Despite my extended and numerous trips as Crystal Bearer, it became apparent that I could not hope to cover all the appropriate sacred spaces of these lands simply by hitching and hiking. Large areas of the British Isles remained unvisited, so I decided to hire a car for a week and try to fill in as many of the 'blank spots' on the map as I possibly could in the time available.

A good friend of mine called Roberta, a student at Emerson College, wanted to accompany me, and we took off together on yet another crystal adventure. We looped our way through the south of England: Dover, Canterbury, Grimes Graves, Rollright, Oxford, Dorset, South Devon, Cornwall, North Devon, Gloucester, Wales. And all of the special places in between. Many miles, many landscapes and many accents rushed by like a speeded up film before our eyes. So different from my usual rate of travel, yet budding shamans must learn to be proficient in all the diverse worlds that materialise, and be as impeccable as possible!

All seemed to flow smoothly as we whistled through sometimes half a dozen counties a day. We both enjoyed wonderful experiences at many magical places, and I felt a growing sense of satisfaction as the network grew daily. The gaping holes in the map that had worried me were now filling, and there was a new sense of balance to the crystal journey as a whole.

One beautiful sun-dappled morning I found myself in front of St Michael's Mount once again, sharing with Roberta a very different mood than on my former visit.

We park at the official car-park in the sand dunes at Marazion. As we relax after the long drive, we take in the magical view. It is early, only an hour or so after sunrise. St Michael's Mount lies half hidden in the thick mist that hugs the cold calm water of the bay. Its battlemented top floats above the clouds like a huge grey mother-ship waiting to divulge star-secrets to wakening humanity. A bright golden sun illuminates the scene like the promise of eternal summer, the air is fresh and sweet to the taste.

We have made sure that it is the correct day of the week for visiting, and that we are synchronised for low tide. We leave the car and walk across the sand towards the causeway. We have been blessed: I have seen few such beautiful and delightful sights in my life. The mist billows over the mirror sea in whispy white clouds. Softly, so gently.

The Silence is present and holds sway, magic is in the air. The water laps against the shore as if announcing eternity and I know we are walking through the land of faery. Roberta, part faery herself, radiates an otherworldly aura and is breathtakingly beautiful. I feel very alive and blessed: we have an appointment with the Beings who live here and yet not here in the place called the Underworld, or Otherworld.

The mist is roiling and writhing like a live vapourous blanket. It withdraws from time to time and figures dressed in colourful, ancient costumes appear, walking on the stretch of water which connects the Isle of Eternal Youth to the mainland. We catch glimpses of them and then the clouds roll back, swallowing them again as if they have never been. The brightness of the sun creates alchemy with the mist and the myriad moisture drops that rest on the earth. Laser flashes of intense rainbow colour shoot through the space in which we walk and have our being.

And then we become two pilgrims, two Little People in our own right, crossing the great divide between worlds. We walk upon clouds and dance through rainbows, our hearts are light and our souls soar in the simple joy of being. Magical children for the duration, we hold hands and dance over the waters. It is not possible to enter this realm in any other way. I hold crystals in my mouth, presents for the faery queen, for it is through this point in the energy body of Britain that the great Dream enters the Land. The Dream is weakening, There are fewer and fewer magical children to Dream it into existence. Added to that sad state of affairs there is greater and greater opposition in this world to children coming into, and expressing their power as individuals. Roberta and I are there to help reverse this process, and to Dream the Dream again in its power and pristine purity. And we are.

We dance and whirl along the pathways on the island, alert for and hearing the guidance that whispers to us out of the mist, through the gurgling of the water, and from the plaintive cries of the seagulls overhead. We drop the first crystal into a well at the base of the mount, and wish. And how we wish! And it immediately comes true, and continues to.....

We then climb upwards, breaking through the mist into the brilliant golden air. We shy away from the big grey building on top of the rock, for it is far too heavy.... we explore and climb around the rocks to the seaward side of the monastery. There we discover gardens and herb beds where sweetly smelling plants caress the fragrant air. We lie down on the dry springy grass and drink in the sun, and look across the water into the distance. Under the water, not very deep below the surface, are the remains of an ancient oak forest in the land once called Lyonnesse. It is strange to imagine them still growing silently under the waves, with fish nesting in their branches.....

