Hamish said: “If that’s what ye have in mind, ye can pull the bliddy thing yersel’!”

Well, no, I don’t plan in mining for gold as they did in the old days on the Australian goldfields, but I have been uncovering a kind of gold as I forage among the bones of my Celtic culture. I knew many travellers who believed in the old Gods, who were steeped in the Druid ways of Celtic ancestors.

My grandmother’s name was Bridget, and it was from her I inherited my interest in such things, and a lot of herbal lore. She bore the same name as the Triple Goddess of Celtic Lore, the ‘Sublime One’, and the daughter of the Dagda, the Good God.

There are many ways I am drawn to this Goddess, and not just because of her name -although it is a name I would have wanted for myself, rather than the one I was given. She is special to travellers because she is the Goddess of the Tober. This gaelic word means well, and it is used by Irish travellers to mean a good campsite, one where there is a well or other source of clean water.

Wells are sacred to Bridget, and she blesses a good campsite in this way. She is also special in another way – she is the Muse of the Bards, the patroness of wandering poets and storytellers.

In her role as the Triple Goddess, she represents all ages of woman – maiden, mother, crone. I am in the Crone stage now and I look to her for wise ways to live, and to watch over my daughters who are now in the `mother’ stage, and my dear little maiden granddaughters. I look to her as well, as a Muse as I ponder the direction my writing life might take me now.

Sifting among the bones of my simple childhood beliefs, I feel that this is still where I belong. Once these bones wore their own bright flesh and walked easily through my world. I believed in the Sidhe, the ancient Faerie people of Ireland, and accepted without question that I walked in two worlds. Just a heartbeat away, the other world waited, with all its wonders.

Now they are just dry bones, but the longer I look at them, the more they take on the glory of my childhood vision.

With Bridget’s help, I will open the way to that other world again, and recapture that sense of wonder that first led me to the Goddess with my grandmother’s name, and that first drew me to write.

was lying under the apple trees, gazing up at the heavily laden boughs, when an atrocious noise disturbed my reverie.

“haw – hooonk – haw…”

I rolled over and glared at the perpetrator. I saw a familiar tam o’shanter worn at a rackish angle with two very large ears either side, and a long, doleful nose.

“Hamish!” I said, recognising my donkey companion from a long ago trek with Le Enchanteur. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Whit are YEEEWWWW doin’ here?” He demanded. “Have ye no curiosity any more? Your friends from the ship are off havin’ bonny advenures with Herself, and ye’re lyin’ here like a drunk on a Glasgie pavement.”

That wasn’t the most attractive image – I scambled up and glared some more.

“I’ve been deep in thought,” I said. “I came to the Abbey to get some peace and quiet, not to be insulted by donkeys with no fashion sense.”

“Aye, and I’ve been waiting for ye to call me so we could go off on a wander togither,”Hamih said, his voce taking on a wheedling tone. “Don’t you want to see Tent City and dig in the Valley of the Bones?”

“The Valley of the what?”

“Bones. It’s right up yer alley. Camping and tents and campfire singalongs. This isn’t like you – lazing around in a field wi’ only that bag o’ bones fer company.” He cocked a dismissive head at Tinker, who whinnied indignantly.

“Well, wherever this valley I’m sure its too late to go there now,” I said.

“Ach, any one of the ship’s passengers has more sense in their wee finger than you have in yer whole body,” he snorted. “One o’ them already thought of a quick way to get there.”

I thought for a minute. “You mean that walnut thingy?”

“Aye, I mean that walnut thingy.”

“Will it work for you too?”

“Well, climb aboard and we’ll see.”

I rummagd in the little leather bag hanging round my neck for the walnut Le Enchanteur had left in my cabin on board the Vulcania, then I climbed on Hamish’ back and before I knew it, the orchard disappeared and Hamish and i were standing on a dusty road overlooking a most fantastic sight. Far off in the distance were misty blue mountains, and between sprawled a temporary tent city. Everywhere there were mounds of bones and people busilly excavating them.

