“Good day, Sir Knight,” he said, “fancy going on a quest to Carningli to meet with Laurence Maine?” he enquired.
Now, Laurence is a remarkable man in his own right, almost the traditional holy man of the mountain, and an author, poet and guide to ancient pathways too. He’d been living up on the mountain of Carningli for many months, supervising dreamers for the Dragon Project, in which many people slept at the mystical site and recorded their dreams on to a tape recorder he was using. The results were later to be analysed to see if there were any common themes.
Carningli, situated at the edge of the Prescelly Mountains in West Wales, once used to be the home of the Welsh Saint Brynach, and the story goes that the saint received visits from angels upon this lonely peak. More recently it has been the focus of UFO activity and compasses go haywire at the place Saint Brynach used to dwell. Laurence has almost taken on the role of the former saint and regards himself as a guardian of the mountain. He is a committed vegan and teetotaller with a big bushy beard and the sort of man you’d associate with the Far East or the Himalayas perhaps.
Arthur and I had been in correspondence with him and apparently he wanted to join the Loyal Arthurian Warband, as a Brother Knight. How it all came about was that Arthur was at my house one day and I was reading Wales On Sunday paper when I spotted a feature about Laurence and Carningli. I threw the paper over to the King, who after looking through it asked me if we could get hold of the person it was about. I said I’d see what I could do and shortly after I came upon an address for Laurence in Chalice, a New-age and Alternative magazine I used to write for. I got in touch with Laurence and also told Arthur and it all developed from there.
Now Arthur had just been injured in a car accident that day and his motor bike or “iron steed”, as he called it, was now a write-off. His legs were badly bruised, grazed and bandaged up, but undaunted, the King had valiantly determined to carry on with his mission of knighting Laurence at his chosen site and so he had hired a car to help achieve his goal.
Inspired by what Arthur told me I agreed to accompany him on this quest and off we set intending to reach Carningli before nightfall. The rain was absolutely bucketing down as we drove into the West.
Fortunately, by the time we reached Fishguard the downpour had ceased and we stopped off to get in a few necessary items for the night ahead of us. We bought bread, cheese and “Druid fluid”, as Arthur calls cider. Then we went to find the sacred mountain and the pathway upward.
We parked the car and began our climb, although King Arthur had a few problems negotiating the steep and rocky incline, dressed as he was in flowing robes and wounded from his recent accident. I went on ahead to see if I could find Laurence. He spotted us coming up the mountain and came on down to show us the way to his camp. I’ll never forget the sight of this rugged mountain man with full beard, wearing shorts in the cold inclement weather. He was obviously hardened up to the elements.
After a short while we were joined by two more people, a girl called Emma who lived in a farm down in the valley and her companion, Megan, a young lady from Nova Scotia (of all remote places), who was trying to hitch-hike to Ireland. Now here she was on a Welsh mountain peak with a legendary Celtic chieftain, a bard (myself), a ‘holy man’, soon to be knighted and her new friend.
Emma decided to return home but Megan wanted to stay, so there we all were, with the starry sky above, high on a Welsh mountain-top and overlooking Cardigan bay below.
We shared a simple meal and Arthur raised Laurence as a knight of the Round Table, there at the once home of a Welsh saint. We celebrated with songs and stories and drank a toast, welcoming Laurence to our fellowship, but it was getting increasingly colder and the shelter of the two tents beckoned.
As the ‘dreamer’, I entered my tent with Laurence and Arthur took the main one with Megan.
Unfortunately, although it may have been ideal for saints, the place was too small for a campsite and my tent had to go on an uneven rocky patch of ground. This factor prevented me from sleeping and I almost got used to Laurence asking me if I had been dreaming. “ It would help if I could actually sleep I told him!”
Nevertheless, I had a vision come into my head of three black-cloaked figures, like Ring Wraiths from the classic Tolkien series, and I recorded this information into Laurence’s cassette recorder.
Finally, the light of dawn arrived and we got up, but imagine my surprise, when, on greeting Arthur that morning, I was to learn that he too had had a sleepless night in which he had been engaged in a psychic battle defending Megan from three black Ring Wraiths! Independently we had seen the same forces of darkness at the same time and place, a place, which Laurence believes is a gateway to Annwn, the Celtic underworld.
Later, we bid goodbye to Laurence and Megan, and started our journey back to Cardiff. We stopped at a shop in the valleys nearby and Arthur asked me, “ Steve, if I tell the shop-keeper here who we are and what we’ve just been doing, do you think she’ll believe me?”
By Steve Andrews aka The Bard of Ely
First published in Big Issue Cymru
“And we’ll walk and talk in gardens all misty wet with rain,” – Van Morrison, Astral Weeks.
