... Setting off right after breakfast, I headed for Gloucestershire, through Moreton-on-Marsh, where I bought a white, heavy, cotton-knit pullover for ten pounds at the open market. Reaching the little village of Avening by early afternoon, I inquired for the "Tingle Stone" in a little variety store. The proprietor wasn't acquainted with it - but his wife, with whom he consulted by phone - was. It was about four miles away, in a field quite close to the road.

 

The Tingle Stone was a fine, beautiful, eight-foot (or so) stone of tremendous presence. I dowsed the "rings" with my little pendulum - meaning the concentrations of earth energy which manifest in rings about every two feet or so from the ground up which is characteristic of such monoliths, as described by "archaeological" dowsers like Tom Graves (Needles of Stone). I located the third ring above ground, which was at about shoulder height, as he recommends, rested both hands on it, leaning forward with my feet planted apart about two feet from the base, closed my eyes and just let the stone's "presence" register with me. This procedure is suggested by Graves as the best way to experience the "tingle" for which this stone is named, as well as the power of the energy field it manifests.

 

Quite soon I felt a pricking in the thick of my left thumb, a distinct "stick" like a mild electrical shock. I thought, oh, come on now, this must be your own suggestibility. Again - again - again. My, I must be suggestible indeed! It kept happening. At the same time, now, I felt myself drifting more and more to the left, which felt dizzying, like floating in space - "swimmy." Oops! I opened my eyes - and immediately regained my sense of balance. OK. Still not sure whether or not this had actually occurred or whether I had suggested it to myself, I closed my eyes again. The same things happened all over again. Again, the "stick" in my left thumb, again I felt myself drifting dizzyingly to the left. It felt strange - but above all, I felt a surge of personal warmth and love coming from the old stone. The whole thing felt like a kind of communication from it to me! I lingered for a few minutes to give back some of the love I felt I had received, then walked back across the road to where my car was parked, feeling both awed and confirmed. The energy seemed to follow me like a faint farewell.

 

Still warmed by the great stone's presence, I drove off in my car, and lo, the "stick" repeated itself several more times over the next few minutes, as though the stone were telling me we were still connected! It was a lovely experience.

I have been back to visit this benevolent guardian of earth's aliveness several times, and have never failed to be deeply moved by the reception I receive each time! On my last visit, I wrote a poem about the experience:

ENGLAND, 1995

 

Fluorescent yellow fields of rape aflame with outrageous beauty

poison the English countryside;

A pall of thick brown molasses hangs over London;

more subtly over other places;

Motorways free their drivers' sharp competitive

urges to be first in the pack - even mine!

 

No one seems to see the delicate beauty of Britain's

newest immigrants: the soft, brown eyes searching for recognition;

 

"The center cannot hold," said Yeats. It seems true.

And yet ... and yet ...

 

In Harrington Gardens, near the Gloucester Road tube stop,

Bosnian John's funky St. Simeon Hotel cordially welcomes me home

to a tall, skinny four-bed room I can still afford;

John's watery tea warms my early morning stomach.

 

English hospitality in countless places still extends the

warm open arms that keep alive my grateful promise to return;

 

The Tingle Stone, ancient Gloucestershire rebirther,

still responds to my joyous touch as I lean, blissful,

against its gnarled, sunlit side;

 

The magic of the Tor still lives on in its dark and water-loud hillside caves,

inhabited now by shaggy young soothsayers,

And on its top, supports a timeless ten-foot beacon

lit now by one of the country folk, at sunset's ending,

Flaming out over the dark valley below,

to the sound of our clapping, on the night of VE Day --

 

Oxford and Cambridge Universities still work their special

early morning magic amid their dreaming spires;

 

Perhaps, after all, it might be true that

there'll always be an England.

I do hope so.

 

It may even be that the Countenance Divine

Never did shine forth upon those clouded hills,

Despite Blake's fervent hopes and poetic eloquence;

... but something of that shining holiness still lives on

among her daily folk.

 

May, 1995.................................................................

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