I started to get stronger and stronger urges to move my base of operations. The Ashdown Forest in Sussex was calling me: I had lived there on and off for two years before my last journey to India, and I missed both the land and my circle of friends. I felt that the Crystal Journey had got off to a good start, and knew that Carol would continue to oversee the crystals destined for foreign soil. The southwest of Britain had been pretty well blanketed with crystals, and I felt I needed to focus on a different area of the country.

I was sad to leave Carol and I knew the feeling was mutual. We got on very well and had learnt to work together closely and sensitively. Although I never pretended to be other than what I was, I had also got very fond of her children, and I knew that I would miss them. They had both started to open up a little and, I believed, considered me a potential friend. Still, I knew that my intuition couldn't be denied and without my 'guidance', I had nothing. Very soon I found myself in Glastonbury, en route to the Ashdown Forest. I decided to stay there awhile as a room in a small community house called Lower Rockes had become available. I looked forward to warm fires and convivial company as the nights drew in.

While I was there I decided to visit my Pooh friend Mark who was living with his girlfriend in a farmhouse next to Dozmary Pool on Bodmin Moor. Dozmary Pool is a strange lake high on the windswept moors, exposed and uninviting except in high summer. Some believe it was where King Arthur received the sword Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake, and where it was returned after its destiny had been fulfilled. When I saw the lake, I wasn't very convinced, but who am I to shoot anyone's dreams down in flames?

It seemed ages since Mark and I had seen one another, and we celebrated. One day we made a long crystal-planting walk through the depths of the moors to the Cheesewring, an eerie rock maybe thirty feet tall which over the years had become eroded into very strange shapes. We explored the surrounding hills and then descended to the Hurlers, an important megalithic complex sporting three large stone circles amongst the heather. Both the Cheesewring and the Hurlers mark important nodes on the St. Michael, or Great Ley that runs up through the country and out of the eastern shores of England close to Lowestoft. On the way it connects such places as Brent Tor, Burrowbridge Mump, Glastonbury, Avebury, and Bury St. Edmunds. By a strange string of coincidences, it passes through many high places and churches dedicated to St. Michael, hence its name 'St. Michael's Ley'.

While I was there, I wanted to visit another major node on the Great Ley, the faery St. Michael's Mount near Penzance. The next day Mark lent me his wonderful, magical vehicle, a green ambulance which had been converted into a living vehicle. We seemed to get on well, and, having made sure I had enough money for petrol, set off for the southwest.

It is noon under gloomy grey skies. I park in the sand dunes inland from St. Michael's Mount. Charged with energy, I stride out towards the causeway which joins the island to the shore. The monastery towers high above the grey, choppy sea, beckoning me closer. I have the tingly feeling of certainty that precedes an 'appointment', and am ready for anything. I have ascertained the time of low tide for that day, and have made sure that I am exactly on cue. Imagine my disappointment and confusion when, on reaching the start of the causeway, I see that it is already well underwater, and the tide is coming in!

I stand motionless and watch abstractly as the current sucks greedily at the submerged roadway. A strong breeze cools my skin; in an instant my course of action becomes clear. My boots, quickly untied, soon hang about my neck. My trousers are as high as I can comfortably roll them, and my socks stick out of my coat pocket. Then all restraints are lifted. The bull enters my being and I start to move explosively, one-mindedly towards my goal. Taurean, my head is down and my shoulders ripple. Immense physical power and determination course through my body. My awareness, stripped of all unnecessary stimuli, is one-centredly focused on the island in the distance.

Now normally I am deathly afraid of the sea, tide and waves; I give them all a wide berth and a lot of respect. This afternoon, I walk along the causeway as if I own the world, the waves and sea included. Hot breath bellowing, nostrils dilated, head down, one purpose. Forward.

I am filled with exhilaration as my feet enter moving water and the safety of dry land falls behind me. I am now entering the realms of Manannan, and I ask his support in my venture. He realises he will also benefit by the success of my mission, and waves me through. My instinct for self-preservation is telling me that I am doing the impossible and being very stupid: feet splashing, legs pumping, breath steaming. The water rises to my shins, slips up over my knees and slaps against lower thighs. It is becoming difficult to see the causeway below my feet in the murky waves and swirling current. I have to lean a little to the left to counteract the undertow.