By the garden is an ancient celtic cross. I place another crystal under its granite base and take in the superb view. I dance a little dance of joy around it, making prayers weaving waving whirling across the sparkling waves towards the sun. You are not forgotten, we will never forget. From now on, the Dream grows stronger.

Then we crossed the Severn bridge and entered Wales. It was my first time in this part of the world, and I knew it only by its reputation. A strange feeling of foreboding settled over me and stayed. It was quite unnerving, and I knew that it was the Spirit of Cymru, an ancient and powerful entity that still affected people deeply on the magical levels. I felt its eye on me, as if it knew that I had the means to affect deep change in the land and needed to be watched closely. All energy-holders, even if only for a moment, wield a double-edged sword: power when used for good or for ill causes changes in the balance of energy on all realms of existence, as everything affects everything else. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell how the results from the use of power will manifest until they actually appear. I felt that we had to move carefully and respectfully and always be aware of the time, so as not to outstay our welcome.

A long trail of standing stones, circles and cromlechs felt our loving touch along the way. I learnt to feel this ancient land in increasingly deeper ways, yet I knew that I was still only scratching the surface. We finally drove through Llandovery, en route to Crystal Mountain, a place I had been wanting to visit for a long time. It had been described to me as a major chakra, or energy centre, in the energy network of Wales and the land as a whole. It combined with other centres close by, to create a very special and unusual 'earth temple' in the southern central area. The mountain itself was reputed to sparkle in the sunlight, due to the profuse crystal presence lying both deep inside, and strewn all over its surface.

It was dark as we wound our way up the river towards our goal, and with mounting excitement we pressed on. The swelling moon shone brightly above us, weaving itself in and out of misty pockets in the valley. We reached a signpost which directed us to turn right, in blatant contradiction to the O.S. map which indicated we should carry straight on. I disregarded my feelings, turned right, and proceeded to get lost in the narrow, precipitous passes of the Black mountains. Needless to say, the mist thickened and soon we could see almost nothing. After a long and frustrating time, we found our way back to Llandovery, started again up the river road, and carried straight on where we had formerly turned right.

We arrived in the village of Rhandirmwyn without further trouble, and scouted around for a place to sleep. We parked in a deserted lay-by nearby, out of sight of the road. My sleep was disturbed by a nagging sense of foreboding which was getting steadily stronger.

We woke to a bright and sunny morning, and my fears melted away in the cheerful dancing of sunbeams. After breakfasting we parked the car, got directions up Crystal Mountain, and started to walk. We passed through a plantation of baby firs, followed the track upwards, and suddenly the valley opened up below. The view was magnificent, and the reputed heart chakra of the system, a small hill in the centre of the valley, glowed cheerfully in different shades of sunny green. Rainbows were starting to appear underfoot, shocking us in brilliant multicoloured flashes: the crystal spirits were revealing themselves!

We walked along a small animal track on an adventure through the trees, never knowing what would appear next. We wriggled under a rusty old wire fence, and there in front of us was a spoil tip. To the side was the blocked-up remains of an old mine shaft. With a whoop, I ran to the tip and scrambled up its crumbling side, crystal shards tumbling in electric flashes all around me.

I fell onto my knees and gazed closely at the twinkling surface. Countless whole and fragmented crystals sparkled in front of my eyes, brought to the surface of the mountain years and years ago by nameless miners. On closer inspection, the crystals had a very unusual characteristics: they were squat, without a shaft, and pyramid shaped. Some were clear, some milky, some mixed and some dotted with metallic specks. Their shape and feel was unique. To this day I can always recognise a crystal from Crystal Mountain.

Further up the mountain we came to another larger tip, with a higher percentage of perfect crystals. After a good scrabble and root around, filling my long-suffering pockets as I went, I explored up a small gully nearby and found a hole in the ground, just large enough to wriggle through. A partly collapsed mineshaft! In I slithered, head first, and with a deft bit of manoeuvring, collapsed headfirst onto a pile of damp earth. With mounting excitement I picked myself up and inspected what was in front of my eyes.

I stood in a limpid pool of light, shining down from above. The gully outside had steep sides and allowed only pitiful access for the sunlight. I peered down an old horizontal mineshaft, just high enough to stand in without hitting my head, which stretched away from me into the darkness. Cold invisible water droplets dripped incessantly, hollowly, hinting at a long tunnel in front of me, possibly flooded. Quartz seams streaked the walls. I smelled crystals in a big way, and felt monstrously frustrated at my inability to explore further. Why hadn't I brought a torch? I also recognised this spot as being a pivotal influence in my future life.....or death. I shivered. Unable to put it off any longer, I wriggled out again into the blinding light of day. Thank you for revealing yourself, dear mountain. I will be back.

