Letter to Share

Introduction to Letter to Share

Hello Friends,

Below is the poem, “Prophecy”, and the “Letter to Share”. The poem was written autumn 1996, three years before my first solo trip that led to writing, “Letter to Share”. This poem was written quickly as soon as I woke from a dream, and it was the first time I saw “The Presence”. The scene in the dream and poem are referred to in the “Letter to Share”.
My first pilgrimage was in December 1999. I originally went on it so that I could research my ancestors, the Widgery’s. This was before we had such abundant resources online to research family lines. This was back when we had to rely on snail mail, micro fish, family documents and going to look at church records in churches.

Most importantly of all, though, it was this trip that initiated my spiritual experiences that would begin in earnest a month later.

I would like to mention as well that this is a letter that is really a Memoir. It is quite long in length. Had I shortened it though, it would have lost much of its depth.

Thank you for reading- Jody

Prophecy

Autumn 1996

By Jody Rector

The face is fathoms deep
I know the Presence well
I followed Him to a rust-covered wasteland
That spread forever to the northeast.
To the southwest a muddy dead sea
Laid strangely still
Within the orange land.
Near the bank stood an ancient, gnarled tree
Bare twisted arms spread out wide
Silhouetted dark gray against a rust tinted sky
One limb stretching out
Gnarled finger pointing towards the sea
While the Presence stood draped in gray
Back turned toward me
Standing solid and straight
Looking up at the Judgement Tree

Letter to Share

December 1999

To Share:

Everything that happens in this life happens for a reason and it is for us to understand and learn the lesson. (A thought that came to me today after finishing this letter.)
So, I will begin my story—

I have always had this desire, no drive to go to England by myself. On a pilgrimage of sorts, to both the places of my ancestors and to the sacred sites of Britain. This desire I suppose, was a desire to stretch my limit. To see if I could do it and be able in the end to say, “I did it!” This desire was impossible to ignore and still be content. So, that is what this trip was; a test of myself. However, I did not see it as that when I left. I did not have time to think about it and I simply had this desire to sling a pack on my back and go- not in the normal, get in the car and go, but alone and by using public transportation and on foot. Why it had to be that way I had no idea. It just had to be. Kind of like the path one follows with Spirit because that too must be alone and it is not always easy, although rewarding.

I will begin my trip in the middle because that is when my experiences began to happen. I had just spent two days in Berwick-Upon-Tweed on the northwest coast of Northumbria, up by Scotland. I arrived in the middle of a winter storm with gusts of wind up to 60 miles an hour. This blood-drenched border town, having passed from Scottish to English possession several times through history, sits right on the north coast, and in the bitter gray of the storm, it was indeed thrilling. Nonetheless, I love storms and the wild ocean, and at Berwick, I found both. Yet, I had another reason for being there, besides the turbulent history of the town and ocean- and that was to have access to Holy Island, 10 miles away by bus.

Even in summer, Holy Island is hard to get to. In fact, the only way to the island is by waiting until the tide goes out and then crossing over the causeway, which stretches between mudflats and sand dunes. You can’t even get there by boat- and in the winter it is near to impossible. Between the months of October and April, only one bus crosses back and forth, one day a week- and I was on that bus, the only passenger. The driver looked at me as though were nuts, but I went to the island anyway and walked the coast, collecting rocks from the North Sea, and then hung out in the ruins of Lindisfarne Abbey, which was one of the founding Priories in Early Britain.

I spent all day there, ignoring the biting cold, and except for a few villagers and two Christian pilgrims, carrying crosses, on their way south to Canterbury, east of London, I had the whole island to myself. What a wonderful day!
By late afternoon I was ready to head back, but the bus driver never came to get me. Luckily the owner of the small grocery store in the village was headed to Berwick and asked me if I needed a ride. I accepted and a few hours later I was on the overnight bus going south to London. From there I took another bus to Tiverton, Devon, arriving shortly after dark.