I am striding out from the mainland, filled with wild energy, keeping my appointment with the spirit of St. Michael's Mount. The magical child inside me laughs in abandon at the thought of what I must look like from the island. At a stretch, it could even look as if I am walking on the water! I can see a small group of people outside a building that looks like a pub at the other end of the causeway, and it seems as though they are looking at me. All the time the depth of water is increasing noticeably, and I am laughing somewhat desperately.

The water suddenly recedes and my legs, revealed, become icy in the brisk wind. I stride up the ramp and onto the island proper. I pass half a dozen or so open-mouthed people sitting at the water's edge and suppress a huge roar. I feel twice my usual size, and cannot stop even if I had wanted to. I hear someone call out "It's closed today!". No matter, onwards. A wall with a locked black wooden door blocks my way. No problem. Momentum undeterred, I spring up over the wall and land sure-footed in a graveyard. Still moving, my body takes me to a beautiful tree where, as if by magic, a crystal appears in my hand. I kiss and bless it at the threshold of its new phase of existence, and slip it into the roots of the tree. Excellent. The Great Ley has been well honoured over the last few days.

Mission accomplished! Yet no time to tarry. I sigh, spin around and jump back over the wall. There is momentary confusion as I land almost on top of a breathless official-looking type, and in a decidedly unfriendly fashion he informs me that the island is closed and just what the hell am I doing by jumping over a wall into a private place? Would I please leave immediately.

The imp inside of me asks him when the next ferry leaves, as the causeway is flooded and impassible. I know there are no ferries that day. He is trapped, and doesn't know what to say. Leaving him spluttering, I walk back into the sea.

While at my new temporary Avalon base, Stonehenge made itself felt in increasingly large doses. I knew that I had to visit it at some time, and had been studiously avoiding the thought since I had returned to England. All the omens pointed to the night of a lunar eclipse in November, however, and although I hadn't made any final decisions I knew I was internally preparing myself.

Obviously, I would have to plant crystals in Stonehenge. It was such an important and influential centre of earth energies in the British Isles, there was no doubt in my mind. There was only one small problem: I was deathly scared of the place. Once, a few years ago, I had tried to enter the site at night with my girlfriend. I was not all that keen but she, a lusty and self-confident Swedish woman, was determined. I tried to persuade her to call it off when the feelings in my body started running riot. No use.

We got to within one hundred yards of the stones, the tension became almost unendurable, and we were shown in no uncertain terms that we had no right to be there. As we approached stealthily in order to avoid the guards, some birds sprang out of the long grass just in front of us. Shrieking, they hurled themselves into our faces, just missing us. We got the fright of our lives and stopped dead in our tracks. An ominous heaviness hung in the air as if a huge Being was saying: "Are you going to heed my first gentle warning?" We did.

Memories of this experience clouded my feelings around what is probably the greatest man-made temple in this part of the world, and I was in no hurry to mess with it again. At the same time I knew that one or more crystals would have to be planted there. I metaphorically shrugged and was determined to stay flexible and open to the 'call' when it came. And it had come. Oh well. As the November appointment approached, I became increasingly certain that my feelings were correct. I also felt like a condemned man, sentenced to his doom.

The day was stormy and very wet. Angry grey-black clouds charged through the sky from the southwest, and lashing rain made me feel as if I were travelling inside a portable car-wash. As I hitched up the A303 I had the most extraordinary luck in keeping dry. When it was bucketing down, I was either in a car or stopped at some conveniently sheltered spot on the side of the road. Whenever I had to walk any distance, or was dropped out in the open, a well timed break in the weather would occur until the next lift, or until I found a good sheltered spot from which to hitch. Then the heavens would open again.

I arrived at Stonehenge an hour before sunset and walked to some woods half a mile away towards the southeast. The area around sacred sites is often quite eerie, and this woodland was no exception to the rule. The rain scoured the exposed plain and flew horizontally through the turbulent air, stinging my bare skin. The trees groaned and strained, the wind howled. Strange noises and shadowy movements made me very jumpy. I found a small flat clearing where I could pitch the tent I had borrowed, made sure it was secure and that I was well concealed, and fell asleep immediately.

This required a strong decision to trust on my part, for I had no alarm clock. The eclipse was at eleven that night and there was no way I could allow myself to sleep through it. I was exhausted, however, and I felt as if I had no choice anyway. Making a strong intent to wake and trusting for my life, I bowed to the inevitable, relaxed and let nature take her course.

