Sarah takes a reflective look back on her beach adventures last month…

Usually in Cornwall, February is the month of storms. Just when the steely, harshness of January begins to soften, the snowdrops emerge and the days begin to lengthen again. It’s then, that one begins to fool oneself into thinking that spring is close within reach and that’s precisely when the storms strike. Last February we had a bout of snow storms which was most unusual for Cornwall, in particular the western peninsula where I live and where we enjoy a microclimate which keeps the temperatures mild.

The storms blow in all sorts of detritus off the seas, dredge up all manner of things from the seabeds and the beaches become a veritable treat for the beach combers of the south coast. The usual finds; sea glass, pottery and various shells are easily found on many of the Cornish beaches all year round but the storms churn up the sand and reveal fresh and exciting finds that may have been overlooked before. Once, I even happened across a stray buoy from a boat which I took home, you’ll find many tiny fishing cottages in rural west Cornwall that have decorated their gardens with buoys washed up in coves.

Sea glass (also colloquially known as drift glass) takes on average 20-40 years to become enough withered by the waves that it gains its smooth, frosted characteristics. It can even take as long as 100 years so it’s exciting to think that when you find a smooth, aquamarine blue piece, you’re holding something between your fingers that perhaps once belonged to a victorian gin bottle or may have even washed up on the shore, a broken relic from a ship wrecked  hundreds of years ago.

In west Cornwall, you’ll have to get up early, beat the dog walkers and mind the tides to have your best chance at finding some beautiful pieces of sea glass however if you travel out to our nearby archipelago, the Scilly isles, there’s practically no sport in finding it as you’ll be tripping over the biggest, chunkiest turquoise pieces you ever did see.

What’s more exciting though, far more exciting than withered and worn Victorian glass, is when the storms blow in some curious creatures from the high seas. Hydrozoa such as ‘By the Wind Sailors’ are a frequent visitor of the Cornish coasts in February and March. With their space-like dreamy blue colour and little shiny clear sails they’re almost alien looking and quite magical. They live and drift on the surface of the ocean, feeding on the plankton but the strong wintery onshore winds blow them up onto the beaches. Although they’re a very pretty decoration and exciting find on the Cornish beaches,  it’s a great shame as many dry out and don’t survive if they get blown up too far for the tide to rescue them. Last year, with the storms, we also witnessed a glut of Portuguese man-o-war on our beaches. Although beautiful, they are an incredibly dangerous jellyfish and have been affectionately nicknamed ‘neon death pasties’ by some of the locals here.

If you’re beachcombing at a spot where the river mouth meets the ocean, you may also find some beautiful Oyster shells washed up. Oyster shells are one of my favourite shells to pick up and on one of our recent visits to Looe last weekend, we did manage to pick up a few of them.

One of the most interesting recent beachcombing finds that I’ve heard of recently was that of my friend Mariette. Down on the Lizard peninsula she happened across an unassuming lump of smelly, greasy ‘something’ which she brought home and turned out to be Ambergris. You’ve got no idea what Ambergris is? Good, because I didn’t either. Ambergris is formed in the digestive system of sperm whales and is extremely valuable and coveted by perfumers. It’s sort of ‘whale vomit’ in crude terms and if you’re a beachcomber that comes across Ambergris, you’ve struck gold. Mariette is already planning her holiday with her unexpected windfall. The takeaway from all of this is that you should forget rare pieces of shipwrecked lego or lost pirate coins, the real beach treasure to be searched for is whale barf.

When you can bear to take your gaze away from the swirling swell and churning sea foam, look down: The winter beaches suddenly become an exciting bazaar of fascinating detritus and glistening, quirky, natural treasures to take home and decorate the windowsill (where many of my finds end up.) Some of my favourite finds are shells with particularly giant barnacles, fossils, hag-stones or very occasionally dried coral - I found the Isle of Wight was an excellent spot for picking up coral (another bittersweet beach find.)  Lyme Regis and the Jurassic coast are excellent for fossils if you have patience, a keen eye and a dash of luck.

