Following on from an earlier blog on where ‘home’ is, I started to think about how I finally ended up here on the Isle of Avalon and not on the Isle of Wight where I started out. It is a bit of a convoluted journey which started in 1982 and continued until I finally moved here in 2009.
In 1982 a 17/18 year old me arranged with my older brother Nikki to take a journey to Glastonbury on his flash black 1100cc Yamaha. It was a pretty cold early spring weekend and back then it was a lot easier to just head off on a whim and pick up B&B accommodation on the way than it is now so we just hopped on a boat, left the Island and started off on our journey. We stayed over the first night in the New Forest, visiting Burley and a few other places and then hit the road the following morning for Salisbury, after lunch we almost got as far as Stonehenge before the sleet set in so hard we were forced to turn back.
So, I never made it.
Fast forward to around 2004, 9 house moves, one failed marriage, 3 children and a failed engagement later and I am not very blissfully single at this point. In fact I’m having a really bad time emotionally and I am spending a lot of time meditating and after subsuming myself into 2 pretty abusive relationships, trying to actually establish who I was/am/would be.
So with all the hideousness going on around me I wake up one morning and decide for no apparent reason that I’d really like to visit Glastonbury. Quick call to Nikki and an hour later I am on the boat and heading off up to Somerset. This turned out to be the first of many, many visits. I started to make connections in the area and pretty soon we were up in the town about twice a month on average.
During this time my relationship with my fiance was very on and off. One of my earliest memories of being here was visiting with people who would later become rather good friends and sitting in a wood around a fire, they were all having a great time, I was the rather silent, miserable cow by the fire. But no one actually seemed to mind, I was just left to get on with it and fire gaze to my heart’s content. They told me later that they could see I was having a hard time, and thought I could use the space. It was pretty refreshing not to have people constantly trying to cheer me up and stepping back to let me process all the stuff I really needed to get my head around.
As it turned out I kicked him into touch shortly after this and it was one of the best decisions I think I’ve ever made. Although it is easy to dismiss him as a waste of air and skin, I learnt a lot about myself and others from the mess of that relationship. I definitely grew as a person, and hopefully he did too although judging by his track record I very much doubt it. Maybe he just caught some awful STI and have his cock rot off. Either scenario works for me.
I was finally totally free to pursue my rediscovery of me, of my pagan beliefs and develop my own sense of self. I was excited to be able to take part in many pagan community celebrations for the first time in my life, including the raising of the Arch Druid of Glastonbury at Stonehenge, where I got to stand inside the stones for the first time since I was a small child. It was a truly magical time for me.
I continued to travel to the town and spend time with friends here for the next few years during which time I had occasionally considered moving to the area but there was still something holding me back. At a Lammas picnic in August 2008 I met the man who was later to become my husband.
Interestingly, despite the fact that he had lived here for decades our paths had never once crossed, this may be an interesting story for another time. I finally arrived moved into a small cottage in West Pennard late summer 2009.
Coming here changed my life in all manner of ways – that is another story for another time – and although my relationship with the place has definitely change I still feel this is where I belong.
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