Through the Briar and Bramble

wild edge & spirit song

Wild rose, nettle and bramble after rain along the lane, 4 June 2024.

Will you search through the loamy earth for me?

Climb through the briar and bramble

I'll be your treasure

I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind

I knew the call of all the song birds

They sang all the wrong words

I'm waiting for you

I'm waiting for you

Will you swim through the briny sea for me?

Roll along the ocean's floor?

I'll be your treasure

I'm with the ghosts of the men who can never sing again

There's a place, follow me

Where a love lost at sea

Is waiting for you

Is waiting for you

Would you drift o'er the rolling fiеlds for me?

Hoard me in the highеst bough?

I'll be your treasure

And in history's rhyme

There's a place and time

And a truth to the gold

That the folds cannot hold

I'm waiting for you

I'm waiting for you

Johnny Flynn, ‘Detectorists’

Tiny sycamore keys along the lane, 4 June 2024.

Hello, and welcome to this new moon in Gemini edition of Bracken & Wrack.

I’ve just come back from a walk to the end of the lane and back, and I can tell you that the season is slowly but surely shifting pace. While the hedge banks are incredibly lush and green after the unusual number of days that we’ve seen rain here in Norfolk, there’s still a sense that the vegetation is tiring a little. The cow parsley umbels are all but bare, having shed their bridal froth. Cleavers stems snake over everything, stickily grasping all in their path but look closely and you’ll see that the lower whorls are already yellowing. All that is left of the spun gold of the equinox gorse is a honeyed droplet here and there.

At the same time, other denizens of the wayside are pushing forward. Generous sprays of bramble-flower buds speak of the fabulous blackberry year that may be on the cards if the weather provides the perfect combination of rain, sun, rain, sun. Wild honeysuckle spreads out its scent with a butter knife. And the foxgloves, well this year their purple, pink and milky spires are nothing less than Otherworldly and the bumble bees are in paradise.

Foxgloves on the heath, 6 June 2024.

STARLIGHT & FIRELIGHT: THE ENIGMA OF SAINT GUDWAL

As it happens, looking back through the archive I see that last year there was an issue of Bracken & Wrack on almost exactly the same date as this one. In Nature’s Hum I wrote about St Petroc of Cornwall (famous, as far as I was concerned, for his appearance in Green Smoke by Rosemary Manning, one of my favourite childhood books). 

Saint Petroc’s feast day is 5 June, and by coincidence the wild Cornish saint I am writing about today has his on 6 June. To complicate matters further, the Wikipedia entry for today’s saint sternly warns us not to confuse this early Saint Gudwal with another early Saint Gudwal, an Irish follower of Brendan who became the second bishop of St Malo and also has his feast day on 6 June. Same name, same century, same feast day. Are you confused yet?

Perversely, I welcome this confusion.

To me, this apparent blending of legends with their contradictory ‘facts’ just emphasises the impulses, joys, strengths, passions, convictions, transcendent experiences and sheer physicality that lie beneath these wonder-tales when you read between the lines. A sense of earthy humanity to which we can all relate. With a little magic and ritual thrown in, of course. Whatever spiritual beliefs the main characters in a story may hold, the magic always finds its way in. 

With this in mind and realising that the story I have pieced together is surely a weaving of at least two shadowy tales, this is what I have found about this very early Wild Antlered Saint (as my friend Jacqueline would call him).

Gudwal is said to have been of noble parentage and a native of Wales. At an early age he entered the priesthood, and became a bishop. Afterwards he led a party of 188 monks across the sea to Cornwall, where they were hospitably received by Mevor, a prince of the country, after which Gudwal founded a monastery not far off, perhaps in Devon. At his death his monks carried his body to Montreuil in Picardy, France, from where, in 955 or 959, it was taken to the monastery of Blandinberg at Ghent to keep it safe from marauding Vikings. There, his festival was kept on 6 June.