In the wintertime, Cornwall shuts down and becomes bleak, empty and quiet. I get asked often how I survive over the wintertime here or what we do for fun. Personally, I feel that the county comes alive out of ‘tourist season’ and particularly during the stormy periods. Misty beaches, churning aquamarine waves and endless sea caves to explore, beaches aren’t just for sunbathing and building sandcastles. For me, a winter beach is an endlessly exciting, peaceful and restorative space bringing us these tiny treasures with stories to tell; stories of shipwrecks, lost fishing nets, tiny creatures from the high seas and lost cargo from thousands of miles away.

A tiny, fragile milk-flower clustered resolutely in the bitter and frosted winter’s soil - bringer of hope to some yet loathed by so many. Believed by some to have been brought to England by monks, the humble Snowdrop hails from the mountainous Alpine regions where the world is much colder and winters much harsher. Today, although not native to this country it’s commonly found in the British Isles, rearing it’s pearly head in time to coincide with celebration of Imbolc/Candlemass around the beginning of February;

‘The snowdrop, in purest white arraie,

First rears her hedde on Candlemas daie.

While the Crocus hastens to the shrine
Of Primrose lone on St Valentine.’ 

-an excerpt from an Old English floral calendar dating back to the 19th century.

One of my preferred folklores that surrounds the plant is an ancient German tale;

At the beginning of all things when life was new, the Snow sought to borrow a colour. The flowers were much admired by all the elements but they guarded their colour’s jealousy and when the Snow pleaded with them, they turned their backs in contempt for they believed the Snow cold and unpleasant. The tiny humble snowdrops took pity on the Snow for none of the other flowers had shown it any kindness and so they came forth and offered up to the Snow their colour.

The Snow gratefully accepted and became white forevermore, just like the Snowdrops. In its gratitude, the Snow permitted the little pearly flowers the protection to appear in winter, to be impervious to the ice and bitter chill. From then on, the Snow and the Snowdrops coexisted side by side as friends.

Fascinating little flowers, according to hearsay the plants are able to generate their own heat, however, there’s little in the way of proof. Known to have medicinal properties, the Galanthus nivalis currently being used in treatment for Alzheimer's. Their Latin name is dreadfully pretty as it translates as ‘Milkflower of the snow’ - this is possibly my favourite variant on the name as well as a Welsh word for them, ‘Eirlys’ which translates as ‘Snow Lilly.’

A much-adored sight around the bleak late winter days in modern day Britain, the ‘Fair Maid of February’ as they are also known, favour shady areas such as woodlands and are perhaps most notably and somewhat grimly found clustered upon graves and carpeting the floors of Britain’s churchyards. Perhaps this is the reason for some darker lore that surrounds the Snowdrops; for some say that they are an omen of death.

In Victorian superstition, it’s told that you must never bring the Snowdrop into the house for that will bring ill-fortune and in some more extreme versions of the tale, death will occur in the family within the year. Many cling to and practice this superstition still claiming resolutely that a plucked snowdrop brought upon their threshold was the reason they were widowed. Other old English superstitions dictate that by bringing in a Snowdrop, the milk will turn sour and eggs shall spoil. I’d rather not believe that picking this beautiful little flower would be a bringer of ills and sadness, however it’s most probably for the best that it’s not plucked from its roots and taken indoors where it’ll only wither but instead left with its fellows, creating a wondrous blanket of white across the woodlands and churchyards.

Better than a bringer of death is the flower’s associations as a bringer of hope and purity; the green coloured stem of the snowdrop symbolises and links with the Pagan ideals of health and wellbeing whilst the white symbolises the light of the winter sun which is now beginning to grow stronger as the days lengthen.

One of the most popularly documented stories surrounding the origins of the Snowdrop is actually a Christian creation tale. It tells of the moments following Adam & Eve’s exile from the garden of Eden where hopeless and dejected, they shiver as the snows swirl around them and the frost bites at their toes. An Angel descends from the Heavens to relate the message that Eden is no longer their privilege and that they must swiftly move on. Frightened and awed by the Angel and apprehensive of the nameless world that lies beyond, Adam and Eve take each other's hand and wander towards the unfamiliar and cruel new lands, heads bowed and tearful.