Van ‘the Man’ Morrison has always been one of my favourite singers and on midsummer’s day several years back I had the opportunity to meet him in person. It was a very memorable day for me, but for all the wrong reasons and our meeting went disastrously wrong. Let me entertain you with the sorry saga:
At the time I was working part-time for Incredible String Band founder now turned Celtic bard Robin Williamson and he was playing a concert for Summer Solstice at the Welsh National Folk Museum in Saint Fagans on the outskirts of Cardiff. The day arrived in typical fashion with weather we so often get at this time of year. In other words, it absolutely bucketed down and any out-of-doors event on such a day would be certain to be a complete washout. Due to the decidedly inclement conditions prevailing it was wisely decided to move the gig into a large marquee tent.
Now although I had been very kindly invited along to the concert, I had, at first, been unable to go because my son Isaac was due at pottery class. I had to take him along to this and the hours he was supposed to attend the class were the ones the gig was scheduled for. By a quirk of fate though, we discovered that it had been cancelled at the last minute and we were free to go to see Robin after all.
Because we had been delayed by the business of attempting to attend the pottery class, by the time we got there it was nearly all over and Robin was playing his last number. But imagine my surprise on this awful afternoon for there standing at the side of the tent was my hero Van Morrison. He was chatting to another bloke and, eavesdropping, I soon discovered that this chap hailed from Ely, the suburb and council estate of Cardiff where I live.
When all the applause had died down Robin had left the stage and with his wife Bina had come over to greet and have a few words with his fellow celebrity musician and old friend. So there they all were, Van Morrison, Robin Williamson, his wife Bina and some bloke from Ely all standing, nattering away at the side of the marquee on an afternoon of a day that was decidedly misty and wet with rain.
I had once spoken briefly to Van Morrison when he had phoned Robin’s home and had very excitedly taken the message to tell Robin he had called. Now, here today, was my big chance to actually meet one of my all-time favourite rock stars. If Van is friends with someone from Ely then maybe he’ll be my friend too, I was thinking and hoping.
I made my move and walked over to introduce myself. Unfortunately, the first thing I managed to say was “So you’re Van Morrison then?” As if he didn’t know who he was.
“Yeah,” Van replied.
“I’m Steve Andrews and I spoke to you once before when you phoned Robin’s,” I continued.
“Yeah,” said Van Morrison.
“And I have always been a great fan of yours,” I attempted.
“Yeah,” Van responded.
Now Van Morrison is known for being a bit reclusive and uncommunicative by nature but this conversation was really terrible and my efforts to impress were dying a tragic death. It was at this point that Robin tried to come to my rescue.
“Yeah, Van, Steve here is a good bloke, a good friend and very helpful too,” he said and I was extremely grateful for Robin’s intervention, floundering as I was at the time.
“Yeah,” came Van’s response yet again. All these “yeahs” were getting us nowhere fast. Surely things couldn’t get any worse? Surely things could only get better, as the song goes?
It was then that my 11-year old son Isaac butted in. He had no idea that Van Morrison was famous. Or did he? He acts all childish innocence about it but I have my suspicions even today.
“Dad,” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied. This response was obviously catching.
“Can you see that rope by there?” he asked, indicating a guy-rope mooring the tent down.
“Of course I can,” I replied.
“Well, Dad, do you think you could put your face by it?”
Thinking nothing of this harmless request and also fazed by my dismal attempts at conversation, I moved my head downward so I was level with and facing the rope.
“Like so?” I asked.
Then with no warning, Isaac twanged the rope with all his might and all the accumulated water from the downpour cascaded over me in an absolute deluge. I was drenched while my son shrieked and cackled with uproarious laughter.
Van Morrison, amongst many other things, is known for his incredible vocal range and talent as a blues singer. There’s a song recorded by the late, great Eddy Cochran called Summertime Blues and the title could hardly have been more apt for a day such as this.
It was the perfect prank and my humiliation was complete. There I was, after all my pathetic attempts to introduce myself to a musician whose albums I had faithfully collected: yes, there I was a blathering, gibbering idiot, completely and utterly soaking wet. And a laughing stock in front of all these people too. It really was the worst midsummer’s day I had ever known.
Being a parent can be very hard at times like this, and children can be so very cruel. Words had failed me completely. I just grabbed Isaac’s hand and took off fast into the mist and rain outside, a welcome relief after what I had just been through. If I ever get the chance to meet Van Morrison again, I can only hope it will be under much better circumstances – they surely couldn’t be much worse. Fate, I tempt you!
