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Page 2
Inland, on the empty moors, there is tranquility and peace. The high stone hedgerows of the picturesque narrow lanes are bedecked in their summer glory of pink campion, buttercup, blackberry and fern, and are free of cars. They wind their way to small sleepy hamlets like St. Kew - granite cottages roofed in the local Delabole slate, and to ancient towns dominated by medieval churches with embattled, square-towered belfries. Campanology, the ancient art of bellringing, is alive and well here, as is the social activity in the local pub after the pealing!.
You are in North Cornwall; a land of narrow valleys filled with oak and rhododendron, where babbling leats of crystal water run off granite moorland hills. (Photo, Bodmin Moor Cheesewring: Phil Aston) This is an enchanted land. Timeless stone Circles, Dolmens and Quoits, stand stark against an Atlantic-blue summer sky, sacred memories of Ancient Ways. Rugged wayside Celtic Crosses bear weathered granite witness to a new Faith that blossomed here 1500 years ago with the coming of Petroc and Samson, Welsh missionaries of the early saintly Celtic Church. They say that the heroic King Arthur, whose memory spawned a thousand legends, was born here. Tintagel, his legendary castle, stands here on a windswept clifftop overlooking the Atlantic waves which thunder into Merlin's Cave on the strand below. A silent ruin, it gathers mystery, as ravens circle its fallen ramparts.
Perhaps it was here that Arthur fought his last battle - at Slaughterbridge by the River Camel. It was to Dozmary Pool, bottomless lake, on Bodmin Moor that Excalibur, his magickal sword, was returned to the Lady of the Lake. Here was the Camelotimmortalised by Alfred, Lord Tennyson in his Arthurian poetry. The ancient Arthurian saga has inspired modern Cornish poets such as the late Arthur Madams of Bodmin to bardic verse.
You have entered a land of Celtic magick, miracles and mystery. The music lingers, recreated in haunting melody, and song.
The Knights Templar, ill-starred medieval Chivalric Order of Hospitalers, once maintained a Sanctuary for wayfarers crossing the then all but trackless and inhospitable Bodmin Moor. They were harried, tortured, and suppressed throughout continental Europe in 1312 AD. on trumped up charges of satanistic practices. Their Mission Chapel is deserted, a nesting place for blackbirds and sparrows. But it is a peaceful Sanctuary still for today's wayfarer who stumbles upon Temple, the tiny moorland hamlet that grew up around the Knights' Hospice.
The copyright of the article The '99 Solar Eclipse - A Cornish Experience - Page 2 in Royal Britain is owned by . Permission to republish The '99 Solar Eclipse - A Cornish Experience - Page 2 in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
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