“What are they doing?”I asked.

“Wel, if ye’d been keeping up wi’ things instead of lolling on yer back waitin’ fer an apple to hit you on the head, ye’d know. Remembering, digging up the bones, swapping yer scars.”

“My scars?” I said.”Oh, that sounds like fun.”

“Fun is what ye make it,” Hamish said tersely. `Now, have ye something for the Keeper? Ye can’t get in without leavin’ a gift.”

“All I’ve got is an apple.” I held up the last apple I picked before being teleported out of the Abbey orchard.

“What does it mean to ye?”

“Quite a lot, actually.” I looked at the rosy skin and saw again the sunny orchard, heard the peaceful hum of bees, and Tinker quietly cropping grass. My heart yearned to be back there.

“It will do,” Hamish said. His rump swung into action and he plodded down the road. The gatekeeper watched us approach with deep, fathomless eyes. I leaned down and dropped the apple in the box. It exuded the sweet scent of the orchard, of the lavender fields beyond the abbey, of the well scrubbed abbey halls and corridors. The gatekeeper stood transfixed, breathing in the scents of that lovely place. Then she smiled and nodded, and we walked on down into the valley.

“We don’t have a tent,” I said, still thinking of the apple I had left behind.

“Ach, ye’re no very observant, are ye?” I became aware of a pack hanging off Hamish’ rump. “There’s some stuff from Le Enchanteur, as well.”

“Ah, so she sent you?” I asked.

“I’m no saying nothin’,” Hamish snorted, “But there’s an enchantment about the Abbey, ye ken – sometimes folk never leave it again.”

“I can relate to that.” In the pack was a bag containing some things I recognised as being gifts from Enchanteur. “Seeds,” I said. “And rock climbing stuff? Oh come on. We’ll be climbing rocks?”

Hamish made a sound that was very like laughter, and we continued to saunter down to Tent City. I recognised a few people and waved, but Hamish marched determinedly on until he reached a pile of bones with no tents around it.

“Here we are,” he said cheerfully.

“Not much of a tober,” I said, my head still full of the delights of the orchard and my snug little caravan.

Hamish had travelled with the Lemurian gypsies and knew that tober is a Traveller word for Campground. “It’ll do ye.”

Pitching the tent was easy enough. And later, as I rested with Hamish at my side, an contemplated the mound of bones, it didn’t seem so bad. Night was falling,and the air was cooling,and far off I could hear a voice raised in song.

“There was an old Colonial boy..”

I thought I recognised the voice. There would be no convicts in my pile of bones. What would be there, I wondered, and what scars would they reveal? Surprisingly, my eyes drooped and I slept, my head burrowed into Hamish’ warm flank.

Having discovered that my pass to White Owl Island was way out of date, and confined to my cabin anyway with the dreaded lurgy, I was unable to go ashore. But in the box with my dusty old pass, I discovered a couple of items that the island inspired me to post the last time I visited. So, sniffling my way to recovery, I offer them here to stir memories. It was a soothing reflection – if you want to see what treasures lie buried there, visit White Owl Island through the time portal…

Anyway, here is my memry of my last vsit to this beautiful place.

A Visit to White Owl Island

I approached Owl Island with some trepidation. After all, I had grown up with folkloric beliefs about owls being bad luck. Travellers and gypsies, like Native Americans, believe the owl to be a messenger of death. Both nations say that the owl `calls your name’ when you die.

But this journey, for me, is all about confronting fears and superstitions, and understanding the foundations of folklore and belief. It is about delving deep into the tales and traditions I grew up with, and learning the universal truths behind them. As I watched Maeve’s stong arms work the tiller, I thought of the way owls were venerated by other cultures, and the ceremony that lay ahead of me when I reached the island.

With all the wisdom attributed to the Owl, I could well believe that would extend to foreknowledge of death, but perhaps my culture had seized on only that and the superstitions about owls had obscured the rest of the story.

