Another time at St. Dogmael’s Abbey

‘Twas a bit damp on Monday, 13th December, when I pulled the green chariot up in the car park beside the ruins of St. Dogmael’s Abbey.

Me and Ffraed had made a date for today, for now… so there was no turning back. I’d just have to get wet. I hopped out of the car, the rain stopped and stayed like that, but for a drop or two, not much.

Great start. Thank you!

Wow! she’s coming good. Amazing. She’s expanding on the green, and encompassing more than ever, yet defining more acutely too, within the ventricles of this sacred place.

I follow Her Way all around the same parts of the abbey and churchyard She has always taken me through…and no more, yet…perhaps (and probably) never to stray from Her eternal sacred dais.

The grass at the entrance and in the cloister is long enough, and wet enough, to show my footsteps following Her route and patterns. I wonder what they look like from the houses on the hill?

All through the abbey, including the cloister, She has woven so many patterns during Her healing: twirls and whirls, waves and weaves, zig zags, loops, leaves, crosses, petals, four, 5, 6, 7, 9, a chalice, and other shapes, many too complicated to decipher on the ground.

I’ve come to learn, She does this. All part of Her healing process, caressing where and what She needs to. She dances, becomes one with Her song… Back together again, the Song of Ffraed.

She re-members now the sacred Way, the divines of old once taught Her, and reverently trod together through this wickedly despoiled blessed place. Where She once perfectly glided, lifting spirits in vibrations higher than any human can hear… but heaven can.

She leads me into the cloister, to a spot…and She begins to whirl, faster, faster, yet I’m standing still. It’s everything else that is moving. Faster…the blur becomes buildings, from another time…long ago. Glorious towering walls,  clean stone, huge doors, smaller ones, openings, stairs, windows, great windows! Pots and flowers. There’s sunshine, a breeze. Drapes…or is it banners, material of some sort anyway, wafting in the doorways and windows, atop walls. Light grey shapes move about, quickly, like ghosts in robes…but they’re not. They are people, they are alive, just in another time. Like a merry-go-round does, the scene gradually slows. The grey shapes vanish, and there’s a man. Tall, thin, dark-haired, straight, sharp faced. A short moustache and close beard. He’s not near enough for me to be sure. Yes, he has. He wore a black robe, a white cape…or was it a white robe and black cape? (Oh gawd! I wish I had written it down. Maybe I have. Will have to look.) He’s looking straight at me.

…and I’m back.

The green grass of the cloister where the I went back in time.

One day, when I’ve seen Ffraed healed at the significant places, I’m hoping She will agree to me tracing Her patterning at these same sites, early Christian pre-Norman ecclesiastic foundations, clas etc, and prehistoric.  It intrigues me.

18th January 2022

Glen Johnson’s History of St. Dogmael’s Abbey

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