Many years ago I got a book from a chap that I went to school with in my teenage years. “Forgotten Places on the North Coast” by the late Dr Jon Marshall and I discovered a whole new world of “things” to remember. This is one in the graveyard of Camus old church was one of first I went to because it was close to where i lived and easily accessible. Each time I find it again it is like the first time I came upon the stone, hidden in the tall grass at the edge of the graveyard, I felt as though I had stumbled into a doorway. It looked so small, so ordinary, a three inch deep circle worn into basalt, cradling a pool of rainwater, but it holds a quiet gravity, as if it were listening. I crouched beside it, ran my fingers along its rim, and felt the grooves of countless hands before mine. It seemed to breathe with the land, with the souls at rest around it, with the river whispering not far beyond.
I always bring a stone when I visit. Nothing special, just a pebble I have picked up , Denise will understand,an interesting stone can always be found somewhere in our pockets. It will be one that feels right in my hand or just looks right. I set it at the edge of the hollow and circle it around, seven times clockwise if I wish to bless, or counterclockwise if I have a burden to lay down. As the stone turns, the air shifts. It’s not dramatic, no thunder or lightning, just a sense of being noticed, it kinda feels as though some ancient presence pauses to listen.
When I’ve made my wish, or my prayer, though I don’t know anymore if there’s much difference, I take the stone down to the river Bann. I throw it into the water and watch it sink, carrying whatever words or silence I’ve pressed into it. The river takes it, rolls it among its currents, and I like to think it bears the message onward, to the sea, to the world, to whatever gods still walk unseen.
This place has never felt like ruins to me. The graveyard is not a sorrowing place but as Val calls it a “garden of souls”, tended by spirits that live in the yew, thorn, nettle and moss, all watched over by this quiet ancient basalt stone. It links me to those who came before, to supplicants who bent low with their own hopes, fears, and griefs. Each time I return, I add to the thread of wishes that makes up the tapestry of time going back millennia.
I don’t ask for much. Often just peace, for myself, for strangers I’ll never know, for corners of the world where peace seems impossible. The stone never answers outright, but it holds the wish, as it has held so many, and that is enough. The wheel of time turns on, as it always has, and I walk away knowing I’ve placed something good of the essence of myself in the keeping of the Camus Ballaun stone which lies almost forgotten at the edge of an ancient burial place , and to me , that is good.