I was very excited to arrive in Tiverton. It was in this area and the surrounding villages and towns that my ancestors, the Widgery’s, had lived. I was also drawn to this area because of a very prominent ley line called, St. Michael Ley Line, which winds its way through Devon, often through the very areas my ancestors lived. This ley line cannot be seen with the physical eyes because it is an energy line, flowing like blood through an artery, in the body of the earth. Birds and bees migrate along it and if you are sensitive, you can possibly feel it. Many sacred sites are located along its path as it circles the world, moving right up the isle in St. Peter’s Church in Tiverton, beneath the Altar, and then through the churchyard.

That night I spent at a Bed and Breakfast along the River Exe, near the bus station in Tiverton. Then after a hearty English breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, fried mushrooms, fried tomato, baked beans, and toast with orange marmalade, I headed to St. Peter’s Church to have a look around at the headstones in the graveyard. Finding nothing, I decided to head to the village of Willand where my great, great, great grandparents, William Widgery and Elizabeth Tozer were married.

Taken on a later pilgrimage in 2019

It had begun to rain when I arrived in Willand, the bus dropping me off at the village post office, next to the St. Mary’s Church. I knew this was the church they had been married at because the record had been passed down through the family and I had a copy of it. I was hoping to meet the vicar of St Mary’s and ask him if he had any information on the family, and yes, I was in luck, he was available. The conversation was short though, and he did not have any information. Feeling a bit deflated I walked around the church graveyard, the slight rain eventually drenching my hair, trailing tiny rivers down the sides of my face. Determined though, I read the names on the gravestones. Many of the names were worn off and several were lined up, leaning against a fence, so it wasn’t even possible to know where they had originally stood. I read what felt like every single headstone in the churchyard. I had come here thinking, hoping it would be easy and I would find something. The only records I had had been passed down through family and besides the marriage record, some census records, and the birth certificates of their children, there was no other information. I had no idea where they were buried or who Isaac’s parents were. I assumed they would be buried at the church they had been married at, especially since the Census records showed they had been living in Willand.

So, with a sense of disappointment, I got back on the bus to head back to Tiverton. It was on this bus ride that I had my first spiritual experience. The distance between Willand and Tiverton was only about 4 miles, yet it took a good half an hour on the local route, and I was sitting in one of the front seats. I was looking out at the continuous drizzle, the scene murky in the afternoon December light, thinking how long the bus ride was back to Tiverton. Looking up and through the wide front window I saw this bird- a huge brown bird flying directly in front of the glass, with the bus seeming to follow it. I couldn’t tell what kind of bird it was because I was looking at the back tail feathers, but I knew it was big and I was wondering why the bus driver wasn’t slowing down. The bird was only inches from the glass, but the bus driver just kept up his pace not noticing the bird, and no one else seemed too either. As I debated whether to say something, we continued to follow the bird in this manner for about five minutes all the way to the outskirts of Tiverton where it finally veered off to the right.

At this point, the experience on the bus seemed odd, but not strange. Once I was back in Tiverton at the Tourist Information Center, I forgot about the experience in the process of booking a room for the night in the town of South Molton, another hour bus ride away. I wanted to go there because South Molton was the main hub for the Widgery family.

The staff at the Tiverton Information Center were very helpful and found me a place at Fisher Down Farm, a mile outside of South Molton. This was an idea I didn’t much care for, being on foot, but I didn’t want to spend a lot of money at the hotel in town either, since bed and breakfasts were often cheaper. When I asked how to get to Fisher Down Farm, the staff said I should take a taxi from the bus stop in the center of town.

An hour later, the rain had stopped, and I found myself standing in front of the George Hotel in the center of South Molton. Inside I could see a fire in the fireplace with intimate tables in a small dining room. White tablecloths were on the tables with candles. I realized then how hungry I was. I had not eaten since breakfast. I decided then I would eat dinner there that night. First, though, I wanted to drop off my backpack at the farm I was staying at and decided to walk there and not take a taxi. It had stopped raining, I told myself, and the air felt fresh. I could easily walk a mile and save money by not getting a taxi.

Three blocks later I was out of town, the road curving uphill as I crossed a bridge over the River Mole. There was a woman standing there on the other side of the bridge with her dog. I asked her how much farther it was to Fisher Down Farm.

“Oh, just at the top of the hill. Be careful though, the hill is dangerous. You have to cross over to the other side, just up where the path runs out, and then back over again, just before you get to the top.”