We embrace life, not death. No Dukkerer will ever tell anyone they are going to die, even if it is written all over the cards.“That’s the one prediction even an idiot can make,” my gypsy mentor used to say with a laugh. “The secret of dukkering is to tell people they are going to live.”
So it was with mixed feelings that I climbed out of the boat and onto the shore.The initiation was beautiful – I can still smell the honey and I still see the eyes of the Priestess – wide, wise eyes that shone like silver in the moonlight.

I followed the path that led to the owl, feeling at peace. She was bigger than any owl I have ever seen, snowy white, with eyes that seemed to reflect everything around them. I saw myself reflected in her eyes, and realised I was right. With her great wisdom, she knew everything about me – but there was nothing to fear.`

`What do I need to know as I continue this journey?” I asked.

The great silver eyes never blinked. I saw myself as in a mirror, rising stronger from the storms and fires of life, stumbling and falling but never staying down, always somehow finding the strength to start again.

“What you have always known,” the Great Owl said. “That the only force stronger than you is love. It gives you your strength. The harder life becomes, the greater love grows. It is a rose that blooms in the desert, a fire that burns without fuel, the only thing you need to sustain you on your journey.”

I thanked the Great Owl with all humility, and I felt my strength returning. When love is the center of my life, the decisions are easy.

I reached into my pocket and found a rose quartz crystal, which I had picked upon my travels.
I laid this down and walked quietly back through the labyrinth, following the priestesses.
But it was another wise woman I remembered as I took my leave of the island. Mother Theresa’s words echoed in my mind – “there are no great deeds. Only small deeds done with great love.”

And here is an old poem of mine that I let there as an offering:

The night owl
Guards her brood,
So we seek shelter
Beneath spread wings
And turn our heads
To hear the beat
Of a great heart.

I dipped into Le Enchanteur’s box of chocolates and I pulled out – my thumb. I remembered promising Lori that I would tell the story of my shot thumb. So here, out of the chocolate box of childhood memories is a tale you may think is highly unlikely, but is in fact quite true – any circus performer and traveller could tell you even weirder stuff…

How I Got Shot in the Thumb is one of those stories that gets trotted out every now and then. The kids used to love hearing it, and whenever they made too much fuss about something trivia, I would give them the Thumbs Up. Litanies of injury would come to abrupt halt with the words, “Of course, there was the time Mum got shot…”

As many Foodies know, I grew up as a traveller, and my parents were circus performers. My father was a sharpshooter and my mother his human target – and as circus kids do, when I was old enough I joined the act.

There were a few accidents but never with the guns until one Friday in Scotland in 1960, during the second house. I was standing at the target board, holding one of the small plaster disks by its matchstick handle between my finger and thumb. It was one of the simplest parts of the act – Dad shattered the disc with a bullet and the most I had to worry about was being stung by a bit of flying plaster. Except that, this time, it felt more as if my thumb had been hit with a large, dull hammer. I stared at it in surprise. There was blood pouring out.

One of the bullets had only half the charge, and dropped as it was fired, enough distance to go clean through my thumb and into the target board. I was hurried back to the bus where Dad examined my thumb. There was a small neat hole near the nail, where the bullet had entered. The back of my thumb was a bloody, ragged mess.
One of the locals gave us the address of the local doctor and I set off with Dad, both of us with coats thrown on over our costumes.

We found the doctor’s house, after a fair walk, and knocked on the door. The Doctor’s wife opened it and stared at us as if we were a couple of escaped lunatics.

“We’re from the circus,” Dad explained. “My daughter has had an accident.”

Seeing my hand, and the blood soaked cloth it was wrapped in, the woman ushered us inside and called for the doctor. He turned out to be lovely old man with a white moustache and a manner to charm the most stubborn of patients into submission. My hand was beginning to throb by now, and I wasn’t too keen on having the cloth removed. It had stuck to the wound, and we had to soak it off. Once my thumb was in the open he examined it with interest. Then he looked at me.
“I think the young lady should have a cup of tea,” he said. “About six sugars should do the trick.”