That is one version of the story, but other scribes make Mevor a prince of Picardy rather than Cornwall, reading Corminia (Cormont) for Cornuvia (Cornwall), therefore believing that it was in France that Gudwal established his monastery. That’s a good illustration of how these legends twist and morph over time, with new bits of stick, water weed and lily stem swept up and carried along in the river’s flow.

Gudwal's life and miracles were written down by a monk of Blandinberg in the twelfth century, but, says Wikipedia intriguingly, ‘there seems to have been an older life which has perished'. 

I have seen no other mention of Gudwal’s miracles, so can only wonder what magical stories are attributed to him. But on a webpage cataloguing Celtic and Old English saints I read that he was born in Wales around the year 500, was entirely devoted to religion (sic), and collected 88 (rather than 188) monks together on Plecit, a little island that was no more than a rock surrounded by water. Well, that in itself needs some thought. Imagine 89 (or even 189) monks all living in the extreme sensory conditions that would be offered by such an environment. Starlight, firelight, a rough blanket, the welcome smell of food - all these would be simple joys scattered through their days and nights whatever hardships were inevitably also present.

Our own Norfolk liminal rocky shore: Old Hunstanton, 11 May 2024.

Here we are told that for reasons we can only conjecture he left the island and ‘passed by sea into Cornwall; and from thence he went into Devonshire, where he betook himself to the most holy, perfect, and useful state of a solitary anchorite; at length however again emerging, he sailed into Brittany, and there succeeded St. Malo, as bishop of that see, although he is said even then to have dwelt in a solitary cell, and to have died there at a very advanced age.’ - Celtic and Old English Saints

So, from this we can see that this writer has made what Wikipedia would call the fatal error of not distinguishing ‘our’ Saint Gudwal from the Irish Saint Gudwal who became bishop of Saint Malo, throwing Cornwall into the mix along the way. I’ve read also that the see of St Malo had not been established at that date, so Gudwal could not have been its bishop. And my rebel soul loves this as it allows my dreamy storytelling heart to wander where it will. 

On the encyclopedia.com page - as in other sources - we read that Gudwal died c. 640, despite having been born around 500. It seems that the simple life in the wild must have suited him. Here we learn that rather than being Welsh or Irish as other versions of the tale might suggest, 'he was very likely a native of Cornwall in England’.

Gudwal seems to have died in one of his woodland monasteries (notice how the word ‘woodland’ is quite specific here) but was buried on the island of Locoal-Mendon. Surely this must have been his wish, and a clue that he loved both the wildwood and rugged island life.  

The writer of this last source concludes ‘The history of Gudwal presents many problems and has occasioned many conflicting interpretations.’ Well, yes, and isn’t that wonderful.

You can’t help feeling that Gudwal, being so close to the land and to the ways of the old gods, took the opportunity offered by this shiny new faith to forge a path into the wild unknown. It must have represented a huge personal challenge both to himself and to those who travelled with him but ultimately reveals a life fully lived both in community and alone, with all senses honed.    

But let’s travel back to Cornwall, where the parish of Gulval near Penzance is dedicated to Gudwal. In his book ‘The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England, including Rivers, Lakes, Fountains and Springs’ published in 1893, Robert Charles Hope has this to say about its legendary holy well named for the saint: 

‘This miraculous well, in the parish of Gulval or Gulfwell, was formerly in high repute. It was customary to resort thither at the feast time [6 June]. Formerly it was famous for its prophetic properties. The spirit of this fountain could not penetrate the recesses of futurity, but it could reveal secrets, and with the assistance of an old woman who was intimately acquainted with all its mysteries, could inform those who visited it whether their absent friends were alive or dead, in sickness or in health. On approaching this intelligent fountain, the question was proposed aloud to the old woman. If the absent friend were in health, the water was instantly to bubble; if sick, it was to be suddenly discoloured; but if dead, it was to remain in its natural state.

