Arthur’s Seat. Theory’s surrounding it’s name abound. There’s something thrilling about a debate over a historical landmark. Legends add intrigue to an otherwise predictable history. France and England will always fight. Kings will steal land. Wars are pretty well predicted. But legends…legends are unpredictable, mysterious, and will never be solved. Archaeology may add another theory. I’m positive that if evidence pointing to King Arthur’s identity as a German were irrefutible, all the world would still consider him as Brit. Why? Legend. It cannot be argued, even by truth.

It could be King Arthur’s seat, it could be a location of achery practice, or it could be the seat of the gods.

During the entire trip, I’ve felt completely safe. Even when lost, I’ve never felt desperate for shelter. Edinburgh feels safer than any of the places before. The mountains feel as though they are watching over us while we sleep, protecting, sheltering…stable and secure against the horizon.

The mountain itself looms over the city, appearing like a little stool for a giant, as if he or she may just saunter up to the edge, sit down, scoot to the edge, and dangle his or her legs off, swinging and kicking.

What if there were such places? At night, God himself comes down and sits, watching over the cities built by His people, on the mountains molded by His hands? Or perhaps He sends his angels? Perhaps they run, and jump off the edge, a contest to see who can cross the divide without a beat of their immortal wings.

It wouldn’t surprise me, really. The higher to heaven I climb, the closer to God I feel. The wind rushes through my like a wave of His Spirit. His voice sings on the air, His hand moves the grass. His Spirit speaks to mine, ever so quietly, but reassuringly, softly, kindly…beautifully.

Thank you, Father for these five weeks. Our days on earth are but a breath compared with eternity, and I am so blessed to spend only a breath of time in the closest thing to paradise this side of eternity. On top of this cliffs, reading in parks, writing in coffee shops, I feel Your pleasure. I have seen as You see, even if only for a short time. My heart is full. Your Word says, “Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.” You keep your promises. 

In A Knight’s Tale, when William announces that he is indeed going to the joust, Roland says, “All good things must come to an end, let’s end them together.” Hiking today with people who only weeks ago I could’ve have distinguished from any other random stranger on the street, I was reminded of Roland’s words. These people have engraved their names and stories on my heart. They cannot be separated from mine. Even if distance and time succeed in separate us, our stories are still intertwined irrevocably.

So as my adventures pull to a close, a top Arthur’s Seat, the only thought through my mind is how fitting it is, standing atop a mountain with all Britain at my feet. It’s a beautiful beautiful country, and these are beautiful beautiful memories.

 Standing below the spire of St. Helen’s church, I am thrilled by the presence of legend. As the week progressed, the theme returned to me. The following is my attempt at deciphering, in a very small fragment of raw thought, why I’m so attracted to legends:

As far back as I can remember I’ve felt a tug in my soul toward legends, myths, and fairy stories. I can hardly explain it, but I always have. As I grew older, it became a love of fiction in general, and yet a thrill shoots through me as I stand on land marked with by legend.

St. Helen, the mother of Constantine, is believed to have built a church in her own honor on this spot. The current church stands on its foundation, a foundation built with a nail from Christ’s Holy Cross.

The legend thrills my very soul.

I’ve always been attracted to legends, and although the reason is still only developed slightly, I think I’m beginning to understand why.

 

 

 

“I believe that legends and myth are largely made of truth, and indeed present aspects of it that can only be perceived in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear.” – J.R.R Tolkien

They say that every lie is rooted in truth. The truth may be hard to find, but it’s existed at one time, no matter how twisted and mangled it has become. If I’ve learned anything during my life, in regards to truth, I’ve seen that truth must always find a way to breath fresh air. By continuing to seek truth, you’ll find it.

Tolkien says it correctly – these truths “must always reappear,” they cannot remain hidden for long.

And yet, I must admit, they do stay hidden. Truths are not all meant to be revealed, it seems. I understand this puts a majestic blockade before my theory, for there are some truths that will never be revealed, no matter how long the human race searches.

And yet, I ponder, they do stay hidden. King Arthur is no closer to becoming a historical figure than Winnie the Pooh (okay, that may be a stretch, but the point is still made). But that doesn’t mean there isn’t truth in his story. Just like Christianity – the truth can be found, but it must be believed first. But legends cannot be boiled down that simply. Legends are believed or disbelieved, like religions, and yet they are fundamentally different. Even then, however, religions are built off of a legend of some sort. All legends then are built on top of a sort of truth. All legends have some truth to speak.

“History has its truth, and so has legend. Legendary truth is of another nature than historical truth. Legendary truth is invention whose result is reality. Furthermore, history and legend have the same goal; to depict eternal man beneath momentary man.” –Victor Hugo

If we never discover the history of a legend, we can at least discover truth. Even if the real Camelot is never unearthed, we can glean truth from the legend. St. Helen’s story may never be revealed as history. It was so long ago, and so much from that era is unsure. But we can learn from the story. She claimed to have found a nail from Christ’s cross while visiting Jerusalem – legend places it in the church foundation. True or not, shouldn’t this be a metaphorical truth for all our lives? Shouldn’t our churches be built on the cross, and our mission defined by the nails in His hands? Should we not have some daily reminder of His sacrifice for us, and the miracle that ensued?