As he cleaned up my wound he listened to Dad’s tales of our life on the road. From his manner, you would think he treated Indian squaws for gunshot wounds every day. His wife, now past her first shock, was just as charming. She brought the tea, with a couple of biscuits, and joined in the conversation while the doctor expertly bandaged my thumb.

“I think there’s not much point in stitches,” he said, “since the bullet has blown out the tissue at the back. The best thing you can do is keep it clean, soak it in saline solution every night, and let the tissue rebuild itself. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have another look at it and change the dressing.”

We stayed for another cup of tea, long enough for the doctor to make sure I was recovered from shock – which explained the very sugary tea I had been given – and arrived back at the circus in time for the evening show. I had to hold the disc in the other hand, but I was thankful – Mum’s part of the act meant she had to hold the disc on her head, so if a bullet had to drop two inches, it was best that it dropped into my thumb.

I visited the doctor twice again before we left Beith and he was well pleased with the progress I was making. As he had said, the back of my thumb was in too much of a mess for stitches, but with repeated soakings and clean dressing, it began to heal over, though it left a permanent scar that has considerably faded now.

I’ve been having fun at ToonDoo, as recommended by Anne – I am working on a series of Lemurian Cartoons. This s the first one.

After a surprisingly restful night, I breakfasted in the courtyard of the tavern, and set Alys the task of finding me a guide up into the mountains. She came back a few minutes later with a young girl in tow.

“My daughter Frida,” she said. “She knows these mountains like a goat.”

Frida had very dark eyes – there was almst no white showing – and she was very thin and athletic, so the `goat’ description seemed apt. She had a very pretty face, but there was something not quite human about it.

“Her father is one of the mountain men,” Alys said. “You’ll be safe up there with her.”

“Would you like to join me for breakfast first” I asked. Frida smiled, transforming her whole face, and sat down. Alys, looking very happy, sped off to get more food.

“Where are you going?” Frida asked.

“First we have to go down to the carnival – I have a stall there, and there might have been some requests. Then I want to go to the Mirror Lake.”

She nodded. “I can take you there. If we leave as soon as you have checked the stall, we can be there before midday.” She lowered her head shyly. “Are you on a quest?”

“Sort of. I have some instructions I have to follow to the letter.”

There was one request at the stall, which I fulfilled, then I followed Frida out of town and up a long, dusty road. In the distance I could the mountain peaks rising into the clear blue sky.

We carried packs with food and water, but the Temple Island is not very big and there are many villages. No one took a great deal of notice of us as we passed, probably because this island sees many pilgrims.

The air was like spring water, clear and refreshing. I took deep breaths as we climbed. Thank the Goddess Lemuria has this invigorating and youthful effect, I thought. I doubt I could have made this climb in my own world.

As it was, I lagged a bit behind Frida, who moved effortlessly on her long legs. She didn’t rush ahead however, and pointed out to me various sights along the way. I saw a glint in the distance and she told me it was a waterfall, where the acolytes of the Temple bathed away their old lives before commiting to the service of the Goddess.

“Have you been there?” I asked, unthinking.

“Oh yes – I am in the service of the Goddess.”

After an hour or so, we rested and had a drink of water and a couple of the flat oat cakes Alys had packed for us. I’m not generally fond of oat cakes, but these were quite delicious and flavoured with honey. They gave me energy for the next leg of the trip. We were now quite high, and below I could see the Lemurian Ocean, and the Vulcania moored just outside the harbour, her long sleek lines a white slash on the deep blue of the sea.

It would been very warm, except for the fresh breeze which accompanied us. Frida pointed up ahead, where the road diverged. One road went round the mountain, the other went straight up.

“We can take the winding road,” she said, “But that will take much longer.”