I awoke with a jerk. For a moment I had no idea where, or indeed who, I was. Starting to panic, I stayed still for want of anything better to do. I was enclosed in pitch blackness, my space was being pulled everywhichway by the wind and vibrating wildly. It seemed as if I was separated from some sort of primal elemental battle by a flimsy plastic membrane, and it only needed one slightly mis-aimed shot for the whole caboodle, including myself, to be vapourised.

Eventually some modicum of consciousness returned. I remembered where I was and what I had set myself up to do. I was in a tent! It wasn't the first time I wondered if I was truly crazy, setting myself up to do outrageous things at highly anti-social hours, in disgusting weather, and which would probably get myself locked up anyway if I got caught. Aha! Getting arrested would get me out of the storm, at least....

The importance of the situation hit me. I speedily dressed and got my equipment ready. I glanced at my watch by the flame of my cigarette lighter. Twenty to eleven! I secured the tent flap and entered the storm, moving carefully through the frantic darkness. I was immediately blinded and deafened. The ground was covered with tangled detritus and I had to be careful how I walked. The situation was so extreme that everything took on an unreal cinematic quality. I started to view it in a detached way, as if it wasn't happening to me. I made it through the trees and breathed a sigh of relief. Once out of the wood I made better time but then the wind hit me in earnest. I crossed the field towards the A303 as swiftly as possible, and reached the deep ditch on the south side of the busy road. I crept along it, out of sight of the express train headlights that punched holes into the wall of falling rain:

My human consciousness dissolves quickly, my instincts take over. My breath quickens, adrenalin pumps through my veins, vital survival energy pushes around my system. The wire fence of the field appears over the road and I wait for a gap in the murderous, unnatural traffic. The last car roars away and I move. I clamber up the side of the steep ditch, run across the road, mount the barbed wire fence and clear it without difficulty. I melt into the field. No time for complacency: I must get as far from the road as possible before the next car. Run! Survival is at stake here, and my love for my Mother, the Earth. Must do, cannot not do.

A car coming! Freeze. Become a stone with roots deep in the ground. Zap! The searchlight hisses over my body, now invisible, and is gone. Body explodes into activity, runs for its life. Closer now. Another car! Roots deep. It feels so exposed and lonely here, yet I know I cannot be seen. Breath panting, covered in light, then night. I walk quickly now, no need to run, out of range. I catch my breath. Over the rope barrier and approach the huge shadowy stones appearing like dreadnaughts from the darkness. Unthinking, an animal, I slip into the ring of stones and feel for a moment their umbrella covering me, promising protection from harm.

I lean against a megalith, a silent witness on the open plain. I breathe deeply, and regain some of my humanness again. I am still alert, both the hunter and the hunted, and become conscious of the situation. My senses are keen and alert for any sound or movement not in keeping with nature.

With surprise I realise that the wind has ceased and a strange, otherworldly silence hovers over the plain. Owls screech in the surrounding woods, cars pass by powerless to break the stillness. I look upwards and see the stars, countless points of spirit-fire, shining down to Earth on this night of nights. I am not surprised, for so close to the source of Everything, all things are possible. Some force keeps the clouds at bay. I see them prowling around the outside of an invisible circular barrier created for the occasion. A clear star-filled dome hovers above the stones and the field we are in.

As I enjoy the night, everything slowly changes. The stars become brighter and sparkle in rainbow-bursts overhead. The air seems cooler and sharper on the skin, the night sounds clearer. Movements take on a slow-motion quality and I am bathed in a glorious, pregnant stillness. What is going on? I have been called, and I am here. I give thanks. The hairs rise at the back of my head, and I feel massive surges of energy through my body. The eclipse is nigh. The stones tower up beside me into the sky and for a while I see their tops merge with the stars. By now everything is electric and it feels as if I'm in some massive stone and star Van de Graaf generator which is about to discharge its five million volt lightning bolts towards the horizons.

I pull myself together. I don't have long to do what I need to do, and this chance must be utilised to the full. I move to the centre of the stones. A crystal is already in my hand – how did it get there? No time to think. Where must it go? I feel a maddening confusion take over my thoughts and all trust dissolves. I don't know where I have to place the crystal! Paralysed and in a state of inner conflict I feel lost and impotent.

