The visit to Bodmin Moor was a lot more mysterious than the famous Hurling Stones themselves we found out. Walking on the moors is like dodging craters on the moon.
Who doesn’t want to touch lichen stained stones that have stood for centuries absorbing energies from real demises, romances and ghostly beings?
Tucked into the crutch of Minions you will find Bodmin Moor in the northeast of Cornwall. Once known for its granite mining, it is now a world heritage site.
Excitement tugged me from all sides as I tread carefully across rugged and desolate grassland. I pressed my palms against those ancient stones and listened. I had captured a distress signal. It sounded like a whisper through time, could it be, but no it was coming from further afar, being carried on the breeze.
We hurried, there were two voices. We rushed over tors and rounded ditches and barrows, dry clumps of grass and yellow Gorse bushes in the direction of the stone engine house which exhibits the surrounding history and soars towards the wispy white and blue sky.
A sheep with red branding her base chakra pranced back and forth above a giant hollow, her bleating scented with fear. Our eyes circled the area like torches, the echo becoming more intriguing. The ewe ran down the dip and back trying desperately to catch our attention. There appeared to be nothing there but still we hear the cries in answer.
Clearly she is a mother and her dancing becomes more desperate. I spot a small hole and crouch into the ditch and peer inside. A black lamb is stuck deep within. It becomes clear that the hole tunnels deeper into the earth and my concern escalates as I push in my hand, that the lamb will tumble further and I won’t be able to reach her.
My heart races as I try pulling the woolly babe from what looks like a rabbit burrow. I tug and pull and clasp. Slowly I begin freeing her from Bodmin’s earthy clutches. Finally I’m embracing a local, my nostrils reeling in a blend of lanolin and soil. “Oh I have saved you from premature death.”
I step up and set her down on unsteady legs. Her mother expectantly waits for the reunion with her precious child as she wobbles her way.
Maternal kisses and hugs prove their loving bond and as baby suckles and replenishes on her teat, parental eyes radiate gratitude upon us with sweet satisfaction upon her face.
Our tale fell on unsympathetic ears at the small town cafe. The couple as nice and friendly as they were laughed it off with jokes of lamb roast and mint gravy and unconcern for their fleecy neighbours. We reluctantly accepted that this is just the way of farming folk.
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