I thanked her and continued up the long hill as darkness completely closed in, the rain having started up again, making the night even darker. I could not see if I was on the sidewalk or blacktop until a car zoomed by suddenly over the top of the hill, the head beams bouncing on the wet pavement. I realized quickly I had made a bad choice in deciding to walk. It had not been raining, though, earlier and I had come to far to turn back. Shaking myself, I decided I would not be walking back into town. I would take a taxi instead.

For the moment though, I just put one foot in front of the other, feeling for the rough cement of the sidewalk, my backpack scratching and catching on the wet branches of trees, trees that were suddenly in front of me, as the sidewalk ran out abruptly. Stepping to the side, I found myself on blacktop and realized that the hedge ran up along the edge of the road, leaving no place to escape. I quickly crossed over to the other side and found the cement path narrower than the one I had just left. I crept along hugging the scrawny branches for what seemed like hours, watching constantly for cars that raced past before reaching the top and finding the 15th century farmhouse, the sign, Fisher Down Farm, swinging from the gate. How grateful I was to be at the top!

After settling in, I asked the landlady if she could call me a taxi, but instead she suggested her daughter take me in on her way to work. I was very happy for this. So, there I was again, standing in front of the George Hotel.

When I arrived, it was still early enough that I was the first one to get a table. I picked the best table in front of the fireplace and ordered an excellent German white wine. Sipping the wine, I looked around me at the dark woodwork and collection of fine wine displayed behind the bar. It was then I noticed a small painting on the wall next to the fireplace. The painting was the same scene as in my dream that I written the poem, Prophecy, from, only the Presence was not there.

I stood up and walked over to the painting so I could see it more clearly. The landscape had an orange and brown layer to it, as if the sky, land, and water were merging. Draped over the water was a tree, its branches dark and bare, the limbs seeming to point southwest. Intrigued, wondering at the similarity of the painting and the dream that I wrote Prophecy from, I did not hear the gentleman come up behind me until he spoke. Even then, so focused was I on the painting, I did not comprehend what he said.

However, I realized he was excited that I was looking at the painting and so I asked him who had painted it. He shrugged and told me he wasn’t sure, but it was of a scene from the moor, thereabouts. With that opening, I told him that I was researching my family line in the area. I explained to him that some of my ancestors were artists and two of them, William Widgery and his son, Fredrick John Widgery had been well known artists in Devon, and both had painted scenes of the moor, mostly Dartmoor. They had lived in Lydford, on the edge of Dartmoor, where William had built a large stone house that was now a four-star hotel. He had been a stone mason before devoting all his time to painting scenes on the moor. I was not sure how they were related to me though because I had not been able to find out who my third great grandfather Isaac Widgery’s parents were. If I could figure this out, I was sure a lot of answers could be answered.

At this time a waitress walked up, and the gentleman introduced her as his wife and told me they were the owners of the hotel. I asked them both if they knew anything about the Widgery family and the gentleman said, yes, that they had been a prominent family in the area.

“Yes!” I said, excited. “One of the letters I have talks of a house that some of the family had lived in- sprawling, with a long lawn stretching out front. Do you know where it might be?”
“It is close by”, the gentleman said, looking away.

I was surprised by his evasive answer and when I attempted to ask other questions about the family, he suggested I visit the town museum the next day. The gentleman working there would be able to tell me more. There was even a desk there that had belonged to the Widgerys. The subject changed after that to general questions about my trip and I found the couple easy to talk too. His wife was very gracious, and they waited on me as though I was someone important- and I found I did feel important that night.

Later, after having a fabulous meal, I asked for a taxi and after getting in I asked the driver if he knew where the Widgery house was. “Sure!” He said, pointing to a long house sitting back from the road. I was surprised. Yes, it was “close by” as the gentleman had said. I wished I could see it more clearly though. It was dark, and the house blended in with the night.