WHAM! A deafening noise fills the space and shocks me into silence. My flute has fallen from my shoulder bag and has hit the ground at my feet. It must have fallen at just the angle so as to make the most resonant noise. Of course! It marks the place where I must plant the crystal! Alignment regained. Out with my penknife, kneel, quickly and carefully make the incision, insert the crystal, so. I smooth over the spot and ruffle the grass in the vicinity to conceal any signs of my passing. It is done. I stand up and start to relax.

I experience a moment of deep peace, relief and accomplishment. It is past the point of no return. Whatever happens now, the crystal stays in its new home and starts to affect its environment in accordance with its destiny, the intent of Spirit. I relax and drink deeply of the peace and immense power flowing through the stones and surrounds. I am an honoured witness to one of the most important sacred spaces in the world, fully on line with the network, as it were, and I want to prolong the experience for as long as possible. Drunk with the energy and my part in the scheme of things, I disregard my feelings and cues to leave. Basking in glory, I ignore an increasing sense of danger.

Zap! Caught in in the spotlight. No messing, well and truly trapped. Dead on target. I kick myself for losing my centre in self importance. My conditioning, overwhelming, urges me to give up. I am guilty. I want to put my arms up into the air and, with an apologetic smile, say "don't shoot!", just like the thousandth time I got caught perpetrating some petty misdemeanour at boarding school.

But wait! The guard hasn't said or done anything yet. I realise that, while my head was off talking to itself in cloud cuckoo land, my body was alert and well at centre. Back in the present again, I feel myself frozen, rooted deep into the chalky soil and radiating outwards the essence of stone. Silent, still, each breath a million years, I am aware of the guard as a transient life form which appears, and the next moment passes away. He holds a high-power searchlight directed at me from a distance of only ten metres. He watches, suspicious, ready to apprehend a trespasser. I am stone, grey, granular, silent, rooted, a thousand years every heartbeat. I am sacred space. How could he possibly see a human when I am stone?

The beam moves lazily off me. I wait a short while and then I run. In a blur the stones melt behind me into the darkness as if they have never been, the field rushes by under my busy feet and soon I am at the fence. No thought. I am over, hard road underfoot making so much noise but it's OK because I'm in another reality now and far away from the stones.

I vault over the fence on the far side of the road and then slip into the welcoming darkness of the field that leads to my tent. It's allright, now. The wood envelopes me, but I cannot enter the tent as there is still too much energy and I need to unwind. I walk twenty yards or so to a soggy hayrick in sight of the stones, find a comfortable spot, and sit.

I breathe deeply and start to relax. I can feel myself return to my humanity again, and the animal returns reluctantly to its lair. The wind is rising again and has begun to moan through the trees to my right. The stars are quickly fading as the clouds, let free of their leash, leap through the open sky inside the stones as if to reclaim their stolen territory. A driving drizzle pricks my skin and I revel in the wildness of the night.

Then I see something I will always remember. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, I tingle all over and I start to tremble. Rationally, I see a guard standing at the centre of Stonehenge switch on his spotlight and search for intruders. The powerful beam illuminates the water droplets in the atmosphere to a very great distance from the centre of the stones, and the effects are spectacular.

With my spiritual sight, I see the temple of Stonehenge come alive in a momentary, interstellar union. From the centre of the stones, a brilliant, vertical beam of light connects the Earth with Heaven. As I watch, the beam of light spirals downwards, touching the tops of the stones as it revolves. It then fans out in a flatter and flatter trajectory from the vertical to the horizontal. Finally, the beam of starlight shoots horizontally outwards from the centre, illuminating the horizons and beyond in a hypnotic spiralling dance. A million and one sacred spaces around the planet ring like bells, stroked into resonance by this evening's events: a million and one flowers open and radiate their beauty over the Earth. A deep harmonic peals deep within the belly of the planet, and all Beings, conscious or unconscious, rejoice. The stones, fully charged, are enveloped and outlined by jagged flickering electrical discharges. I feel honoured to be witness to this pyrotechnic display, this intimate lovemaking between the Above and the Below, and I give thanks.

And then, as if the lightshow has never been, the storm recaptures the stage. The new reality of the moment becomes a dark, broiling, howling entity sweeping Salisbury Plain clean of life. Suddenly feeling exhausted, I wend my way through the lurching trees, collapse into the tent, undress, and sleep like a baby.