Once out of the gully I gathered up the equipment I had left and we explored further. We climbed over a tree-covered rise, down into a moss-green hidden dell, and there in front of us was a small, exquisitely beautiful pool. A dragonfly skimmed the surface of the water and deep green grass waved lazily, sensuously, below the surface. One side of the pool was rock, and thrusting from the stone were clusters of clear quartz crystals like ice shards.

It was time to greet the spirit of the mountain. I stripped off my clothes, and entered the breathtakingly cold water. I greeted her reverently, lovingly, and immersed myself in her. It was biting, piercing, cleansing. I climbed out after a while and sat on moss. The sun dried my body as I took in the fairy scene: white spotted red fly agaric mushrooms swam in the shadows under birch trees, crystals shimmered and flickered playfully from their underwater home, a sacred pool overhung by trees, natural magic.

And onward. We climbed further, meeting the track again but declining its services. Across and upwards. More crystals: they seemed to become increasingly refined and clearer the higher we reached. The stream we had walked along earlier came into view. Smaller yet much wilder here, it tumbled and dropped over waterfalls, noisily roaring, spray sucked and blown away by the playful wind. Finally we reached the summit and sat, sheltered, with our backs against a little cairn. Small dwarven trees rustled in the wind while delicate-looking alpine flowers danced underfoot in the celebration of life. Like butterflies opening and closing our wings, we bathed in the sun, breathed in the sun, and prepared for birth in the sun.

A Himalayan crystal seed was brought out of its container, cleaned, and immersed in the sun for the first time in its life. The mountaintop seemed to celebrate in a million sparkling rainbows as it received its gift of new life.

The view was sublime. Mountains, huge thrusting folds in the Earth's surface, stretched away into a hazy infinity that defied imagination. We were able to see the labyrinthine complex of valleys below us divide the mountainscape into strange patterns. Just ahead of us, another valley system led northwards towards the tree-lined lake called Llynn Brianne. The world was radiant and very peaceful in preparation for the sunset. As the cooling orange-red sundisc touched the horizon, golds merged into deep blues and indigo as if it were the last day of our lives. For death stalks in the rapture of extreme beauty, at the vulnerable time when one is ready and willing to die. After such an experience, one is never the same.

Dreaming. We dream. Immersion into colour, beauty and space. The first stars appear, gateways to deeper realities. We sit comfortably on top of the world: we inhabit the space that connects all others. Surrender to what is, surfing on the waves of bliss. Travelling, flying vast distances with no effort on the wings of perception.

I became conscious of cold fingers stroking my exposed skin, and changed focus. Automatic pilot had brought me back to earth. I noticed that the sun was well gone. Night, enveloping the land with her indigo cloak, was almost upon us and it was time to go. I gently roused Roberta, and we made our grateful farewells to this natural temple. We made our way down the steep, wild slopes of Crystal Mountain, or Nant Gwyn, trusting in the gloaming. Shapes and distances were distorted in the twilight, yet we arrived after a remarkably short time at the car.

I reached inside my trouser pocket for the keys. They were not there. In barely controlled panic, I searched everywhere, but there was no sign of them. I had no spare set. A wave of self pity and general loathing washed over me: I was thrown into a state of complete paralysis. Finally, I decided on a course of action. Roberta would wait in the Royal Oak inn, and I had no choice but to try to retrace my steps back up the mountain, and attempt to find the bloody keys. There was still minimal light to see by, and, basically, it had to suffice for my purposes.

Like a madman I steamed back up the mountain without even a torch, attempting to revisit every place we had spent time with on our earlier ascent. A hopeless task. I tried not to think about the more than likely outcome and concentrated on my mission like a doomed man, with nothing left to lose. Higher and higher I climbed, combing the heathery undergrowth as I went.

On and on: I just had to find them. I became aware of the power available to those who have been given terminal sentences, for nothing save a direct hit from lightning would have swayed me from my intent. I wondered which was the most hopeless: finding a needle in a haystack, or a couple of keys on a mountain. My conclusion was the latter. Oh shit!

