Writings

I am on a coach with other students from Oxford traveling on a four-day field excursion along the so-called Roman Road into Wales. The trip is focused on environmental studies, but we will also be exploring medieval ruins and the Arthurian Tradition. My mind wanders from the open book on my lap about the history of King Arthur to the window and the scenery that rolls past the English countryside. In my imagination, the coach becomes my stead and I am sitting behind the most handsome man wearing shining armor. Although I am dressed in an Oxford sweat shirt, denims and ‘new age’ tennis shoe sandals, my Knight is oblivious to my dress. Farmland and sheep disappear from the picture and we gallop along the ridges of the hills that border a valley where the landscape forges into a flat stony path.

Dr Addison’s voice explodes on the loud speaker, interrupts my train of thought, jerks me back into reality. “For those of you medievalists who are awake, remember you are required to keep a field notebook and complete an essay paper for this trip.” I guess I better take notes and grab my new journal and silver pen from my backpack.

The coach makes its first stop in the middle of the narrow highway. Traffic whizzes by us as we dodge vehicles and scramble to the other side. This place is a National Trust site, hidden beyond trees and down a ravine where large gray boulders were embedded in the soil. Addison explains that the formations are called gray weathers because they look like sheep sleeping, and can fool someone who may have been drinking and is looking for warmth and a place to sleep. He speaks in a dry humorous tone then explains that the flat-topped hills which bordered the roadway are really called downs and the bottom of the hills are ups. British humor is over my American head.

We stand in a drizzling rain, umbrellas held high and listen to a long discourse on the geology of the area. Dr. Addison is speaking Greek, I think. “The interglacial amelioration halted and began to deteriorate, initiating an oligocratic phase. The site is one of the largest and most important Neolithic areas in Europe as well as one of the first permanently settled human landscapes.” I understood the second part but amelioration and oligocratic were over my head. I wish I had brought my Oxford dictionary along with the medieval and Arthurian books that I expected to read on this trip for another research paper on accessing the historical evidence for King Arthur. The sun peaks through gray clouds and we finally return to the bus. Addison reminds the group that the road we are traveling dates to prehistoric times and is the same road the Romans forged their way upon to build the British Roman Empire. Now this excites me. Arthur was a Roman nobleman and I was ready to see more of his past domain.

The Avebury District is our next stop and along the way we occasionally see a smaller hill, which is shaped like a giant football. Addison explains that these are not hills but Bronze Age burial mounds or hill forts from the Iron Age. This landscape remains constant then suddenly turns into modern day architecture spread amid old ruins with tall stones jutting towards the sky. Avebury is a 4000-year-old site and one of the largest stone henges in Britain. The boulders are prehistoric monuments formed from sarsen stone and vary in size from small unusually shaped knee-high rocks to giant boulders weighing over 60 tons.

The students form dyads along with other larger groups, but I take off to follow another winding path up steep hills. Avebury is a mystical and magical place. I move from towering stone to boulders and am mesmerized at the heat that seems to generate from each one. The last stone is most unusual, human like and stands in front of thick woods.

As I reach the edge of a forest, the clouds burst open and heavy rain starts to pour. A path appears before me and I enter the woods beneath the shelter of cover. My watch says 12:30 and I need to be back on the bus in fifteen minutes. I hear thunder and a riderless horse gallops through the trees and comes to a halt in front of me.

The horse looks mean, snorts then shakes his head. I ruffle through the contents of my backpack, laying half its weight, a book called “The Legend of King Arthur” on the ground and bring out an apple. The horse nudges my hand, snorts greedily again and takes my offering. To my amazement, he sets the apple down and begins to push the book while stomping his legs. A rustle in a nearby clump of trees startles us both. A loud voice echoes behind me, “Llamrei, heed me my trustworthy steed.”

“Heed me?” What? Who are you? Where did you come from?” I stuttered, looking towards the voice and sound of clinking metal.

“I might ask the same of you my fair maiden.” The voice grows closer. A silver form appears from behind the trees.

“First of all, I am married, and I am certainly not a maiden.” I trip on a log and stumble to the ground as the clinking came to a crescendo. Strong arms grab my waist.

“Arthur, King of Britain at your service, my Lady.”

“Right and I’m Obama, King of the USA,” I mutter beneath my breath.

“We have no time to waste with trivialities,” said Arthur. “Merlin has summoned me to guide you through the forest of no return and back to your chariot and the land of scholars. Hurry!”
Arthur’s voice was insistent. He jumped upon the horse’s back and pulled me in his firm grasp upward behind him. I quickly grabbed my Oxford backpack and slung it around my shoulders.

“Nice to meet you Art. You can call me Bev. I am a Yankee who lives in North Carolina, which is sort of like being a democrat in a republican country. Or, visa versa.”

