Van tales 6: The Land Reveals

As my journey round the sacred sites of Scotland continued, I quickly visited Elgin Cathedral which didn’t do much for me, then carried on heading west along the coastal road. I was headed for Findhorn. 

Findhorn

I arrived into the tidy grounds of the world famous Findhorn eco village. I had arranged to attend an immersion week. It was facilitated by a German multi-disciplinary spiritual teacher and forester, who fancied himself a medicine man, and it was a chance to learn more about the community and to connect spiritually with the land. We seemed to have a weird kind of bond from the beginning I couldn’t quite name yet. 

What I read between the lines from my stay there was this. It had its heyday when the original founders were still alive but then it lost its way. The competing interests from all the different stakeholders were too much to navigate in a way that would help to preserve its authenticity and original spirit, and a whole bunch of people got pissed off. To the point where someone who’s lived and worked there for a really long time felt so betrayed that he burned their communal sanctuary space to the ground. It was a symbol of the place having lost its heart. Everyone there was very careful about what they said. I spent quite a bit of time with Jonathan Caddy and he was a nice, well-intentioned and intelligent man, but I don’t think he was interested in rocking any boats nearly enough. 

Having spent a lot of time among activists who were looking at low-cost eco housing alternatives, or simply just hacking together their own out in the woods somewhere, I was looking forward to seeing some examples of interesting architecture that might solve real problems for real people. What I saw was a Disney version of this. Some gimmicky buildings made out of whiskey barrels by rich Americans as a pet project. Wealthy Europeans wandering around like they were in a Swiss village. The senior manager who’d helped set up the housing side of things originally had just returned, puffed up from years of veneration. I asked him about his plans to consider Findhorn’s potential as a leader in the affordable alternative eco-housing space but he just looked at me like I was some crazy hippie. There was nothing revolutionary left here. 

To name it plainly, the retreat facilitator was a narcissist. I didn’t realise what that meant at that stage. But what I recognised on some level was my own trauma pattern being activated in response. A weird sense of familiarity around him that didn’t feel quite safe. Later, when I was invited back to be his ‘assistant’ would come the kicker – the sexual come ons from someone thirty years my senior. I’m glad I reported him. I just wish I’d learned my lesson better for what was to come in Peru. 

But despite all that, I learned a lot about the land and the complexity of the ecosystem there. The best bit for me was getting to park my van on the outskirts of the complex – right between the woods and the pony field. The ponies felt like unicorns to me they were so other-worldly. That spot brought something alive in me, some dormant magic, and once the retreat had ended I spent the whole remaining time there under a rainbow. Regardless of its shortcomings, the energy of the actual land there is still something special.

I continued to stay in the Findhorn area for a couple of blissful weeks, parking up in the forest by the River Findhorn And in stunning bays where I’d watch gentle sunrises and sunsets over the ocean. But my next place beckoned. 

Loch Moy

This was one that felt very alive. It was the centre point of the pentagram of sacred sites of Scotland on David Furlong’s list. And I felt a strong compulsion to go. I parked up and walked down the hill to the banks of the Loch. The centre point was on a little private island in the middle of it. It was linked with the MacKenzie clan was all I knew, but as I tuned in, I got a lot of downloads about this being a central strategic location for the Jacobite rebellion. It was a kind of vortex, or portal, and had a pivotal energetic influence on the fate of my ancestors, and of Scotland. 

As there were no boats I decided to swim. I didn’t want to go naked so I just left my shoes and waded in. When I finally got to the island, I climbed up onto the banks and was greeted by an amanita toadstool mushroom. They were growing all over the island. It looked like no human had been there for many years. Graceful trees, long grass and wildflowers, rabbits darting and all kinds of birds playing around overhead. My mind felt like I was trespassing, but my body felt invited. I walked to the centre, where an obelisk stood. An obelisk. I didn’t try to figure it out too much. I just allowed myself to merge with the energy of the land, and felt like I was in a kind of cosmic washing machine. Once fully spun, I swam back to shore, collected my shoes and cooked some pasta in my van. Job done. I could feel Culloden was next. I just had to prepare myself for it. 

