Glastonbury, Somerset: healing & hippies


The most mystical town in England is Glastonbury and I love it. During my last visit there was a special healing weekend taking place at the Chalice Well. Despite heavy rain, my husband, Franc and I liberated our feet, rolled up our trouser legs and splashed around in the healing pool. 


The water pouring into Chalice Well’s surrounding garden purports to have healing energies and has a rusty red tinge due to its high iron content. Legend has it that Joseph of Arimeathea, uncle of the Virgin Mary, brought over the Holy Grail chalice containing drops of Jesus’s crucifixion blood which has since been buried here.


We then necked the metallic fluid from another – purer – source as a top up tonic before I disappeared for 30 minutes of powerful Reiki in a nearby tent. That night whilst sleeping in a B&B I dreamt of a vivid purple sparkly wall plaque which stated “God smiles upon you”.

The iconic image for Glastonbury is The Tor, an unmissable hill, the top of which monks used as a retreat around the mid 400’s. In the early 1100’s St Michael’s chapel was built on its summit which then had to be rebuilt in the 1300s following its destruction by an earthquake. An earthquake possibly caused by the fierce vibrations stirred up by menstruating ladies banished there by men who believed them to be possessed by the devil.

All that remains today is the impressive, if roofless, chapel tower which stands directly over the St Michael leyline, a completely straight and invisible pathway devised in Neolithic times for geographical purposes but believed to be mystically energetic. This leyline spans across England from Great Yarmouth out to St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall, encompassing sacred sites on route, such as the stone circle at Avebury and links to Stonehenge via the St Mary leyline.

Nearing the tower I suddenly felt my heart tingle and be pulled forcefully outwards, which interested me greatly since Glastonbury is known in esoteric terms as the heart chakra of the world. An archaeologist, whilst nursing a pair of dowsing rods, told us an amazing story of how he had healed his brain tumour by standing on the warm leyline facing the tower. He did this an hour before sunrise and an hour before sunset for a couple of months, politely requesting that he be released from his malady. The doctor dealing with his terminal case was staggered at the xray results!


Next up we visited the large ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, a former monastery, the oldest ground level Christian church in the world and famous for the alleged final resting stop of the bones of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. The surrounding grounds of the Abbey were delightful to meander around and were heaving with apple trees. Actually the trees weren’t anything unusual since the county of Somerset is well known for its apple growth, giving rise to the many regional varieties of cider.  The high street Co-op sold the fruity beverage in huge canisters which may go some way to explaining the local newspaper headline “Man falls asleep whilst burgling house and gets caught”.   

Oddly a couple of weeks before my trip to Glastonbury a stranger had emailed me after seeing my website and suggested I may like to meet with a spiritual advisor and healer he knew who was based there. Never one to miss a “coincidental” opportunity I made contact with Ian Wolstenholme ( Ian, with over 30 years of spiritual training was totally understanding and guided me in an easy manner.

Ian’s down to earth approach to spirituality is “enlightenment is an experience of living in and of this reality ~ not one of transcending it”. I up-tipped a truckload of concerns in front of him before lying down for Tibetan Pulse Healing. Whilst I was physically uncomfortable for a couple of days, this session went a huge way to relieving me of burdensome thoughts and sprucing up my spirit.

I left my appointment with a signed copy of Ian’s book and reconvened with Franc at our car following his cycle out to Cadbury Castle, a very plain looking hillock, but allegedly King Arthur’s Camelot. Ignoring my idea that he treat himself to the long white druid outfit complete with wooden staff we had passed daily in a shop window, he proclaimed “I have had it with this hippy shit!”. Before I could respond “peace, man”, our belongings had been slung across the rear seats and we were headed for the nearby, more conventional, city of Wells (below).



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