COLIN STANLEY
Glastonbury
Symposium 2000
Investigating
Crop Circles and Signs of our Times
On Saturday morning I caught the 10.30 train
from Nottingham and was at Brunel's cathedral, Bristol Temple Meads, just after
1. From there it was a short walk to the bus stop and a long ride (over an hour)
to Glastonbury - this despite a demoniacal driver who drove at breakneck speed
through the narrow country lanes. Only when drivers changed at Wells did I allow
my grip on the seat in front to relax until, to my dismay, the new driver proved
to be even more demented than his predecessor. But he was eventually thwarted in
his attempt on the land speed record by a huge, and very smelly garbage van,
moving relatively slowly along the road ahead. No chance of breathing a sigh of
relief however; the smell was so unbelievably vile that even Satan's charioteer,
unable to pass, was forced to back-off and drive at a safer distance.
This was my introduction to the countryside
around Glastonbury which, despite being a West Countryman , I had never
previously visited.
I finally hit the streets of Glastonbury around 3.30 and they were throbbing --
well, after all, the 10th Annual
Crop Circle Convention was in full-swing and word had got out that Colin Wilson
was in town!
My first port of call was the Assembly Rooms
where Colin was to speak that evening at 8. To my delight Sheila, the organiser,
gave me a badge with my name on it and 'GUEST' printed underneath. Apparently
this meant I could attend anything and everything free-of-charge. Suitably
buoyant, I went off in search of my lodgings in Silver Street.
Pushing through the clusters of people that
blocked the narrow alleyway from the hall to the High Street, I turned right,
past a line of interesting-looking eating houses, specialist bookshops and
new-age stores, took another right and found myself outside a nightclub!
My lodgings were just around the corner. The
doorbell played a complex Mozart melody and my landlord announced that I
wouldn't be staying with him but next door with his neighbour, the writer and
artist Lisa Tenzin-Dolma -- creator of the Glastonbury tarot pack. This turned
out to be a very fortuitous arrangement for us
both; she was keen to meet and interview Colin and I wanted to learn as
much about Glastonbury as I could in the short time I was to stay. She made me a
cup of tea, showed me 'my' room -- her son's; away for a few days -- and I made
myself comfortable.
Just time to explore a little, have a meal, and
meet Colin before he went on stage. I walked to the Market
Square and got no further than 'The Book Barn', apparently the
"biggest second-hand bookshop in the west Country".
Eventually hunger forced me back out onto the
streets -- a first edition of 'The Outsider' in my bag (maybe Colin would sign
it later). Looking to my left I saw 'The Who'd A Thought It Inn'. How could I
resist a name like that? The food turned out to be good, the wine better.
Even more buoyant, I retraced my steps to the Assembly Rooms, beneath which was a room filled with stalls exhibiting and selling crop-circle photographs of the most intricate designs. If these were genuine, they could never have been created by a man with a plank of wood and a piece of string or even two men with two planks of wood and any number of pieces of string. There must be some other explanation.
I pondered on this as I waited in the alley
outside the Assembly Rooms. John Michell was there, deep in conversation. Was he
going to hang around and listen to Colin Wilson, he was asked. "Well I
might... and I might not," he replied and took off in the direction of the
street. I recognised Rowan, Colin and Joy's son, from a distance, his halo of
curly hair highlighted by the late evening sun. Colin followed with Joy and
Carolyn, Rowan's wife.
Things were running late. The hall was packed; I
sat between Joy and Carolyn as the Avalonian Free State Choir, under the
mistaken impression they were also due to start at 8, were forced to cut short
their repertoire. Colin had disappeared into the gloom at the back of the hall,
obviously preparing himself. Joy was looking around for him, anxiously hoping he
would still look neat and presentable when he took the stage.
When the time came he did not speak on crop-circles but about his current book
'The Atlantis Blueprint' ,currently in the press, which he co-wrote with Rand
Flem-Ath. Like 'From Atlantis to the Sphinx' it is a book on prehistory,
continuing the argument that civilisation is considerably older than previously
thought and attempting to piece together evidence that remains tantalisingly
semi-obscured by the mists of time and, to some extent, the closed-minds of
academics.
