The Taize Community - ( Stockholm Syndrome on a Grand Scale???)

My husband and I went to Taize in France, in the hope that we could spend a week in a spiritually aligned community. In particular, we were drawn to the devotional singing that Taize is known for.

To our great disappointment, we soon discovered it was far from what we thought it might be.  By chance we ended up going in Holy Week, as our second covid vaccine needed to be had before we could enter France. As it turned out, no one at the airports checked vaccine records or covid recovery certificates (but that is another story).

When we arrived we were funnelled through a process of being assigned accommodation, meal tickets and being asked for cash up front for the week. The whole thing was run by young volunteers. We were classified as adults and were asked to pay 300 to 400 euros between us.  We soon learned that they were expecting 1000 people during the week and 1500 over the Easter weekend. 

We had arrived just before the evening meal, so we ended up in a queue with hundreds of young people with our suitcases in tow, to be served a portion of couscous and some baguette on a plastic plate and a spoon to eat with. We had travelled all day and the salad at Gatwick airport now seemed like a fine meal indeed.

After dinner, we found our accommodation, the two of us separated, into male and female bunk rooms. We showered and made our way to the 'church' which was a long barn, very dark inside and the front lit by numerous candles. The prayer service consisted of readings from a passage in the Bible in a number of languages, interspersed with songs from the Taize song book. People sat on the floor around the monks, who were dressed in their hooded cloaks and who held centre stage. The singing was of a slow tempo and flat in energy, not like the official Taize YouTube clips.

The daily program involved meals (served in plastic containers and lacking in any sort of food value),  chores, such as cleaning showers and toilets, three prayer services, being read to by a religious man and group discussions on basic guidelines to good living.

The average cost of a meal would be far less than a euro per person. Anyone suffering from a metabolic disorder or with dietary needs would be well advised to avoid eating the food. A bar exists on site where one can buy sweets, crepes, alcohol and hot drinks from a vending machine.

People are advised not to leave the site for the duration of their stay, but we were obliged to make trips to the supermarket just to keep our energy levels up. As the week wore on, the young people, who are the majority of the visitors, could be seen lying down during the prayer services, no doubt languishing with low energy.

Our first chore we were asked to do was to clean the toilets and showers. No one from the establishment supervised these activities. They were managed by volunteers and people like us visiting. Despite the colour coded buckets, sponges and cloths for cleaning the basins, toilet bowls and shower recesses, the various tools were all jumbled up in the same cupboard and cleaning products were used interchangeably for the different purposes. My husband ended up with an eye infection, trying to clean the wet broom caked in dirty water and hair from the bathroom floors.

More often than not, we were treated with a level of passive aggression, unkindness and or contempt. We asked for hot water as I was unwell and in pain and the volunteer manning the desk complained that if she had to give hot water to a thousand people, she would not be able to get anything done.

A fellow visitor saw us supplementing our breakfast bread roll with fruit and yogurt and remarked wryly that we wouldn't starve.

In my dorm of 5 people, I was on a bottom bunk and did not sleep most nights we were at Taize. Young teenagers could be heard running around and shouting until very late in the evenings.

The Taize experience is clearly targeted at young people (under the age of 35). It was like a summer camp for middle class teenagers and school leavers.  Those of us who were older were in the minority. In terms of anything spiritual, we could not find anything - no teachings or dialogue on the nature of Truth, love or Reality.  No real warm reception, charity or kindness.

We did our best to participate in the Taize program for 4 days, but eventually decided to cut our losses and leave.

As far as we could gather, what was on offer here in this so called 'spiritual' community was an opportunity to experience what Taize explains as 'simple living' on their website and basic Christian doctrine in exchange for good money. The monks sure had a good racket going.  To top it all off, they had a beautiful shop selling pottery, publications and various merchandise at very good prices. 

To all those who might consider going to Taize, think twice before you do. We checked TripAdvisor reviews and could only find positive reviews. The Taize website provides limited information on what one can expect. Facebook groups spoke of Taize highly.

Had we known there were going to be 1500 people, fed in queues like refugees, sleeping on shelves, in questionable hygienic environments, we would not have gone. Prior to going, we knew we would have to pay for food and lodging but we certainly had not expected this very poor standard.