The next morning my instincts urged me to pack my belongings and get out of the area as quickly as possible. To my surprise, something kept me calm, somewhat detached, and directed me back towards Stonehenge. After a wash and a visit to the underground loo, I entered the stone complex this time by the conventional method. Imagine my surprise to see a group of tourists actually inside the stones! I hurried over just in time to hear the last few minutes of a talk given by one of the guards. In the centre of the stones was an international bunch of people: some Japanese, Americans, and various assorted Europeans.

The guard was standing directly over the crystal I had planted. I could see some faint traces that I had left the previous night, and knew that they would be invisible by the time everyone present had departed. I returned to what the guard was saying, and watched with interest as he concluded his talk by removing his hat and showing what was inside. Jammed into the top was a photograph of the druids, white robed, inside Stonehenge with the Midsummer sun rising through ghostly mist. I laughed, and wandered off as he answered questions. I was able to leave another couple of crystals in strategic positions, one underneath the Heel Stone.

I returned as the guard was readying to leave. I walked up to him and started to talk. Whatever the politics of the situation were, I liked his spirit. He had bags of energy and I could tell he cared about the stones, as well as the people who visited them. Suddenly our conversation changed levels, and we both recognised each other for who we were. It is lovely when that happens, as no words are necessary and for a short time one is in the presence of an enlightened equal.

He told me about his work as guardian of the stones, his love for the place, and the sacrifices he had consciously made to fulfil his duty. I talked about the crystal journey and my relationship with the land (omitting the details of the previous night!). I shared with him my love for the sacred, and my respect for those who are drawn to work with the sacred in whatever capacity. I asked him if he would accept a crystal, and either keep it on his person or put it into a place that was special to him.

His eyes lit up and he accepted it as if it were a precious gift. Then he put his hand into an inner pocket, and brought out a dark, triangular piece of stone maybe an inch wide. After looking at it awhile, he gave it to me.

"A gift needs a gift in return", he said to me. He explained that it was a piece chipped off one of the bluestones by vandals earlier that year, and in his opinion it was a very special piece of stone.

"It is important to look at it in sunlight", he added enigmatically.

I looked at it quickly in the diffuse light. From its darkness a myriad of sparks shot towards my eyes, like tiny stars. Speechless and somewhat embarrassed, I held his gift awhile and thanked him.

What an amazing turnabout this morning had been! We wished each other farewell, and I wandered back to the car park.

At Stonehenge, I brought Earthfire, and left with Starfire.

In spring I returned to my special spot in the Ashdown Forest. The trees were shedding their mantle of sleep and the undergrowth was bursting with new, vibrant life. In this season everything quickens and stirs; it reminds us to bring our selves out into the light of day and create a new relationship with the sun! I walked down the gravel track past fields of waving winter barley, and greeted the old oak trees on either side. I'm back again! To talk to you, to sing to you, to sit in your peaceful shade and imagine stories with happy endings! Then I was close enough to see the familiar cottage I was to live in awhile, amongst the trees. Here I would live and work with Raffy, a friend from the Sinai, creating alchemy together. The cottage nestled happily among oaks and lofty pines upon a hill that looked like Glastonbury Tor if viewed from a certain angle. What made it particularly interesting was the fact that, seen from the bottom of the hill, the cottage roof did strange things with one's perception and looked like a pyramid. A red pyramid on top of the Tor? Serious magic!

The Ashdown forest is the living stage upon which A. A. Milne wrote the Pooh Bear series of stories. Every place in his 'mythology' corresponds to a specific feature in the landscape whether it is a stream, bridge, tree or house. What is probably not so well known is that a group of people (maybe many such groups) have found themselves 'possessed' by the Pooh archetypes and live out their own similar adventures in the Forest.

Raffy's cottage, being a meeting place for strange and wonderful people, became a frequent haunt for the Pooh people. I found myself helplessly drawn to these happy, simple and deeply magical characters. I have studied many spiritual paths, philosophies, religions and sacred techniques, but never had I guessed that there was a dedicated shamanic circle operative in the forests of England whose means to enlightenment were the Pooh archetypes. I started to consider that a conspiracy was afoot when I remembered that my parents called me "Eeyore" when I was a child!

