'I'm not a bloody terrorist!' All my self control needs to be exercised to hold myself back from shouting at the guy at airport security and slapping him hard across the face for being so stupid. This would not, however, be a clever strategy for the long term. This being the case, I obediently place jacket, belt, watch, toiletries, and other bits and pieces in the little tray and observe them disappear into the innards of the x-ray machine. As usual, I beep, so am subject to shoes-off and the pat-down. A boy, aged seven at a guess, has similarly set off the alarm, and is busy taking off his shoes under close official scrutiny. 'Get them young' is obviously the latest strategy of Al-Qaeda; they have doubtless learned this tactic from the global warming softly softly totalitarian brigade.
I have lived in Inverness for eight years now, long enough to see the local airport transformed from a friendly provincial place into a small copycat of the mainstream monsters. The zealous nature of some of their security officials can outdo anything their counterparts at Heathrow or JFK are likely to serve up.
Having negotiated security without breaking anybody's nose, I stumble into the departure lounge, where I am immediately appalled by the atmosphere. Casting an eye around, I cannot help feeling that, despite the money, the travel, the Rohan and Barbour clothes, the majority of people here lead lives that are poor in quality. I also notice another peculiarity: newspapers. Adults are all sitting around reading newspapers. Not only that, but their facial expressions suggest these newspapers are a very serious matter. They appear to be taking in and actually believing what they are reading. A quick peek at the headlines sets out a nightmarish vision of humanity. This is what reality is, this is what's important today, and you'd better believe that is so.
In some ways, it is the 'educated middle classes' who are most susceptible to this particular form of mainstream control practice. They demonstrate a great passion for, and avidly consume, their newspapers of choice, thereby considering themselves infinitely superior to the illiterate lower classes with their vulgar tabloids.
Security checks; newspaper headlines on terrorism, celebrity perverts and paedophiles; nearly everything else on the front pages: it seems I have stumbled into a world where the generation of fear and insecurity, and the consequent necessity to tighten control over the populace, is the main name of the game. It's transparent - how anyone continues to believe in these constantly re-enacted scenarios beats me - but relentless and apparently successful it remains. Scary......
Once aboard the plane, I am reminded of how our 'reality' is largely determined by what we are prepared (or able) to perceive. 'Are you interested in mountains, then?' the lady sitting next to me inquires, as I put aside the book I have been reading, entitled 'Magic Mountains'. She did not, apparently, clock the word 'magic', actually in larger print on the front cover than 'mountain'. But 'Are you interested in magic?' or 'What kind of magic do you find in the mountains?' are questions outside the domain of the lady's conscious perception of what constitutes reality.
I arrive in Bristol, where it immediately starts to pour a drab, insistent rain. I am unable to find the bus stand I need, and quickly feel as if I have arrived in hell. Resisting the urge to panic and jump on the first train heading back north, I pass repeatedly between train station and main street in my search. Eventually I solve the koan, and head slowly out of town on a bus full of soggy commuters going home. It is tortuous: southern England seems small, crowded, and jam-packed with busy psychic disturbance, guaranteed to prevent clarity of perception.
Things finally start to pick up when I arrive at my destination. The rain is still falling in torrents, but somehow is less bothersome. With its plethora of crystal shops, tarot readers, esoteric booksellers, reiki practitioners and assortment of healers, Glastonbury is unique, in Britain at least. On this soggy evening it is like a ghost town. Almost without realising, I find myself ascending a path leading up a hill to the celebrated tor. The mist-suffused setting seems perfect for this famously mystical spot. There is barely a soul around, and after the day's trials the tranquility is balm. At the top, I bump into Paul, gazing over the mist-shrouded Somerset levels. We have never met before, but within five minutes are swapping tales of energies, mystical happenings, and the like. It's not the typical supermarket-queue conversation, but it's kind-of what I've come for. My only previous visit to Glastonbury was in 1974, the day after my first psychedelic experience (see 'The dangers of psychedelic substances, part two', posted on Feb 13th 2011), and both Glastonbury and I have changed since then. I am curious to experience the closest that Britain has to an 'alternative town'. Eschewing the temptation to organise my time here into a whirlwind programme of events and workshops, I come devoid of a schedule, aside from general wandering around, open to whatever may or may not happen.
As twilight imperceptibly melts into darkness, I wend my way down the path leading from the tor to a quiet road and thence to my resting place for the night. 'Spirals' is the name of the bed and breakfast I have booked into; located on the edge of the town and at the foot of the tor, it is highly recommended by me. Unless, that is, you crave the starchy atmosphere typical of breakfast in many of these institutions, a constipated silence punctuated by the crunch-crunch of sliced white toast. Spirals is, I suppose, the kind of hostelry you are more likely to find in Glastonbury than elsewhere: informally friendly, bookshelves crammed with literature on power animals, the tarot, Castaneda, the kabbala, not to mention the super-duper shower. Above all, the place oozes authenticity, a world away from the synthetic theatre of grand fakery I had endured only hours before. I feel energised, but eventually drift into sleep: a morning of adventure awaits.