As I climbed ever higher, my hopes started to fade. By now the night was only a shade away from pitch black. I staggered somewhat forlornly and exhaustedly to the top of the mountain. This was my last chance, and a miniscule one at that. I approached the cairn and wondered for the thousandth time if I had sat there, or was it a couple of yards to the left? I saw a silver glitter in the grass at my feet, and automatically bent over to pick the object up. It was cold and metallic to the touch, and jingled as I lifted it. The keys! With a confusing, conflicting rush of emotions I gave thanks, and relaxed. What, for goodness sake, was all that about?

Then something happened. I realised that I had been brought back, alone, for a reason. I cannot remember what occurred then (sometime the behaviour of Dreamtime is very frustrating) but the feelings were similar to a sense of bonding to this special, sacred space. I stood, electric, on the highest point of the mountain and was aware only of inner space. I knew without a doubt that our relationship would become deeper, fuller: many times would I stand here again in the future. If the Lake of the Moon was my unique Dreamcentre on the planet, then Crystal Mountain would be that for me in these lands. I rejoiced, and felt completely at home and loved. On becoming aware of my surroundings again, I stayed a few moments to say goodbye, and started downwards for the second time.

With a tired, slightly embarrassed grin I entered the inn and ordered a pot of tea. I sat next to a glowing Roberta in front of the huge log fire, and soon my exertions were a thing of the past. Warm and relaxed, we drove off to our friendly lay-by to sleep.

Again it was a restless night. What a strange place! A place of extremes, indeed. Morning arrived, finally, and I felt at the end of my tether. It was as if the amnesty granted us by the spirit of Cymru had been terminated, and I was scared. I imagined a huge, reptilian, winged creature poised on the horizon, acting as the magical immune system of Wales. It felt to me that we had disturbed the land too much in our crystal planting and explorations, and had been classified as foreign objects. I knew that the monster had already been activated, was starting to hunt us down and would psychically tear us to pieces at the conclusion of the chase.

Without ceremony, I started the car and drove south, fast. We flew past areas I would love to have visited, yet there was only one thing uppermost in my mind: to cross the Severn as soon as possible. The pressure started to ease. Finally, over the bridge, we breathed sighs of relief.

At 8 am the following morning, we returned the car to its depot, our mission fulfilled. Looking at the week in an objective way, our journey was an amazing success. Large areas on my map of Britain, conspicuously devoid of symbols depicting crystal plantings, were now healthily filled. The web was alive and growing, and all was well with the world.

During my time in the Ashdown forest, as I travelled throughout the land planting the crystals, old memories and traumas erupted into my consciousness. As I followed my guidance in helping to heal the land, so did my own personal healing manifest and I experienced the age-old maxim: heal yourself, heal the land. I attempted to work through and integrate these experiences as well as I was able, and employed professional help in the form of a Anthroposophical cranial osteopath. One trauma that emerged with a lot of energy during this period was the time I was severely electrocuted as a child.

I am a healthy four-year old boy, strong for my age. I am playing with a dinky toy on the outside wall of my house. My mother is teaching, my father out shopping at the village a couple of miles away. There is a fault in the electrical system; I touch a live earth wire running down the wall from the main fuse box. BANG! An endless agonising spasm hits my tiny body like an express train. I am thrown into a maelstrom of pain, endless pain. I am alone, deadly alone and it is too much for me. Why aren't you there? What have i done to deserve this agony, this abandonment? Why aren't you ever there when I really need you?

Even at this age, wise beyond my years, I know I am dying. My body tears and rips itself apart from the inside out. It seems an eternity while I both participate in, and cooly witness my death. Perversely and stubbornly I fight on and never give in. Finally I hear the sound of wheels on gravel as my father returns from the shops.

Another eternity passes while I scream silently for help. I hear him calling my name inside the house. Rising worry is reflected in his voice. He then looks out of the window and sees me: finally he is here. As from a distance I watch him spinning away as he gets the full shock of the mains, but he tries again and at last I am free of the terrible tearing and shaking.

I have survived miraculously, yet from this moment on I know that my lifepath has taken an irrevocable turn. I have already lost the innocence and blind trust of most children. Instead I already know mortal fear, and I look out of a body that has tasted the bitter gall of death. It will never again function so well and has already become a prison. I realise that I have been thrown through a gateway from which there is no return.