Legends, as Victor Hugo says, are truth. They may not tell the stories of actual men and women who actually lived, breathed, and walked, but these stories and characters teach us something about our selves, or how we might be. That is the beauty of legends – the stories they speak into our very souls. They are individual, and very personal. One legend may not say the same thing to you as it would to another individual. Perhaps that is why I love legends – they speak to my soul’s desire for greatness. Perhaps that is why, throughout history, humanity has been intrigued by the legends that cannot be changed into truth. King Arthur still remains only a legend, but that won’t keep people from searching for the truth, all the while they learn something about themselves. And therein is the pain and beauty.

Wisdom is a treasure hunt. It’s always within one’s potential to attain and grow, but never easy to find. We are born with vague instructions engraved on our soul, the outlines of dreams, desires, and despairs. And yet we are given no map, only the promise of heaven and a helping hand to guide.

Yesterday, when time ceased to exist, it was easier to imagine a world disappeared with the passing of time. Today, closer to the ground, a modern fence surrounding a little pool at the top of a brook, it is harder to imagine. And yet, we have our instructions. Engraved not on our hearts, like our aspirations and passions, but instead engraved in history, immortalized by Wordsworth’s love of beauty.

“If from the public way you turn your steps

up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll

You will suppose that with an upright path

your feet must truggle; in such bold ascent

the pastoral mountains front you, face to face But courage! for around that boisterous brook

The mountains have all opened out themselves

and made a hidden valley of their own.”

The group dispersed in search of the immortal spot, ruined by time or turmoil. I fall behind, and walk alone. How pleasant it is, to walk surrounded by nothing save nature, and yet with friends within short call. Thick ferns cover the landscape from valley to peak, purple foxgloves stand erect, ruler of these parts. My soul refreshed, my spirit renewed, and yet my feet tread loudly across grass. Along the brook, however, my footsteps quiet. Don’t tarry too long or the bog may claim you, traveling with your shoe, or keeping for itself. The rocks are slippery, shiny water covered. The brook, crisper and cooler than the air beckons, Come, soak your tired feet. Rest here. But knowledge is to be had. Beauty is to be seen. A relic of the slow passing of time awaits  up the brook. Wordsworth tells me so.

 ”No habitation can be seen; but they

Who journey thither find themselves alone

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites

That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude;

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell

But for one object which you might pass by,

Might see and notice not.”

And there it is, a ruin of stone. Rock upon rock piled waist high, four walls, four corners, one wall fallen, one wall standing tall. The passing of time has been here, prosperity and joy perhaps as well. But prosperity and joy are often short lived, in comparison to the hardship of life. War and desolation this place as also seen, war of the body and of the soul, as well as desolation of the spirit.

“…It was the first

Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men

Whom I already loved ; — not verily

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills

Where was their occupation and abode.”

It’s widely known, but not so easily accepted that a great reward often succeeds adversity. Each pain and labored breath piles more satisfaction to the reward waiting at the end. Life is like climbing a mountain.

It seems to me, that although I walk often enough, that sometimes, when I know the reward will be great, my body physically fails. Perhaps my subconscious dictates my physical fitness for the day, or perhaps I’m simply less fit than I expected. Either way, the climb was difficult, as are most climbs if you look at it.

Steady and evenly up the side of the hill, crossing across through the forest, around trees, over fallen trunks, careful not to slip on the moss, we journeyed. The walk itself was not difficult in nature, but the sheer length of it, with few plateaus, if any, was more winding than the actual climb. Perhaps this too is true of life: some journey’s aren’t as difficult as they are long, and it the length and steadiness that make one grow weary, rather than the actual difficulty. Emotionally, I’m in one of those places now.

But at the top, once the hill is climbed, time itself seems to stop. What seems as the entire world, stretched out beneath us, tiny buildings seem no more than playthings when compared against ones hand. The world and its cares cease to exist, except for the interruptions of a plane, or the wind. But even these things seem unreal. One doesn’t look into the sky to see the airplanes, but instead looks straight ahead, or even slightly higher. The wind doesn’t breeze, but instead speaks once kind, and then again angry. The waters far below have changed from blue to shades of gray and black, unchanging and still, reflecting the light of the sun, now and again peeking out from the clouds.

Everything here seems to tell a story. The wind narrates the sometimes joyous, often times melancholy tale of all that was, reminding us of what will be. What have these ancient rocks seen? What would those indentions, like mouths carved in stone, what would they tell us if they could speak? Would they recount fond memories of poets and artists, or of obnoxious tourists who respect the experience not the land, or would they tell of wars, ancient wars, skirmishes brought perhaps even to the top of that mountain.

After a time the wind turns gentle once more, reminding us that we must go down sometime. Our lives cannot be spent always on the hills. There is joy in the valleys also. And so, our hearts left at the peak, we descend. The descending forest reminisces of elves and fairies, ancient and mythical beasts all gone towards adventure. The real adventure is below. A forest once the symbol of breathlessness and toil has become a quiet, cool haven of wonder and awe. How could we not see? How could we not acknowledge the paradise we had been in below? We were looking too much to the sky. But there is joy in the valley. We may regret the descent, from our perch at the peak, but we mustn’t forget that we also hold on to the valley, when we’re standing at the beginning of a journey.