Culloden

This was another site that was very significant for my ancestors. They would have fought there. Fought, and lost. I could sense the healing work that needed to be done. My father has carried the wound of our ancestors his whole life, manifesting as bitterness and resentment as his rage is too much to hold. I knew the grief, the records lived somewhere in me too. I didn’t head straight for the battlefield. Instead, I went to the well. The site was close to the Belinus line – the central spine of Albion and the UK, with magnetic feminine pole snaking around it. The well tapped that feminine energy. The Clootie Well (or St Mary’s Well) was a sacred healing spot much frequented by the locals for centuries. 

I walked through the pine-scented woods and followed the dirt paths to find it. When I got there, I saw trees already wrapped with ribbons and toys and gifts left as offerings. I found a spot tucked away by the spring and connected. The energy felt old and wise. Like a counsel of matriarchs, not just one. There was a gravitas here that seemed to mirror the gravity of what happened in this area. I felt the matriarchs reach out to me, and support me as I collected a bottle of the water to bring to the site of the devastation. They seemed to nod at me with quiet approval. I bowed, and quietly left. 

I went to the actual site on the Belinus line, and connected with dragon energy there too, another field somewhere, tapping into the fortification of the land. And with that, I was ready. There was a strange quietness in the air as I approached the site. It felt like the living natural world instinctively still felt that this place was for the dead. I walked around memorial after memorial, noting the names of all the clans being honoured one by one. McDonald, Steward, MacKenzie, Campbell, MacLeod, Cameron,…

I looked for ‘Morrison’. Couldn’t find it. That was the weirdest thing. We didn’t have one. I felt numb. Eventually, I found a mixed memorial with miscellaneous bunch of names on there. Finally, ‘Morrison’. Felt like an afterthought. I took the well water. Poured half for the whole site. Victors and losers. Maybe we all won. Maybe we all lost. Who’s to say? But I felt a part of our ancestral soul had been lost there. So I called my dad, and had him on speaker as I poured the water over our memorial. I held the intention for healing and to alchemise whatever was unresolved. And then I headed back to the van. I don’t know if it did anything, but I felt a wave of appreciation coming through from my ancestors, and that was enough. 

Fairy Glen Falls

That task having been completed I felt lighter and continued my journey north. I’d heard of a waterfall very connected with faerie lore so I skirted round Inverness and parked up close to the place. I was developing a real weak spot for faeries. At the time I didn’t really understand too much about them though. I just knew I had to be there, and I walked along the stream to the site to make my offering. I’m not entirely sure what they were up to but at one point I went to offer a coin and realised I’d ‘lost’ my wallet. Worrying, I went looking for it back down the bottom of the waterfall area, climbing back down a steep set of steps. By this point the place was closing and everyone was leaving. I got to the bottom, now alone, and I could feel their presence with me. I ended up in a kind of ceremony, just sitting there while I could sense ‘things’ happening around me on the astral. Having completed, I went back up and found my wallet had reappeared in my handbag. 

St Mary’s Church

I was driving north now towards the ferry port for Orkney on my way to the Ring of Brodgar – a key site on David Furlong’s list and a place that was calling to me with strong ET vibes. I knew I had to go and do something there. I just didn’t know what. I happened to see a sign for St Mary’s Church and something pulled me to turn off and head to this tiny little churchyard in the edge of a bay. I don’t know how many St Mary’s Churches I must have passed in my life, but none of them grabbed me like this did. 

Alone, I trekked along the little path and weaved through the rubble to sit amongst the ruins. It felt so peaceful, powerfully maternal and also fragile. So…her. My surname, Morrison, in Gaelic was actually Mac Gille Mhuire, meaning ‘Servant of Mary’. My ancestors came from the Isle Lewis, not far now from here, and I felt something very old being touched as I meditated in the desolate place. I wanted to camp the night there, and was heading back to the van for my things when I checked my map and realised something. The nuclear power plant Dounreay was right next door. 

The whole register of the place shifted and a lump grew in my throat. The beach had had radioactive fuel fragments washing up on it since the 60s. Still are. The site won't be safe for 300 years. What stood out was a feeling of desecration. The neglect and abandonment of the sacred feminine felt like a personal gut punch, and needless to say the place felt unclean for camping. I honoured her and left some offerings, then hurried away, processing the grief of it a little further down the road.

The rest of the road was pretty smooth and clear. The ‘West Highland Way’ is a well-built circuit that many people follow in their mobile homes, caravans, and by bike. I felt part of a wave of energy heading north. Next up, Orkney. 

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