- Joined
- Aug 7, 2001
- Messages
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This subject has been quiet for long time, but there are still loonies - er, researchers out there, carrying on the good work:
Spirits, sacred stones - and how to dowse your aura
A sceptical Gemma Bowes joins the mystical Society of Ley Hunters for a bizarre, spiritual trip to the beautiful isle of Lundy
The Observer Sunday July 15 2007
In the bright docks of Ilfracombe, the sturdy MS Oldenburg rocked in the harbour as beefy men packed rucksacks and provisions into large plastic containers and dragged them aboard. After collecting my ticket in the harbour master's office, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The striking appearance of my guide, Lawrence Main, should not perhaps have come as a surprise, considering the nature of his interests, but he was monolithically tall and tanned with sea-blue eyes glinting from the depths of a wild grey mane of dreadlocks and the white horses of his long beard. He looked like Neptune or an Indian sadhu, albeit one in tiny shorts, a red fleece, sandals and bum bag.
As chairman of the mysterious Society of Ley Hunters, he had invited The Observer along on one of their annual holidays, to celebrate May Day on the island of Lundy off the north coast of Devon, in the hope this coverage would attract new members who share their passion for dowsing and stone circles. Anyone can join the group by paying the £10 membership fee. At least twice a year the society visits ancient sites that they believe lie on important ley lines - such as Stonehenge, Glastonbury and the Outer Hebrides. It looked like an interesting way to spend a week's holiday.
A heavy-looking indigo sea began to slap the hull as we set out into the Bristol Channel, wind battering our faces as we huddled on wooden benches on the deck. With their dowsing rods, measuring sticks and anoraks, the group resembled a GCSE geography class on a field trip.
Knowing little about what ley hunting would involve, I assumed there would be informal history lectures and some dowsing with those bendy rods, but as Lawrence talked it became clear the week might be a bit more full-on. He was a druid, he said, and had been reincarnated as such several times. This allowed him to communicate directly with the Green Goddess - the pagan Earth Mother - in his dreams.
To be closer to 'Earth spirits', he sleeps outdoors every night, up the hill from his home near Carn Ingli in the Preseli hills in Pembrokeshire, where some of the Stonehenge monoliths originated. For the entire two-hour voyage he spoke non-stop of the mystical connection ancient people had with the Earth, of star signs, spiritual healers, psychic powers and the leys - mysterious energy lines that criss-cross the Earth - which we would be searching for on Lundy.
My head was spinning as we finally disembarked down the wildly swinging gangplank and headed up a rough concrete road that traverses the cliffs of the beachless island. Turning into a nobbled path it passes through the only clump of trees to Beacon Hill, where all the important buildings are scattered - pub, shop, church and a few cottages, all owned by the Landmark Trust, which employs the residents.
Slumping on the grass outside the jolly Marisco Tavern to wait for a tractor to bring our luggage from the boat, pint in hand, created the sort of relaxing moment when most folk would remark on the weather, but this lot casually nattered about orbs - unexplained blobs of mystical light.
'Yeah, I saw a green one the other day, hovering around in the bushes.'
'I think they're Earth spirits, fairies maybe.'
'Nah, I reckon they're the souls of the dead.'
I chatted to Pam from Ohio, who was on her first trip to the UK. What an introduction! I wondered if she'd realised what she was booking, but she said she was part of a similar society in the US, and despite being a high-flying software developer by day, moonlighting as a pagan meant she had jumped naked over her fair share of fires.
The women, all spiritual healers, seemed friendlier than most of the generally introverted men and didn't take the ley hunting so seriously, poking fun a bit at the blokes' obsession with measuring sticks and note-taking, and preferring the social aspect of the trip. That night I got a bit drunk with them over seafood chowder in the tavern, and though the conversation never strayed from the spiritual we had a good time, apart from one terrible moment when a woman in her eighties fell off the bench, smacking her head on the tiles. While the healers laid their hands on her brow the unconvinced waitress ran for ice.