We met some nice people in Taize and some not so, but they all seemed to think Taize was 'heaven on earth'.  Having walked the Camino twice, travelled widely and communed with diverse people and places, I can only say that there is a collective delusion in place here.

Hvidøre

In a seaside suburb called Klampenborg, just north of Copenhagen city centre, is a beautiful white building.  A long time ago, it used to belong to Empress Dowager Dagmar of Russia.  

Hvidøre on a grey day

In fact, it used to be a palace with views of Øresund between Denmark and Sweden.  It has a long history.   Since as early as the 16th century, before it was rebuilt in its current form, it had a host of royal residents.  The building was demolished and rebuilt in the 1870s and then purchased by King Christian IX’s daughters, Queen Alexandra of England and her sister, Dagmar.  They lived there each year between September and November, until the outbreak of the first world war, when travel became too difficult.  And, at the time of the Russian Revolution, Dagmar escaped Russia, and Hvidøre became her home until her death in 1928.  

Today, it is used as a training facility and conference centre for a pharmaceutical company.    

In spite of its corporate associations, we can enter the charm of Hvidøre and meet my friend, who truly is the current ‘Dagmar’.  

Kirsten is an artist.  She paints vibrant, colourful and dynamic paintings of flowers.  I told her that one day, her paintings may hang in Louisiana (modern art museum in Copenhagen).  I hope so.  They represent so much joy, positivity, expansive energy and delight. 

Dagmar’s daughter, Grand Duchess Olga, also moved into Hvidøre with her husband and two sons; and she, too, used to be an artist.  Some of her work currently hangs in the reception rooms there.

Kirsten is working from the inside out to transform her colleagues into artists....and she is succeeding.  I assisted in one of her team building art workshops a couple of years ago.  We got dressed in what looked like space suits - white disposable overalls and shoe coverings and transformed a large meeting room into an art studio by laying out huge tarpaulins.  She instructed her workshop participants to create art any which way, using paint guns, hands, sponges and paint brushes of all sizes.  And they had a ball, and they created beautiful art.  Many tell her afterwards that she has inspired them to paint and draw at home.

Hvidøre is like a fine hotel and training facility rolled into one.  It has a top class kitchen staffed by some of the nicest men I know who prepare delicious haute cuisine.  It is one of the best dining experiences in Copenhagen - everything is made on-site, trips are regularly made abroad to gather inspiration and if you wanted a snack in the middle of the night, one of the chefs will make it for you.    It accommodates overseas staff on business trips to Denmark as well as participants who attend training held on-site.  

So while Kirsten provides historical tours of the property and graciously greets and takes care of these visitors, she is on a mission.  In her spare time, she paints and exhibits her work publicly, whilst in her paid job, she looks after Hvidøre and runs art workshops within the organisation on the pretext of team-building.  

When I visited her recently in August, I was lucky because we had Hvidøre to ourselves -there were no guests and the kitchen staff had left for the day.  She welcomed me as if she  was the lady of the house.  

Kirsten in front of one of  Grand Duchess Olga's paintings 

In spite of Hvidøre’s royal history and its current role in meeting the needs of its guests, it is like a big old house, admittedly with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a beautiful grand piano in one of the drawing rooms, but the furniture isn’t over the top.  It has a nice mixture of modern Danish design and more traditional European furniture.  It has a warm and welcoming ambience that lacks the stuffiness and mustiness of European castles and palaces.  It is small enough that it feels like a house and Kirsten loves it like it is her own home.  

Very soon, she is going to St Petersburg on a business trip to do further research into Hvidøre’s royal history.  No doubt she will take her engaging and vibrant self, much like her flowers, to Russia, where she will attempt to weave the past and the present together and most likely inspire artists and art lovers in those she encounters.

Kirsten's website:
http://kirstenoergaard.dk/wordpress/

Mouse in the House

I saw something dart under the refrigerator....oh my God...it was a mouse.  And, I felt responsible  - I had had the garden doors open after insisting to Angela, my host, that I would help her prune and tidy up her garden that had become a jungle.  And now I had somehow let a mouse in.