“We’ll go straight up,” I said. In spite of the altitude, I felt well and strong. Frida smiled and led the way.

The view from the top of the mountain ws incredible. I stopped to catch my breath, and saw a grove of trees up ahead. I saw they were Lemurian pines.

” The Mirror Lake is in there,” Frida said. “I will wait. You must go alone.”

I went ahead, down the path well worn by many pilgrims. It was so still inside the grove that it seemed nothing stirred. But the air was crisp and cool,and as I approached the lake, it really shone like a mirror, reflecting the blue sky and puffy white clouds above.

Frida had warned me that sometimes the Lake could be unpredictable, but as I waded out into the water, it seemed calm enough. I cupped some water in my hands let it fall back into the lake. The water was crystal clear. I could see my feet on the bottom, no longer dusty from the long walk. Then a pair of small shoes appeared in front of them, lying on the bottom of the lake.

My first thought was, “they are not for me, they are too small.” But they twinkled beneath the water. They seemed to be made of some silvery, shiny stuff – I knew it was not leather, because that is not permitted in the island’s sacred places. Nothing happened for a while, so I hesitantly put one foot in a shoe and it almost leapt onto my foot, moulding itself around it in a perfect fit. I slipped on the other shoe and the same thing happened. So there I stood, on the edge of the lake, with silvery shoes upon my feet.

A voice bubbled up from the depths of the lake. It had the same silvery quality as the shoes, and as it spoke, translucent many coloured bubbles rose from the lake and popped in the air around me.

“Now you walk in your own shoes,” the voice said. “Who are you?”

I looked in the lake, expecting to see my familiar reflection. Instead I saw someone who smiled back at me, secure in the knowledge of her true self. I reached my hand down, and she reached hers up and we touched on the surface of the lake. A great ache and a longing arose in me to be back where I truly belonged, my own unalterable self.

“Not yet,” the voice said. “Not yet.” And the reflection vanished, the bubbles fell back under the surface and the shoes vanishd from my feet. But I remained, staring into the water.

Frida was waiting for me outside the grove. She said nothing, but looked at my face and smiled. I said nothing either – how could you describe the feeling of looking into your own soul? But now I know who I truly am, I realise I can never get lost again. How wise of Sinbad to insist on this first step. For if you don’t know who you are, how can you ever find your way back?

Lake image from freeimages.co.uk

It’s a tavern like many others – dim and smoky, with wooden tables and benches and a bar overflowing with flagons of ale. A Buxom wench takes charge of me as soon as I enter and steers me to a quiet table with a cheery, “don’t want to hang out with that scum, Ducks, I’ll look after you.”

She bustles off to get my order of ale and stew, and I sit back and look around. This may be an Island of Temples, but the worshippers in this particular temple are as scurvy a bunch as you can imagine. I am sure I hear AM’s laughter rising from the general hub bub.Scurvy knaves or not, they’d better watch their step with her!

I have wrapped my cards and placed them in a fold of my skirt, and I finger the medicine bag around my neck,wit E’s walnut safe inside.Wll I need it here, I wonder? But for all the noise and the free flowing ale, thee is no sign of violence or disrepect toward the few women. Perhaps its the presence of those buxom wenches, who look like they could beak a head or two.

Still, I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. Is someone watching me, concealed in the tavern shadows?

The wench brings my meal and slaps it on the table. Her name is Alys, she says and if I want to stay the night she will see I get a clean room. I gratefully accept and fish out a few coins from the ship’s exchange from my purse. Alys is painstakingly honest, counting out the exact amount for the meal and board, refusing a tip.

“Doesnt go down well with the Goddess,” she explains, and then leans closer to whisper in my ear. “There’s a man been asking about you – he wants to join you at your table.”

“Is he all right?” I ask, trusting her judgement.

“Well, he’s a bit of all right, if you see what I mean,” she chuckles. “But as to the other way – he’s a blackhearted pirate, they say, but I’d trust him with me rent money.”