It is here that the Angel feels deep sorrow in his heart so he reaches out a hand where the soft snowfall lands in its perfect kaleidoscope of shapes, twinkling crystals in his palm; perfect and unmelting. The Angel brings the snowflakes to his face and breaths upon them, transforming the glittering ice into soft, pearly flowers; the first Snowdrops. “Take these little flowers,” says the Angel to Adam and Eve, “take them as a sign of hope. A sign for your kind and for the earth outside.” The Angel casts the tiny flowers into a halo that surrounds the two people and they carry this blessing of hope with them out into the world beyond.

Whether you believe the many dark superstitions that surround this flower or not, you cannot deny that it is a messenger of the seasons, that the darkest moment of winter has passed and that there are happenings of life in the roots beneath the earth; spring is imminent.

The Scottish poet George Wilson concludes his poem ‘The Origin of the snowdrop’ with the lines;

"And thus the snowdrop, like the bow
That spans the cloudy sky,
Becomes a symbol whence we know
That brighter days are nigh ; ”

Not every fairytale has a fairy godmother, altruistic and giving, always on hand to grant a wish and wave a magic wand to set everything right for the downtrodden hero or heroine of the story. Some protagonists of the old folk stories weren’t always lucky as Cinderella and Dorothy, the less fortunate hero and heroines didn’t encounter Glinda the good witch of the North, instead they happened across the terrifying being that is Baba Yaga.

I find Baba Yaga a most intriguing character in Slavic mythology. Always drawn to the more austere and gothic edges of folklore as opposed to the rose tinted happy endings of modern fairy tales, Baba Yaga captivates my attention as there are so many conflicting tales surrounding her, none of which can give any clue of her true desires and intentions. She is a chaotic neutral force that grants help when asked but her methods are never pretty, sometimes leaving the protagonist feeling like they should have never begged her help in the first place.

Unpredictable and volatile, Baba Yaga is sometimes perceived as a mother nature figure but one trope that is always consistent throughout the lore that surrounds her is that she eats those unfortunates who cannot complete her tasks. Depicted as heinously ugly to behold, she is a crone with iron teeth and a long nose who travels through the sky in a mortar and pestle.

Another intriguing feature of hers that appeals to the fifteen year old goth version of me is  that of her house.  One of the most iconic motifs surrounding the Baba Yaga mythos is that she lives in a hut in the centre of the deep dark woods (like many witches of folklore) but what sets her hut apart from your run-of-the-mill forest witch is that her hut is has it’s own pair of long, giant & gnarled chicken legs. The hut is believed to be alive (As much as a hut can be alive) and possess its own personality. The hut roves about the forest, like an elemental force of its own, perhaps seeking out those in need of Baba Yaga. People can often tell when they are in Baba Yaga’s presence before seeing her for when she is around, the winds turn wild and whistle through the trees which creak and groan as the air turns bitter cold.

Baba Yaga appears throughout history, first referenced in text in a Russian Grammar book in 1755 as a figure lifted from Slavic folklore. It’s likely that her origins derived from many ancient oral tales that later were built upon, frayed and reconstructed into written folk stories.

Although unmoral and dangerous, Baba Yaga never goes after anyone unprovoked and the stories that surround her are generally told from the point of view of the people that encounter her. One such story is the that of Vasilisa, a Cinderella-like character who’s stepmother and sisters severely mistreat her. Her family send her into the forest on an impossible quest for the fire of Baba Yaga (who serves in this tale as a wicked fairy godmother) and Vasilisa finds herself faced with completing a variety of exhausting tasks set by the witch under the threat of her life. Upon completing the tasks, Baba Yaga sends her back to her family with the fire as requested however when Vasilisa brings it home, the fire which is contained inside a  magic skull, burns her family to death as punishment for their cruelty. Not exactly the nicest way to treat even those who’ve wronged you but it’s not the way of Baba Yaga to be forgiving or gentle.

