens home to roost.

I’m desperate for a coffee myself, but won’t go in. I’m turning all this around in my head, when a man in his fifties, somehow bronzed by outdoor work even through this flaccid winter, hands me his credit card. When he speaks, he gives rare treasure – a deep Devonian accent. Clutching his card, I ask him what the card is for. “Well, ees gawt all me savings onnit”, he continues pressing it again into my hand. It takes a moment to realise that this is not a wonderful donation to a wandering storyteller’s wallet, but actually a request for help. He can’t figure out how to use it. We get to a cashpoint, I put the card in and soon he has his money.

His openness is genuinely touching. I can’t imagine being many places where someone places their life savings in your hands and implicitly expects you to help them, rather than cosh and run.

Minutes later, something like it happens again. I have now wandered down the same stretch several times, until a lady in early middle age emerges from next to a book stall, asking me what I am looking for. I explain that I am looking for the abbey and she gives some directions – I am indeed, almost literally on top of it. She then goes off to get me a book about the town. Here we go. Obliged to buy the book because of the favour. An old keeper's trick. But no. She comes back, places the book in my hand and says: “A gift.” A moment later she is gone, back behind her wobbly piles of Dickens, Dartmoor memoirs, and Rupert the Bear children’s books.

The Tavistock abbey situation starts to become clear. It has become rhizomic, a multiplicity, a scattering. Some of the cloisters are across the road in the graveyard, to the left, and up several hundred feet is Betty Grimbal’s tower – originally the west entrance. A few other stumps loiter sullenly by the Tavy – the river coursing dappled and vigorous through the centre of town, direct from the moor.

The Abbey - something that must have seemed a constant, symbolically charged, a tall flame of the godly amongst the blaggard pagan hills, now bashfully peeps up here and there, next to queues of traffic and coffee houses ablaze with geriatrics. We are witnessing the Altamodern – plateus of history talking to each other, rapidly. Moss strewn cloisters, somehow shrunken into the Devon turf, ornately carved, competing with a polyphonic blur of crow caw, exhaust rattle, and radio out of every car window. But before we get too sentimental, isn’t this really a medieval scene? Just add bloated water rats, piles of excrement, hallucinating beggars, and we have the same car crash of sacred and profane. Anyone visiting Delhi will know this vivid montage.

But still, there is a sense of loss. No circling cant of liturgy, no evensong: the centre is in fragments. And tell me, is everything really holy? Was Ginsburg right? As early morning traffic charges like irritable ants over the corpse of the old abbey, it’s hard to feel raised in life’s ecstacies, or bathed in the luminous. It just seems like more of the same.

I end up in the market. There is a working café, just tucked away in a corner. You can be sure their meat ain’t organic. Still, I order the biggest breakfast I can find – eggs, fried bread, black pudding, bacon, sausage, extra bread and butter, and bucketfuls of instant, cheap, bitter black coffee. I feel like a golden god. You won’t get that nibbling on your Costa biscuit.

The café is run by ‘blown ins’ – newcomers to the town, a cheery couple of guys from the east end of London. They and the locals engage in true friendship – by hurling insults at each other. Each local gets and gives their dose, it’s specific and emphatic. Maybe that’s what we are missing in these corporate chains of coffee houses – inventive insults.

I find myself going back to the small gate leading to Wistman's Wood, that remote copse of stunted oak, scattered with occasional rowan and holly. The name is from Wisht-man’s wood, wisht meaning haunted, or fairy led. I’d seen magpies gathered there at the entrance – the ‘devil's bird’, carrying just a drop of old Nick's blood under its tongue. They say at dusk the slate grey rocks and green moss writhe with a host of adders, and that a small dog – named Jumbo – howls for an owner who will never come. Very near is the Lynch Way, the “way of the dead”, where they used to bring corpses for burial at Lydford.

Looking around the strip lit café, ruddy faces slurping hot tea, cut out pictures of eclairs stuck queasily on the wall, the world of the wood seems far distant. But still it persists, gaining an entry point into this other story walk. Ghoulish tendrils curling around the robust food-bricks of the breakfast, the jolly insults, the sound of roadworks. Reluctantly I draw myself back from this otherwordly invasion – and wild Eric and his fairy wife Godda, and ‘Old Crockern’, and all the other antlered and bare breasted gods of the British. But I get a sense of their import, of why they are banging on the thought-shields of my mind. Re-generation.

So many town councils are caught up with the notion of visual regeneration of towns like Tavistock, but all these wild pagan spirits like Dyer are to do with a re-generation of spirit, of vitality, of a good lusting appetite. Without them, with an effective boarding over of wildness, then the village loses its lustre, and the sacred becomes so fragmented that it can no longer gather the spiral energy that this land has drawn upon for millenia. We replace the fairy glows spotted on the moor, or the solitary chapel candle, with the electrical promise of a coffee shop sign. That’s no temple gate.

I start to wonder about the faces and the scene I am in. Have I stepped back in time, am I looking at the strong blond features of an Alan (steppe Iranian), or some Anglo-Saxon from the eastern king's court? The atmosphere is a little coarse but lively, I feel quite at home. Of this book's mythlines, this has been a lingering with the village mind, not the wide epiphany of the forest illumination. And yet it has shown some of its hand, its goodness.

Tavistock has not yet been re-modelled, despite its council’s protestations. I doubt ‘The Guardian’ is flying off the shelves in the local corner shop. It’s gaudy, ancient, friendly, slightly boring. It’s a good mix. From now on I can’t walk this story, there’s no more trackable geography - it flies away, hovers above the squabbling café folk, the chopped up abbey, the tooting motors, and waits for the right pair of ears and tongue to start its telling again. It’s in no kind of rush. I leave with a sense of unexpected trusts and generosities, clear that some nobilities are nothing to do with kings and queens.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2012