borne back ceaselessly into the past

Years spent daydreaming with T. H. White's “The Once and Future King” are about to be fulfilled. I am trekking up the winding cement path that cuts through Glastonbury Tor, guarding the hill against erosion at the feet of the thousands of tourists, mystics, and locals who flock here yearly. Below, in a rundown car park, a flyer advertises Ruth Marie's “Clairvoyant Tarot Consultant” business, urging believers to make “an Appointment with Fate.”

It is a chilly day, but 400 feet up the hill I am sweating. I pause, and squint down through overgrown greenery and mobs of Wilshire Horn sheep in search of the seven symmetrical terraces I know are carved into the hillside. I envision the origins of these steps: Dark Age Britons digging earthwork ramparts in a last-ditch defense against waves of Saxon invaders. Neolithic denizens constructing a labyrinthine path to the sacrosanct space at the top of the hill— an entrance to a celestial aether world? A portal to the fairylands? Avalon?

Reinvigorated, I sprint the final 100 feet to the top of the tor, traditionally known as Ynys yr Afalon, or the Isle of Avalon. I stare up at the square stretch of sky visible through St. Michael's Tower, the 14th century church at the top of the hill.

Site of King Henry VIII's 16th century execution of the last abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, St. Michael's harrowing history hangs over the tor. However, as I gaze out at my scenic surroundings, I spy the plateau of Cadbury Castle, an Iron Age hill fort rumored to be the legendary Camelot, and the ghouls and goblins haunting this hill dissipate.

I am left with dusk falling over a patchwork of farmland, hedges and hawthorns tracing the blueprints of ancient field systems, and a heart, carved in crop circle style at the foot of the tor. At the highest point in the midst of Summerland Meadows, a place claiming continuous occupation throughout prehistory, I am in the resting place of the summer king, my childhood hero, King Arthur.