“I understand.” Arthur replied. “We had a Yankee from Connecticut here a thousand years ago. He created quite a stir. I hope you will not do the same.”

Hmm, did he know about the fire alarm I set off in the dorm at 1 in the morning? “Not to change the subject, Art, but which way are we going?”

“Along the Roman Road to Wales to find your chariot that drives without hooves.”

We flew over hills and dales, through forests and valleys. Hours passed. Arthur told me of a similar trip he took during his reign as Britain’s King during the 5th and 6th Century. Back then, there was no dividing line that separated England, Scotland, and Wales. I was getting tired of sitting and chagrined at the thought that I would be the one that St Peter’s College would forever remember as the student who got lost. I wanted to make my mark at Oxford; however, in a more intellectual way. I thought of the paper that I needed to write on the historical evidence for King Arthur. What better way to obtain the information than from the horse’s mouth so to speak. Llamrei raised his head and neighed in agreement with me. Wow . . . Dr Addison is going to be impressed.

Arthur reminded me that although he was considered a Roman nobleman and a Christian, his heritage belonged to the Celtic people and is where his loyalty remained. I wondered if it was true that Uther Pendragon was his real father and if Merlin had indeed raised him as a child. We were coming through a tree-lined valley to a clearing. Arthur halted Llamrei saying, “We are at Tintern Abbey, those who wear clothes like you will soon be arriving.”

I knew that Tintern Abby was a Benedictine Monastery built in 1131 on land given to the Cistercian Monks by the Lord of Chepstow. I expected to see a massive ruin of a monastery. Instead, I saw a magnificent stone structure, an enormous cathedral and thick fortress surrounding the castle. The place was teaming with men in hooded black cloaks.

“Umm, Arthur, we, umm, don’t belong here. This place is supposed to be a ruin now and the Monks have been long gone.” Obviously, they weren’t gone, but coming towards us and not looking to keen about having us there.

“Oh, yes, my mistake or Merlin’s,” Arthur sounded confused. “His spell must have gone wrong. What say we ask the Monks for some refreshments? I thought this land along the River Wye would be the perfect place for growing the grapes that I brought from Rome. Maybe they finally took root.”

“Hey, you in the hood,” I yelled louder than I should have, then smiled sweetly. “Do you have anything to eat or drink?”

An arm appeared from beneath a robe and pointed in the direction of a nearby stone building. Arthur jumped off Llamrei and in a blink of an eye, returned with two funny shaped vessels. Back in position in front of me, he pulled the reigns and off we went to Caerwent, a Roman town where he knew of some people who might be able to supply us with food. By now, I was starved. I had given my last tomato sandwich to Llamrei because the horse kept turning his head to nibble at my toes popping from my tennis sandals.

The air became thick with moisture and the smell of sea. We were on the coastal route. Salt marshes and estuaries spread in front and to the side of us, yet Arthur and his steed took us over and above them with the ease of a small glider airplane. He pointed to magnificent birds and other strange fowl.

“Hey, Art, did you ever consider using that sword of yours to get us some food?”

“You mean use Excalibur to kill those birds?”

“Why not, Excalibur can do anything because the sword a legend in my time at least.” I didn’t like the scowl he gave me.

“If we destroy the wildlife who feed here, we will destroy our ability to save the land from destroying itself. This land aids us in defending ourselves from the enemy. Once there were houses built of wood here and cattle roamed the land. Many people came here to live and the land was overused. I think your Dr Addison has spoken to you about conservation and preservation, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, but how do you know such things?”

“I am the once and future King. I know everything. While I have been called upon to help and protect you and safely deliver you to those who wear clothes like you, I have also been called back to help and protect Britain and wage war against those who wish to destroy its environment.”

Oh, he did notice my clothes. On the other hand, I was actually beginning to enjoy being a damsel in distress. I decided to call him Arthur and not Art. Not only was he a Knight, he was a King after all.

Arthur veered down another road and we were now in the middle of contrasting civilizations where newer century homes stood next to an ancient Roman market. Again, I had a feeling of being caught in a warped time zone. I saw remnants of a stone fortress while the market was swarming with vendors literally grabbing Arthur and throwing their wares in his face. On the other side of the road, cars zoomed and kids dressed in clothing like mine played with dogs and cats. Down the highway was an ancient stone wall ruin that stretched for miles. A car pulled into a drive and people got out talking excitedly to each other. I waved but they didn’t notice me. Nor, did the men in striped robes who held several baskets laden with fruits and cheeses and were conversing with Arthur.

“Hey, can anybody hear me?” Arthur turned, gave me the ‘be quiet look,’ placed his hand on my shoulder and urged me to walk several steps ahead of him.

“Hurry. Keep moving fast, don’t say a word and when I say jump, jump.”

