I walk up the hill. The purple heather parts before me. A wintry day with light snow falling from the trees. This has been my destination for as long as I can remember. Fate has found many ways to prevent me from being here. A sick cat, a sick mother, my own flu. Leading to delay after delay, until I thought maybe I’m done with this whole thing. Perhaps they do not want me to come here. Yet I had to. Whilst there was still a reserve of energy in my bones, I knew that I would know and taste this land before I ended up in the grave.

Holding my stick of yew, I placed it precariously on the solid ground as I moved higher and higher, knowing that there is nothing solid to hold onto and then I get a peak at the top and there they are.

I need a moment to catch my breath. Panting slightly, I see them just as I imagined; beckoning me into the centre of their concentric circle. I feel the ancients - the mother with the streaking white hair, her necklace of jade dangling over her chest, making an incantation to the God of rain.