“And your virtue?”

“If I had any? As sure as eggs.” She chuckles again. “For all his piratical ways, he’s a gentleman -but a strange one. His name’s Sinbad.”

I catch my breath. “But I’m looking for him! Call him over.”

She bustles away and leaves me to savor my stew. A few moments later I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and look up.

“I’m Sinbad,” he said. “You must be the Gypsy.”

He takes the seat across from me and whistles for the wench, who materialises quickly out of the crowd.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, and laughs.

“Are you – or did you used to be – Farakh Sinbar?”

“That was my name in another life,” he agrees. “I understand you are interested in my paintings?”

Lucky Enchanteur, I think, to count this vivid,exciting man as one of her former lovers – but not surprising either. They would have been well matched.

“Your art is so amazing, so miraculous,” I say. “How could you give it up?”

“It wasn’t that hard. I entered one of my own portals, but I did not make the same mistake as poor Bunty. I can come and go as I wish. I have many identities, in many places. Here I am now a pirate, because its one of the best things to be in Lemuria. Back in Atlantis, I am still Farakh, the name I was born wth. It was there I learned the secret of painting portals from a great master.”

“Atlantis,” I breathe. “I would love to go there – they say my people came from there. Is it true?”

“Do you really want to find out?” He asks teasingly. Then his meal is delivered and he raises his glass of ale to me. “Perhaps I wil show you how – but you must promise to do exactly as I say, or you will not be able to return.”

“I will,” I promise, and raise my glass. We are having a fine time over the meal. He is amusing company, and very easy on the eye. He points out various pirates to me in the Tavern, and tells uproariously funny stories of his life at sea. I can see why he loves it so, and why he has become a legend.

The time flies by, and then he says – with genuine regret, it seems – that he has to go. But first he asks the wench for pen and parchment.

“These are exact instructions for going through the portals and coming back again. You must not miss any step, especially the meditation. Bunty was too impatient as always. But you have learned the value of patience, I think.” He pushes the parchment across to me. “Remember, do exactly as it says, or you may not be able to come back”

As he rises to leave, he takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “We will meet again, Gypsy,” he says..

And now he’s gone, and I stare after him, the piece of parchment clutched in my hands. When I can tear my eyes back to it, the first words I see are…”Go to the Mirror Lake, and know who you are.”

The other forune teller has a hot date, so she kindly lent me her stall to set up in the marketplace. It’s good to get ashore for a while. These Islanders know how to party, there are fireworks, and lights hanging across the street. I can smell some very good street food wafting up from the stalls lower down, but over all is the tang of the sea and the bustle of a busy port.

I’ve had a few people asking for readings, so all you have to do is choose three cards (either from your own deck or from a free tarot reading site) and bring them to the stall. Tell me what they are and we’ll see what we shall see, as my old friend Nathan Petrulengro used to say.

I will be here for a while, but later on I intend to go to the Sea Dragon Tavern and meet up with this Sinbad person – I am looking forward to it, as I hear he is quite a looker, and as usual Lemuria has worked its magic on me and sloughed away the years like paper leaves…

I was telling E about my strange encounter with the ghost – or whatever – of Bunty Winterthorne and she hinted I might find out more about the mysterious paintings on my walls at our first port of call, the Island of the Temple People. She was most mysterious but gave me the address of a tavern, and told me to ask for a famous pirate called Sinbad. Sinbad? Sinbar? Could it be? I shall cetainly follow up her suggestion.She would say no more but smiled in that enchanting way of hers.

I am looking forward to the Island – we have all been invited to dress up and attend the carnival. I will dig out my tarot cards and one of my Lemurian dresses and go as a Gypsy fortune teller. Who knows, I may even read some fortunes!

In the meantime, the moon is very bright and full over the Lemurian sea, the night air is warm,and it is far too lovely a night to be in my cabin. I will find a deck chair on the top deck and lay back to wait for the sunrise.