The Sound of Silence

Lesley's Blog

This is a follow-up to the blog , "A Convenient Pilgrimage".

" But peace, perhaps.
There is no quiet that matters
Except inside your head"

"Not needing to clutch
The thread of our thought-
For most of us, an only time
To be still and catch a glimpse
Of our spinning
To be an echo from the center
And go on unfolding
As all the smells of growing
Unfold moistly round us."

From Soundings by Christine Evans (who has lived intermittently on Bardsey)


Four hours on Bardsey might not be thought of as a "real" pilgrimage but for me being on the holy island of Bardsey proved to be a magical and sacred moment in time.  

The beginning set the scene; arriving late at the parking place (or so I thought), frustrated at myself, running down to the beach to get to the boat on time only to have to wait an hour. But it was in the waiting that the gift began, allowing a release of the need for things to happen in a certain way and the opening up to embrace whatever happens just as it is.

The day was glorious with clear blue sky and barely a breath of wind. The sea moved gently onto the sand with no sign of the ferocity that it often displayed, that would make the crossing to the island a dangerous enterprise.Today the sea was showing us its gentle side, beckoning me to relax, release and restore.The cove was a wonderful place to explore and I delighted in peering into caves and rock pools and inspecting barnacles and limpets clinging precariously to the stones scattered along the beach. Some of the groups of large rocks were smoothed by millions of years of being washed by the waves while others were jagged and seemingly untouched by the elements.

When the boat appeared a sense of quiet anticipation seemed to fill all of us as we waded, with feet bared and clothes hiked up above knobbly knees, into the frigid ocean to climb aboard. After a smooth crossing we stepped onto the shore at Cafn Enlli. In the stone boathouse by the jetty are stored the long oars used in bygone days by hardy men who braved treacherous seas to bring people and needed supplies back and forth from the mainland. It's a sobering reminder that life on an isolated island would have a harsh and unpredicable side that our romantic notions, especially on such a calm day, might overlook.

It was the "sound of silence" that was the most striking, as I walked along the unpaved track by stone walls. With no cars allowed there seemed to be a different freedom of movement, more basic, clean and earthy.Following the path I passed sturdy houses, built to withstand the wind and storms that can batter this small island, finally arriving at the ruins of the 13th century Augustinian Abbey. This community of devout monks was a Christian late comer to the island. The first monastery was probably founded by St. Cadfan in about 516. Although nothing physically is left of those celtic brothers in Christ, historic memory and the accummulation of sacred energy is their legacy to us.  

Inside the ruins had been placed a rough slate topped altar with a cross carved on the front. Above, in the window arch on a jagged piece of slate stood a simple celtic cross. It was beautiful and touching. Sitting on a bench in the silence I was surprised by the welling of tears in my eyes. This moment of "knowing" the sacredness of this island, formed by hundreds of prayers that had been uttered over the centuries and the devotion of the men who uttered them was, I realised my pilgrimage. 

Giving thanks I left with a joyful heart to visit the Bardsey Island Trust Shop and Exhibition Center, across the road. I was greeted by Dennis, the caretaker's dog, who carried his leash hopefully in his mouth, obviously harboring great expectations of a walk. He vigorously denied that anyone had ever taken him for a walk, even though his owner indicated that they had circumambulated the island just that morning. When I did not respond to his pitiful look and pleadings, he returned deflated to lie on the floor waiting for the next visitor who might take him more seriously.

It was here that the ultimate in porta potties was to be found, if your bladder or other needs are calling. Simply a plastic loo shaped bucket sitting on the stone floor with not even a pit below, it would serve its purpose but only if you were desperate. It was a reminder that sacredness is fundamentally very basic in nature or maybe even based in nature.

In the graveyard close by were two of the passengers from the boat. The trip was a birthday treat for the older women given to her by her daughter-in-law. The mother-in-law lived on the mainland and over the years had often gazed longingly at the Bardsey lighthouse beam, hoping that one day she might visit the island. Lovingly, her daughter-in- law had made her wish come true. 

Walking further, I soon stopped to eat my filling lunch of bread and cheese outside a small chapel with a heavy arched wooden door, above which hung a bell with a long chain attached. Refraining from the urge to pull the chain, I entered into the homey place of worship which had four wooden pews on each side and a small table covered with a white cloth serving as an altar. It was lovely and heartfelt in its simplicity. 

Time was running out but I made a last stop at the sandy beach, Porth Solfach, on the opposite side of the island to the jetty. I wade up to mid thigh in the clear, frigid ocean and watch with pleasure the bobbing heads of the seals, seemingly peering at me with great curiosity. Fancifully I wonder if they might be silkies, those mystical creatures who can explore the seas as seals or shed their skin and become human. But if they stay on the land too long they will dry up so must put their skin back and return to the watery depths to be replenished. I wonder if it is the same for us. Are those times when we feel dried up beckoning us to swim again in the watery depths of our feelings to help us know our way once more.

Back on the boat the engine rumbles into life and soon the island is a small spot on the horizon. But it remains large and vivid in my mind. As the other passengers chat about with each other I sit in silence thinking about the need for silence being like the need for water, without it we dry up and become brittle, surface only creatures. When we forget to be present to the truth of ourself, revealed in stillness and silence, we lose connection to the deep life that keeps us moist and vibrant, flexible and creative.

And I think of how much courage it took to live on a place like Bardsey in those earlier centuries for the magic and sacredness was certainly balanced by the hardships and sufferings. And I think of how I might be more sturdy, hardy and courageous in my own life.

When I was a child I went to the south of Wales for vacation with my parents. My memories of that time are very vague except for the visit we made to Caldey Island, where there was a strong order of monks. Although access for women visitors was limited, we were allowed to observe the monks at one of their worship services. It was amazingly beautiful, I remember, and recalling that on the boat trip from Bardsey, I wondered about how we respond to the internal calling from that "monk" energy that is in all of us, usually well hidden. Is it that energy that helps us balance aloneness with community and prayerful time with plain hard work, all of which are equally sacred.

The arrival back to the beach stopped my musing and I let the questions release into my unconscious to be replenished with wisdom for later review.

It had been a wonder filled day.