The Glastonbury Triangle

Night out in Glastonbury

It was mid-afternoon when I extricated myself from the throng of excited children and teenagers among whom I had shared the thrills of St George slaying a scary fire-breathing animatronic dragon, Queen Guinevere's rescue from the clutches of the evil Maleagant, unfortunately not on this occasion played by the delightful Philomena, mortal combat between Sir Lancelot and the Black Knight, noble Sir Galahad rescuing a damsel in distress and a boat trip through the magic grotto into the sparkling court of King Arthur accompanied by a musical arrangement of lutes and lyres.

Still surrounded by noisy families I took the Knights of Camelot shuttle bus service into Glastonbury, depositing me near a large supermarket. The earlier sunshine had given way to wet blustery clouds. I huddled to withstand the drizzle and chilling breeze for the brisk five minute walk to the Ananda Guest House, a dwelling decorated in eastern style with statues of Buddha and scented with incense.

'The yurt is still available, if you prefer,' offered Adelena, the landlady.

'Well, I don't know.'

'Wonderful for connecting with the natural world outdoors, with ensuite open air shower.'

'Not sure how I feel about being outdoors.'

'It's wonderfully peaceful now overflying has been banned.'

The noise from low flying aircraft was not my primary concern. I was more deterred by the bracing chill when I took a shower. 'I think I'll stay indoors, if it's alright.'

'Have you plans this evening?' 

'Yes, I'm meeting someone.'

'Anything beforehand?'

'No, I've got a few hours to kill.'

'We offer alternative therapies. I can do reiki, crystals and chakra massage in the meditation room through here.' She beckoned to a conservatory extension laid with cushions, candles, smouldering incense sticks and a statue of Ganesh, a Hindu deity with an elephant's head on a human body with extra arms.

I shook my head. 'I think I'll just go for a walk in town.'

Having established my territory in my room with toiletries and spare clothing extracted from my rucksack I made my way out. I glanced at a copy of the Glastonbury Gazette laying on the hall table. The headline complained that north Somerset had the worst mobile phone reception in the UK with dead zones especially prevalent in the Mendips.

Opposite the guest house I was enticed over the threshold of the Mendip Grenadier by their promise of a wide range of local ciders and real ales. The pub was a workaday place geared for the needs of the working population without a hint of hippy or new age aesthetics. It was old and would have still felt familiar to someone returning after an interval of 30 or 40 years. The bare bricks and rough wood fittings were largely unchanged for a hundred years. Some chairs and tables would have been replaced in the interim, but their replacements were in the same simple style as their predecessors. The same could be said for the pub's patrons, different individuals hewn out of the same gene pool and West Country tradition. I propped myself on a barstool and ordered a foaming pint of Meadow Dew ale.

'You're not from round here, are you?' said the tough young man sat on the neighbouring stool in his broad West Country accent. Dressed in working clothes, blue jeans, check shirt and a denim jacket, he had a mop of longish unkempt curly blonde hair framing a confrontational expression on his broad face. His sturdy frame indicated a physically active profession and his assertive stance suggested he would not hesitate to deploy his muscular physique.

'No, I'm from London.' I felt a slight bristle of hostility, as if I represented a class of oppressive overlords.

'What brings you here then?'

I pondered. 'Girlfriend problems.'

'Ha! You're not the only one. What sort of problems?'

'She's run away, from London.'

'What did she run away from?'

'I wish I knew. Jacked in her job, too. Doesn't make sense.'

My companion eased closer on his stool, his air of suspicion ebbing. 'I've got problems with mine and all. She's got mixed up in hippy witchcraft stuff.'

I swung to face him. 'Really? Mine too. She's really into it, Wicca and all that.'

'Yeah, Wicca, that's what mine calls it too. Can't get my head around it.'

We were almost bosom buddies now. We introduced ourselves. He was Harry Mallet, working as a storeman at Mendip Constructions, a civil engineering contractor in Glastonbury.

'My girl, Ivy, these days she cares more about Wicca hocus-pocus than me. She's into chakras, ashrams and that.'

'Whatever they are. From what I've seen, there's a lot of that sort around here.'