I did, and the next thing I knew we were on Llamrei’s back and flying through the sky again.
Another Castle loomed in the distance.

Arthur began to sing a song. “Oh, I once knew a lass from Caerffili, who . . . .”

“Spare me please.” I choked. Dr Addison was fond of limericks. “How do you know about Caerffili Castle?”

“I was there soon after the Romans used it as an earth made fort to defend Britain against some heathens. There was not much left a thousand years later but I watched as it was being rebuilt before the first Welsh War of independence against the British Crown. It was I, who designed the Ballista and Trebuchet. I remembered the story of David and Goliath and the idea came to me for a bigger sling shot that would throw larger stones.” Arthur sighed deeply. “As time goes by, I am almost sorry that I encouraged their use.”

There was sadness in his voice but I had to ask. “Why is that Arthur?”

“My legacy was to unite Britain, not to separate her.”

I understood because this reminded me of the wars that Arthur fought and all the wars that occurred before my lifetime and are now occurring in my modern day era.

Darkness was settling in. Arthur pulled the wooden stopper from one of the vessels that the monks had given us and handed it to me.

“Drink.” he said. “This will settle you.”

We traveled further into the Cambrian Mountains and the Elan Valley, past derelict zinc mines that had been mined continuously from the prehistoric era and into the Industrial era of the future. The environment had changed dramatically, and the coastal line was eroding. Estuaries disappeared, as did the fish, fowl, and animals that once frequented the land.
A cold chill settled in the air. “Where are we now Arthur?”

“Snowdonia.” His voice was gruff.

“I’m sorry Arthur.” I had just finished the story on King Arthur’s demise and the battle between the white and the red dragon. I knew we couldn’t be too far away from Glastonbury, and the place for Arthur’s last voyage, Avalon. “Remember you are the once and future King. The world had never let you die, but boy, you should read some of the stories that have been written about you. Why even today, there are major courses in schools and universities on the Arthurian Tradition, which revolve around you! ” I open my backpack and showed Arthur my books. “Look, here’s a picture of you and your Knights of the Round Table with the Holy Grail at your castle called Camelot!”

“Camelot? A Round Table? There was no round table but there were Knights and nay, I did not die at Camelot. Nor was I buried at Glastonbury. The monks just wanted to rebuild their Abbey after the fire. The story of the Grail is true. Before my time the boy Jesus visited Glastonbury with his uncle Joseph of Arimathea, who returned many years later with a golden vessel and built a church where the Glastonbury Abbey now stands.”

“So where did you die and where are you buried?” I was dying to hear is answer.

“You ask too many questions.” Arthur handed me the last vessel of wine. Llamrei seemed to snort fire then stood on his back legs and we were off and running. Hours later we paused briefly at Castle Caernarfon. The castle was built in 1283 by the Welsh. Near Caernarfon, we stopped to see the early Roman Fort of Segontium. The wine caught hold on my mind. I clung to Arthur’s armor and fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamt of dragons and castles, of Knights in shining armor and feisty maidens who refused to obey orders. Instead, they dressed in men’s clothing, carried slings, arrows, and even swords. Their aim was far greater than the men and the women hit their mark to fell both man and beast. My dream changed again. I was holding a sword and wished it would turn into a pen. I knew I had to weld mighty words in essay form to justify an A in Dr Addison’s course. Maybe he will believe my story why I was late and lost.

“Bev, Bev, wake up you’re snoring.” Someone was shaking my shoulders and calling my name. My mind was foggy from the wine. I heard Dr Addison’s voice from a distant tunnel. He was talking about the regeneration of Telford and a dovetailed Iron Bridge built in 1789.

“Where am I? Telford? Back in Pennsylvania and my home town of Telford?” No it couldn’t be. We were passing a shopping mall and modern day houses, larger and more elegant than in my Telford. Besides, my Telford was a tiny land-locked town in America and the only iron was a gate around the cemetery.

“Wait, what happened to Llamrei? Where’s Arthur?” I sat up, dropped my backpack and books spilled on to the floor. I was fully awake, back on the coach and sitting on a hard cushioned seat looking out a tinted glass window.

Dr Addison is moving down the aisle and looking directly at me. He bent down, picked up a silver object and handed it to me. “Is that a sword?”

“Thanks,” I say and feel electricity as I grasp metal with my hand. “No, it’s not a sword, it’s a pen.”

Bev Hamel is a recovered corporate executive and now owns and operates an antique shop in the tiny Historic and National Landmark town of Bethania, North Carolina. She is a freelance writer and has published short stories, creative nonfiction, essays, poetry, local newspaper articles and was editor for an area women’s magazine. Bev has just completed her MFA at Goddard College and her first fiction novel Daughter of the Seven Fires and is busily working on 2nd, 3rd, and 4th

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