I don’t know about you, but when it comes to villainy I feel a little weary and tired of an antagonist that is inherently evil. Their motives are normally along the  lines of world domination (here’s looking at you Voldemort) or they’re just terrible people and want to eat small children. I struggle with the concept that people can be all good or all evil which in modern fairy tales often has a clearly defining line. Those who are considered evil and villainous often have a backstory that details a history of suffering or abuse or it’s completely unexplained and they are just outright chaotic bad and only ever do bad things to people.

I find the notion of a neutral villain far more appealing; Baba Yaga is an elemental force that has no definable intentions and does terrible things because she has no moral compass although she is willing to help those who prove themselves. Villainy isn’t perhaps an apt word for a character like Baba Yaga, for she comes from a branch of folktale where there is no defining line of good and bad. The characters of older tales tend to find themselves on a spectrum of good to evil but ultimately it’s their actions that define them.

This approach to character design feels more raw, realistic and relatable. Is it not the most appealing part of a fairy tale to find ourselves in a surreal experience but able to relate to the protagonists? I don’t know about you but these days I’m slightly apathetic towards the myriad of fairy tales featuring melodramatic heroes, peril-prone altruistic and altogether vanilla heroines and villains who are both predictable and shallow in their intentions. Give me a flawed protagonist any day and while you’re at it, an antagonist that has perhaps more than just humble personality traits of narcissism and megalomania, one that surprises, twists and turns the plot. One both unpredictable and wild, unfathomable and enduring; one like Baba Yaga.

I reside in Cornwall which means Autumn reaches us last at the very edge of the island. Although summer has waned and I’ve already witnessed my first blood red full moon of the season, there’s still enough warmth left to bask in the shallow shores in our swim togs and enjoy the beaches all to ourselves. The trees are just about beginning to fade and the first scattering of acorns have dusted our woodland floors. Last weekend, I drove North to the edge of the Peak District and it enchanted me to feel as though I was plunging further into real autumn, to see the trees become increasingly burned gold and red as I travelled, the leaves dancing serenely down.

With the autumn equinox behind us now, we have passed the period marker of when the length of the days are equal to the nights; what lies next is the observation of Samhain, the beginning of the chapter of darkness and night. Don’t despair, it’s not as grim as it sounds; for the night is exciting and the approaching phase on the calendar is one of fire and warmth. The tradition of observing Samhain is well kept in modern culture and today is more commonly referred to as ‘Halloween’ or ‘All Hallows Eve’. Although Samhain predominantly marks the beginning of the winter in the Celtic calendar and celebrates the beginning of the ‘period of darkness’, there are the well-known, altogether more mystical associations which have been translated over to other religions that also observe this festival. I’m sure you’ve learned this from cultural osmosis in one way or another, but it is believed across the faiths that the 31st of October is the night when the veil between the spirit world and ours is the thinnest, that spirits can walk and dance among us.

On the British isles, it was the Pagan Celts that began honouring their dead with Samhain; lighting candles, bonfires and holding feasts wearing the skins and bones of the animals sacrificed for the festival thus beginning the tradition of disguise and dressing up for the festivities.  While death is perhaps the largest theme of the Samhain festival, there is nothing morbid or satanic about the celebrations; modern pagans do not believe that death is something to be feared, but it gives way to birth and new beginnings. The festival is not only one of marking a shift in the natural calendar and physical changes in the earth  but one of respect and joy in celebration of the lives of loved ones and a time to reflect on things that have come to an end, be it relationships, jobs, friendships, chapters and other significant life changes. It’s a time of making peace and new beginnings.

Cast yourself back into the Samhain of the Celtic Pagans; their druids built enormous bonfires which were sacred and their fire was shared with the village and used to light the bonfires of their homes throughout the winter, protecting and warming the villagers. Feasts were shared together in these communities with music and merriment. As the veil between the two worlds, corporeal and spirit, was seemingly dissolved, the druids thought that the spirits of their ancestors could help them to predict the future and so fortunes would be told. For the Celts, the transition into the new phase on the wheel of the year did not begin at dawn but instead at sunset, with darkness. As the final harvest of the year has been reaped, the seeds (symbolic of the gods) go back into the earth for the winter period to be reborn at Yule. It is considered that as the seeds are plunged back into the deep, dark loamy soil of the land, the sun king travels the underworld, learning and gaining wisdom before his re-emergence at Yule time with new ideas and knowledge.