I shut the kitchen door hoping that the mouse would stay under the fridge for the night, and I would not be woken up by something running across me as I went to sleep on the couch in the living room next door.

The next morning, I had forgotten about it, and as I was enjoying an unusual lay in, I got up to have a drink and I saw this tiny thing now sitting on the floor across from me.  It had moved from the kitchen into the living room.

How do you catch a mouse in someone else’s house when you don’t know where anything is?  

I opened the garden door again and came back to find it still sitting where it had been.  I decided to ask it to leave.  I explained how the garden was much nicer and that it would be much happier outside.  I told it that we really couldn’t keep it inside.  It just looked at me and then darted behind the cupboard.  

I thought if I could trap it in under a box or a tin, I would be able to contain it, and started taking everything off the floor - cushions, sewing machine, chairs and bags in readiness for the sudden assault I anticipated having to make to catch it before it ran away again.  Now I had everything on the table apart from the mini trampoline I found standing against the wall.  That was not going to fit on top of the table.  The mouse kept darting out from behind the cupboard but every time I moved, it went back into hiding.

Now all I had to do was find a box or a tin but no luck.  And then I lost sight of the mouse.  

So now I was worried it would find its way into my suitcase, clothing, papers, etc.  I proceeded to get all of my stuff off the floor, including my suitcase which was now perched on top of my bed.  And then I saw it again, as it scurried under the piano, this time a lot closer to my bed.  I never thought I would be on my hands and knees in my pyjamas looking for a mouse after having turned my host’s living room upside down.  Lucky she wouldn’t be home for several hours.  

Four hours later, the living room is back in order but the mouse is still at large....

The Golden Orbs

“Once upon a long, long time ago

there was a jellyfish with a big hairy belly button.

He went to the shopping mall to have a pedicure

There he met a policeman and he said:

nice underwear, very fetching!

Mmmm...he murmured, licking his lips,

"I can't believe this is happening to me."

But in fact, it really was. And the world agreed.”

I cannot claim that the little story above is mine except for two lines. Let me introduce you to my co-creators, the Golden Orbs:

Junko, reflexologist, energetic cooking aficionado and soon to become expert, a massage therapist and healer in various modalities - dances to her own rhythms and time

Ananda, film-maker, spiritual seeker, lives on a house boat, Junko’s partner, meticulous and punctual

Andrew, river conservationist, softly spoken, gentle in nature - a contemplative

Parul, town planner, bubbly and full of energy with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes

Joel, committed high school geography teacher looking for a career change in goat and walnut farming, avid traveller and photographer, Parul’s partner in mischief

----------

I had no idea what I was in for.  I had met Parul more than a year ago in London at Junko’s.  Junko and I went to the same primary school in Tokyo and had reignited a friendship in the last ten years.  As I was making plans earlier this year to head to the UK again, Junko sent me an email inviting me to join her, Parul and her friends for a week in a cabin in Norway.  I had never been to Norway and a cabin on an island sounded idyllic.  It seemed a long way away and a good idea.

As the weeks passed and on more than one occasion I started to wonder if a week in a cabin in a remote area of Norway with people I didn’t really know was such a good idea. I like my own company,  I crave for peace and quiet and I am not a group person.  

I then received another email from Junko saying she had bought the flights.  It looked like I was now committed and I learned that there would be at least 6 of us, perhaps more.  The cabin could house ten.  I didn’t know there would only be one bathroom.

By the time my Norway trip came around, I had spent ten days in Ireland, five weeks in London spinning my wheels trying to find a place to live, and a week in Galicia in Spain at the time of the Santiago train crash.   So in spite of my trepidation about my fellow cabin crew I was ready for the holiday - with regular meals, not on Spanish time.

Junko, Ananda and I flew in to Stavanger where we were picked up by Parul.  Stavanger is an oil city, the airport full of cars where people had left their them to commute to the offshore oil rigs.  The air was cool and fresh and I was greeted by a sense of space.    The streets were wide with little traffic, the houses were clean, neat and tidy and lakes dotted the landscape.  I could breathe.

