My journey has often been described as spiritual. But what is the meaning of this word? I know it holds religious connotations but I am not religious. Instead, I am drawn to the essence of the interconnectedness of all things in this world and beyond. On this captivating journey, I find myself intuitively drawn to places and experiences that clothe themselves in spirituality, whether that be a full moon circle in a beachside hut on Koh Phangan, a collective chanting experience in Ubud, Bali, or a journey to a sacred destination on an ancient pilgrimage route in the low-lying hills of Somerset, England, on the day of the pagan festival that is Lammas.

I’ll be honest and say I had to Google Lammas when my friend, Tara, offered to host me for a few days in her Bristol home. “You’ll be here for Lammas. Let’s bake bread, drink mead and celebrate,” she said. I was intrigued.

Lammas is celebrated on the first day of August. Also known by its Gaelic name, Lughnasadh, it is an ancient pagan festival that celebrates fruitful harvests that will feed the people for the cold months ahead. Of course, Wikipedia will tell you otherwise, stating it is a “Christian holiday,” and neglecting to mention any further roots of origins. Nonetheless, in modern times, those who are called to participate in the celebrations do so by baking bread, sharing gratitude and setting intentions for the next season of life.

I’ve found that the latter part of my spiritual journey has me connecting with ancient pagan beliefs. Pagans were, after all, the original agnostics; the polytheists that are known to have connected deeply with both the natural world and the mystical one. Perhaps, in a way, it is an innate desire to attach myself to the idea that there were once people like me, who idolised not man, but earth and elements and stars. Ones who believed in fairies and danced beneath the full moon, honouring not a statue inside a chapel but a bright celestial body that speaks to our oceans as if she were a close friend. So, naturally, the call to celebrate Lammas allured me as I made my journey on the Great Western Railway from London Paddington to Bristol Temple Meads.

Tara and I met many years ago. It was one of those friendships that bloomed as a result of a romantic relationship. She is the sister of an old lover, one of the great loves of my life who saw me through the youthful ages of twenty-one to twenty-six. Suffice it to say, he and I are still friends. And now I have Tara, too. We share a similar connection to the cosmos. Both free spirits that broke away from the moulds that had hardened us back in Sydney, Australia, we found our own spiritual paths by cutting through the metaphorical overgrowth of weeds and shrubs and all sorts of obstacles until we found our way back to the unfettered feminine beings we were meant to be in this lifetime. Tara connects to her spirituality primarily through music and sound healing. I connect to mine through energy movement and meditation, with an ever-expanding canvas that seems to adopt colours from all the places and experiences that greet me on my travels. Her home in Bristol is her sanctuary. It is decorated with lush, green plants hanging from beautiful, rustic macrame. Musical instruments are scattered throughout the two-storey dwelling, indicating it is a house of musicians and artists. The eclectic art collection doesn’t muster an overstrung feeling but a welcoming “mi case es su casa” vibe that makes me feel at ease.

We connect over a cup of tea - one of the many customs of British culture that makes me love this land so dearly - and plan our days ahead. It seemed fitting that we take the one-hour car ride to Glastonbury on the day of Lammas, to a town that has welcomed pilgrims of all faiths for thousands of years. In the modern day, the town is mostly famed for the annual festival that occurs at Worthy Farm, but there is much more depth to Glastonbury, and this depth is painted in tales of myths and legends. From the final resting place of King Arthur to the last known whereabouts of the Holy Grail, to a hidden gateway to the underworld, Glastonbury provokes chronicles that stand the test of time. And, as an avid storyteller, I am honoured to be another messenger for this mystical aisle.

On the drive out of Bristol and along the highway headed for Glastonbury, I fall more relaxed into my seat the closer we get to the sacred town. The colour green engulfs me from all angles. Summer rains have nourished the land. Although, even in a dry year, Somerset is lush. The road feels familiar. I recall the bus journey I took last year with Mum when she visited me from Australia. We took the front seats on the top row of the double-decker bus - a place I like to sit for the best views. Every time I manage to take those seats, I liken the experience to my own adventure park ride. My inner child smiles in wonder.

My favourite part of the drive to Glastonbury is a stretch of road that sits beneath a natural archway where the trees are so large they connect to one another to form an arch. It feels like that particular spot of the road is where the gatekeepers stand, watching on as people enter a portal into magic. I hold my breath like a child and emerge on the other side, eager for what’s to come.