The cottage lay in an enchanted area, surrounded by some of the most beautiful and energetic secret strongholds of nature I had ever encountered. East Sussex is well cultivated as a whole, giving the impression of a huge, well tended garden. Consequently, all of the old, wild nature spirits that cannot endure compromise have tended to congregate in the few well-hidden, untouched spots that are left.

One such area lay next to the cottage and cast a strong spell over the immediate countryside. Here, adventures happened of their own volition and anything was possible. A bubble of protection hovered over the area, preventing any unsuitable people from getting too close. Conversely, it attracted those Beings that resonated with its deeply magical nature. I had grown to love the spirit of the place and spent as much time there as I could.

Ten minutes from the cottage was Happy Valley, the place where my spirit ran free. Huge old mature trees ringed a secret bowl-shaped area which I visited whenever I could. In the springtime its floor became a purple and green fairy bluebell carpet; in summer and autumn it became a protected grassy sun-trap dotted with multi-coloured, sweet-smelling shrubs and herbs.

Strong teachings seemed to be part of its basic characteristics. One day I was attired in a pair of Indian trousers, barefoot, and playing my flute when I saw a middle-aged man and woman appear on the other side of the valley. Too late to hide! I turned towards them and watched as they approached. When they were close enough, I said hello.

"What are you doing here?" the man asked curtly.

"I often come here to walk, sit, or play the flute," I replied.

"Well, I'm afraid it's private property, and I must ask you to leave." He introduced himself as Lord Limerick, owner of the large mansion on the hill above us and the land thereabouts. I felt he was a good man, and was acting simply as a landowner does when he sees someone trespassing.

I paused, nervous but calm.

"I don't mean to be cheeky," I said, "but I love this valley and it would hurt to be banned from it. Could you please give me permission to visit it from time to time?"

He thought about this awhile.

"Write me a letter, formally asking me for permission. I need to have it in writing. I will think about it, and send you my answer as soon as I can."

I thanked him and walked back to the cottage. I immediately wrote him a letter, and decided to send him one of my poems which clearly conveyed my love for nature. I painted a sheet of paper in flowing pastel shades, and carefully wrote the poem over the colours. A few days later his reply came. He gave me formal permission to walk on his land for the period of one year, renewable on request.

If one is meant to be in a certain place, matters will be arranged by Spirit for that to happen. One will meet the guardian of that place, in whatever form that particular entity appears, and a blessing given. I felt honoured to be treated thus, and felt as if I were also a guardian of Happy Valley, in my own little way. And he never even mentioned my poem!

At the bottom end of Happy Valley was a huge boulder the size of a small bungalow, upon which a grove of mature beech trees perched with their roots flowing like waterfalls onto the grassy valley floor below. I spent many a night there, sitting comfortable and safe in a mossy seat flanked by tree roots. From my vantage point, invisible and unnoticed, I would watch the nocturnal creatures moving past almost close enough to touch. Deer, fox, badger, owl and little squeakers all. I never exhausted exploring the secret places of that valley, dreaming, gazing, flute playing, meditating, sunbathing.

Happy Valley was only one small part of a complex interconnecting system of valleys, trees, pathways, streams, lakes and caves which I frequented and treated as my magical garden. I discovered the hidey-holes, the secret passageways connecting seemingly separate areas, and made friends with the denizens of the place. Wherever one looked gnarled roots flowed over impossibly steep cliffs and rocks, faces and strange beings appeared out of the foliage, and there was always the feeling of being watched. It was just one of those places. My inner magical Child was well happy!

While I was in Sussex I also carried out my work as Crystal Bearer by making day trips into the surrounding area, and longer journeys to different parts of the country. During this period I received teachings in a very strange way.

At this time I was looking for a spiritual teacher. About four miles away was Emerson College, the centre of the Anthroposophical movement founded by Rudolph Steiner, and I was drawn to his outlook on life, the universe, and almost everything. I had started doing evening classes there including painting, sculpture, wood carving and eurythmy (a form of sacred dance). There I heard of the 'wise old man of Forest Row', called Adam Bittleston. He was held in extremely high regard by all those who knew of him, and was considered to be quite a saintly figure.

I determined to ask him for his advice, and finally rustled up enough courage to phone him. In a deluge of words I managed to convey my dilemma, and asked for his help. He asked me a few questions and mulled it over awhile. Finally, in a calm, gently authoritative voice, he said that I should wait: he would contact me at the appropriate time.