We arrived at Parul’s where we were greeted by her parents and the remainder of our crew, Andrew and Joel.  As we gathered around mango lassi in a Norwegian style conservatory, Parul’s father enlightened us on the wisdom of Krisha Murti and what the mind was not.  Parul’s mother fed us dhal, saffron rice, raita and salad to sustain us on our journey to Korshamn, a small island off the south coast of Norway.  

We packed the stationwagon full with our luggage and supplies of food that had been brought from London and sourced from Parul’s kitchen.  We had been warned that Norway would be expensive - we discovered that red peppers were about $5 (AUD) dollars each.   Stuffed red peppers were not going to be on the menu.    

We, barring Andrew, got in the car to start what should have been a two to three hour journey.  Andrew was going by coach as we couldn't all fit in the car.    

Five and a half hours later, admittedly with some tourist stops, we finally arrived on a tiny island accessible only by one road that led from the bridge connecting to the mainland.  

It was nearly 10 pm.  It was still light but only just.  We arrived at what we thought was our cabin - the instructions had been to look for a brown house with white blinds.  We found one and it looked delightful -  right on the water with a private jetty, a beautiful garden, a BBQ, a living room that opened out onto a large deck and the interior through the window looked nicely furnished.  But as hard as we looked, we couldn’t find the key.  It was not under the grill, where it was meant to be.  Andrew would soon be arriving and we had to pick him up, 15 km back on the road we had come.  

Joel offered to look further up the road to see if there were any other brown houses with white blinds.  He returned saying that there was  one more house but it didn’t look all that inviting so it couldn’t be the right one.  This beautiful house on the water had to be ours!

But as more time passed, it was quickly getting darker and colder and a slight panic set in.  We couldn’t get into our house.  Andrew needed to be picked up and ‘dinner time’ had long gone and in fact it was soon time for bed according to my watch.  

In the meantime, Ananda had decided to check the uninviting house once more.  To our relief and dismay, he found the key.

This was to become the start of what turned out to be a super week, with already the various personalities emerging.  

A week that consisted of gingerly swims amongst massive jellyfish,

(Photo doesn't do justice to the size of the jellyfish)

adventures with ticks (the victims - the two lovebirds), 

Tick Haven

canoe trips involving nude swimming by some, boating expeditions where fish could be caught in a matter of minutes, 

a much anticipated beer on the pier that unfortunately didn’t eventuate (the pub had closed), 

hand made sushi rolls and fresh sashimi, beautifully filleted by Ananda, 

beetroot veggie burger fights where Parul and Joel’s faces  were nicely covered in pink gunk, 

hikes up sheep trails in thick gorse bush, a sound and light show where thunder and lightning lit up the Norwegian night, and belly laughs that went all night as we spun tales to amuse ourselves with perhaps the unconscious desire to milk all the fun and joy that could be had out of each day.

By the end of the week, we had come to be known as the Golden Orbs, which originally had been used as a description for a particular effect in a photograph, which quickly got bandied around to refer to all manner of things, more often than not with a hint of the naughty, including our good selves.

The End

......and another by the Golden Orbs......

In a moment of unguarded pessimism he removed his long-johns and offered his body to the majestic amoeba displaying their beautiful colours under the gentle ocean waves. They were gentle  and kind and life was wonderful. Then something bizarre happened. BANG! A loud noise  and suddenly in a cloud of stale smoke there appeared a scrawny man holding 2 canoes and a large  potato cake around his neck which he began eating until he stopped because  he was so guilty that no one else was interested in the jellyfish. He wanted to make them feel happier.

  

Revisiting Santiago

I did not expect to be back on the Camino so soon.  Although this time, it was not for the purpose of walking.   I was invited to spend a week with a friend who lives in Lugo, an hour away from Santiago de Compostela.  Santiago of the field of stars known because of the quartz in a nearby hill, the Pico Sacro, that sparkles when lit in the dark.  

She and her colleague were going to Santiago for the festival of St James to receive a medal presented by the Archicofradia and to film the light and firework show on the 24th of July. They also wanted me to see their photographic exhibition at the Paradores Hotel, where my photo hung.  I had met Susan and German while walking the Camino two years ago.  They hailed me and asked if I wanted to participate in their Camino project.  I obliged.  They were creating a visual register of pilgrims walking past German’s ancestral farmhouse in Vilei.