That night when I went to bed, I crossed over in my dreams. I know this because first I took an active part in it, rather than watching it like one does with regular dreams and it was very rich in color with incredible depth- deeper than anything here in the physical world. In the dream I saw the Presence and with him was a large white wolf. Everything was surrounded by varying shades of blue- with the far edges’ navy, giving way to pure blue- so blue it was like looking at the scene through a sapphire. It felt good to look forward at this scene and then the Presence said, “You know the square center on the moor. I have shown you before. Find it and go there.” Then the bird I had seen earlier in front of the bus flew out from the Presence and brushed my forehead as it flew up and then to the right. Following its direction, I saw what looked to be a gigantic panoramic screen. This description is in physical terms, but it is the easiest way to explain it. On the screen, if you could call it that because of its depth, was a huge body of water with brilliant shades of orange rippling through it and floating on top was a huge ship in full sail- it looked like an 18th century clipper ship- the kind with several small sails on each mast. She was beautiful and I could feel myself swell with pride at the sight of her. Then I could feel a female presence next to me. Her presence was very strong, and we watched together as the scene continued to unfold with dark figures like shadows, swarming in front of the whole scene; figures that looked like WWI soldiers with their round helmets and long guns. – And again, the words over and over, “Go to the square center.” That was all, I woke with this overwhelming sense of purpose, and I knew I was on the right track to whatever it was I was searching for.

After waking, the feeling of the dream stayed with me. The Presence, who I had only seen once before in the dream that the poem, “Prophecy” was written from, dominated my awareness and I had this feeling of comfort, and security, like I was with a great teacher, and I, a cherished student. The presence of the woman too. I knew her in the dream, but now I had no idea who she was- but again this sense of knowing her, and the feeling of security. I wondered about the soldiers I saw too. What did it all mean? In the dream I seemed to understand, and I didn’t feel fear at seeing the soldiers running about.

The ship also, had given me a great sense of pride, like I was looking at an accomplishment. Thinking about it I decided the ship either represented my journey or it was a symbol of the ‘Rite of Passage’- but for what? However, the words, “square center” threw me. I had never heard the term before. I felt good though and I knew with certainty I was on the right path and that I would find the answer.

The next morning, I found out the library would not open until after lunch and so I decided to take the bus to Barnstaple, 35 minutes away, on the north coast of Devon. I wanted to do some research in the North Devon Records Office. Here, I viewed and took notes on several records on micro fish. I did find several records on the Widgerys, but none of Isaac. I was happy with my finds though and looked forward to studying them for any possible clues. Focused on this I headed back to South Molton and to the library where I was given the name and phone number of the local historian who worked on local genealogy. When I called him, he told me to call back in an hour because a member of the Widgery family would be there and I could talk to her.

Excited, I called back in an hour and a lady answered with a sweet voice saying, “Oh, you’re the one, I was expecting your call,” and then asked kindly what I wanted with the Widgery’s. I told her they were my ancestors and I just wanted to know a little about them.

She became very quiet then, after I said this, and then she began to talk fast. She told me I must be mistaken and that I had been given the wrong number- that she couldn’t help me and ended with, “sorry, Love, you were misinformed.” Then she hung up. I was taken aback and then disappointed and confused. Standing there in the phone booth, I decided to go on to Lydford, where the artists William Widgery and his son Fredrick John had lived. I could think of nothing else for me do in South Molton. Making this decision I felt an urgency to get to Lydford as soon as possible.

So, taking the last bus of the day I headed first to Okehampton, a town on the north edge of Dartmoor, where I needed to take another bus to Lydford. However, by the time I arrived in Okehampton it was already 4:00 P.M. and having forgotten to exchange USD cash into British Sterling earlier, I had to exchange it in Okehampton, before the banks closed. Having to do this, I missed the last bus to Lydford. However, the feeling of urgency was still with me, so I took a taxi the last 8 miles to Lydford, asking the driver to drop me off at Castle Inn, in the center of the village.

The route from Okehampton to Lydford was already familiar to me, but even so, I drank the scene in just as I had the last three times I had been here. Then, just as we neared the end, and began the long curve around the northwestern border of Dartmoor towards the crossroads that leads to the village, we passed beneath a beautiful rainbow, each color individually distinct and I could see the end transparent against a pile of rocks on the moor, and in the distance, high on top Bray Tor, was Widgery Cross, a tall stone cross that had been built by William Widgery.