The ley hunting began next morning as we rambled across the wind-beaten fields and moorland, Lawrence leading the dowsing-rod-wielding procession. Lundy's ancient burial mounds are noted in the tourism materials, but dozens of significant standing stones have been largely ignored by the islanders. By dowsing for energy lines we hoped to discover more forgotten stones placed along them by ancient people. Sceptics (including most scientists, historians and archaeologists) say that any perceived alignment of sacred sites is due entirely to chance, but the ley hunters believe they were purposefully located on energy lines, and that 'there's no such thing as coincidence'.
We stopped to dowse around some big stones, and some of the men ran about in different directions yelling that they'd found leys, a process that appeared more intuitive than scientific.
'Has anyone ever dowsed each other's auras,' asked Shaun Kirwan, a professional 'geomancer' who heals the Earth by building stone circles to act like acupuncture and altering negative energy lines that make people sick or stressed. I offered to be a volunteer, so the others made a ring around me while Shaun strode towards me with his dowsing rods. At a metre away the rods suddenly swung around, apparently indicating the size of my aura, which was 'healthy'.
'Imagine eating something you think you're allergic to,' he said.
I mentally wolfed down some bread rolls and this time he got much closer before the rods swung out: my aura had shrunk, showing I had a wheat allergy! Everyone set to work dowsing each other's dairy intolerances and I tried not to feel embarrassed when some smirking locals passed by on a tractor.
On the rugged east side of the island we found a lovely rounded stone behind some sheep fields. Shaun reckoned it was 'female' with 'strong energy', so he and Lawrence decided to bless it. Lawrence whispered tenderly: 'Thank you, stone, for being here,' and poured water on it. As it ran down the side, I pointed out that it made the stone look like the yin-and-yang symbol. They jumped on this, declaring the stone male and female, even more special. We held hands around it, shut our eyes and chanted 'Ommmmm'.
Some of them lined their foreheads up with the point where the ley entered the stone, then stumbled over - the power of the energy had knocked them into a spin. I had a go and felt nothing, but they said they could see me starting to turn. Later in the pub, the guys behind the bar confided that they'd watched us do this. 'Nothing escapes us,' they chuckled.
There were similar activities every day and though I could definitely feel the dowsing rods swinging about of their own accord, often in places that supposedly had strong energy, I felt unconvinced about what it meant. The lectures in the evenings sometimes threw up wild and interesting theories, surprisingly complex and well argued. Paul Broadhurst described how the symbol of the dragon represented Earth energies in all cultures and that St George was really the pagan god the Green Man. A more cynical Michael Hodges presented a clear, almost scientific, investigation showing stone circles to be date markers aligned with the constellations, apologising to me afterwards for the others' spiritual theories and duller speeches.
Sharing the Barn hostel with most of the group created a Lord of the Rings-meets-Big Brother atmosphere, what with the giant crystals on the bedside tables, the women meditating or playing the harp in our dorm, and spiritual healing in the pub. For people with way-out beliefs who frequently saw fairies, they were very strait-laced: preferring water to alcohol, never mind hallucinogenic drugs; and most were in bed by 9pm.
The staggering beauty of the island made it impossible not to feel Lundy was a special place, and all the talk of energies and magic only increased its ethereality. Tuning into nature to become part of the Earth's consciousness sounded like a beautiful thing in which to believe. But at times Lawrence's ideas were extreme. Over a picnic near the amazing ruined Old Battery, he explained how the 'elite' were using Earth energies for negative gains, that the Masons ate human babies, that Diana was sacrificed to the spirits by the Royals and that the military monitored him because he knew too much.
When I needed a break I explored the island's coastal paths and derelict cottages, spotting hairy goats, sika deer and the Lundy ponies running wild across the heather; sadly the few puffins left on the island evaded me. The skies were immense, and though the wind was freezing I got sunburnt. Pounding waves had prevented half the group from docking their own boat, so I never got to meet the author Robin Heath, who the others spoke of as if he were a god.