So here I was again in Spain, and on the way from Madrid to Lugo at one of the rest stops, I stepped out of the coach to breathe in the air, which struck me because it was so familiar.  It was good to be back.  

I had left London at 7.30 am and the bus finally pulled up at the bus terminal in Lugo 14 hours later. The city is the only one in the world surrounded by a still intact Roman wall.  It is a nice place, with a river flowing through it surrounded by the Galician countryside.  Not very big, but big enough to feel one was still in civilisation with access to conveniences normally found in a city.

I had a few days to become acquainted with Lugo and some of the surrounding area.  We drove an hour north to Cathedral Beach, known for its stone arches that resemble those of a cathedral, we swam in a bay with crystal clear water of 20 degrees C - perfect for swimming.  We had tapas and beer in tiny fishing villages.  We went shopping at the local markets and had a pedicure in Lugo’s only beauty salon and run by a beautiful Columbian woman.  

On the 24th of July, we set off early for Santiago.  Based on previous years, Susan warned me that the city would be packed with pilgrims, visitors and locals who had come to be part of the festival, so much so  that we would not be able to drive through the city  But to our surprise, it was quiet.  There were not many people, even fewer than when I had arrived in October of 2011, long past the main tourist season.  Pepe, the owner of Obeiro, Susan’s favourite wine bar, spoke of the reduced numbers of pilgrims choosing to stay once they arrived.  Many left the same day.    

We made our way to the Paradores Hotel, one of many belonging to a chain of four star hotels run by the Spanish government.  In a previous lifetime, they had all been beautiful historic buildings of importance - often religious.  In one of the courtyards, in the interior of the hotel, hung German’s photos of pilgrims, printed on enormous sheets of weatherproof canvas, suspended on chains.   There was one of a pilgrim on horseback, one of a man who had travelled by bicycle, a picture of a couple in their 80s and the woman had arrived wearing a skirt - not the usual clothing of a pilgrim.  Another photo was that of a young couple - an Australian woman and a Spanish man who had met on the Camino, fallen in love and were still together.  I was impressed.  And then there was me, my image bigger than my real size.  I had forgotten how brown I had become after having walked almost 700km by this point.  There I was with my backpack that was almost as big as me, holding onto my walking poles.  As a friend told me later, it didn’t look like me.  

We then went to our hotel, situated a few kilometers from the city centre, where we lunched and freshened up.  At 5.30 pm we returned to the Cathedral of St James for the mass where Susan and German, amongst others, would be presented a medal to honour their work promoting the Camino.  It was a medal conferred by a group known as the Archicofradia.  The Archicofradia is the organisation commissioned by the monarchs of Spain and inaugurated in 1499 to build a hospital for pilgrims. It was to be “a Confraternity ordered and instituted, of both sexes, from whichever province or nation, in any part of the world”. Build and run a hospital it did in the building which is now the Parador, the Hostal los Reyes Catolicos. In modern times this religious organisation supports projects to help pilgrims and to encourage pilgrims to be of service to other pilgrims. - quoted from http://johnniewalker-santiago.blogspot.dk/2012/07/opportunity-to-meet-reflect-and-pray-in.html

We had VIP seats, right in front of the priest where we had the best view of the Botafumeiro, a swinging metal container in which incense is burned.  I had seen this before but it was amazing to be so close.  One would surely die, if hit in the head by the incense holder as it came flying at high speed from on high through the Cathedral.  

The mass ended with the medal ceremony.  Perhaps thirty or so people including a dozen teenagers were presented with a medal - on one side was an engraving of St James and on the other the red Knights’ Templar Cross.  

After the mass we made our way back to the Paradores.  The hotel was hosting a very expensive dinner in celebration o the feast day and the dinner guests would then sit on the terrace to view the light and fireworks show at midnight.  We were not dining at this expensive dinner, but Susan and German had a spot on the terrace where they would film the spectacle.  

We had a few hours to kill as we waited.  We had some food at the bar and took in the ambience. 

At about 10.30, Susan received a text from a friend asking her if we had heard.  Heard what, was the question.

