For four days and nights in July this year, I was lucky enough to be one of the sixty participants on the School of Myth summer school programme, at a manor house, on the edge of Dartmoor. We listened to Dr Martin Shaw, tell us ancient Celtic myths, Arthurian stories, and folk tales from Siberia, for hour after hour, and day into eve.
Sometimes, the stories were accompanied by the smell of an open burning fire, and sage. Sometimes, the sound of drums walked the stories in.
When was the last time someone told you a story?
When was the last time you gave your full, undivided attention to a storyteller?
Martin would start each story in the same way, by asking us, “shall we go?” We would answer him, “let’s go!”
For a second time he asked us, “shall we go?”
And again, we shouted back, “let’s go!”
Finally, when he asked us a third time, “shall we go?” glee and laughter filled the room, as we cried back loudly, “LET’S GO!”
Martin then took us gently back to kingdoms far away and long ago, and into deep, dark forests and sacred rivers, and to a lake that three large cows walked out of.
It was magnificent.
I arrived at the manor, with my pre-conceived modern ideas that this workshop or retreat would have an agenda, and name tags and a welcome folder with all the necessary handouts. In preparation for the week, I had re-read The Hound of the Baskervilles, because it was set on Dartmoor, and I thought it would get me into the mood.
Oh blessed, sweet, gentle child. I was in the wrong century. I did not need those things. I would need to go further back.
What I needed to do, was listen carefully.
What I needed to do, was hear the stories with an open heart and kindness.
What I needed to do, was be still and leave distractions at the train station at Newton Abbott. What I needed to do, was walk down to the ancient stone bridge, turn right at the fairy forest, walk past the Alpacas and take a long relaxing swim in the lake, under the silver-grey clouds, in the grounds of the manor.
The other participants were storytellers: writers, actors, dancers, teachers, yogis, grief counsellors, psychotherapists, NGO workers, preachers, a hypnotist and a shaman. We were all on the edge of Dartmoor, looking for magic.
On the last night, we watched a performance of a few scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream outdoors, and then we huddled around the bonfire. Some people wore flowers in their hair, and there was music. The staff of The School of Myth were kind, and thoughtful, and prepared our feasts, and took care of us.
I’m not sure why I went, but I’m happy I did, because it changed my life.
I’m not sure how, or even if the changes will be visible from the outside, but something has shifted my heart. A tiny piece of me has altered indefinitely, and I will never be the same.
Since my return from the moors, I’ve been swimming in Martin’s back catalogue of work: his Jawbone YouTube channel, and his books.
I thoroughly enjoyed “Smoke Hole: Looking to the Wild in the Time of the Spyglass” and “Red Bead Woman: Consequence and Longing in the Myth World”. I’ll need to re-read both books many times if I want to ponder them carefully and reflect wisely. I’ll need to read his other work, and see him when he comes to Dublin in October, and hopefully go back to summer school, next year. I’ll stay in touch with some of my new friends, and I’ll learn more.
Once in a while, this life offers up beauty, joy and safety in ways we couldn’t have planned for, or imagined. When it does, it’s our duty to note the extraordinariness, bow our heads, and gratefully say, “let’s go”.
Shorter than me 