![]() ![]() Winnats Pass, with its creviced gorge, dramatically descends into the Hope Valley, a sacred heart of the Peak District, with its rolling shires and heather-filled moors. On the hill a ruined castle stands, once given to the forbidden son of a long-ago King, and now slowly unwinding its sentry over the village of Castleton, passing it back to the Spirit of the Land, and the Ancestors. The cool summer night is throbbing with energy and memories, the stars spelling out secrets like braille in the sky. I am returned to my Ancestral homelands in the north of England, and an energy is uncoiling in the DNA of soil and bone and soul and home, reminding me how the winding path of our life is always rooted in its beginnings, where treasures lie. I can almost believe I slipped through a fissure in the dimension of existence and am back someplace so old time is not yet invented. ![]() ![]() The 350 million year old mountains surround us, silhouetted in the dark, like the mammoth spines of mythical dragons, resting in the flesh of the landscape. The night is velvet-dark like treacle, as if the black sky is pouring a magical substance into the world and rooting it back to the earth after dusk sets. ![]()
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