It is symbolic that during this period of darkness, we reflect and take stock, find inspiration, create and birth wonderful new dreams and ideas. The winter phase is a time for dreaming. Have you ever wondered what the significance of apples at Halloween is? In Celtic-Pagan lore, apples are a sacred fruit and a symbol of life and immortality. A Celtic tradition was to bury the apples at Samhain which would provide food for the souls waiting to be reborn. Another symbol of Samhain is the besom-broom, traditionally made with birch things to represent purification and renewal. The motions of sweeping away the autumn leaves and cobwebs not only efficiently clears away the house, but ritually clears away old energies making space for the new; another symbol of rebirth.

The word Samhain translates as ‘Summer’s end’ and comes from the gaelic language. It was known under other names across the various Celtic regions, for example; ‘Nos Galan Gaea’ in Welsh which means ‘Winter’s Eve’. But Samhain isn’t the oldest festival nor the only festival where the Pagan Celts believed to have elements of ‘magic’ and the ‘mystic’ - May the 1st in fact holds much more prominence in the early Celtic calendars across the British Isles.

Today, the festival has since been absorbed and adopted by modern faiths and culture and has become a vibrant mix of traditions and influences. One thing is for sure and that is the theme of the spirit world merging with our own still influences our celebrations of the Halloween festival and although it may not be the skins and skulls of animals that the revellers choose to wear, the enthusiasm for disguise and dressing up has endured and is certainly one of the key components of modern Halloween.  

So maybe this Samhain you’ll be lighting a candle in memory of lost family or relationships, bobbing for apples or even hitting the town for a night of wild antics dressed up as an exceedingly scary bunny rabbit. Regardless of whether you believe that the spirits are dancing among us that evening, there’s no denying that Halloween is an exciting festival of whimsy and enduring harmless tradition (as long as you’re not sacrificing anything more than a few five pound notes at the bar.) It marks the beginning of a season filled with roaring fires, listening to storms rattle the windows, putting on the most comfortable of woollen scarves, lighting deliciously scented candles while nestling down under thick blankets with your loved ones and indulging in seasonal hot drinks liked mulled cider and spiced coffee. I think personally, that’s as good a reason as any to celebrate.

'Tides', oil and gesso on board, 280 x 175 mm, 2017

'Strata', oil and gesso on board, 280 x 175 mm, 2017

Characterised by chalky shades and sorrowful washes, Martha Kelsey’s paintings belie their basic material: oil paints. Despite tackling a diverse range of figurative subject matter, Martha’s paintings frequently conjure a sense of earth and water. Uncertainty in her work is matched by the flux of her practice. She continues to test new ground in her Cheltenham studio, and regularly shows work across the South West. Her upcoming solo exhibition 'Latte Leninism' opens at the Vestibules, Bristol, in August 2017. More information at www.subject-action-object.com

As they rose, the cities fell

the churches, schools and tower blocks

lost in the dark beneath the swell.

Screeching seabirds breaking the still

of this new silent place, skimming the spray of the swirling waves.

As they rose, cities fell.

In cavernous abyss, dark things dwell,

watching sunlight glitter on the surface.

Barnacles claim old towns, barely recognisable,

Lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

Across the perpetual water, fogs dispel.

The winds – the old gods, exercise their volatile tempers, 

as they rose, the cities fell.

Sometimes, you can see jutting, when the when the ocean’s dark moods quell,      

rusting pylons,  power lines, summits of skyscrapers - skeletons from an old world

lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

Seals bask unhindered, on the shores of desert archipelagos

no detritus on the soft shores but weed and shell 

as they rose, the cities fell.

There were a people once, mariners with stories to tell,

Frantic fleeting lives –  corpses now

Lost in the dark beneath the swell

The tides are wild

The were callous

As they rose, the cities fell

Lost in the dark, beneath the swell.