During this period my dreams, both waking and sleeping, became obsessed with electricity and death. My friends were not quite sure how to take all of this, and I travelled on through my lonely reality as well as I was able. Then I found out that my healing was to take an extraordinary turn: instead of integrating past memories, the power was to be increased a thousand-fold.

It is Friday afternoon and there is heaps of polishing to be done before I am finished for the night. Tomorrow, by 8 in the morning, I must deliver all the jewellry to Covent Garden and there is no time to waste. I am dressed in my polishing clothes: dungarees, leather flying helmet and motorcycle goggles. I imagine the sight I must look and laugh. Not the sort of man to let your teenage daughter too close to! Any age, come to think of it! Still, I must concentrate now and keep it all together. I have the polishing motor out on the back lawn to reduce the airborne particles that invariably find their way into my lungs. And I am trucking! This is the ten thousanth torc neckpiece that I have polished, yet it is new and a challenge. I am refining my skills as far as I possibly can, and in the last few months I have doubled both my speed, and the quality of the finished product. I take a lot of pride in what I do and how I do it.

There is a thunderstorm in the vicinity. It has been growling and prowling around the cottage for the last hour or so but hasn't actually manifested overhead. Yet. But now, three-quarters of the way through my task, the flashes start to get more shocking and the detonations louder. It is coming my way at last. Under normal circumstances I would hightail it into the house, for to work out in the open with a high-powered electrical machine under a thunderstorm is suicidal. But these are extraordinary times and I need to complete the jewellry. Such is life. Such is death.

The storm approaches and I am scared. Loud explosions rend the darkening air and large drops of rain start to fall. I carry on. Suddenly the hair on my body rises, my skin tingles, then throbs, and I see the grass vibrating vertically at my feet. I am going to be hit, and there is nothing I can do about it. I feel like a fly that has entered the barrel of a gun, and can hear the trigger being squeezed. Everything seems very still, yet my body feels as it is being stretched high into the air. It all becomes so intense, unbearable. Something needs to give, soon. I start to feel panic, yet await the inevitable.

BOOM! The flash blinds me, the thunderclap pierces my eardrums. I explode into a thousand bloody, scorched pieces and am strewn over the grass and against the wall of the cottage. I am dead.

I then find myself inside the workshop, asking Gerald, my partner, if I am alive or dead. He looks a bit dazed and assures me I am alive.

I return outside to finish the polishing and when it is finally done, I stagger exhausted back into the workshop. I feel as if I am sick. What is going on? It is finished! I grin at Gerald and start to take off my filthy polishing clothes. I see that he is shocked or upset, and ask him what is wrong. He says that he has just seen me hit by lightening. He saw a jagged blue hand reaching down and hitting my shoulder.

I say that I was hit a while ago, and that I came in to ask him if I was still alive. He doesn't know what I am talking about, for he has just seen it happen, and denies that I entered the workshop before finishing the polishing.

So, what is time or space, or even reality?

While at the Ashdown Forest, another extended magical journey drew me to Eire. I wanted to travel along the southern coast in an exploration of the wonderful sacred spaces to be found there. In my experience Ireland is to Britain as India is to the West: a realm of Dreamtime where magic holds dominion and dreams come true. The laws of living in these sorts of places are very different from those of 'normal' reality. It is important when travelling these unusual shores to get to know and learn to adapt as quickly as possible to the Spirit of the Land.

Before crossing the water to Dublin I spent a couple of hours at St. Non's well on the cliffs overlooking the sea on St. David's Head. There I prayed for the success of the Crystal Journey. It was a perfect place for gathering my dreamthreads and energies before catching the boat from Fishguard, just up the coast.

The well is surrounded by a white wall with interesting niches and cracks covering its surface. Although the wind was howling and battering the surface of the land, inside was calm and peaceful. I was thankful to be able to sit in such a protected space while still in contact with the elements outside.

I sat in contemplation in front of a cool, clear pool of water that reflected the fierce sky. Upon its mirror surface floated multi-coloured flower petals like a fairy regatta, gifts from pilgrims who had arrived before me. I sat in a molten beam of sunlight that burst through the clouds while the wall supported my back. A statue of the goddess, or saintess, stood serenely in a cave-like recess over the pool, and I felt as if I were in some earthy sort of heaven.

I made my prayers, drank some of the sweet water from my cupped palm, and sprinkled some over my head and brow. When I was done, I left a little crystal gift for her. The disturbance to the mirror surface was indicated by a set of delicate, concentric ripples, and then they were gone. I felt blessed.

