I present the third in my series of seasonal illustrations; 'Sumer Is Icumen In'. (Watercolour, ink, pen and gouache on paper.)
To celebrate the engorging sun, as midsummer approaches; a palimpsest of folkloric and mythological symbolism pertaining to nature, the beasts and birds, the fecundity of the wood and the meadow, the lost gods of Britain, and the sacredness of the growth that surrounds at this time of the year. The sources of image and idea woven into this piece are numerous and I would like to explore them further in a later post.
The original scan was huge, so I have had to reduce it significantly for web, in addition I had to go through a lot of careful adjustment to the colour and light once scanned, in order for it to resemble the original as closely as possible. Unfortunately this has been difficult due to the complex arrangement of the composition, and the loss of depth during scanning, and to appreciate the image I feel it is necessary to view it 'in the flesh'. It was certainly designed to be an artifact, a page from a book, rather than a digital image, so this isn't it's best form. It also seems to vary depending on the computer monitor display through which it is viewed, as it's appearance on my own Mac-book (which was as close as possible to the original) now seems to look incorrect on this PC monitor, being over-saturated and tinted differently, which is worrying. Hopefully it will look alright on most screens, but I'll warn that you may be seeing an image that differs somewhat from what I've intended.
The lyrics used are taken from the iteration of the medieval "Cuckoo Song" as sung in the classic British horror film 'The Wickerman', an element into which I will delve a bit deeper through the aforementioned later analysis.
Arising from the plain; a hill, its like unknown, it’s age undreamed. It trembled once upon a time, So once it was believed.
There I did wander restless, Upon it’s slopes I took to climb It’s sylvan hide, flesh of lime; now drowning in the depths of time. And whose words there echoed on the wind? Were they his? Could they be mine? I saw them scattered on the peak, I saw them splinter, Saw them shine. Such words a poet hopes to speak, Borne biting on the breeze, Seven whistlers passing thence Between the Titan’s teeth. Who whispered? Warbled? Chattered? Choked? Whose sorrow sang? Whose anger broke? And who did hang, Above the world, Atop the stone; Eyes alight, Heart aloft, Alone?
Arising from the plain, I stood, My like unknown, my age undreamed, And there-upon I trembled, And there at once; believed.
(A poem of The Wrekin hill, included in 'All Gods Around the Wrekin'. I'm venturing up the old mountain tommorow by a secret path...)
“By the side of the Roman road between Ruckley and Acton Burnell, and half-way down the Causeway Bank, there rises out of a ferny, flowery bank a most beautiful spring, which drips into a deep rocky basin, partly natural, of great grey slabs of stone, placed there by the hand of man. Behind it rises the ancient Causeway Wood, with its yews and hollies, its ash and mountain-ash trees. The spring is never known to fail, even in the driest seasons. Its waters, say the folk, are always cold in summer and warm in winter and, needless to add, they are good for sore eyes. Here the Devil and his imps appear in the form of frogs. Three frogs are always seen together; these are the imps; the largest frog, being Satan himself, remains at the bottom and shows himself but seldom.” (http://shropshirehistory.com/religion/wells.htm)
I visited what seems like a good candidate for the Frog Well, though the true identity of it seems to be uncertain. This was a spring beside the causeway road, and though very obsucred by greenery, fallen branches and a modern drain, there was still discernible some form of ancient stone masonry around it. There is no longer a visible pool, but it appeared as though it had been heavily altered in order to channel the water along the roadside, and there may still be a pool where the water now flows under a rusted drain cover. The Devil, or the archaic genius loci in frog form, who gave the well its character, may well still lurk beneath; but his existence may well now only be a sad, dank and lightless station. At least when folk cruelly labelled him as satanic, he was remembered if nothing else... today, who would think to pay him respect in this hidden place?
The causeway mentioned in the quote above is the ominously named 'Devil's Causeway', a stretch of ancient Roman road now covered by one of modern tarmac, but upon which one can apparently expect an encounter with the Devil himself if it is crossed at midnight. The position of the well beside the road, and even the presence of a gnarled Yew tree above, add further intrigue to the possibility that this was once a sacred site, visited by travellers to Wroxeter and beyond. From just below the location of the spring, as the land levels out, there is a fantastic view of the Wrekin ahead, whose shadow once so mythically defined this enchanted landscape.
(Note: I am still very uncertain about whether or not this is the 'true' Frog Well. There is another potential site but it is further away from the Causeway and I was not able to find it on this venture.)