The days had been building towards Beltane, the pagan festival that marks the beginning of summer. The more devout would not celebrate until the morning of 1 May, when the moon would be fullest (and invisible), but the rest painted their faces and set out into the pitch black for a traditional celebration under the stars.
Thick cloud obscured all celestial features, but as three of us walked slowly towards the special stone, Shaun whispered: 'Just watch, the moon will come out as we get there.' It seemed unlikely, but sure enough, the full face burst out the second we arrived - a sign from the goddess. We cheered and some of the others who had been hiding suddenly jumped out with daffodils in their hair, handing us armfuls and singing and dancing around us before dragging us into a circle spinning around the stone. Shaun told us to chant silly words - 'plinkety plonkety plunk' - to attract fairies. He sang pagan songs and when he ran out we did the conga and the hokey cokey.
When the moon clouded over, everyone went quiet and he blessed the stone, then asked everyone to, metaphorically, 'throw something into the fire, and take something out'. One extremely shy man, who had barely spoken all week, couldn't get out the words, but a friend chipped in: 'You want to put in shyness, and take out confidence!' He repeated it and it was a moving moment. Everyone hugged and danced some more, then jumped over a torch to represent the ceremonial Beltane fire. They all kept their clothes on. It was as much fun as all the other festivals I don't believe in - Hallowe'en, Christmas, Easter - so why not resurrect this, too?
I left the next morning, and although at first I'd wanted to escape, in the end I felt sad to wave goodbye to these intriguing, positive people who had welcomed me so unquestioningly. It had been a bizarre, fascinating and enlightening trip, showing you don't have to cross the globe or live with a remote African tribe to immerse yourself in a foreign culture and have an intense travelling experience. As long as you can keep an open mind and swallow your cynicism sometimes, this is an exciting and rewarding way to travel in your own country - and learn a lot more than you would on your average seaside holiday to Devon.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2007/jul/15/escape.uk
I've been to Lundy a couple of times - like most islands, it does have a special atmosphere.
Spirits, sacred stones - and how to dowse your aura
A sceptical Gemma Bowes joins the mystical Society of Ley Hunters for a bizarre, spiritual trip to the beautiful isle of Lundy
The Observer Sunday July 15 2007
In the bright docks of Ilfracombe, the sturdy MS Oldenburg rocked in the harbour as beefy men packed rucksacks and provisions into large plastic containers and dragged them aboard. After collecting my ticket in the harbour master's office, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The striking appearance of my guide, Lawrence Main, should not perhaps have come as a surprise, considering the nature of his interests, but he was monolithically tall and tanned with sea-blue eyes glinting from the depths of a wild grey mane of dreadlocks and the white horses of his long beard. He looked like Neptune or an Indian sadhu, albeit one in tiny shorts, a red fleece, sandals and bum bag.
As chairman of the mysterious Society of Ley Hunters, he had invited The Observer along on one of their annual holidays, to celebrate May Day on the island of Lundy off the north coast of Devon, in the hope this coverage would attract new members who share their passion for dowsing and stone circles. Anyone can join the group by paying the £10 membership fee. At least twice a year the society visits ancient sites that they believe lie on important ley lines - such as Stonehenge, Glastonbury and the Outer Hebrides. It looked like an interesting way to spend a week's holiday.
A heavy-looking indigo sea began to slap the hull as we set out into the Bristol Channel, wind battering our faces as we huddled on wooden benches on the deck. With their dowsing rods, measuring sticks and anoraks, the group resembled a GCSE geography class on a field trip.
Knowing little about what ley hunting would involve, I assumed there would be informal history lectures and some dowsing with those bendy rods, but as Lawrence talked it became clear the week might be a bit more full-on. He was a druid, he said, and had been reincarnated as such several times. This allowed him to communicate directly with the Green Goddess - the pagan Earth Mother - in his dreams.
