Breakfast in Avalon/The Apologising Rodent

The little fawn coloured rat (I think it was a rat) gazed up at me with an almost apologetic expression, little front paws clasped together. Behind it a preserved frog stared upwards, both of them propped up by a blue witch doll and a stack of horse shoes. The frog didn't look real enough for me to worry about, but the stuffed rodent with his gentle face bothered me. It was as though he was concerned that my breakfast wasn't up to standard. Because I am only a very little girl really, I apologised. I wanted him to be alive and untouched by taxidermy, I wanted to reassure him my breakfast was fine, and it really was fine; greek yoghurt with honey, fruit salad of strawberries, mangoes, grapes, blueberries, pineapples and endless melons, followed by toast, scrambled eggs and excellent mushrooms, sausages and god knows what else. The landlady at the Covenstead is a force of nature, somewhere between the Orphic description of Hecate and Mrs Rochester before Jane Eyre ruined her. Her breakfasts are just massive and tasty; and the Covenstead itself is a witchcraft themed B&B sitting bang opposite Glastonbury abbey, perfect for town and tor alike.





It's an astonishing house, a story in every corner, on every wall. Alchemical sigils, old letters, ancient gods, dolls and brooms and masks, a delicate and lovely crucifix made out of a catfish spine, an ornately carved table with a crystal ball set in underneath, breakfast chairs big enough for two on one, and gold cutlery.

'Gold plated,' corrected our hostess, laughing, 'I'm from Barnsley.' Her samoyed gazed at us from a beautifully upholstered chair, all cushions and brocade. I wouldn't expect a place with that much stuff to be so dust-free and found myself wondering if she had a secret Dobbie doing the work for her. Apparently not quite. 'I have a new cleaner,' she announced, 'Put all me beautiful red-topped breakfast glasses in the dishwasher, broke the lot. That's why your orange juice is in wine glasses.' Couldn't say I'd noticed. I should mention the horny toilet roll holders and the hairy thing at the window but they left me speechless so I'll just add pics:



The town centre itself was bigger and more commercial than I remembered, weed and patchouli scenting the streets between pubs,shops and churches; I wouldn't have been surprised to see Boots giving away free tarot packs with every prescription. But beneath it all, there is a deeper spirituality - it's strange to recall that this is the second Christian pilgrimage site I've visited in less than four weeks, Joseph of Arimathea's land as well as Arthur's land, Morgan's Land, Merlin's land, Gwyn Ap Nudd's land...and the landscape is still really magical. Maybe it's something about hills and springs. The wind on the tor whips you up into the blue, ears tingling, world roaring, while outside people sit peacefully in the sun; the Chalice well welcomes all, with its red tinted waters tumbling through sunlight and flowers; and the well road reservoir out under the tor celebrates with candlelight reflected in such an abundance of water you could take your clothes off and bathe in it, though the combination of spring and Spring made it too cold for that sort of caper.

Wearyall hill has a special importance to me, and we paid the place a couple of visits. Despite the ravaged holy thorn, it still feels delightful and alive, sheep and their lambs and shaggy long-horned coos wandered among the nettles where once I walked to work.

So, a wonderful weekend in a wonderful place. The good will stay with me, though I won't forget Little Apologising Rodent. I have no shame about my childhood wishes for some universal heaven, and hope s/he is frolicking at their own bonnie breakfast in a perfect Summerland beyond Avalon.