Phil Rickman - The Remains of an Altar

And so much in common.

Both of them photographers – Elgar was said to have had a darkroom here at Plas Gwyn, where he also, like Watkins, invented things.

Both of them members of the Woolhope Club.

Both them fascinated by the landscape.

And most of Elgar’s Hereford years had been kind of slow and uninspired where music was concerned. He hadn’t composed much here at all, Mrs Kingsley said, leaving him time to spare for his other interests. The council, in search of some reflected glory, had even offered to make him Mayor of Hereford, but he’d politely – and wisely, in Jane’s view – turned it down.

Jane remembered Mrs Waters, the art teacher at Moorfield, talking about this, when the Elgar sculpture was being planned for the Cathedral green. And how Elgar got disillusioned because, although he was this mega-celeb, he thought nobody really understood his music.

Elgar at low ebb in Hereford just as the great revelation was coming to sixty-ish Alfred Watkins, billowing towards him across the humpy fields in great waves of vision.

Of course, by the time The Old Straight Track was published, Elgar had left this house. But he loved the city, Mrs Kingsley had said, and he was always coming back to stay, especially when the Three Choirs Festival was held here. Used to meet his old friends, like the playwright George Bernard Shaw, who was always trying to encourage Elgar to get back into some serious composing after the death of his wife in 1920.

‘So he and Alfred Watkins stayed in touch, obviously.’

‘Sure t’be,’ Gomer said.

Jane getting a picture in her head of these two elderly guys, Alf and Ed, standing on Dinedor Hill with the city’s churches aligned below them in the vastness of the old-gold evening. The air filling with ancient energy and orchestral murmurings.

Alf going, Bit of a problem, d’ye see? Best ley I ever found and I en’t allowed to go in there with my camera.

Something I could help with, you think, old chap? Ed tilting his head to one side. People seem to think a lot of me these days… for all the wrong blasted reasons, of course.

Well… mabbe. Alf’s beard splitting into a slow grin. Mabbe you could, too.

‘It’s weird, Gomer,’ Jane said. ‘How things happen, kind of simultaneously. Mum’s into this ridiculous situation over at Malvern where some people think that, like… Elgar’s ghost has returned?’

She stood on the pavement in front of Plas Gwyn and checked for messages on the mobile.

‘Jane, I’m so sorry.’ Mum sounded… upset? What? ‘I’ve come home, and obviously there’s a lot we need to… only I’ve got to go out again. With Lol. Shouldn’t be too late. Could you stay with Gomer? Please? ’

The sun was dropping like a great molten weight into Wales, and the air was warm and airless. Jane’s bare arms, for some reason, were tingling.

The Lesson

There was, at first, a cramped, dead-end kind of feel, as they edged out of the Volvo. Merrily had had to squeeze it onto a rough verge, one wheel partly overhanging a ditch. Might be somebody’s parking place, but there was nobody about in the hamlet of Whiteleafed Oak to ask. A few bungalows, cottages, and nowhere to park because the lane was so narrow.

But it was wooded, sun-dappled, intimate. It didn’t have the wide-viewed isolation of Wychehill. Locking the Volvo, Merrily could hear a radio from an open window, and there was a small trampoline and a yellow bike in one of the sloping front gardens. Whiteleafed Oak was lived-in.

The sun was burning low in a sky like tarnished brass, the air was heavy and humid, and the only sacred sound was placid evening birdsong.

Merrily looked around. There were no directional signs, no indication of where to find whatever was to be found.

Lol opened out the OS map on the bonnet of the Volvo. There were several pencil lines drawn on it, one of them, lengthways, more defined than the others.

‘This is what Jane found. A north-south line along the spine of the range, touching all these hills – Midsummer Hill, Hangman’s Hill, Pinnacle Hill, Perseverance Hill, North Hill – on, or at least close to, their summits. Cutting along the side of Herefordshire Beacon and passing through Wychehill Church.’

‘You can’t fault the alignment,’ Merrily admitted. ‘Not without a bigger map, anyway.’

‘And if we extend the line south…’ Lol continued it with a thumb ‘… we can see that it begins at…’

Whiteleafed Oak.

‘Obvious when you know,’ Lol said.

‘Is this a ley line?’

‘I don’t know. Most of these are natural features. But they were probably all ritual sites.’

‘Or part of one huge ritual site,’ Merrily said. ‘ Moel Bryn. The sacred Malverns.’

She was quite glad to see Whiteleafed Oak marked on the map. Didn’t even recall seeing any road signs pointing to it. Although it was only a few miles out of Ledbury, past the Eastnor Castle estate and into a twisting single-track lane, this was a place you would never find by accident. Nor particularly search out. Nearby villages like Eastnor and Eastwood were picturesque in the traditional sense, Whiteleafed Oak was not.

Lol folded up the map.

‘Better find this place before it gets any darker.’

Still be light enough to find your way. Park where you can and go through the five-bar gate and keep walking.

‘Which five-barred gate?’ Merrily opening out her hands. ‘Over there? Along there?’

‘It’s apparently the hamlet itself which marks the point at which the three counties merge.’

‘Nothing obvious here. Not even a church.’

‘Only a possible Druidic processional way.’

This was what Athena White had told Lol although she hadn’t been here in many years.

The fact that they’d been directed here by Athena White was why Merrily was wearing, under her thin sweatshirt, her pectoral cross. Why she’d slipped a pocket Bible into her jeans and taped to the Volvo’s dash the text, as if she could ever forget it, of St Patrick’s Breastplate.

Merrily said, ‘What on earth happened here?’

Thinking, And why didn’t I know about it?

With the hamlet of Whiteleafed Oak out of sight, nearly half a mile behind them, she was standing on what might have been – might still be – a processional way.

Looking around in the calm of the evening. Finding that the place was instantly familiar and perceptibly strange. Familiar because of well-known landmarks, like the stone obelisk projecting like a stubby pencil from Eastnor Park in Herefordshire. And May Hill, in western Gloucestershire, identifiable from the Black Mountains to the Cotswolds by the stand of pines on its summit.

At the tail of the Malverns, three counties were drawn together by landmarks and legend. The closer countryside was scabbed with odd mounds before it scrolled out into low hills, woods and copses and isolated clumps of conifers, all of it textured like velvet in the softening light.

And it was strange because none of this seemed random. It was as though each feature of the landscape had a special significance, a role to play in some eternally unfolding drama. And if they carried on walking into the arena – and it did feel like an arena – they’d be given their own parts to play.

Perhaps this was the great lesson to be learned about all of nature, although there were only certain spots where you could receive it with any intensity. Places of – oh God, wake me up before I turn into Jane – palpably sentient scenery.

They were alone in the landscape but, as they followed a vague path over a shallow rise, the sunset turning flat fields into sandbanks, she couldn’t lose the feeling that something knew they were coming.