GORDON STRONG

Cley Hill

On arrival, a slight whiff of pot smoke emanates from the Glastonbury Festival camper van in the car park.  Bent on higher things, we obey the silent summons of Cley Hill.  A dragonfly leads the way up the path to the stile. A fey guide one might think, and indeed the same theme was to recur later.

Seen from some distance away the mound seems immense and looms above the surrounding land, seen close to it is more inviting.  Our climb to the summit is aided by a friendly dog who encourages our progress at every stage of our ascent.

To the East lies Little Cley, not a little resembling Dragon Hill in the Vale of Uffington. It seems very poised and complete. It is illuminated by the sun, reflecting the solar energy that is very marked on this day.  We wonder how different the character of the hill would be at a Full Moon in Winter.  The sounds of insects and birds are loud here and when gently meditating, images of mantras and geometric patterns come unbidden into the mind.

The landscape seems to roll placidly to the distant horizons; a sense of completeness pervades the scene. We climb down to Little Cley. There, we tone sounds until we discover the note that resonates most strongly with the hills.

Walking back we look up at the ridges on the East side of Cley Hill. The ground itself seems very protective and when we reach the spinney of thorn discover why.  The faery presence is unmistakable.  Sprites gambol in the shade and spin the enchantment that gives the place its mystery.

On our return journey we briefly visit St.Mary’s church at Temple. It is an oddly uninviting place, enlivened only by the gargoyles that leer from the top of the tower at the Christians below.

~o00o~