We discovered then of the tragedy that had hit Santiago, on the eve of the feast day of St James.  Many pilgrims would have walked the Camino to arrive at this special time.  The dinner guests were still eating their expensive meal.  We learned that scores had died just outside of the city when the high speed train from Madrid derailed and carriages were strewn in all directions, some landing on top of others.  The final death toll came close to 80.  

The entire festival program that was to span a number of days was cancelled.  We were all in shock.  It was a surreal feeling to be so close to the tragedy that it was palpable in the air and yet to be thankfully, unscathed.  Eventually some time after midnight, Susan and I left the hotel to look for a taxi.  We ended up circling the old part of the city unable to find one and returned once again to the Paradores.  The crowds that previously had filled the enormous square in front of the Cathedral had disappeared.  It was no longer the Santiago I remembered from two years ago.  The city had started mourning her losses.   Later when we returned to our hotel, we were to find out that the the phones had not stopped ringing with people requesting bookings who must now make the journey to Santiago to attend to loved ones who were injured or dead.  

Interlude at the Isle of Glass

Although now the memories are not so sharp, a little about Glastonbury, a place I had only heard and read about.  

After being touched by the numinous light between day and night, the bus continued onwards and in my half asleep state, I took in Bath, Wells and finally Glastonbury.  It was dark and late by the time I arrived.

It had been a long day and what a relief to be welcomed by my host and hostess.  I was shown my beautiful room, furnished with a double bed and lots of space (finally I could breathe and be).  A bathroom was next door with a bath.  

Thank God I had arrived here.  I knew in that moment that I needed to stay another night after my schedule had been turned upside down by the bus debacle.  

I had come here to take part in a ceremony honouring the Divine Feminine and to heal the wounds and trauma perpetrated by the medical profession on women in childbirth, the latter of which I was only to become aware of after the event had started.  I had also come drawn by the presence of one of my teachers from Australia who would be leading the day.  

When I opened the curtains the following morning, my bedroom window presented to me the gentle green landscape once known as the Isle of Glass. It was a beautiful summer morning in anticipation of all of the possibilities of a new beginning.  

I walked to the Chalice Well Gardens which was where I would spend the rest of the day.  A day of ritual, of sharing with other women, of being held and honoured, a day of co-creation.  I also learned of the horrors of our 21st century obstetric practice and midwifery.

I heard stories from student midwives who were traumatised by their training, from women who had experienced their own traumas in childbirth, and of the prevailing attitudes of the medical profession, not necessarily informed by malice or ill will but by ignorance, habit and unconsciousness.  Attitudes and practices that seemed primitive and barbaric.  

I was struck by the honesty and strength of these women, of all ages, who were gathered here in the hope that working together like this would bring about changes in our world, of restoring balance in a world gone awry.  

Of the many gifts I received that day, one of the most beautiful was my connection with, Myriam, a Spanish woman.  She came with her 5 month old daughter and I was utterly mesmerised by their relationship.  They embodied the energy of the Madonna and Child.  The mother was totally present for her daughter and the child was so at ease, happy to be lain on the floor amongst the rest of us in Circle.  I have never seen such beauty and light as what these two brought with them.  

When the day finally came to a close, many of us climbed the famous Tor.  The wind was blowing wildly and the sun was shining as our group made our way up.  Perhaps the elements were happy with the work we had done that day and were helping us blow away what no longer served us

A couple of hours later, after I had said good-bye to the women and I had returned to my B&B, I ventured into the town for a bite to eat.  I found a viby cafe, secured a table and ordered some food.  

As I was just about to settle into some reflection of the day, I saw Myriam, her baby and her teenage daughter enter the cafe.  How delightful to see them!  I invited them to join me at my table.  I had been looking forward to my own company, but for them, I was happy to share my table and evening. I learned many things about this beautiful family.  Myriam’s husband was back home in the mountains near Barcelona where he is building Myriam's and his vision, a healing centre for women.  She herself is an artist and photographer, honouring nature and the sacred feminine.  http://myriamnegre.es She and her daughter speak fluent English and so we ate and talked, exchanging stories about our lives and journeys.