This old priestess died about the year 1748. Her fame drew many to consult her, from various parts; some from motives of mere curiosity, and others to obtain intelligence of lost goods or cattle. Since her death, the well has suffered considerably in its character. Most of its ancient friends are dead; and many who secretly revere its power are silent in its praises.’

Meanwhile a contemporary tourist guide for the village tells us that the holy well was frequented by girls anxious about their lovers, who had to gaze into the waters and recite a short verse before noting whether the water was clear or cloudy.

It also seems from the many perplexed queries I came across online that no-one now seems able to pinpoint the well. The oratory itself has long since been destroyed but the location itself is much debated, leaving another mystery in the saint’s wake. 

I don’t know what Saint Gudwal himself would make of all of this. But it seems to me that the reasons we might choose to seek out a healing or sacred well in the landscape and gaze into its depths are not so far removed from the impulse to undertake any kind of pilgrimage or quest. Maybe we need to journey over rocky seas and through wild woods, tested at every turn. But sometimes we get a glimpse of the sublime when we just intentionally put ourselves into a liminal place where the spirits sing to us and we to them.

Swallowhead spring near Avebury and the perilous crossing place, 26 May 2024.

Someone saw angels on this hill.

One of those early saints, the tough

weathered sort with big hands

and knotty calf-muscles; the wild-eyed

sort gazing into a grey gale,

cloak bucking around him; rough

jawed and broken-toothed from an old brawl

those nights before he fell in love

with the sky and became a saint.

Hilary Llewellyn-Williams, ‘What Brynach Saw’ (extract), The Little Hours

SAINT GUDWAL’S WARMING GRUEL

A recent wonderful but wet wild camping trip has amply demonstrated the comforting magic of a good hot breakfast that can be made simply by boiling some water. Instant porridge pots may sound like a perfect solution here, but I always find myself wanting to make these more substantial and nutritious by opening the lids prior to packing them up and adding lots more of my own ingredients. And also the pots take a lot of space for a small amount of porridge!

As a vegan (slightly wonky) I have only found one brand and flavour that’s suitable for me to play with, and that is a gluten and dairy free coconut and chia seed one. Looking at the contents and their proportions, I’ve worked out how to save packing space as well as creating a tastier and more generous portion (wayfarers have healthy appetites) by starting from scratch.

Why not just take porridge or jumbo oats with you and make porridge? you may ask. Well, if you are used to a creamy porridge mixed with milk, that is far less convenient to achieve on the road than something hot, tasty and healthy that needs only water as an added extra. And your magic ingredient here is dried milk powder.

My vegan-friendly porridge pots include dried coconut milk, and that is also what I would choose. If you’re not a vegan, other dried milks are available. The first three ingredients are essential, but then you can choose however few or many others you like. I’d recommend at least half of these being dried fruits to add sweetness, and if you can run to a fresh banana to slice on top that would no doubt have excited Saint Gudwal no end. A little bottle of maple syrup to squeeze over the top would be wonderful but that does take things to another level.

For one person (scale to suit):

50g porridge or jumbo oats

2 heaped teaspoons dried coconut (or other) milk

1 tablespoon chia seeds (this helps to thicken the porridge as it includes these extras)

1 tablespoon milled flaxseed (this also acts as a thickener but is optional)

A good scatter of any or all of the following: flaked almonds, raisins, dried cranberries, dried apple pieces, goji berries, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, desiccated coconut, freeze dried raspberries. Aim for around 2 tablespoons in total.

Pack into a zip-seal bag to optimise space. When you’re hungry and chilly, pour boiling water over it in a bowl to achieve the texture you like after stirring, covering and waiting about 3 minutes. If you prefer it properly hot like I do, you can add it to your boiling water on the stove or fire and stir while it thickens, even eating from the cooking pot to save washing up.

SEE YOU AT MIDNIGHT: HOW TO MEET THE DEVIL

To balance the story of a saint, perhaps we should close with a tale or two of the devil.