This villanelle was inspired by the fabled lost lands of Lyonesse. Maybe you, like me, wandered the harbour streets of Cornwall and noticed more than one or two boats with this name bobbing gently in the bay. It wasn’t actually till I was in my teen years that I came across the legend of Lyonesse - It was at the Gorsedh Cornish cultural festival where they did a story telling and I found myself fascinated and plunged into this watery doomed world off the coast of Cornwall and Scilly.

In a similar vein to Atlantis, the story of Lyonesse links back to sunken cities and the stories are often set around the Arthurian times. Some sources say that the Lyonesse was the kingdom of Tristan’s father (of Tristan & Iseult) and others link back to celtic mythology. It was believed that Lyonesse was a beautiful kingdom of spires, woodlands and castles… indeed St Michael’s mount - a very real castle perched on an island accessible at low tide, just off the coast of Marazion has very mysterious origins surrounding it. It’s Cornish name. “Karrek Loos y’n Koos” translates as ‘Grey Rock in the Wood’ which suggests that the mount was once surrounded by forest and some rumours claim that at lowest neap tides, the salt faded remains of a very ancient forest might be glanced. But despite the many curious stories surrounding this alluring kingdom, they all share the same grim end; that the land was doomed. It is thought that perhaps the people of the kingdom committed some terrible act and angered the gods to bring about such an end, but it is not known for sure.

Each of the stories tell that in one night, the entire land was sunken beneath a dark maelstrom that brought a single giant wave. And so it became lost and the people perished.

Some believe that there may be truth in this legend - the archipelago which lays around 30 miles away off the Cornish coast has bronze age remains of settlements, as well as other celtic settlements which once were above sea level but are now submerged upon the flooding of penzance bay over time… these could have inspired stories from early fishermen about lost cities, growing to become the mystical lands of Lyonesse as the centuries passed.

One thing is for sure, and that is that the end of the land holds a very real and vibrant sense of mystery and enchantment. If you stand at Landsend at sunset, and watch the day sink behind the stark rocks of Enys Dodnan sea arch, you will witness the moon rise over the coast on the other side and feel the very real power and magic that these parts retain… maybe you’ll even be gazing over the flooded lands of a lost ancient kingdom. Maybe, just maybe, on a quiet and still autumn’s evening, you’ll hear the bells of the ancient cathedral of Lyonesse, just as legend says.

Today I'm introducing the work of Oska Von Ruhland, a creative writing graduate from Cardiff who's written about merfolk. Enjoy...

They used to wash up on the beach occasionally. It wasn’t very common and there was always a spectacle when they did. Usually the Marine Rescue Squad would show up and pull them back into the sea. MRS had these huge net things, and cars that could drive into the water, so that they didn’t have to touch them. They always looked confused to be there, and it wasn’t like you could talk to them to tell them the way the tide works. Sea creatures don’t understand why going near the shallows is a bad idea.

            It hasn’t happened for a few years. I almost miss them.

            I have to walk along the cliffs to get home. Every now and then I glance down at the golden sands where the sunset shimmers on the waves and turns the deep dark blue sea into a dancing fire. I used to use this time to remember those days. And then one day, I didn't have to remember any more.

            One of them had washed up high on the sand, thrashing its tail everywhere with its mouth agape. It was gasping and trying to scrabble back to the water. I zig-zagged down the steep path towards the beach and it stared at me with its wide yellow eyes. I had no clue what I was supposed to do. It looked like it had been there a while; its skin was dry and crusty with dirt and the more it moved the more tired it looked. The MRS would take too long to arrive. I tried to get my arms around it to move it, but it started to screech and waved around more. I hated it when they did that.

            “It’s okay, don’t be scared,” I tried to tell it.

            There’s no safe place to grab them from. The tail moves around too much and everything else is spikes or teeth. I had my arms around its middle and its webbed spines jabbed my stomach as it wriggled. I wasn’t expecting it to be so cold, or for its scales to be so smooth along its belly. I also wasn’t expecting the strong salty, fishy stink that filled my nostrils when I held it close.

            Suddenly a thought occurred to me and I said, “Wait here, I have an idea.”

