The Timelessness of Arthurian Tales

A couple of years ago, I wrote about a new series I had started watching called MERLIN.

As I said then, I was shocked by what I perceived as the ridiculous aspects of the show and how much they had changed the Arthurian cycle. However, after the first few episodes of the show I began to see its qualities and the wonderful ways in which it revived the Arthurian legend for a new generation.

This past weekend, I finished watching the fifth and final season of this BBC Series.

I’m actually a little sad that the series is done. I’m also surprised at how attached I became to many of the characters, especially the characters of Merlin and Arthur whose bantering, odd, loyal relationship is the central theme and strength of the series.

We all know that Arthur dies in the end. Of course he does. But I found myself hoping that maybe, just maybe, Arthur would survive. I wanted him to! The series had changed so many other aspects of the legend, why not change that? End things on a positive, uplifting note, right?

No. The death of Arthur in story is something that is inevitable, even for a modern interpretation. It’s the death of Arthur that shows the essential elements of tragedy, sacrifice, and hope for the future that are so crucial to Arthurian tales.

In MERLIN, the actors Colin Morgan and Bradley James manage to pull off an emotional, gut-wrenching final episode that is, to me, a worthy addition to the Arthurian canon.

After watching that final episode, I found myself dealing with a familiar feeling of sadness and longing in the pit of my stomach. It’s something I always feel when I finish watching or reading the story of Arthur and his knights.

This experience reminded me why I love Arthurian stories so much, and why I will never tire of them.

I grew up with the stories of Arthur. In fact, they are a big part of the person I have become, the ideals I hold to be true and important. They speak to me on many levels. They are timeless.

Historically, those few decades straddling the 5^th and 6^th centuries A.D gave rise, in my opinion, to some of the most important and moving literature and literary traditions since Homer composed the Iliad and the Odyssey.

Whether ‘Camelot’ was a late medieval castle, or a re-fortified Iron Age hill fort at South Cadbury doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant if the sword Excalibur rose out of the water in the hand of an ancient priestess or water nymph, or if it was cast as a solid piece of iron in a stone mould by a highly skilled smith.

What matters in the Arthurian cycle are the people, and the journeys that they take.

When I think about Arthurian legend, I think about a young boy facing his destiny, I think of lovers facing insurmountable odds, I think about brave and gifted people working to better the land they love.

When I think of these stories I think about ideals of chivalry that, real or imagined, are a bright light in a world that seems to be crumbling apart, pinioned as it is between the classical and early medieval worlds.

When I travelled to Glastonbury, Cadbury Castle, Birdoswald, Wroxeter, Dinas Emrys, Tintagel, or Caerleon, I wasn’t focussed so much on the archaeology and whether it supported the legends of those places.

What pulled me into those places, what grabbed my imagination and would not let go, were the stories and people associated with those places. Therein lies the true magic.

I’ll never forget the names of Balin and Balan, Eric and Enide, Sir Gawain and Sir Perceval, Tristan and Isolde, The Lady of Shalott, Lancelot, Guinevere, Uther, and Arthur, and so many more.

If my heart were a book shelf, there would be a scroll with a special space dedicated to every chapter of the Arthurian cycle.

I feel like I’ve watched the barge carrying Arthur’s body sail to Avalon countless times, and yet the cycle is always reborn inside of me, my mind, and my imagination.

Someday, when I’m ready, I’ll write my own version of the cycle in as historically accurate a way as possible. This has always been my goal.

But, even more so, I will write my own offering to the traditions in a way that the most inspiring aspects of the tales come to the fore.

It feels like an impossible task, but then, no quest is intended to be easy.

Thank you for reading.

Which are your favourite Arthurian tales? Share yours in the Comments box below!

Picture Postcard #9 – Pythia

The Games had run their course. Delphi had emptied, its song having been sung.

When the last pilgrim emerged from the temple, red-eyed and shaking, I stepped forward with a young goat under my arm and a laurel branch clutched in my hand.

A hunched priest led me to an altar where I rinsed my hands and face with Castalian water, and made my offering to Apollo. The goat flinched when its throat was slit and soon slept in a pool of its own blood.

I fanned myself with the laurels as the priest’s knife cut with precision, his old hands unshaking.

He nodded and I was led down the flight of steps where another priest muttered instructions that I did not hear.

It was dark but for a sputtering torch in an ancient bracket upon the wall.

Above, in the cella and outside, the smell of incense was sweet, the marble white and gleaming in the sun upon the mountainside.

But as I went deeper into the earth, my legs heavy as lead, the walls were of deepest green and black, the smoke not sweet but acrid and overpowering.

A humming drummed in my ears, my mind… my heart… my…

Love…

There she sat.

The girl I had loved in my youth.

The woman I had married.

When I entered the sanctum to see her in the sacred tripod, the blood-red veil shading her once-bright and dancing eyes, I knew she was no longer mine.

I had intended to plead with the god for my Love’s life, to promise a thousand statues or the fall of enemy nations if I could but have her back.

As the question formed upon my trembling lips the fumes suffocated me where they rose out of that black fissure.

My laurels fell and shrivelled, and the god told me to leave.

To leave…even as a single tear bled from those black eyes…for me…for us.

