Review of Field Sensing weekend by Brigid Smith

Dawn. I am driving through a lightening world, tree silhouettes crowding the twisting road. I am on my way to Rough Tor for a dawn experience. Field Sensing with
Anne-Marie Culhane; I have no idea what is going to happen.

In the car park at the foot of Rough Tor the group has gathered. We are all a bit bleary eyed, unsure. The sky is light now; fir trees, sheep, moor ponies it all seems quite ordinary and domesticated. We set off up the path and Anne-Marie stops us at the bottom of a spine of rock that leads up onto the Tor. She explains that we will now walk for a time very slowly and that as we move we will sense where we are putting our feet. She takes off her shoes and invites us to do so too if we want. She asks us to feel the ground under our feet – to get in touch with the Tor itself. Then we should sense our breath, how it moves within us. What can we see, hear, smell.

We set off, slightly self consciously, in a straggling line – a bit like a search party crossing a field. At first I try to keep Anne-Marie in the corner of my eye, see when she stops, when she moves and to keep in time with her. Soon though a new rhythm adjusts itself; I am feeling the wet grass under my feet. My toes curl into the springy turf, sometimes a rock is there, hard, ridged; all the time the sense of the immensity of the Tor, its great rocky self becomes more present. We are moving uphill steeply and it is quite difficult keeping the stillness, keeping the connection without wobbling.

As the movement becomes more fluid things begin to happen. The sun, so far only a lightness in the sky above the Tor, becomes a brilliant, burgeoning whiteness above us, emphasising the etched outline of the small Tor that we are approaching. Under my feet the dew on the brilliant green grass begins to dazzle my eyes; I become aware of tiny yellow flowers furled into knots deep in the grass. I am aware of other moor animals than the line of us that is moving slowly, slowly upwards. Animal dung is apparent everywhere - rabbits, sheep and ponies leave behind shining pellets from their own early morning climb. Crumbling, crenulated piles are becoming at one with the earth. The rocks are white, green, grey, silvered. I haven’t looked at the curled surfaces of crottal for such a long time; the roughness embraces the soles of my feet.

Now we stop, I put on my shoes and we set off, at an ordinary pace, for the highest point at the top of the spine. This becomes a pilgrimage. The sun is now haloing the stones at the top. Their irregular, balancing act becomes a network for sunrays that spill through the interstices, trace the gaps, appear to shoot out into the wider sky. There are piled clouds moving across high up but here we are just focused on the sun and the extraordinary way it is reaching out into the day.
Anne-Marie stops us at the outer wall of stones that encircle Showery Tor. Now we are again going to move slowly, approach the top itself, bare footed, silent, engrossed. There seems no embarrassment or uncertainty now. We are grouped around the Tor, each making our own way up. The sun has changed the landscape at my feet; the tiny flowers have unfolded into perfect painted yellow roses reflecting the light. I find sprigs of heather tucked between rocks, a small furze blossoming between two grey stones. Now we move upwards feeling the instability of some of the rocks, the patches of boggy marsh grass; it is necessary to concentrate the bottom of the feet; the breath slows, the thinking stops. As we reach the flat circle around the rocks several of us find we are raising our arms, stretching out into the air, feeling the wind passing under the fingers, hearing the sound of it blowing around the rocks. It is a salutation; spontaneous, awed. At the top the Tor seems immense. We finger its huge flat stones, sit on it, explore its surface with our fingers while Peter Herring tells about the long history. People lived here, walked, played, pro-created, worshipped for thousands of years. They built monuments all around the sightline of the Tor that captured it at moments of midsummer, dawn, dusk. We are looking towards the highest, most spectacular summit of Rough Tor; for people it was the cathedral of small outcrops and cairns, some created by humans, some natural or maybe supernatural?

Returning into civilisation, normality, there is one more sensory experience; unexpected but wonderful. We go to Misty Cottage for breakfast. It is a hobbit style feast. Homemade bread, jam, fruit and muesli, porridge and maple syrup spread on a long pine table. Through the window the whole tapestry of the Tor is in front of us. We are sense and perception. Everything tastes wonderful. Talk flows, laughter, a sense of joyful connection with each other too.

Dawn, dawning, becoming aware, being in touch. How much we need it.
As I climb I have in my mind the landscape experiences of Richard Long, those photographs of stone and horizons. The flat sweep of upward grassed hill reminds me of the surprising paintings of Kurt Schwitters that he did when living in the Lake District. Art remembers and distils experience; performing art led by an artist with perception and awareness brings a new dimension into my own understanding and experience. Thank you Anne-Marie.

Dusk. I nearly didn’t go. The day was shrouded in mist punctuated by wind and rain. The road full of wet tourists aimlessly driving, looking for amusement. What was I doing at 3.30 in the afternoon in the car park looking at – just a horizon of grey mist? So we approached the Tor, this time in a line that moved into nothingness. Every now and then the mist swirled, boiled upwards and a faint outline of rock appeared momentarily. Now I started not just to feel the spongy, wet ground under my feet but also to sense the mist. This is the place where I am and it is not static. Mist moves all the time. It has, now and then, a faint lightness at the bottom. At other times it roils in deep grey swirls; it obliterates but also, suddenly, becoming part of it, feeling the water on my face, tasting the rain, feeling wind through my fingers, it opens. Its opening takes me in because I am here, walking so slowly, so feelingly, up the spine of rock it is hiding. So the perception widens. We reach Showery Tor and its name is quite inappropriate for the intense rain and wind that is now soaking us. It is wonderful; a gift of water and sense, an elevation of the spirit. We cross slowly to Little Rough Tor then slide quickly down the hill pursued by rain above and water underfoot. Three intrepid walkers go on to Rough Tor itself, for the rest of us the thought of hot tea and a dry room is irresistible.

At Misty Cottage we again enjoy an amazing tea and the magic of bread broken together releases us into talk. Experts give us an understanding of the archaeology, the ancient networks of the place. I learn the meaning of the word sublime. We think about the people who once lived here, how long it was inhabited, how its art had time to grow and mature – I cannot imagine the span of 25,000 years in which prehistoric life flourished. We talk about a ‘cognitive landscape’, pursuing a dialogue about what is actually out there. This becomes linked in the talk with experience of now-ness that is part of the performance, part of the occurrence that we have just taken part in. How sensing, deep penetration gives ‘now-ness’ and how place becomes part of ourselves as we open to its being.

I learned so much, in sun and mist, rain and wind. I became part of two groups of lovely, open people who participated in the performance, became both actors and perpetrators. It was a wonderful experience. My favourite thought that I took away with me, that I shall think about and try to explore, was about the link between narrative and art. Roger said, ‘Artefacts give us an insight into the person who made it,’ so that we begin to sense the story and the place. Our perception changes and we open up to both the thing and the place. I have been at the heart of a narrative - a good place for a writer to spend a weekend!

Dawn and Dusk. Sun and Rain. Light and Dark. The polarities have heightened the perceptions. I walk now a little more aware, a little more in touch with place and self.

Brigid Smith