'Too right. Too much of it altogether. She's got daft ideas too. Told me she should take charge of sex and that. Had to give her a good slapping to put her right.'

I paused. 'They get those ideas, I know.'

'What about your bird?'

'Mine is called Jenny. I had only just got to know her and then she's off, back here for some weird reason, spiritual empowerment or something. Got my boss to send me here for work, so I could catch up with her.'

'What work's that?"

'Investigation, finding things out, reporting things.'

'What, you mean, like a detective?"

'Sort of. I'm a journalist.'

'Look, empty glasses,' Harry observed. 'Fancy another?'

'No thanks, better be going,' I replied, draining my glass. It could easily have become a long session of mutual commiseration, but I was due to be seeing Jenny later.

Ambling into town it felt like passing a portal gradually transitioning from the normal world of earning, raising kids, pastimes like ten pin bowling, football and bingo, into an alternative lifestyle of legend, hippies and the supernatural. Interspersed among the artefacts of everyday life were cards in shop windows advertising talks by gurus, tarot readings and spiritual healing.

I passed a Georgian building, now a holistic health and educational temple dedicated to the supreme Goddess Gaia. According to a notice, a Mother Earth Temple where the incumbents lived and worshiped following the ideals of love, care and support for each other, Mother Earth and Her spirit the Goddess Gaia. What would that involve? Reiki, crystals and chakras I shouldn't wonder.

I was diverted by a commotion opposite, close to the entrance to Glastonbury Abbey, a loud confrontation between a fervent group of conventional well-groomed individuals and an assortment with unkempt hair clad in shabby chic outfits, mostly ragged, a mixture of brightly coloured patchwork and black adorned with pagan emblems, pentangles and phases of the moon. Smelling not only the hippies but a potential story for The Daily Trumpet, I moved in.

The shaggier group had placards proclaiming themselves Pagan Pride. A woman dominated their opponents, loudly decrying their desecration of a sacred place with the works of Satan. I had seen her before, Lady Ophelia Jardinair, leader of the Moral Multitude, a crusading organisation asserting Christian moral standards and what they referred to as common decency. She was accompanied by a tall, heavily built, serious clergyman, who, when he could get a word in, spoke in pontifical terms like a modern Jerimiah, warning of the calamitous dangers of the occult and invoking heathen deities.

Considering the conservative leanings of The Daily Trumpet's readership I focussed initially on the Moral Multitude's viewpoint. I caught the eye of a concerned middle-aged woman on the fringes. 'What is all the fuss about?" 

'It's these pagan people, they've got hold of my girl,' she replied in a broad West Country accent reminding me of cream teas in the countryside. 'Corrupted her, they did.'

'Oh dear,' I commiserated. 'What do you mean, corrupted?'

'Devil worship. Strange goings on. And I always brought her up to be a good Catholic.'

'I'm Simon, by the way.'

'Elsie Langport, pleased to meet you.'

'And your daughter, what's she called?'

'Ivy. Don't know what got into her, getting mixed up with this lot.'

'So, what just happened, to bring all this about?'

'That lot, they've been doing filthy things, jumping around with nothing on, over there in the Abbey. That's sacred ground, that is. Disgusting.'

'I can see it would be upsetting.'

'Well, I wasn't going to stand for it, I wasn't. So, I calls them Moral Multitude to put a stop to it.'

A policewoman pushed between the jostling groups.

'How dare you interfere with our worship,' proclaimed a corpulent woman clad in an expansive robe featuring a prominent pentangle emblem.

'The Abbey's management are within their rights to eject those they consider undesirable,' said the policewoman.

'Religious persecution, that's what it is,' shouted the large woman. 'They have Christian services all the time. But they don't allow Wicca. It's discrimination.' 

'This is a Christian site,' boomed Lady Ophelia Jardinair. 'We can't have this sacred place desecrated by Devil worship.'

'Leave it to me, madam, please,' said the policewoman. She turned back to the Wicca woman. 'You are free to conduct your religious ceremonies as you see fit, but you must do it elsewhere, somewhere it is allowed.'

'This has been a sacred site for thousands of years, long...