            I got up in a rush and ran around the beach until I found a lost bucket. I filled it with sea water and ran back, then upturned the bucket over the wriggling creature. It flinched in surprise and stilled as the cool liquid spread over it.

            “There, now you won’t dry out,” I said. It seemed happy.

            As the water washed away all the sand and dirt, I saw the true colour of its scales. It was aqua blue with a white belly. Purple stripes ran all along its body, along its jaws and all the way down its tail. Its fins were nearly see-through with thick blue spines, and the tuft of hair on its head was a mix of pale yellow and green. It had a broad, flat nose and a beautifully decorated brow over huge golden eyes.

            I crouched down next to it and asked, “What’s your name?”

            It didn’t answer me. Instead it parted its thin lips and grinned with all its pointy teeth.

            I was disappointed, even though I knew they couldn’t talk. At least it was calm now, and wasn’t flailing everywhere. I began to pat at the sand, trying to make it as smooth and flat as possible. When I had done what I could do, I filled the bucket up again and poured it over the sand, making it smooth and slippery.

            I grabbed the sea creature’s tail and it struggled for a moment, but then saw that I was pulling it towards the sea. The fins were rubbery and twitched a little under my touch .It was lighter than I thought it would be. The slippery sand made it easy to get to the tide foam. It slid easily across the wet sand like a snake on ice.

            As soon as it was in the water it wriggled out of my grasp and jerked its tail once, shooting forwards before vanishing into the dark watery abyss. I was alone again.

            When I finally got home, I made sure to call the MRS about what happened. They set up nets over the next few days all along the coast designed to keep the larger sea creatures from washing up onto the shore. It was set so deep and far back that even if they did swim up to the nets, we wouldn’t see them. Still, it didn’t stop me from looking down at the beach every time I walked home.

After that, I never saw any of the Merfolk ever again.

How quickly spring seems to have shifted into summer this year, seemingly with no hesitation at all. The cherry blossom and wisteria have vanished and now, on this island, we have been left in that lingering transition period of faded spring flowers but not-quite-yet-summer-blooms. The first of May marks Beltane in the Gaelic calendar, the pastoral beginning of summer and this gives way to a flurry of summer celtic-revival and Pagan inspired festivals celebrating the coming of the warmer months. In the Gaelic calendar, there are four major festivals; Samhain, Imbolc, Beltane & Lughnasadh, one for each season with both Beltane (beginning of summer) & Samhain (beginning of winter) being the most prominent. The celebration of such festivals haven’t so much as endured but rather experienced a revival since the 20th century, particularly in Celtic regions of the Kingdom such as Scotland, Ireland, Isle of Man, Cornwall & Wales.

According to Folklorists and historians, the original records of Beltane are thought to come from Ireland and describe rituals that were believed to protect cattle, crops and people by creating a special ‘Beltane fire’ from which the household fires would be lit and maintained. People were believed to leap through these flames, pass their cattle between the bespelled bonfires for protection and gather for large feasts where the people would decorate themselves and their doors and homes with with the yellow May Flowers to evoke the protective fire. Some of the feast food was offered to the Aos Si (the fairy people or supernatural race) in order to please them. It was believed that it was around both Beltane and Samhain that the Aos Si were most active which falls inline with some of our modern Halloween lore & beliefs in certain sectors that it’s during these phases of the year that the spirit world touches or comes near to ours. 

In the 1980s, Edinburgh began celebrating the festival in the city at its famous Calton Hill. The Beltane fire society formed and each year on April 30th, the city comes alive with fire, myth and drama in a spectacular arts & cultural festival inspired by the folklore of Beltane.

In Cornwall where I grew up, there have always been a constant flow of seasonal festivals inspired by Celtic lore. Although we don’t so much widely observe the popular and well known Gaelic festivals such as Beltane and Samhain in our streets, we have our own equivalents in which involve the entire community and borrow greatly from the Celtic traditions, myths and enchanting landscape that the county holds so dearly and with such pride. These festivals blend the modern with the traditional and are embedded in our culture and seasonal calendar, for even the most culturally unaware and disinterested teenager will be involved in some way or another with the shenanigans of Helston Flora day. Flora day is our own festival marking the beginning of summer and held in the market town of Helston at the gateway to the Lizard.