To be closer to 'Earth spirits', he sleeps outdoors every night, up the hill from his home near Carn Ingli in the Preseli hills in Pembrokeshire, where some of the Stonehenge monoliths originated. For the entire two-hour voyage he spoke non-stop of the mystical connection ancient people had with the Earth, of star signs, spiritual healers, psychic powers and the leys - mysterious energy lines that criss-cross the Earth - which we would be searching for on Lundy.
My head was spinning as we finally disembarked down the wildly swinging gangplank and headed up a rough concrete road that traverses the cliffs of the beachless island. Turning into a nobbled path it passes through the only clump of trees to Beacon Hill, where all the important buildings are scattered - pub, shop, church and a few cottages, all owned by the Landmark Trust, which employs the residents.
Slumping on the grass outside the jolly Marisco Tavern to wait for a tractor to bring our luggage from the boat, pint in hand, created the sort of relaxing moment when most folk would remark on the weather, but this lot casually nattered about orbs - unexplained blobs of mystical light.
'Yeah, I saw a green one the other day, hovering around in the bushes.'
'I think they're Earth spirits, fairies maybe.'
'Nah, I reckon they're the souls of the dead.'
I chatted to Pam from Ohio, who was on her first trip to the UK. What an introduction! I wondered if she'd realised what she was booking, but she said she was part of a similar society in the US, and despite being a high-flying software developer by day, moonlighting as a pagan meant she had jumped naked over her fair share of fires.
The women, all spiritual healers, seemed friendlier than most of the generally introverted men and didn't take the ley hunting so seriously, poking fun a bit at the blokes' obsession with measuring sticks and note-taking, and preferring the social aspect of the trip. That night I got a bit drunk with them over seafood chowder in the tavern, and though the conversation never strayed from the spiritual we had a good time, apart from one terrible moment when a woman in her eighties fell off the bench, smacking her head on the tiles. While the healers laid their hands on her brow the unconvinced waitress ran for ice.
The ley hunting began next morning as we rambled across the wind-beaten fields and moorland, Lawrence leading the dowsing-rod-wielding procession. Lundy's ancient burial mounds are noted in the tourism materials, but dozens of significant standing stones have been largely ignored by the islanders. By dowsing for energy lines we hoped to discover more forgotten stones placed along them by ancient people. Sceptics (including most scientists, historians and archaeologists) say that any perceived alignment of sacred sites is due entirely to chance, but the ley hunters believe they were purposefully located on energy lines, and that 'there's no such thing as coincidence'.
We stopped to dowse around some big stones, and some of the men ran about in different directions yelling that they'd found leys, a process that appeared more intuitive than scientific.
'Has anyone ever dowsed each other's auras,' asked Shaun Kirwan, a professional 'geomancer' who heals the Earth by building stone circles to act like acupuncture and altering negative energy lines that make people sick or stressed. I offered to be a volunteer, so the others made a ring around me while Shaun strode towards me with his dowsing rods. At a metre away the rods suddenly swung around, apparently indicating the size of my aura, which was 'healthy'.
'Imagine eating something you think you're allergic to,' he said.
I mentally wolfed down some bread rolls and this time he got much closer before the rods swung out: my aura had shrunk, showing I had a wheat allergy! Everyone set to work dowsing each other's dairy intolerances and I tried not to feel embarrassed when some smirking locals passed by on a tractor.
On the rugged east side of the island we found a lovely rounded stone behind some sheep fields. Shaun reckoned it was 'female' with 'strong energy', so he and Lawrence decided to bless it. Lawrence whispered tenderly: 'Thank you, stone, for being here,' and poured water on it. As it ran down the side, I pointed out that it made the stone look like the yin-and-yang symbol. They jumped on this, declaring the stone male and female, even more special. We held hands around it, shut our eyes and chanted 'Ommmmm'.