The driver dropped me off at Castle Inn, and like always before, the village was very quiet. No one seemed to be about, not even at the Inn, so I went around to the back, which was the pub entrance, and a woman opened the door. I looked at her, surprised, expecting the lady who had been here when we had visited before. I remembered her as a jolly comfortable lady with a big laugh. My husband, Ron, and I had spent a lot of time talking to her the times we had visited before, but this was a thin woman with short blond hair, styled neatly around her face. Her gray eyes studied my backpack and myself up and down.

“May I help you?” She asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I was hoping you had a room for the night?”

“Yes, how much were you expecting to spend?”

“Up to thirty-five pounds.”

“Well, a room here is forty-five pounds.”

“Forty-five pounds?” I said shocked. The Widgery House Hotel, just down the street, which was a four-crown hotel, was less than forty pounds, I thought to myself. But out loud I said smiling, “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. My husband and I usually stay at the B&B, just down the street, where the landlady, Mrs. Warren, has always taken excellent care of us. But since I am by myself, I thought, I would try this place. By the way, there used to be a lady who owned this place- she had a wonderful laugh. Is she still here? She would remember me.”

“Oh, um- yes, you know, I think I could give you the room for thirty -five pounds. Would that work?”

“No, I think I will go to the B&B down the street. I would like to make reservations for dinner here tonight though.”

She nodded watching me as I turned and left, walking back up the street to the bed and breakfast I was used to staying at. However, when I arrived there, I found out that Mrs. Warren had just had surgery and was no longer running a bed and breakfast. That only left the Widgery House Hotel that William Widgery built. I had been inside of the hotel before and had had cream tea there, but it had always been too expensive for me to stay at. Now, it seemed it was my only option. With this realization, though, I was suddenly excited. Staying in a house that was connected to my ancestors! I had only been researching them for the past 21 years! I wondered, as I had often wondered, if the artist, William was on, or near, my direct family line, a 3rd great uncle perhaps, or cousin.

I knew the house had been out of the Widgery family for about hundred years. It had been sold after William died and soon after turned into a hotel. The owners I had met before had told me this. They had shown me some of his oil paintings in the parlor when I had gone there for cream tea some years back with my mother. My husband had not been with us on that trip.

I knocked on the door and an older man answered. I was surprised because it was not the owner from before, but he welcomed me in and told he had a room available. Grateful, I stepped into the foyer which still looked like it had before. There was the guest book on a gold wrought iron table, and the open parlor door was just to my left. I could see the sofas and a table in the corner set up with chess.

The gentleman’s wife joined us, and she took me into the parlor as her husband took my pack up to my room. I noticed then the oil paintings were gone. “There used to be oil paintings here. Are they still here somewhere?”
The gentleman walked in overhearing my question and shook his head, “No. The previous owners took them with them.” He looked disappointed.

“Oh, I am sorry,” I said. “William Widgery, who built this house, painted them. My ancestors were the Widgerys and I am here in Devon trying to learn about them.”

“Yes, that is right! The artist, William Widgery built this house! How do you know that?” The new landlord exclaimed. “You are connected with William Widgery?”

“I am not sure, yet. I am still trying to learn about my third great grandfather, Isaac Widgery and I have very little information. It is possible they could have been brothers or cousins, but I have no proof yet. I love William’s work though. His son, Fredrick John’s work is good too, but he, I believe, was school taught. Whereas William was self-taught, and I find his work has greater depth.”

The gentleman smiled and nodded. “Would you like a glass of wine?” He asked, continuing. “Have you seen the picture of the house from when William was still here? It was taken in 1880. I also have the original guest book from the first years the house was a hotel. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh, I would like that! Thank you.”

He handed me a thick book with the first entry dated, 1890, just after William Widgery’s death, and he told me it went up through WWII.

“Take your time looking at it,” he said. “But first, here is the picture of the house when William was still living here.”

I studied the picture. It was in a frame, but I could see the edges around the photo were worn. The picture was more of a brown and beige, rather than black and white, like I often see in old photographs. The stone part of the house looked just as it does now, only it was missing one section, which must have been added later. Then I saw the waist-high standing stones, like the ones scattered all over Britain, in front of the house. They reminded me of a miniature half-moon Stonehenge. I had wondered about them the last time I had been here with Mom. So, I thought, William must have put the standing stones there.