He moved effortlessly across the globe presenting his evidence, incorporating
geometry, cosmology, mathematics, Egyptology and putting forward the radical
theory that maybe, just maybe, Neanderthal man wasn't as dumb as we thought,
possessing an intuitive knowledge of the earth and the heavens and capable of
aligning his sacred sights accordingly.
As always, he spoke for over an hour without notes -- an enviable skill which,
he told me the next day, came naturally to any man of genius, adding that he had
developed it in a debating society at school and refined it when speaking on a
soap-box in Hyde Park during the 1950's.
In a disturbing postscript, Colin outlined how
two key chapters, written by him, had inexplicably been removed from the
manuscript of 'The Atlantis Blueprint'. This produced a wave of sympathy from
the attentive audience and much debate afterwards.
Pushing through the crowd and into the crowded
bar, I spotted Colin sitting at a table speaking to some admirers. He introduced
me to them as "my bibliographer who has just written an intensely
pornographic novel"! All eyes turned on me and I was momentarily lost for
words. Colin chuckled impishly and then went on speaking as if nothing had
happened. I slid the first edition of 'The Outsider' along the table and he
signed it. I announced that I had every intention of climbing the Tor tomorrow
morning if it was a fine day. Joy gave me the address of their lodgings and
suggested I stop by and pick them up. We then downed our complimentary glasses
of wine, headed out into the warm Glastonbury night and went our separate ways.
Lisa was still up when I got back. We chatted for a while and, as she had been
unable to get a ticket for Colin's lecture, I suggested she come with me the
following morning. This agreed I ascended the precipitous staircase to my room.
Just before drifting off to sleep, I recall a loud altercation outside my
window. Two men, obviously the worse for drink, were discussing sleeping
arrangements. "Okay," said one finally, "I'll come to your place
but I'm sleeping on the couch -- not with you." "Sleep where you
bloody well like," was the reply, and with that settled they mercifully
moved on down the street. My first day in the mystical Vale of Avalon was over.
The next morning I awoke at 8 and prepared
myself for the assault on Glastonbury Tor. Lisa was already in the kitchen
dressed in a stunning rainbow outfit. She was ready to be my adviser and guide
and looked very much the part.
Colin and Joy were staying just beneath the Tor in a remarkable maisonette built
on the land where Dion Fortune had once lived, now owned by Geoffrey Ashe.
Worming our way through a labyrinth of steps, bushes and assorted undergrowth,
we arrived at a huge set of patio doors. The place seemed deserted but when we
rang the bell, to our relief, Colin appeared. Rowan and Carolyn followed soon
after and we set out.
The steady climb to the summit was halted on
several occasions by fans and
admirers, all of whom seemed to have been at the assembly Rooms the previous
evening. "Thank-you for a wonderful lecture... we must read those missing
chapters..." etc. etc. all the way to the top. Colin acknowledged everyone
graciously, taking it all in his stride.
A slow pace was wholly beneficial; the day was
bright and clear and the view, improving all the time, breathtaking. The Vale of
Avalon spread itself before us, dotted with its curious-looking hills and tors.
A landscape steeped in legend and mystery. I breathed deeply and let it all sink
in. Lisa came into her own, pointing out some of the landmarks - Chalice Hill
(home of the Chalice Well), Wearyall Hill (home of the Holy Thorn) with its
ridge of trees making it look like a slumbering dragon, and to the west, The
Mump, looking similar to Glastonbury Tor, with its church also dedicated to St.
Michael.
Meanwhile, Joy and Carolyn
were dowsing. The rods swung inwards and crossed midway between the
triangulation station and the church and then again near the church itself ,
indicating a powerful ley-line. Thinking it may have just been the strong breeze
blowing the flimsy rods, I tried myself -- my first serious attempt at dowsing
-- and achieved the same results. Remarkable. But then Glastonbury is the sort
of place where the remarkable becomes commonplace. I guess that's
what draws so many interesting and eccentric characters there.
As I said goodbye to Colin and Joy, and finally
Lisa, I knew that I would have to return before long. And as I walked to the
bus-stop that Sunday lunchtime, past the cafes, pubs, shops, it seemed to me
that many of the people who were sitting at the tables spread out on the
pavements yesterday, were there again today and would probably be there
tomorrow, spellbound.
The bus pulled-in. The driver looked horribly
familiar. Yes...the very same one that had brought me here yesterday!
For me the spell was well and truly broken...