Thank You Pen y Fan

Thank You Earth

I keep forgetting to say thank you and to make offerings to the land.

One time, after I joined Mikey and Ludo for a training walk for our Snowdon adventure, Mikey suggested we should begin the walks with a ritual. Inspired, I think, by their time with the Camino to COP26, a walk from London and Bristol to Glasgow for the climate conference at the end of 2021. Each morning before walking the group would begin with a ritual: some silence, a prayer, the setting of intentions, expressing gratitude. Once, when the walk came through Malvern, I offered a Buddhist prayer at their morning ritual, before joining the walk for the day.

Since that suggestion, we haven’t remembered to begin any of the walks with a ritual. When I am not walking I remember the idea.

When I remember, when I am miles away from the land, I say thank you.

Our last training walk was to the summit of Pen y Fan in the Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Beacons) National Park.

Pen y Fan and the surrounding mountains are what George Monbiot calls sheep-wrecked. They are bio-diversity deserts, huge swathes of monoculture grass with little else growing there. And they are beautiful. The curve and sweep of the slopes have power and grace. Looking from the summit in any direction the views are breath-taking. Both are true - the damage and the beauty.

At the summit of Corn Du, on the way to the Pen y Fan summit, is a bronze age cairn. People have been walking up these mountains for thousands of years. Now, thousands of people each year follow this trail. The life of this landscape and the lives of humans have been intertwined for a long time.

One morning years ago, when I was training in Wild Therapy, one of the trainers, Stephen Tame, asked if he could read us something while we were all gathered around. It was from a book that I didn’t know, but that has now become dear to me and that many of you will now have heard of, Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass.

Stephen read the section when Kimmerer’s father is making offerings to the land. It begins:

“I can picture my father, in his red-checked wool shirt, standing atop the rocks above the lake. When he lifts the coffeepot from the stove the morning bustle stops; we know without being told that it’s time to pay attention. He stands at the edge of camp with the coffeepot in his hands, holding the top in place with a folded pot holder. He pours coffee on the ground in a a thick brown stream […] With his face to the morning sun, he pours and speaks into the stillness, “Here’s to the god of Tahawus.””

Re-reading this section, I long to re-read the whole book, and I long to remember to make simple offerings and remembrances to the land. I try to practice it here in the garden, thanking the brambles after I have harvested blackberries from them. Apologising after pruning back the trees and bushes so that we can walk our paths.

Sometimes I remember and often I am caught in completing goals: collecting fruit, clearing paths, trimming hedges. Later I remember and slowly walk around the garden saying thank you, sorry, and thank you.

At the very least, moving into this way of relating changes me: I become more mindful, more respectful, less likely to cause damage. I suspect it goes beyond that as well. Sometimes I feel the land answering.

These rituals, this new way of thinking, is a good starting point. It should not be the finishing point. I want it to lead to real changes in how I live with the landscape, and what I take from and give back to the Earth.

Since making offerings to our new apple tree at the beginning of the year I have taken special care of it. The tree is doing really well. The ritual changed both of us.

From here, sixty miles from Pen y Fan, and days later, I send my thanks the mountain for supporting us as we walked across it’s back, I send my apologies to the land for the damage we have caused, and I set an intention to thank Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) when we walk up its slopes this weekend.

This week, still recovering from COVID, I wasn’t sure I’d have the energy for the walk this weekend. Today, I’m feeling optimistic. I’ll let you know how it goes.