I knew Peter Caddy, the co-founder of Findhorn, as a tall, restless figure often seen walking at speed along the warren of pathways in the caravan park. I usually avoided him. I never knew what to say. One day, he stopped in front of me as I was cutting the edge of a lawn and carefully avoiding a daisy head. He shook his head sadly. ‘This is sentimental. A lawn is a lawn and the daisies on it are weeds. It’s no use taking the others out and leaving one or two in. They should all be taken out.’ This is an attitude that has spoilt many gardens, he said. He knew a woman in Inverness who lived many previous lives as a deva and was now experiencing life as a human. ‘She hates to cut anything growing in her garden. The beech hedge is 80ft high. Can you imagine that? The roses have never been pruned. They look spindly and miserable. The carrots are no bigger than her little finger. She can’t bear to thin them.’ In the end ROC, the intermediary with Pan, had to clarify the situation. Then Peter strode off.

Two weeks later I was collecting the feathers of another small bird hijacked at the pond by a cat when the gravel crunched to a standstill. Peter stood before me. ‘There are too many cats in this community,’ he said straightaway. ‘We put out so much love all the strays come here from as far as Forres.’ He said that he was prepared to tolerate three cats but no more. How were they going to be reduced? ‘There has been some work on the inner but action is also needed on the form level.’ His blue eyes searched mine. Summoning my courage I said that I would catch the strays and take them away in a car. He digested that and strode away to another core meeting.

A week later, while scarifying the lawn, the grass squeaked and Peter appeared. He spoke cheerfully: ‘This cat deva knows his business. As soon as he heard of your plan the cats vanished.’ Then he spoke softly: ‘In our two conversations I have observed a curious thing. On one hand the extreme of taking a lawn mower around a daisy and yet you talk of murdering cats.’ He shook his head sadly. He strode away, and I don’t think I ever spoke to him again.

Peter Please