For this day each year, the houses of the town decorate their doors and garden walls with beautiful wreaths of flowers so that the streets are spilling with colour and blooms - a spring and more natural equivalent of the modern christmas tradition of hanging electric light displays on the front of your house. Lilly of the Valley is the traditional flower of this festival and young boys and girls will be adorned in white, dancing together in the streets to the songs played by the marching band, flowers in their hair.

Perhaps one of Cornwall’s biggest celtic-revival events however is based further west in the seaside town of Penzance. Golowan (The Cornish word for Mid-Summer) is a week long cultural & arts festival that has brought back to life so many of the ancient customs such as lighting and gathering around bonfires, parading an Obby-Oss (Penglaz) fireworks, lighting torches and carrying giant sculptures & lanterns crafted by the local children through the streets along with a marching band and decorated dancers. The original Golowan, celebrated before its abolition in the late 19th century was very much similar to Beltane in that fires were believed to ward off evil spirits and misfortune and the people would leap between the flames or dance the embers in order to secure their safety from such darkness. These days, although Golowan promotes and celebrates much of the Celtic traditions and stories, it’s expanded throughout the town with a funfair that spills onto the quayside by the iconic art deco lido, live music and open air theatre is performed throughout the town and market stalls selling a wide variety of colourful wares & local food produce line the cobbled sloping streets.

The festival attracts over ten thousand visitors each year and has become somewhat of a tourist attraction. It’s littler known more austere mid-winter equivalent, Montol, takes place of the 21st December which has a much more Celtic and local vibe, held in the dark of night around a bonfire that overlooks the twinkling lights of the sleepy sea town. My home county, undoubtedly like many other of the Celtic regions on this island holds firmly onto its cultural festivals that are seeing an increasing popularity and finding their place in modern day culture. As we as a society yearn to reconnect with our roots and nature, we find ourselves fascinated with these ancient festivals and traditions that give us a glimpse into another realm - one of whimsy and half-magic- ones that find their origins in a time where the people were ruled entirely by the natural world and its cycles.

Golowan festival takes place between 23rd - 28th June in Penzance, Cornwall. Other similar festivals in the county include Helston Flora day (8th May) Padstow Obby-Oss day (May 1st) and the St Ives September festival.

Today in the journal we're introducing a new talent: Cornish poet and singer/songwriter Josiah Mortimer currently lives and works in London, but he yearns to be back by the sea. If you'd like your poem to be featured on these pages, contact one of our editors, or use the form here.

Notes from the city, to the sea

I like my water free.

Not locked in, with concrete

or hemmed with steel

The barriers of old dockland

choke the estuary,

trapped by machine-hewn granite,

bordered by quay

But on the margins of this isle

three hundred miles away

from an oceanless empire

the sea breathes effortlessly.

It lolls, and rolls,

and lazes, and lashes

with total impunity.

If you want to witness liberty –

and feel it, too –

stand on Bedruthan steps

high above the waves

They breathe into you there

so all you can think is:

‘Engulf it all’, or

‘Share that precious liberty’

But I am not on those steps

where granite is uncarved

         (not by man, at least)

or among First Nature, as it wants to be

Instead, I am back to wharf

and the cold humanity

of paved-over wetland

Terra firma, foot-worn

by those seeking

a semblance of the sea

But it’s a poor copy.

The water here is a lion, caged

There is, though, I’ll admit,

a memory –

which is, incidentally,

why I’ve come here;

remembering, yearning

for a Real Thing:

the wild roar

of Cornish coast

rattling headland, defiant

Shouting to the sky:

‘This is what it is

to be’

Here, in this huge city

I strain to hear it –

over aeroplanes, cars,

crowded high streets

But by the docks

I think I feel something

                a shared memory, or

                the song of a longing

for that precious liberty

And if I focus, I can feel

the desire of bridled water,

to roar at the sky once more –

‘I am free, truly, free’