sæternes dæg 29/1207

I’ve had one of those once-a-year letters tucked into a Christmas card from distant cousins half a world away. Theirs is neatly printed out headed by a colorful (sic) interior scene of fir tree presents and pink lounge. My reply, when it is composed, shall travel via email as did last year’s response but I hardly know what to say.

I look back at my own past twelve months and see little to report. Barren wilderness unsullied by incident. The highlight of each week a locking of intellectual stimulus with Katy (who surprised me last time by actually agreeing with me). Apart from that. What?

I’d gone into the medical practice to get a prescription renewed. Nothing serious. Just routine to keep the platelets happy. In an unscripted moment I enquired how busy everyone was. A few fingerings of the computer later I was booked in to see a locum. The locum had time to spare. We talked. Was there anything physically wrong with me? If not, then I knew what to do. More talk. Questions and answers. Blood samples taken and sent for analysis. Go back for the results. Nothing to report but do have another cholesterol test in twelve months’ time. OK. So it’s psychosomatic and I know what to do about that.

Shan reappeared in my landscape. I’d known Shan in the mid-80s by reputation. She was a force to be reckoned with. One of those who act, who build, who do something whether or not others approve. House of the Goddess. In London. She was still a force to be reckoned with more than ten years later when I met her at one of Michael de Ward’s In the Presence ChristoPagan seminar weekends on a commercial campsite at Calne in Wiltshire. I remember she spoke about reciting the Charge of the Goddess and then finding out she was in the presence of Doreen Valiente. After that I’d heard nothing more of Shan until her name popped up on the screen in front of me sometime in this year 2007. Now she was in Newport, Mon., transforming a disused working man’s club into premises which included a temple. I went along and helped with the redecorating. Now I have a proprietorial interest in two of the kitchen’s walls and some other bits and pieces here and there. More visits to look forward to. Stimulus. Momentum. Time shall come again when once more I take the A40 westward and over the border to that place of magic.

I used to assist with the computer teaching programmes at the university’s Department of Continuing Education. My name remains on their mailing list. In the early summer an advance copy of their autumn schedule arrived on my desk. I tend to read anything in print that comes under my eye. Dutifully I worked through from the front cover and towards the back. My eye spied a course of Old English language literature and culture. I knew this was for me. And so it was. And so it is. For two reasons. One : in my time of Mediaeval Studies at the University of Sydney, I could happily decode the Latin texts handwritten in Carolingian minuscule. But the AngloSaxon material defeated me. I was quite ignorant of the language. More urgent matters took its place. Now was a time to remedy a deficiency. Fill a gap. Two : when I first came in contact with Marian Green she encouraged us to explore our local landscapes for traces of the old gods among the places belonging with their names on the map. I did visit Great Tew but perhaps I wasnt on the right wavelength that day. Or the signal was deep buried in more mundane static. Village prettiness. Too too too arty. Consciously.

The DCE Old English course is absolutely first class. Our tutor is Russian. She’s on the staff of Duke Humphrey’s Library where the Bodleian keeps its manuscripts and incunabula. She really knows her stuff. And life is transformed for me. I made it clear at the start that I have a primary interest in the paganism the original English brought with them from their homelands adjacent to the North Sea. Not so easy since the finite amount of surviving documentary evidence depends upon the handwork of longdead Christian scriptoria. Which tends to leave an unbalanced view of reality. Nevertheless. Joy of joys. [Corn in Egypt!] I find I can hardly go two steps in my local landscape without tripping over ground which was once nurtured by my AngloSaxon brethren. The very house I live in is on ground that used to belong to one of them. Until Guillaume le Bâtard dispossessed the last of them in favour of the Earl of Abingdon, whose family name was Norris. Also spelt Norreys.

So there we have it. Something to look forward to. Something to exercise the mind for as long as .. .. ..

I weave my own input into the Web of Wyrd. I create my own future. As we all do.

Oh yes. And there was a significant birthday just days ago with three daughters and five grandchildren. Twelve of us altogether. I’ve managed to survive 80 years on this planet. More than I ever expected. And I’m aware of preparing for next time. And the time after. Still more yet to do. The Web of Wyrd weaves unceasing and it weaves exceeding fine. Toodle pip. As they say.

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francis atte oxenford
29 december 2007