We drove through the narrow town streets mid-morning on a Tuesday. Cars had already started to arrive in the acclaimed village. “I hope we get a parking spot,” Tara says as we approach the historic centre. “We will,” I reply with certainty. “Let’s call on the parking fairies.”

“There!” she tells me. “You were right.”

I looked over at her sitting in the driver’s seat next to me and smiled. She looked like Glastonbury, her plaited brown hair draped to one side, over the floral dress she wore which matched the artistry on her arms. The clear quartz pendant draped around her neck shimmered in the morning sunlight that shone through the window.

It was a dress kind of a day; a day to honour the feminine in us. I wore similar attire, flowing in the floral dress Tara had loaned me. There is something about borrowing friends’ clothes that ignites a feeling of closeness for me. Especially, as a traveller who has minimalism down to a tee, it feels as though they clothe me with love. As if, in some multiverse timeline, they have given me a coat in the cold.

Our first stop for the day was The Chalice Well. They were running a group meditation there at eleven to honour this time of abundance, and give gratitude and thanks for the first harvests. My friend and fellow soul sister, Ellie, told me about The Chalice Well and its significance. “You must go,” she said. “It is a place to honour the sacred feminine, where healing red spring water flows from the hilltop where the Glastonbury Tor lives.”

Both legend and modern perspectives witness this spring as a sacred source, the origin from which everything is one. This source is seen as a gateway to the mystical world. It is said that here, the veils are thin and several dimensions collide.

Before I move on, I want to take you back nine years. Nine years ago, I would have never opened up to the possibility of the sacred and the mystic. All these stories were only found in fantasies. I found my other worlds in Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, in The Secret Garden and Fern Gully. And the rest of the time, I was consumed by the industrial and technological revolutions - “working for the man,” in a literal sense, spending ten hours a day making men rich and others richer. They stole my imagination; they stole all of our imaginations. Do you ever wonder why we are so drawn to myth and fairytales? Why, as young children, we believed in magic and witches and warlocks? Why we associated ourselves with things not of this binary reality? Why was it OK then but not now? I ask you to reflect on this for a moment. Take some space away from your busy reality. Take off your shoes. Go outside. Feel your feet on the grass. Close your eyes. Shift your focus from your head to your heart. Allow yourself to feel, for at least a few blissful moments. Breathe… Breathe… Breathe…

When I started to create more space in my inner and outer worlds, I began to feel things more deeply. Year after year, I removed the layers that had hardened me back in the corporate stockade. I started to imagine, once again, and feel into the eons of possibilities, to remember that the world is not as human-centric as we have been forced to believe. Children teach us so much more than any books or academic texts. Watch them as they dance with oneness, as they see themselves as a part of a greater whole and not separate from it. They are the ones to help us remember where we came from and remember who we are: a unique part of eternity.

We entered the main gardens that surround the well. They were in full bloom, a bee and butterfly paradise. Up ahead, we saw a crowd gathered around the entrance to the well. There were many pilgrims, and so we took a spot outside of the gate and to the left, on a patch of grass beneath the shade of a yew tree. I bent down to remove my shoes and socks. My bare feet met the moist grass below, Instantly, I felt connected. The collective energy of a hundred devoted souls permeated around us. It felt like the touch of a warm mug on a winter’s day. I closed my eyes and tuned in to the woman speaking. Her voice was faint but I recognised the words. It was a poem by Rumi,

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.

I fell into a blissful state, eyes closed, feet rooted to earth. We embraced two minutes of silence to honour all that was and all that will be, to feel our place in the vastness. Behind my eyes was a world of kaleidoscopic colours. I was there but also everywhere. A gentle breeze kissed my skin. A soft bell awoke me from my dream.

We spent the next hour strolling peacefully through the blooming gardens. As the crowd dwindled we made our way to the well. It was adorned with floral offerings. A loaf of bread sat beneath a lantern; a thanks to life and abundance. We followed the stream into a silent garden and sat on a bench, acknowledging each other without words. She feels like I do, uninhibited, attuned to her aliveness. I am grateful for her. She may not know, but she is part of the coven in my heart. She sits beside my awakening sisters who move through this world honouring their truth. We have come from generations who were silenced, and yet we rise with a power so divine it speaks for our ancestors who couldn’t. Without them, I am weak. With them, I find a strength that helps me move mountains.

To be continued…