The routes that weave in and out of my roots,
through wood and down dene, know of hop and beating the wassail – a
man leading a wild procession with antlers on his head, all set to
sing to the apple trees, to conjure forth fruit for the cider strong
enough to bend the legs of the hardest man. A green man smiles forth
from the ceiling of the church where sheela-na-gig exposes herself
for all to see and Christ hangs on a fruiting bough, full in green
leaf and growing yet.
Doubt not the pagan depths from which all this is
sprung.
It is no accident that the Jesse Tree is close by
at the mouth of the Gavenny, or that yew and thorn are to be found in
every church yard. Each spring is formed into a well that bears the
name of some saint or other, but was holy long before the first saint
trod the earth, it healing spirit known and loved. The very word holy
itself sprung from the words for a well, the hole from which the
waters flow.
“Ah”, says the priest, “we baptise you with
water”. “We always have”, the pagan says.
“He died upon the tree” the priest says. “Just
as he always did” the pagan says “to give us fertility, see”.
“He rose again” the priest says. “Just as he
always has”, the pagan replies “in fruit and ear of corn”.
“He is our one true God” the priest says. “As
you will” the pagan says, “but we will leave an offering at her
feet none-the-less. And turn the coin in our our pocket on the full
moon, and touch wood for luck when we need”.
“Our pews are empty and the church doors locked”
says the priest. “But we still cast a coin in a well for luck”
says the pagan “and leave flowers by the wayside for the fallen”.