The next day I visited the Michael Hall anthroposophical junior school in Forest Row. At a cheerfully decorated stall I was drawn to a book titled The Flaming Door by Elenor Merry. It is described as an initiation into the Celtic mysteries, of which I had little or no experience. I took it home with me. As soon as I opened it and started to read the introduction, a very strange mood overtook me and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. It was if every word was written specifically for me, discussing my quest and search for direction. It reassured me that everything I needed was there under my nose and all I needed to do was to relax and follow my guidance. I would then be certain to find my goal. When I turned the last page of the introduction, all I could do was to stare open-mouthed. The writer was Adam Bittleston.

I was caught in a very intense flow that didn't let up for a few months. As I read each chapter, focusing on a specific aspect of the Celtic world of myth and magic, I would become steeped in its ambience until saturated, almost obsessed. Then I would hear the call and find myself in Happy Valley or somewhere nearby. It was if this special area was a gateway into a magical landscape, an archetypal school of practical shamanism, where each stage or initiation into the unfolding Celtic mystery tradition could be enacted and experienced.

How rich, alive, and very strange was that period in my life! It was high energy, unpredictable, solitary and needing bags of trust on my part. Coinciding with this teaching, I had been given a large glass jar of dried Fly Agaric mushrooms by a shamanically-orientated friend and I ate a little each day. There was nobody I could really talk to on this journey of mine, and anyway it must have been quite difficult to communicate with me. I was pretty wild. Most of the time I wasn't sure which universe I was inhabiting, so goodness knows what I was like for others!

As I watch the hole, I notice that its edges are slightly hazy, indistinct, as if touched by a mirage. The effect is growing stronger: the roots and undergrowth close to the rim are losing solidity. A shimmering membrane slowly appears like a drum-skin over the aperture and it ripples silver in the shadowy light. Something is about to happen. A disturbance causes the aperture to darken noticeably, and a figure starts to emerge through the silver skin. It rapidly seems to gain focus and solidify.

It is a good thing that I still retain my sense of humour. The entity now standing slightly hunched to my right, only six feet away, is Death.

At least, it seems to fit the classic description. A tall skeletal figure wearing a dark cowled robe stands in the space, regarding me with what seems like interest. I have the damndest feeling that it is waiting for my reaction, and, depending on how I behave, so will it behave towards me. I am actually at a loss, confused at the way I am taking this. A figure out of my wildest nightmares stands within arm's length, and all I can do is to worry because I'm not screaming in fright, and wonder how I should be reacting!

At some point I stop playing mind games with myself, and open to the outrageous situation that presents itself that sunny day in Happy Valley. The presence and I never actually talk, yet some sort of communication takes place which seems to be activated by movement and a willingness to play. Without words we look each other in the eye, or where the eye would have been if we both had them, and move.

The details of our interaction are hazy, but I remember that it is a matter of life or death to stay alert to each other's movements like martial art competitors finding themselves in a real life arena without safety rules. At some point there is a mutual recognition between us. I realise that Life itself, in one of its infinite forms, is here to meet me. The form and energy of its manifestation is perfect for the needs of the moment.

I know at a very deep level that our meeting and subsequent actions are preordained. There is nothing I can do to avoid, or facilitate what is about to happen. It is going to happen anyway.

An incredible feeling of love and gratitude fills me. Nature and Life really do care. I know now that they watch over me, and send those guides and teachings whenever the time is right. I relax, and we merge. All I can remember is an embrace that is deep and strong, and we begin to spin. Like two children on a roundabout at a fair, we cling on to one another for dear life as the world about us fades into a blur. Although the trees and general background scenery is evident, the details are impossible to discern. Once a certain speed has been attained, we take off and rise above the greenery. The bottom of the valley revolves maybe thirty feet below our crazy embrace and I have a fleeting thought that if there were an observer down there, what on earth would he see? On and on we carousel through the tree tops, until I become tired.

Finally, I have an image of holding my partner immobile on the ground for an instant, until he disappears as if he never existed. I can then vaguely remember standing up, going to where I had left my belongings, and walking home.

Suddenly, I turn cold. I realise that the place I stood up was quite some way from the original spot on which I left my book and shoulder bag.