Here are some pieces from my book, Holine: A British Journey (Bulletins from the Wayside) Away Publications. Peter Please.

‘Everyone here may be cool on the surface but underneath there is a cry for help.’ These words were oxygen when I heard them in 1975 at a men’s meeting. Someone said that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t even know about the tunnel. Shyness, judging as bad our low places, were common threads as well as an acknowledgement of the basics ‘I’m confused, I’m lonely and I’m horny.’ Dick Maxwell, the veteran among us, had a soft voice which filtered out through his white beard; with his mass of white hair, he appeared a patriarch burdened by unknown things. I never knew him well but this story made us laugh. Once he had been working in the Nevada desert for a few months on an alternative architectural project. He returned to San Francisco with a huge beard, bigger than normal, and while walking down his home street some secretaries giggled as he passed. This bothered him. The next time he came back from the desert he shaved off his beard before arriving in San Francisco. He walked down his home street and saw the secretaries. Again, they giggled as he passed. (1976)

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An investigative reporter (and there were some who flocked to Findhorn in the early days in search of orgies and fairies) interviewed a frail, elderly lady in her caravan. He noticed the bottles of coloured water on the shelf, the rainbow woven textile on the wall, the small-framed affirmative sayings: ‘Trouvez votre plaisir’; écoutez’; ‘Life Is Only Real Then, When I AM’. Tentatively, he asked: ‘Don’t you think you might be a little…cracked?’ ‘Cracked?’ she answered straight away. ‘Of course, I am. It lets in the brightness.’ (1976)

SHE THINKS I’M REAL
I have not met many famous people but my collision with Dr E.F. Schumacher comes closest. I was brushing the lawn at Findhorn when I literally encountered a pair of shoes and standing in them was this distinguished man in a stetson. He asked for directions to the University Hall. This proves I have had my brushes with the famous. Dr Schumacher had razor thoughts: If you go to an African state and tell them what to do, your stay will be either permanently prolonged or drastically shortened. This story is typical of his poignant observation. He was sitting in an airport restaurant with a couple and their six-year-old daughter. The waitress wrote down the orders. ‘I’ll have kipper, toast and some salad,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll take poached egg, baked beans and French fries,’ said the man. Then the waitress looked at the daughter. She stammered: ‘I want beans and chips.’ The waitress wrote it down, disappeared and the girl whispered to her mother: ‘She thinks I’m real.’ (Findhorn Foundation, 1976)
(The next is a Scottish story, reminding me of the devic realm and Findhorn)

FORTINGALL
I came to this village in western Perthshire to see the ancient yew tree, reputed by botanical savants to be the oldest living vegetation in Europe. I came with a glowing feeling of expectation as if (and I was) bowing to the earth at this special place. A red squirrel – the first I had ever seen – bounded along the parapet of the bridge murmuring under its breath with indignation and leaped onto the ubiquitous sycamore. Almost at once I sensed that I was in a place that had been loved for a very long time – for what other word can convey that steadiness, fullness and harmony between the river, mountain crags and pines; the cottages and farms appeared rooted to that spacious glen. The remnants of the yew are enclosed by a stone wall and iron railings next to the church. The antiquary Pennant measured their girth at 56 feet in the 18th century. I sat beneath the tree but could not settle. The brooding intensity of that place, the funereal ivy and the voices of other visitors catapulted me back over the railings. Then I noticed that the enclosure was also a graveyard of the Stewarts of Garth, clan chiefs of old. The head-piece of a Celtic cross peered over the top of a neighbouring wall. I liked that association but I could not say why. Inside the church (and the wave of mustiness) I discovered the 7th century hand-bell, with lustred and hoof-horned tones, and I easily imagined St. Ced, the founder, standing in his woollen robe by the yew (and it was ancient then) and ringing the Christian message of hope in this tree-singing glen. The building of his church next to the yew would have been an act of respect, for did not those old Irish Scots crown the kings, accept fealty from their lords under such trees? How else could a tree, reputed to be 5,000 years old, have survived?

I cycled down the rocky gates of Glen Lyon along the quiet mountain road to the Bridge of Balgie. The young leaves of the broad-leaved trees shimmered on the shoulders of the mountain. The youthful waters of Glen Lyon charged down the gorge. I cycled on air. It all made sense; the aligned megalithic stones in the fields, why the Celtic missionaries chose Fortingall to worship God, as others had done for thousands of years before them, and spanning this time a single old tree. They responded (I responded) to what our senses showed us: the landscape temple of Glen Lyon. I mused on this until I saw in the distance two figures sitting on a wall. They had their backs to the gorge. Both were women. I looked for the car or bicycles and didn’t see them. I wondered who they were so far along a remote road. Then I saw they were completely dressed in white, and strangest of all, wore white crocheted hats tapering to a point. I waved as I passed. Neither moved or acknowledged me. They continued smiling. One appeared very beautiful, younger than the other. Both touched me with their tranquillity. I had the impression they were listening to the water.

They were not there when I returned ten minutes later. No car had passed me. I could not imagine them walking down into that gorge or up into the mountains. Neither did I pass them on that road back to the village. The doubt came that night when I closed my eyes. Perhaps, it said, I had looked into the eyes of angels and they had smiled back at me. (Fortingall, May 27, 1995)

© Peter Alfred Please