James McDonald Reid and Friends

April 29 post by Katy (update)

How Beautiful Upon the Mountain

At two we all gathered to climb Arthur’s Seat. That morning we had explored Edinburgh Castle, and spent the early afternoon wandering the City as we chose.

The path was just a slightly worn trail in the soft grassy turf. It felt springy even through a multiplicity of layers of wool and nylon and rubber—soon, it just became too much. I, and the few hikers hanging back with me, rebelled against conventional footwear. With shoelaces tied together and slung through the straps of our packs, we continued on barefoot.

Of course, of course, within a few metres (see, I’m getting the hang of this British lingo!) the path turned rocky and pokey and all around hurty. But by then of course it was a matter of honor—if Sam and Frodo could hike barefoot to Mordor, then by golly, we could stick it out to the top of this old hill! I’ve never felt more like a hobbit.

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After all that walkin' and hikin' today, it was a long walk across the city to the house of Sandy and Isabelle Reid, but definitely worth it. Jamie played the pipes, sang, and told us stories, (difficult for some because of lingering jet lag),

and then he taught us a dance (here with Isabelle):

Sandy,

and James):

At the end we sang a couple of hymns for them as well, and Isabella sent us on our journey with her blessing. I hope some of the students will let me put their comments on the events of the day into the blog.

Arthur

What is the attraction of Arthur? His story has enthralled centuries, and is absolutely built into the English psyche. He combines the stalwart good sense of the Brit with the magic of the Celt, the chivalry of the French, and the ancient echoes and reverberations of Imperial Rome. He is both a Christian and advised by a druid. He invites men and gives them a quest of Right, then sends them after God, so losing them. He himself is too sensible for God, and must make do with magic. [2003]

Tintagel

This place is magical. The coast and the ocean are most magic—powerful and primitive—and the slate teeth and encrustation of human habitation on the hills and headland add the extra frisson of enchantment. No doubt the once and future king was conceived and born here, in idea if not in reality, but it hardly matters. The salt mist mixes sea with air in the way the common-place world blends with the magical. [2003]

They’ve built a new stairway down to the beach and Merlin’s cave so that people can stay longer without being trapped by the tide. The sea, deep blue and green, comes in nearly waveless but very fast. The water surges through the cave from one side of the headland to the other. Chris Bartholomew and Spencer waded into it and we could hear their shouts echoing like mermaids (or like the sailors being drowned by them). [2003]

Thousand year old Tintagel PO: Cornish pasties:

The youth hostel is incredibly beautiful, perched on the cliff at the edge of the world, with nothing between us and Hy Brazil or the Bermoothes but the wide, color-changing ocean.

I hear the wind blowing across the slate and coastal grass and flowers, and thudding in the convolutions of my own ear. Little birds tweet and twitter. The gulls cry raucously or plaintively, and always I hear the susurration of the sea against the cliffs. Half an hour ago, as the tide retreats, I heard a repeating boom like great cannons in the rocky caverns beneath us.

The stone on which I sit is padded with lichen (still none too soft). To the left in the water is an arrowhead-shaped island. To the right is Tintagel Head, one or two human shapes silhouetted on top. Julie sits on the rock far below me, writing in her journal. Above me is the little, low building with the roof running down to the ground, whitewashed and slate-roofed. The wind is colder. John comes out to sit by me, then complains when I talk to him (he wants to write in his journal). OK. The ocean is wide and goes on forever. I am reduced to cliché. [2005]