High above, where the old Thames does flow, is a sacred space.
A growing commuter village is crawling slowly down the hillside, towards the railway station. Within the confines of the old village a hidden baptism pond glistens in the febuiary light, its surface scattered with leaves, a work of art creaturedby nature. A few feet away, an ancient burial mound and madcap gothic manor house peer down. Sleeping silent below all the ground, the charred remains of an Iron Age fort gives little of its secrets away.
On a still winter’s day, I met a fair lady walking her dog up and around this ancient burial tomb. We spent a goodly while talking about life and of who went before us, and those who walk corridors to the red brick mansion set beside us. The friendly lady lived beside this huge gothic pile and had in her pocket a small side key, to fit a simple side door into the old place. She let me in and proceeded to escort me to where a group of Buddhist monks were chanting. I sat for a while in quiet contemplation, as these figures with their backs to my front, sat inch perfect still, chanting their mantra over and over in unison.
Amidst rhythmic sound waves my mind began to drift into different spaces, my eyes bouncing between the pictures of natural wonders which clung to the walls and the winter light streaming through Victorian glass. The room was warm and painted white, scentless, as this circular sound was quietly taking its place. Wooden rafters criss-crossed above me, gathering the sound’s ebb and flow, gently amplifying.
After a while I regained my other worldly senses, gathered my belongings and, as I had entered, quietly slipped from the room. The monks oblivious to my presence continued uninterrupted, the human sounds slowly fading as I strode the courtyard, under its looming archway, built no doubt to accommodate great unmechanised stately carriages, the last blast of horse power before combustion revved its post Great War engine.
The ground was rigid with cold, the embers of the day setting slowly far beyond an avenue of giant cedars. Beside the current house sits a Saxon burial mound, in a churchyard now devoid of its former church - once one of a slender number to sit beside to a pre-christian burial. It might be possible that many more churches were built on-top of former pagan places of worship, but as the Taplow mound was never used as such, so a church grew alongside, acknowledging the importance of the Saxon warrior who was laid to rest just a few feet away.
The artefacts of Tæppa’s mound were excavated in the late 19th century and are now housed within the British Museum. Note to self: I really must pay a visit soon.