On the other side of the Irish Sea, out came my trusty thumb. My route was serpentine and spiralled from stone circle to well, from forest to statue of the goddess and back again. I slept wherever I found myself at night, protected by a large plastic bag designed to fit over a sleeping bag. Although it rained a lot I kept dry and my spirits were high. On my travels I met many of the local people and had a lot of fun with them. I was on form, and spun many tales about sleeping inside stone circles and my adventures with the little folk I met there .

For many years, one of my most important dreams was to visit and kiss the Blarney Stone. All of my life I had been tongue-tied and awkward in my communication with others. The archetypal Irishman who had kissed the Blarney Stone, who could communicate with anyone and talk the hind legs off a donkey, was a strong symbol of attainment for me. I determined to take the steps required to gain ease and skill in this department, so, soon after entering Eire, I travelled though County Cork on a pilgrimage to Blarney.

One bright afternoon I climbed up the castle tower and saw the Blarney Stone with my own eyes. It is built into the top of the castle wall, and one has to hook one's legs over a metal bar, lean over backwards until upside-down, and kiss the stone. In modern times a metal grating has been placed which acts as a sort of safety net if anyone should slip and fall; it is still very disconcerting to hang upside-down like a wobbly bat with the ground visible forty feet under one's head, secured merely by one's feet! I wondered how many people in the old days plummeted to their doom only inches from the goal of their pilgrimage, and whether they were any more eloquent than usual in the time granted them before eternal oblivion. In this unnatural and eccentric state of consciousness, I realised my dream.

And then, just as I was feeling as if I were surfing on the crest of my wave, disaster struck. I had just visited the abbey at Timoleague, left a crystal, and was hitching towards Killarney when a VW bus pulled up. I climbed in, and we took off in a squeal of vapourised rubber. What a journey! On the wrong side of the road more often than not, the luck of the devil was with us. Three young men, serious Guinness guzzlers, total madmen with no sense of propriety, were hell-bent in their intent to experience instant annihilation. And I became the fourth.

Sean, the driver, seemed ignorant of any basic Highway Code. With an unending supply of booze and 'wacky baccy', they became more and more wild. In fear of my life, I accepted a joint without thinking and sucked greedily at the acrid smoke. My perspective on life grew slightly more bearable, and I started to take a certain amount of interest in our ride.

The VW screeched around blind corners on the wrong side of the road, leaving my nerves in shreds. They giggled and shouted, hurling unrepeatable abuse in intoxicated abandon when overtaking in impossible situations, the wilder and more dangerous the better. The accelerator was flat down all the way. At first I was terrified, yet as the warm tingly feelings from the smoke radiated out from my tummy, I began to enjoy the outrageousness of it all.

I realised that, after all, everybody has to die – only some younger than others! We left the main road and soon we were bumping and bouncing at impossible speed up a rocky mountain track. Ravines yawned on one side of our path and then the other; we hurtled towards huge drops only to swing aside at the last moment.

Sean, beer-can in one hand and joint in the other, repeatedly turned to talk to me, taking his attention away from the driving for frightening periods of time. He shouted over the rattles and bangs that they were on their way to 'meet the man' to score some cannabis. Trust me to end up on some suicidal drug run with three Irish Furry Freak Brothers!

Almost before I knew it, their business was successfully concluded and we started our manic, bone- and brain-shaking descent from the mountains. In ten minutes we were at the main road. Not believing I had actually survived, I extricated myself with difficulty from the back of the van. So there I stood, well stoned, waving goodbye to my recent friends and fellow Kamikaze travellers.

All at once a sickening, horrendous feeling stole over me and it felt as if the bottom of my stomach was falling out. Frantically I searched my belongings, and with a sense of disbelief realised that I had left my raincoat in the van. I jumped up and down in the road, waving my arms at the rapidly dwindling green bus until it disappeared around a bend. Contrary to my hopes, it didn't reappear and soon I was faced with an impossible situation.

The plug had been pulled out of my world. The black hole gaped wide, and my life-force drained gurgling away until there was no more Ivan. It took only half a dozen seconds, no more. With the shocked astonishment of an animal which had been a moment before eating of nature's bounty and playing with its fellows; I watched, mortally wounded, while the smoke still issued from the assassin's gun.