“William’s son, Fredrick John,” the landlord told me, handing me a glass of dark red wine, “had a house just down the street from here. You may have seen it. It is on the corner where you turn to come down to the village. Did you know that?”

I shook my head, “No, but I think I know which house you are talking about. I pass it when I walk out to Widgery Cross on the moor. It is close to Dartmoor Inn. That is interesting that he lived there.”
I took a sip of the wine. It was delicious, reminding me of something round and deep, full, almost buttery, with no tannin after taste.

“What is this wine?” I asked.

“Seven Oaks,” he said.

I began looking at the entries in the guest book when he said. “Do you know where you are having dinner? I can make some suggestions if not.”

“Yes, I am eating at the Castle Inn. I made reservations earlier.”

He nodded. “I can drive you down when you are ready. The road can be quite black at night and Lydford doesn’t have any streetlights. It hasn’t changed much since the 1800’s,” he smiled.

“Thank you,” I said as the gentleman left me to look through the book.

I was very glad then that I did not get a room at Castle Inn. I felt very at home here.

Later, when it was time to go down to Castle Inn, I was glad the landlord drove me because not only was it very dark, but drizzling and cold out as well. He told me to have Castle Inn call him when I was ready to come back and he would come and get me, which I thought very nice.

I never call him though, deciding to go out behind the Inn first to look at the ruins of Lydford Castle, next to St Petroc’s Church. I went outside to look at the ruins and as I did so I could feel the change in the cold air, undermined by moist warmth, reminding me of the air just before a spring storm- and the stars! There were so many of them! All against a deep sky, a sky that seemed so close I wanted to reach out and touch it, all plush, like black velvet.

If the stars are this bright and close here, just think how bright and close they will be out on the moor! I thought, and then I knew I had to go there, a shiver of anticipation running through me because I knew what I was going to do. I was going out on the Moor to look at Widgery Cross, and then I wavered a little.

“Just to the edge.” I could hear the answer from deep within dancing out on the currents or warm air.

Carrying my rolled-up umbrella I started off down the road, stopping at the hotel to tell the owner I would not need a ride. It was his wife that answered the door and I told her I wouldn’t need a ride because I was going out to the edge of the moor to look at the cross. She looked at me like the bus driver did on the way to Holy Island, but only said, “be careful”.

I walked to the crossroads, where the St Michael Line crosses between what I know now used to be Fredrick John’s house, and the haunted Dartmoor Inn, and then crossed over to the northwest corner where a drive winds up through the trees to a gate, that leads out to the moor. It was pitch black; the stars barely visible through the dark, bare branches of the trees. It was muddy too and one of my boots sunk deep into a puddle of water that I could not see, so I moved into the middle where vehicles had pushed the gravel up and it was drier. As I walked, I could hear the gravel crunching beneath my steps, the only sound in that long tunnel of trees; a tunnel that seemed to go on forever, much further than I remembered. I could feel things moving in the brush to each side, but I kept going expecting to see the small gravel car park and the moor in front of me. However, it was only to find a long curve in the road, a curve I did not remember. Nothing moved as I stood there, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong, searching the landscape and seeing only trees, reaching up and grabbing at the sky; then a soft purr, a vibration to my left. Startled, I turned towards the sound, a picture of a huge black panther coming to mind. The picture conjured up by myths of a huge black cat that had been seen wondering the moor in old stories I had read.

My heart pounded fast, and I was ready to run when I knew to do so would be failure. I would despise myself, or worse- I would have to repeat the test. I knew then, that was what this was- a test of myself to overcome fear.
I was still unsure, though, of where I was at and so taking a deep breath, I began walking back to Dartmoor Inn to ask directions. I walked slowly, pacing myself, looking neither to the right or left until I saw the lights shining through the windows of the inn.

“I’m looking for Widgery Cross.” I said, after walking up to the bar. “When I was here before, I remember the drive being right over there. But I think I took a wrong turn this time. Is that the correct way?”
The girl behind the bar looked at me with wide eyes. “Well, yes, it’s the right way. You go through the gate and the car park is there to your right.”

“So, I don’t follow the curve?”

“Well, it curves a little bit.” She said, uncertainly, her eyes studying me. I could almost hear her thoughts: the tourist is crazy.