Before we visited Thetford last weekend I knew it was a pretty special place, deep in the Brecks and chock-full of prehistoric and historical sites of interest. It’s just that it’s all too easy just to graze the edge of the town on the way to somewhere else when you’re heading out of Norfolk on the A11 or by rail. One day I will stop off and have a proper look around the old part of Thetford you say - but somehow I never got around to it until the other day.

Now, there are many marvellous things I could tell you about Thetford, but today I just want to focus on one of the most spectacular, and that is the surviving motte (mound) that was once topped by a Norman castle. I knew of its existence, of course, but I wasn’t prepared either for its sheer size or for its setting within incredible Iron Age defensive earthworks with banks and ditches as impressive as any I have ever seen.

The mound itself has to be seen - and preferably climbed up via the ‘controversial’ steps - to really be believed. Even the fittest person would be a little out of breath on reaching the top, and as you might expect the views as you perch above the trees and rooftops are breathtaking. It’s not such a surprise, then, to read on the interpretation sign that Castle Hill (known to locals as High Castle Hill) is the tallest medieval earthwork in Britain. Since then I have discovered that it’s second only to Silbury Hill as the highest human-made mound in the UK. (By complete coincidence I saw Silbury for the first time only a week before this visit.)

Like so much about Thetford’s past, the history of the site is full of colour. The castle itself was destroyed in 1173 on the orders of Henry II, and like so much about Thetford’s past the history of the site is full of colour. You may not be surprised, though, to hear that it’s the folklore that the motte has attracted over time that I find especially fascinating. I’m indebted to Siofra Connor and Stacia Briggs who are here on Substack as Norfolk Folklore Society, as I knew nothing about these tales until I read a wonderful article they wrote in their days as Weird Norfolk. So let’s dive in.

Local rumour has it that Castle Hill was created by the Devil rather by the agency of human hand. When he finished building his dykes at Newmarket in Suffolk, and Narborough and Garboldisham in Norfolk (or alternatively finished digging the Devil’s Pits at Weeting, also in Norfolk) he shook his foot and the earth that fell from it created the mound.

It’s said that if you walk around Castle Hill seven times at midnight you can summon the Devil to visit his handiwork - and spend time in your company while he’s at it. Another story relates that the Horned One haunts a depression in the moat north-east of the wooded hill. This hollow sometimes fills with mud and remains muddy even when everywhere around it has dried out. Known as the Devil’s Hole, walking around it seven times is reputed to be a fast track method of achieving a 1-to-1 with the Devil himself.

A different set of tales relates to what may be hidden beneath the massive mound. One story runs that a king once built a magnificent mansion on the top, but when threatened by enemies he buried not only all his treasure but the building itself inside the hill, where untold wealth still lies hidden.

Another story that will not go away also concerns buried treasure. It’s said that when the nearby early twelfth century priory was ransacked after the Reformation, six or seven silver (or, in some versions, solid gold) bells had already been removed by the monks and hidden beneath Castle Hill for safekeeping.

As Stacia and Siofra put it in their concluding paragraph:

‘Whether the gold, silver, riches or house are under the hill is unknown - testing the devil’s link to the castle mound is, however, far easier. See you at midnight.’

POSTSCRIPT

On the edge between heathland and forest near Thetford, a wildflower caught my eye, Not only was it very beautiful but it was one that I had never knowingly seen before. Somehow it floated into my mind that this was Viper’s Bugloss - and what a wonderful name that is. Comparing its photo to the detailed botanical illustration in my old book of wildflowers confirmed, thrillingly, that the meeting had indeed been with Viper’s Bugloss. I have literally no idea how I knew. As a heath dweller the adder is special to me so I was very happy to have found its flower, but where did that flash of knowledge come from, seemingly out of nowhere? Feels like magic to me.

Until next time.

With love, Imogen x