I do not regret my actions beyond the sanctuary boundaries. The noose upon that olive wood branch was tight, and hugged me like a friend.

Now I am free to wander the silver slopes of Parnassos…to wait for the day Apollo releases my Love.

Then…then we shall be together again.

My request granted.

For The Love Of It

They say write about things that you love or are passionate about. They say write a story that moves you, a story that you would like to read. Pick a research topic that you want to jump into etcetera, etcetera.

I think most writers know this. It only makes sense. You won’t find me writing about the internal workings of a frog or the process of assembling a microchip. I was never that good at science and I totally flunked computer programming. Those subjects were just not interesting to me; not to say they wouldn’t be riveting for someone else.

However (yes, here’s the ‘but’), what happens when you get sick of something you enjoy so much that you just have to walk away? It happens to all of us. Whether it is a research paper, work of non-fiction or a novel, there comes a point when you can have too much of a good thing. We don’t want to admit it, perhaps because it feels like failure or that it ignites the self-doubt that has been held at bay? Much of the time it is due to outside influences, roadblocks to our success, negativity or lack of support.

This happened to me several years ago with my own Master’s thesis which was a look at the archaeological, historical and toponymic evidence for the site of the base of operations of the historical Arthur – ie. ‘Camelot’.  Arthurian studies has always been my specialization. I have always been fascinated by anything related to the period in Britain from when Rome quit her shores to the time of the Battle of Catraeth when the Britons made a valiant last stand against the Saxon invaders. The period is a maelstrom of both the ancient and medieval periods, a time of mystery, heroism, romance and of course controversy.

South Cadbury Castle, Somerset

When I decided on my thesis of course there were sniggers from the academics about me, even though a huge amount of academic work had been done over the years on the period and my subject. Still, I persisted because I loved the subject. I travelled to sites around Britain, camera and sketchbook in hand. I wrote a book outlining the various theories and my own thesis. I had peer reviews done, made changes, all the usual editing. My subject had been accepted by my professors and supervisor and so, having completed all the work, I handed it in. It felt good, I had really accomplished something. At least I felt so until it was handed back to me for rewrites, big ones. The academics who had approved the subject and outline and had read drafts throughout the writing process decided to change their minds.

This was not good. All the months of work that were rejected birthed a giant ball of academic rage. I may have strode out to the West Sands of St. Andrews to yell at the North Sea. I can’t remember but I don’t think distraught graduate students were an unusual sight. Anyhow, long story short, after a few pints of Guinness I hunkered down and gave them what they wanted, got my degree and pressed on with life.

But there were wounds to lick and because of that experience I became fed up with Arthurian studies. Yes, blasphemy indeed. I couldn’t go near anything remotely Arthurian for several months and so plunged headlong into the ancient world which, as it turns out, opened new doors. The point is that even though I loved the subject, I couldn’t take any more for a long time. I just couldn’t enjoy it. It was like the lingering taste of blood in my mouth after a fight.

After months of ignoring my beloved Arthuriana however, I decided that enough was enough and began to go back to the roots of what I loved about it: the mystery, the romance of the legends. My wife and I moved to Somerset (where I have my own roots) to live just outside Glastonbury. We took weekly walks in Insula Avalonia, climbing the Tor, drinking from the Chalice Well and once more climbing the ramparts of the hill fort at South Cadbury Castle. We even took our long-awaited trip to Cornwall to see Tintagel, Slaughterbridge, Dozmary Pool and Arthur’s Hunting Lodge on Bodmin Moor. The magic had returned and so had my love of the subject but it would not have happened if I had not done anything about it.

Arthur receiving Excalibur

Stepping back was good, I think. I needed to take a break to let the academic grease leach away. There is a lot to be said for the philosophy of being like grass in the wind or water in a brook. We all face challenges to our work or art, opposition to the things that we believe in with force and passion. Of course we can’t all agree, we’re human after all. History teaches us that much!

So what can we do to throw a lifeline to the things we are passionate about when our love of them is drowning? For history-related subjects (after all, that is what this blog is about), I always like watching inspiring movies or listening to my favourite soundtracks (see the Eagles and Dragons playlist on Facebook - May 17 post). Emulate the habits of past people (obviously, not all would be a good idea!) such as lighting some incense or swinging a sword around – go on, have fun! Or, throw a feast for friends on an ancient or medieval (pick your period) theme using recipes from your chosen period cookbook. Grilled meat, thick candles and lots of wine in clay goblets is always a good time. Or put on that toga and recline to a meal of olive-stuffed chicken, fruit and burgers invented by Apicius himself. There is something for everyone. If sheep’s head and stuffed sparrows are your thing, go for it. You can top it all of with music - there are some great recordings of period music out there too if flute girls or lute players are not readily available. Have an actor friend? Get them to recite some Catullus!

I've gone on a bit, I know. Basically, as we create the art we love and try to make it work, fit it in, enjoy it, we need to ensure that we do not lose sight of why we started it in the first place. Every once in a while, when frustration begins to creep in, step back, take a few yoga breaths and remember what it was like way back when you looked at that painting or opened that book for the first time. Enjoy the feeling of standing on that windswept rampart watching crows wheel above grassy slopes where poppies bow about you as they did long ago for the people about whom you are writing.