“Thank you,” I said. Then I headed back out again, turning back up the drive. I shivered; the walk a lot more frightening the second time. I had to force myself to take small steps, forming a mental circle of protection around myself as I went along. I knew if I kept my fear locked away, I would be protected. Reaching the gate again I went through and at the point where I had felt the vibration, I turned right and walked up over the swell in the landscape and there before me was the car park and moor.

I had made it. I walked across the gravel and stepped into the moorland grass, knowing that it was different than any other grass I had seen before and I could feel it moving thick, like a weaved rug beneath my boots. Then looking up, I saw the stars far away in a dull sky, a sky almost white behind the dark mounds on the moor, which seemed to lope upwards to Bray Tor with Widgery Cross rising up out of its center. As I watched a swirling cloud seemed to rise out of the top of cross and spread outwards, like a giant funnel, across the lighter sky.

“You see,” I cried out to the moor. I stomped my boot on the grass. “You see. I did it!”

It was easy to walk back, and I decided the next morning I would go out to Widgery Cross first and wait to go to the records office in Exeter until the next day.

The next morning broke with lingering rain clouds but with the promise of sun. Fortified with a packed lunch from the hotel I again walked back to the moor, but this time the driveway up to the gate seemed short and I was soon at the edge of the moor, looking with surprise at cows as they grazed. I had never seen cows on the moor before. Sheep, yes, lots of sheep, but not cows. I don’t like cows.

Ever since I was little, I had had this fear of them, and my confidence slipped as I saw them spread out grazing across the moorland grass. I had seen horses afraid of them, as well, and I can understand why with their flat triangle faces and cloven hooves- they look like horses gone wrong.

Swallowing hard, I skirted as far around the first one as I could and made for the Lyd River, just down below the curve of land. I followed what I knew to be St. Michael’s Ley Line until I came to the poem written on the cliff that overlooked the Black Rock in the river. The poem was written by Captain Nigel Hunter, a WWI soldier who came from Lydford. In the poem, he compares the movement of life to the movement of the Lydford River, below Widgery Tor (aka Bray Tor). Not long after the poem was written Captain Nigel Hunter died from wounds received in the war.

Reading the poem, I was reminded of an earlier visit here. On that trip Ron and I had seen an old lady with the goloshes sitting on the bench below the poem. I half expected to see her again. However, the bench was empty, and I turned my attention instead to where the sun was spilling out from behind dark clouds, and to where St. Michael’s Ley Line crossed the river at Black Rock before shooting up beneath Widgery Cross.

As I stood there, a walker, with a long walking stick, walked across the scene, along the river, with a large dog. He nodded at me, “Fresh,” I heard him say as he pointed to a cow lying dead along the stream.
I had not noticed the cow lying there before. Now I saw it was indeed a fresh kill. Something had attacked it and brought it down. I shivered and wondered what could have been big enough here on the moor to bring down a cow, a large dog perhaps. I wouldn’t let myself think of the black panther.

The walker and his dog were walking on, his oilskin trench coat flapping in the wind behind him and what looked like a very worn Aussie hat pulled down on top his head. His dog also stood out, reminding me of a gray Irish wolf hound. It caught at me that this very large dog and his owner seemed to stride as one, as though they belonged on the moor, and I was remined of the dream I had had two nights before.

With this thought I remembered Saint Petroc, whom the church in Lydford was named for. He was often portrayed with a walking stick and a large dog or wolf next to him.

After watching the man and his dog walk off, I looked down at the Black Rock. It was a place to cross the river. I had crossed there before, but the water was too swift and so I cut back along the river and crossed at the wood bridge and began the long climb up the tor having second thoughts. I looked constantly to each side, expecting to see some large animal. I was also aware that the weather could change very quickly, and so I scanned the horizon, half expecting to see a bank of mist slipping silently over the rolls in the land. I knew that this mist could cover the land in a short time and hikers on the moor sometimes became lost. However, I saw nothing except the cows and the fleeing shadows of the clouds. Looking down at the river, I could not even see the walker with his dog in the distance. The silence was deafening. I have never heard such quiet. It pressed me in motionless like the stone around me. There was no Time.

