The Brothers of Glastonbury

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It had been a good summer, with protracted spells of fine weather interspersing the colder, cloudier days of wind and rain. I had peddled my wares along the south coast of England as far as the town of Chichester before finally turning my feet towards home, making my way first to Winchester and then across the great wilderness north of Old Sarum, where I’d found a warm welcome in the isolated hamlets and villages that fringe that great and barren waste. By the time I was within two days’ travelling distance of Bristol I was able to look back with ever deepening pleasure on the sights and sounds of those recent months.

I recalled warm nights, sleeping in the open under the stars, or sheltering with fellow wayfarers in the muffled darkness of some barn, exchanging views on the varied subjects of creation while small, nocturnal animals rustled beside us in the sweet-smelling straw, busy and unafraid. I remembered the chirruping of birds at dawn and the white mist rising knee-high across the meadows, the first bright rays of sunlight piercing it with broken shards of gold. I thought of evening shadows splashed across cottage walls and the pearled-grey shimmer of waterfalls and streams.

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