The unbelievable thing about the whole affair was the fact that all of the remaining Parvarti crystals were in the coat's inside pocket.

I managed to survive the first shock by consciously disconnecting my logic circuits. I decided that I would decide nothing, love myself, forgive myself and wait. Impressions, thoughts and feelings came and went. The crystals in my coat were the last ones left: I was down to about fifty of the smallest ones. I checked my pockets for any loose ones and found four. I also found the card that Sean and the others had given me, with their address in Timoleague.

What an extraordinary stroke of luck! The three mad Irishmen had given me their address card, so I could contact them at my leisure and ask them to return my belongings later.

Losing my raincoat was a disaster but thankfully not terminal. The panic was over and things were falling once again into perspective. I have a strong aversion to retracing my footsteps. I decided to carry on through Eire, and ask them to return my coat through the post. I had four crystals left: one would be planted at Killarney, one at Newgrange, one at Tara, and the last at Holy Island, near Holyhead on Anglesey, on my return to the mainland.

Having decided what to do, I felt a lot better and prepared to resume my journey. It began to rain, and I looked for my raincoat. Oh, shit! I then remembered that I had a few black plastic bin-liners in my rucksack, and got one out. I cut off bits in strategic places to make arm and neck holes, and it fitted surprisingly well. So, having taken stock of the situation, I set off again.

I spent the night at Killarney in a cave by the lake, surrounded by the greenest trees I have ever seen. Moss and ferns hung thick on the trees, giving an atmosphere of deep emerald nature. The gentle silence was broken only by the soughing of the breeze and the honking of ducks on the water. I felt welcomed, although it was a challenge indeed to keep myself dry and cheerful. As soon as I could, I lit a welcoming fire to warm and dry myself. It rained torrentially most of the time I was there yet I was snug and dry. A crystal sank into the lake amongst ringing ripples, and the Emerald Isle sparkled a little deeper nature-green. The next day, leaving my forest home behind, I made my way across country towards Newgrange.

I arrived in the environs of Newgrange in the afternoon after a surprisingly quick journey across country in various sleek vehicles. I had a long, wet, windy walk along the narrow lanes that led to the mound from the main road. The weather was pretty outrageous: vortexes of wind would whip over my head, ripping leaves from trees and howling through the telephone wires as if furious at the passing of summer.

My senses were on full alert in this magical land of extreme spiritual surprises, and I watched myriad old, gnarled, solemn faces peering at me out of tree trunks, hedges and the secret undergrowth as I passed on my way. I felt the presence of a wild, ancient, and playful spirit following my footsteps as I plodded along the country lanes, and I felt very much alive.

I arrived at the entrance to Newgrange having worked up quite a sweat, and panted a greeting to the lady at the kiosk. She stared unbelievingly at the apparition just materialised in front of her, and we both stared at one another until I realised that I must have looked quite a sight. I was wearing a black plastic bag, a strange bazooka-like object was sticking out of my rucksack (my didjeridoo), and I walked with a large wicked-looking staff.

I introduced myself, and tried unsuccessfully to get a discount on the entrance fee. The monetary transaction over, she told me that I had to wait maybe fifteen minutes until the guide had completed with the current group of tourists, and was available to show me around the site. I considered doing a flier and sneaking in alone, but dismissed the urge it as it didn't feel right.

I found a peaceful spot under some lovely old trees that was thankfully out of the wind. There I took off my rucksack, the damp crinkly bin bag, and mercifully sat down. I had just walked five miles or so along the unyielding tarmac road and was more than ready for a rest.

It is time to go. The guide and others are already in the passageway: I find myself outside the stone structure again and aware of the wind. I search for Ossian, and even ask someone to look in my hair. He is gone.

He has remained inside the sacred space that is his real home, and I feel honoured at being chosen to carry him on his homecoming. Wherever you are, Ossian, you gave me much joy. Fly well!

As I reach the kiosk to retrieve my belongings, the sun bursts through the black boiling sky. I turn around and experience a wonder. I lean weakly against the wooden structure and watch the near blinding white quartz burst through the backdrop of darkness. I witness a brilliant rainbow shoot out of the entrance of Newgrange, arc across the road and make a bridge of faery light to the opposite side of the valley. Crystal planting works! As the world stops, I just stand and gape.

"Isn't it wonderful to be at just the right place, at just the right time!", I whisper to the kiosk lady.

Open-mouthed, she can only nod.