I don’t even know how long it took me to climb to the top. Then as I reached the steepest part, just below the cross, the wind picked up, stripping my scarf away so that I had to grab it and tie it around my neck. The rocks, too, were wet and slick and I had to crawl on my knees in the lashing wind to the top, grasping the thick granite blocks of the cross to keep myself from falling off. It was as I wrapped my arms around the blocks, my hands not even touching as they reached that I realized that this could possibly be the “square center on the moor” that the Presence had spoken of two nights before.

As I stood there, pondering this, I looked northeast, and I could feel St Michael’s Ley Line stretching out. I knew from previous research that it would lead to Rippon Mire, its lush green grass camouflaging a treacherous bog, and Yes Tor, the highest point on Dartmoor, before weaving its way onto Tiverton and so on.
It was with a giddy feeling of accomplishment that I let myself back down, eating my lunch within the protecting rocks below the cross. Then I headed back, stopping often to look back at the cross before leaving the moor. I had a feeling it would be a long time before I saw Widgery Cross again.

The next day I left for Exeter records office and then onto Totnes, on the eastern side of Dartmoor, to spend the next day of this trip. Totnes you may have heard of. It is where Berry Pomeroy Castle is- the most haunted castle in England. The town itself is beautiful sitting along the river Dart. This very special river, written about in legend, begins its life on a high plateau in Dartmoor before flowing down to Dartmouth, where it empties into the ocean.

Totnes is a place I had long wished to visit and so I headed there on the train from Exeter, arriving mid-afternoon. I quickly found a room at the William IV Hotel along the main street in the center of town. Then after dropping my backpack in my room, I decided to go for a walk along the Elizabethan Streets, where much of the original architecture from Queen Elizabeth I time is well preserved. I wanted to find a restaurant to have an early dinner at and chose a local restaurant in a one of the old Elizabethan buildings.

It was as I was walking in that I saw the man with the dog. He nodded to me, like he did before, and I quickly averted my eyes, looking instead at an empty table and chair.

I sat down and ordered the house red wine and began looking at the menu when the man with the dog said, “When you drink wine, you should only drink from the highest quality given and not cheap variations”.
I didn’t know what to say, so I looked back down at the menu, feeling my face turn red. The waiter returned with the wine.

“It is sent over by the gentleman. He said the wine you ordered was not good quality. He sent over instead Seven Oaks- a brand that has high potential. He says it is to welcome you.”

I was shocked. I was also a little worried because I am married, and this had never happened before. I needed to refuse it.

“Please tell him thank you, but I don’t accept drinks from men.”

The waiter looked surprised. “But he is gone.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “I saw him yesterday on the moor.”

The waiter shrugged. “A traveler.”

I nodded. “Did you say, ‘Seven Oaks’?” I asked, remembering the wine at the Widgery House Hotel.

“Yes,” he said, “Seven Oaks.”

I ate my meal in silence wondering about this and then went back to my hotel room. I had a lot to think about and so much to record. I wondered what it all meant.

The next day I headed home. I had gone on this trip to discover information on my 3rd great grandfather, Isaac Widgery, but so much more happened. Something big that I didn’t understand. I knew, though, I would have time to record much of it in my journal on the long trip home. I was glad of this because writing always helps me to sort things out.

So, there I was again, retracing my steps back home. Another overnight bus ride to London, the Chunnel from London to Brussels, Belgium and then the train to Ansbach, Germany. The time passed quickly and the scene around me a blur with so much to write.

It was well after dark when Ron picked me up from the train station in Ansbach, and how wonderful it was to be home again! Christmas is fast approaching and there is so much to do.

The Christkindlmarkt in Ansbach and nearby Nuremberg is in full swing. The air is full of the scent of Gingerbread, and Bratwurst, and we have our Ansbach 1999 Christmas gluhwein cups for the year. In the evenings we walk to the Christkindlemarkt and fill the cups with steaming gluhwein, while the kids have hot cider in theirs. Last night while at the Christkindlmarkt, it began snowing. Large white snowflakes drifting down, with the Christmas carol, Silent Night, being played on a French horn in the background. Beautiful!

It feels good to write and share this letter with all of you back in the States. I wish you were here!

Have a Merry Christmas! We Love you, Jody