To Glastonbury

I don’t cope well when well laid plans go awry, when straightforward and simple plans go awry.  

I had arrived early at London Victoria to get on a coach for Glastonbury.  I was going to an event run by an Australian shamanic midwife whom I had done some work with before.  

I was longing for the familiar and the restorative.

As I stood amidst the other waiting passengers at the gate for my bus, a man dressed in a suit stood in front of the gate, cheerfully answering questions from passing passengers.  I thought to myself, he must really enjoy his work as he greeted each person with much enthusiasm and attention.

My bus was leaving at 8 and I was waiting for some sort of instruction to board the bus.  As the sign at the gate ticked over from 8.00 to 8.01 am, the sign for my bus disappeared and on came the sign for the next one departing at 8.30.  Alarmed, I went to the man in the suit and asked where the bus to Glastonbury was.  He turned away from me and told me he did not work there.  He then turned to another passenger who had come up behind me and told him “I work here, for you” and proceeded to answer his question.  It was a surreal moment and I still cannot explain two days later what had happened that morning.  I turned to a woman who was standing nearby wearing the yellow fluorescent vest of the coach station staff, and as I was about to ask her, the man in the suit told me she doesn’t work there either.  He then told me to go and see a woman who was standing amongst the buses in the bus parking area, which technically was off limits to the public.  I went up to her and inquired after my bus and she told me I had just missed it.  She didn’t really want to know about me and sent me in search of an office next to gate 11.  I found a small shed where a man was just entering and I explained my predicament.  He too didn’t want to know and told me to wait as he had only just arrived.

He closed the door on me.  

I had planned my trip so that I would have half a day to explore Glastonbury, the next day to spend at the Chalice Well where the event was being held; and I was booked on a bus back to London the following morning, at 6.50 am.  And from memory there were only two services to Glastonbury, the 8am and one much later in the day.  

The man in the shed finally emerged as he rolled open his shuttered window and asked me how he could help me.  I had just told him what my problem was.  So I explained again, holding my tongue, that I had been waiting for this bus for more than 20 minutes and somehow it had left without me.  He told me the others had managed to get on the bus (only 2 passengers) and so it wasn’t the coach company’s fault.  I had never said it was anybody’s fault.  By this time, I was feeling myself falling into a spiral of despondency and helplessness, and there was now a queue of people waiting behind me.  The man told me to step aside because he had to help the others while he waited for his computer to start working.  

After serving a half a dozen customers, he finally turned to me and told me there were three services that afternoon, 4.30, 5.00 and 6.00 pm, all arriving at 10 pm.  He couldn’t give me a refund and I had to make a choice.  As I was still trying to come to terms with what had happened, I was struggling to make a decision so he just went ahead and booked the 6pm.  I then asked him how I could avoid missing this bus seeing there had been no announcement or indication of where and when to board the bus.  He ignored my question and told me I should be satisfied he had fixed my problem.  

So what was I to do for the next nine hours?  For various reasons it didn’t make sense to return to where I was staying so I went to the tourist office and asked where the nearest museum was, which is where I spent the rest of the day.  At least, it was free, there were toilets, places to eat and beautiful things to see.  

I made my way back to the coach station at 5 pm determined to get on that bus.  I would make myself known and demand to be shown the bus.  The man in the suit was nowhere to be found.  I entered the area of the buses and found a staff member and asked where my bus was. He told me it had not arrived and to go back to the waiting room.  I told him how the 8am bus had left without me and that I wasn’t going to let that happen again.  

So I returned and sat at the gate and found a couple of old ladies waiting for the same bus.  They were returning home after travelling since 9am on multiple buses and this was their last leg, lasting 4 hours.  What a way to travel.... This time, there were announcements and last calls for all the buses that were departing.  Was this the same place I had been earlier in the day?  For whatever reason, circumstances had conspired against me to get on the 8am service.  

I finally boarded the very full bus, found a seat and promptly fell asleep with sheer relief that I was now on my way.

When I awoke, the light was the light of a summer evening, in the in between of day and night.  And I had been transformed to another world, the world of villages with names like Nimlet, where my eyes beheld fields and valleys of green and the yellow of the rapeseed.  

This was what I had come for.