Some of them lined their foreheads up with the point where the ley entered the stone, then stumbled over - the power of the energy had knocked them into a spin. I had a go and felt nothing, but they said they could see me starting to turn. Later in the pub, the guys behind the bar confided that they'd watched us do this. 'Nothing escapes us,' they chuckled.
There were similar activities every day and though I could definitely feel the dowsing rods swinging about of their own accord, often in places that supposedly had strong energy, I felt unconvinced about what it meant. The lectures in the evenings sometimes threw up wild and interesting theories, surprisingly complex and well argued. Paul Broadhurst described how the symbol of the dragon represented Earth energies in all cultures and that St George was really the pagan god the Green Man. A more cynical Michael Hodges presented a clear, almost scientific, investigation showing stone circles to be date markers aligned with the constellations, apologising to me afterwards for the others' spiritual theories and duller speeches.
Sharing the Barn hostel with most of the group created a Lord of the Rings-meets-Big Brother atmosphere, what with the giant crystals on the bedside tables, the women meditating or playing the harp in our dorm, and spiritual healing in the pub. For people with way-out beliefs who frequently saw fairies, they were very strait-laced: preferring water to alcohol, never mind hallucinogenic drugs; and most were in bed by 9pm.
The staggering beauty of the island made it impossible not to feel Lundy was a special place, and all the talk of energies and magic only increased its ethereality. Tuning into nature to become part of the Earth's consciousness sounded like a beautiful thing in which to believe. But at times Lawrence's ideas were extreme. Over a picnic near the amazing ruined Old Battery, he explained how the 'elite' were using Earth energies for negative gains, that the Masons ate human babies, that Diana was sacrificed to the spirits by the Royals and that the military monitored him because he knew too much.
When I needed a break I explored the island's coastal paths and derelict cottages, spotting hairy goats, sika deer and the Lundy ponies running wild across the heather; sadly the few puffins left on the island evaded me. The skies were immense, and though the wind was freezing I got sunburnt. Pounding waves had prevented half the group from docking their own boat, so I never got to meet the author Robin Heath, who the others spoke of as if he were a god.
The days had been building towards Beltane, the pagan festival that marks the beginning of summer. The more devout would not celebrate until the morning of 1 May, when the moon would be fullest (and invisible), but the rest painted their faces and set out into the pitch black for a traditional celebration under the stars.
Thick cloud obscured all celestial features, but as three of us walked slowly towards the special stone, Shaun whispered: 'Just watch, the moon will come out as we get there.' It seemed unlikely, but sure enough, the full face burst out the second we arrived - a sign from the goddess. We cheered and some of the others who had been hiding suddenly jumped out with daffodils in their hair, handing us armfuls and singing and dancing around us before dragging us into a circle spinning around the stone. Shaun told us to chant silly words - 'plinkety plonkety plunk' - to attract fairies. He sang pagan songs and when he ran out we did the conga and the hokey cokey.
When the moon clouded over, everyone went quiet and he blessed the stone, then asked everyone to, metaphorically, 'throw something into the fire, and take something out'. One extremely shy man, who had barely spoken all week, couldn't get out the words, but a friend chipped in: 'You want to put in shyness, and take out confidence!' He repeated it and it was a moving moment. Everyone hugged and danced some more, then jumped over a torch to represent the ceremonial Beltane fire. They all kept their clothes on. It was as much fun as all the other festivals I don't believe in - Hallowe'en, Christmas, Easter - so why not resurrect this, too?
I left the next morning, and although at first I'd wanted to escape, in the end I felt sad to wave goodbye to these intriguing, positive people who had welcomed me so unquestioningly. It had been a bizarre, fascinating and enlightening trip, showing you don't have to cross the globe or live with a remote African tribe to immerse yourself in a foreign culture and have an intense travelling experience. As long as you can keep an open mind and swallow your cynicism sometimes, this is an exciting and rewarding way to travel in your own country - and learn a lot more than you would on your average seaside holiday to Devon.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2007/jul/15/escape.uk
I've been to Lundy a couple of times - like most islands, it does have a special atmosphere.
