TRAVEL MEMOIR / BRITISH ISLES
On A Spiritual Journey in the British Isles and Ireland
I am, I know not who; I go, I know not where; to find, I know not what
Owing to many, many moves — house shifts — I don’t have surviving photos of my journey in the British Isles and Ireland. Here are my memories.
During May and June 1997, I traveled alone throughout the United Kingdom and Ireland. It was such a wonderful, freeing experience. And I was terrified at first — couldn’t make up my mind about anything. Here I was, 45 years-old and couldn’t decide on even simple things for myself.
For years, I just hadn’t given thought to what I wanted to do. I always considered what my husband wanted, or what my children wanted. I’d go to the video store and always pick movies based on what I thought they would enjoy.
Here I was, eight time zones from my home in the Pacific Northwest and I could go anywhere I wanted, do anything I wanted, and I hadn’t any idea what I wanted. I was stuck.
After two weeks on the the Dingle Peninsula, I arrived in Dublin, on assignment from my mentor who instructed me to go there, to discover the land of my mother’s people. I immediately picked up a little rental car and frantically looked for a ferry to take me to Wales.
It was a bank holiday, thank God, so traffic was light, and I followed signs to the Stena Line Ferry and bought a ticket to Holyhead, Wales, where I camped at the foot of this mountain, Cadair Idris, for nearly a week, staying at Edna Jones’ farm in this wooden barracks of sorts, alone, listening to a hard rain on the tin roof and hating myself for how stuck I was.
My mentor had suggested a vision quest on Cadair Idris but when I set out on the path to investigate, it was raining — really raining — and even so, there was a steady stream of hikers up and down the trails — not exactly the best conditions for a three-day solo meditation on the mountain.
That, and my mentor had quoted, somewhat amused, “anyone who sleeps on its slopes alone will awaken either a madman or a poet … “
The thought of a vision quest there had lost its initial patina.
Finally, I was forced out of Edna Jones’ accommodations. She had a yearly commitment to this huge group of rowdy young mountaineers and they were to arrive soon.
After a week of stuckness, I had to make a decision. Where did I want to go?
I consulted the hostel guide and chose a place up north in Snowdonia Park at the foot of Snowdon mountain.
And once I was moving, I was fine. I met wonderful people and climbed Snowdon in the fog and sideways rain with two other women and their three teenage sons. Them and hundreds of other hikers.
So that you can appreciate the magnitude of this event, Snowdon is the tallest peak in all of Wales, a full 3,560 feet.
We did the Llanberis path, known as the tourists’ path. I was taken by the spirit of all of these people, willingly, gleefully even, out in this tempest, they so charmingly called it.
It was such affirmation to listen to Amelia and Rose, to share this baptism with them. And it was just the beginning.
I made a pilgrimage of the remainder of the trip. I traveled south to England, to Cornwall, to Penzance and Land’s End. I hiked out through farmers’ fields to the trail’s end and on the return to my car, I got a bug to go to an AA meeting.
Earlier, I’d called and made a note of the time and the address and if no obstacles were put in my path, I could make it if I could find it. I was cutting it really close.
I set out trusting that if I was meant to be there, the doors would be open. I’d been given general directions but I was not familiar with the area. I said a little prayer and let myself be guided back to the “dual carriageway” — being American, I didn’t know what this meant but time was awasting so I kept going — to town, through a village, left turn, right turn, up a winding hill, and lo, I was there to my utter astonishment. I arrived just a moment before the the meeting began.
Such a lovely welcome at the gathering. There’s usually hospitality for a newcomer, and more so when it’s someone from out-of-town. Or in my case, way out-of-town.
I didn’t feel at risk of drinking, but I’d been spending far too much time alone. I needed friends and connection and I knew that AA rooms were full of friends I just hadn’t met yet. Friends who understood.
The remainder of the trip, I looked at a map and decided where I wanted to go — if it was a failed vision quest, it could at least be a sacred site pilgrimage.
I went to Avebury, Glastonbury, and Stonehenge, to Bath, then up to the Lake District where I spent five days hiking the hills and trails, then on to Scotland, just so I could say I’d been to Scotland, where I stayed one night at Ayre before taking the ferry back to Ireland where I spent a night at Belfast, then north to the Giants Causeway, then south to visit New Grange and the Hill of Tara.
Throughout my UK trip, help was only a prayer away. If I was uncertain as to how to get to some destination, I’d ask for guidance and lo, a sign pointing the way would appear. If I couldn’t find the hostel I’d booked for that night, I’d ask for celestial help and I’d drive right up to it. When I needed company, someone to talk to, there would be someone at the hostel that night who I connected with.
I never prayed like that at home, in America. But traveling, I could pray and it was magical how the prayer brought results. I wasn’t even so sure that I had faith but the prayers worked anyway. I was always amazed at the immediacy of the response.
Through solo travel, it was a sense of freedom I was after again, that living in the moment that called so strongly to me. I wanted to trust that everything would work out. And it did — even at day’s end and I was tired and in the process of making a phone call, I left my wallet at the public “telly” or telephone.
When I discovered what I’d done — all of my money, all of my credit cards, my entire lifeline contained therein — and more than an hour’s drive from that “telly,” the kind woman at the hostel made phone calls.
Lo, the wallet had been turned in to the local police. When I went to retrieve it, everything was in it. Everything. Looking back, I don’t think I left nearly enough a reward to the kind and honest finder.
As I remember back on this quest, this journey to sacred places, I long for the simple trust I felt then, and the magic that came through surrender, through prayer.
