A bird chimes
from a green tree
the hour that is no hour
you know. 

R.S. Thomas, Arrival

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Today we will be traveling to the Pennant Melangell Center to visit the shrine and sacred grounds of the 7th Century abbess, Saint Melangell.

The legend goes that Saint Melangell fled from Ireland to escape an arranged marriage, running to this place to seek sanctuary.

Then one day, the royal Prince Brochwel, who was on a hunt, rode in on horseback with his dogs, in pursuit of a hare.

The hare took shelter under Melengell’s skirts, and the dogs froze, unwilling to continue the chase.

The prince, recognizing the entrancing power of this girl – and the shield of protection surrounding her – granted her the title to this large tract of land.

The Prince, witnessing this, recognized the girl’s power, and the shield of protection surrounding her – and subsequently granted her the title to the large tract of land in this valley.

And it is believed that this property is one of the earliest protected land trusts in the UK. Saint Melangell is now recognized as an iconic early environmentalist.

Today, she is an emblem for various ecological and environmental foundations – a symbol of inspiration for the preservation and protection of Welsh land.

I love this story, so this morning, climbing off of the bus, I take particular note of the blue hills that ring this green valley.

The air smells sweet.

Once again, the sun is bright and there is a riot of color from the Wesh poppies and vetch.

We are nestled in the fertile foothills of the impressive Snowdonia Mountains.

The view is bright green- stunning.

Bees crawl, heavy with pollen, among the bursts of pink orchids and mallow, and there is a vigorous stream running past the old church.

It is May, and everything is in a fertile frenzy: knapweed, enchanter’s nightshade, and wild thyme sprawl down to the stream.

There is a wildness here.

I notice that back behind the cemetery there are small cottages, cabin-like accommodations for guests.

This will be an unstructured, quiet day. We are free to move about the land and reflect.

I watch the others find their steps around the cobbled churchyard. I keep on walking, up to an old fence, where there is a handwritten sign that says prayer walk.

I open the gate and there is a dirt path that forks off through a meadow and another driveway that leads up to a house.

---

Suddenly, a car pulls up and a man jumps out, with his engine running, and car wheels stopped in the shallow stream.

Oh no, maybe I’m trespassing.

But what a friendly guy – his face is beaming and he’s extremely excited that I’m on his little prayer walk.

I explain that I am with the larger church group.

He smiles.

Do you feel the energy is this valley? he asks

Um.

It’s a feminine energy, he continues.

This whole valley, this stream, it has an ancient feminine quality.

It’s Pennant Melangell.

Do you sense it?

And then he invites me to hike up to his property and to explore beyond, into the meadow, and up through the grove of trees. He encourages me to wander wherever I want.

He literally says, take your time, go slowly, and, look at the small things.

He informs me that every living element here holds Melangell’s beauty.

I thank him, and he drives off, with a big wave.

---

At this point the meadow just looks like a good place to lie down and nap.

If I can make it over there at all.

I may just sit down here in the road, it’s a peaceful spot lined with red and yellow foxgloves.

The birdcalls, the lapping stream, and the lazy bees, all of it is hypnotizing me. I slip off my pack and wedge it under my head as I lean back into the grass.

Feminine energy, yes.

I’ll sign on for that.

---

Part of a pilgrimage, in my mind, is surrendering your complete boxed set of faith. It is letting go of musty beliefs, making room for something fresh, something revelatory.

In this magical, verdant valley, it is so easy to do. There is a nurturing, creative spirit at play here.

I think of Melangell’s story, whether it’s true to the letter or not – it feels true to me – in the way of most legends.

In the way that we tell stories, down through the ages, and how they capture the original truths and then double down even deeper, over time.

Like the heavy soil that sinks this church foundation, and the white headstones that pop up around this holy place – all of it seems to be shifting, and alive.

Retelling a story that is ancient, yet evolving.

And I sense a kind of wild silence in this valley – a reverence and quietude that has a pulsing heart beneath it.

The lush environment feels laden with the care and nurture of all that is engendered in this land.

---

I think about religion, and how this, right before me, this is the earliest religion of all.

This connection between a brave young woman taking shelter in this valley. Her pact with the land.

And then risking her life to build an abbey for other contemplatives Perhaps women who were also searching, maybe fleeing, but certainly vulnerable.

In very dark times.

And here, the body of this anchoress, buried in the sanctuary of this small Welsh church.

What is this place saying to me?

---

I rest my head back and watch a huge black bird circle high over the meadow. It flies nearer and I notice that it’s enormous wingspan has a striking pattern.

It has one bright white oval underneath each black wing. This creates the illusion of two disc-like eyes looking down on me.

I later learn that it is a red-billed kite, a glossy black raptor, once hunted to near extinction in these parts.

But it feels like more than just a bird to me. It feels like a presence – I’d like to think a female one – with its wide-eyed feathers hovering over me.

---

In Celtic spirituality, they talk about thin places- places where the veil between the physical and spiritual world seems to thin, opening up a sense of sacredness, and allowing for a connection between the human and the divine.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:

Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century – and on a dusty lane with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

Like heaven and earth, I am in two places:
Cradled within the sacred haven of a feminine spirit from another century, and on a dusty lane, with a sore hip that’s scraping against the rocks.

And so I pay homage to the fierce commitment of this saint.

A woman ahead of her time.

And as I lie here today, I imagine myself as brave too.

And I summon Saint Melangell’s courageous spirit to be my own shield as I move forward on this mystical pilgrimage.

cover photo: Ann Carda