Acerca de
The Ring
of Enlli
Once upon a time, long ago,
or perhaps it was the day before yesterday.
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On an island where time had no tenses and no tension,
there was a house built of care and curiosity,
and of stone from an ancient abbey.
Rugged stones imbued with the song and the prayers,
the musings and the hopes of men and women of yesteryear,
and yesterday.
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In the house, a group of fellow travellers, pilgrims, periglour sat.
Two of their company weaving wool bought with a hug.
Others sat staring into glimmering lights held in the palms of their hands,
small portals to all the knowledge and wisdom
this world has to offer.
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One of the travellers was a man who was becoming a boy. He stared through the window,
through the darkness beyond and into the night.
As the midnight hour came and went,
and the wool ran out,
the friends began to rise and spoke of sleep.
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But the man who was becoming a boy felt the call of the darkness and stepped out into the night.
He heard unseen banshee cries come out of the darkness
– birds, or thoughts, or emotions, or something else.
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Screeching, beseeching… rasping, grasping… calling, recalling…
of birds, or thoughts, or emotions, or something else.
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He walked down to the rutted stony lane, his lantern illuminating the moonless, starless night.
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A strange light appeared in the distance, and vanished.
Again it came, and went, and came and went again…
a red beam of guidance, a beacon…
coming into view and disappearing quickly, as though beckoning onwards.
The man who was becoming a boy, knew beyond knowing that this was a heartbeat,
the heartbeat of an island,
and he found his breathing and his pace slow,
and slow, and slow until he was a part of that heartbeat,
a part of the island.
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He set his course by the light.
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Overhead, in the glow of his flickering lantern, white shapes flit past
- birds, or thoughts, or emotions, or something else -
turning and swirling,
diving and conniving,
a dozen, a thousand, perhaps twenty thousand or more,
calling with a strange urgency as though nothing mattered more than
to be heard, to be seen, to be known.
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The man who was becoming a boy continued on,
past the harbour where the seals slept,
past the beach where the choughs play.
Now the birds, or thoughts, or emotions, or something else, were above him,
beside him, beneath him, some even emerging from the very earth, others entering in,
bewildering in beauty and terror and comfort.
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He felt, but did not see, a wing brush against his face and disappear.
Something flew low over his head. Then another. And another.
Out of the darkness he saw a bird, or a thought, or an emotion, or something else,
cannon towards him – striking him in the chest, and whirling away,
spinning, shrieking, disappearing into the darkness.
The man who was becoming a boy fell,
unable to withstand the gravity of overwhelming sensation,
his knees sank into soft ground,
his hands felt the wet dew of the grass,
his face squashed into a sandy loam, uncomfortable but not unwelcome,
he stretched out spreadeagled now,
sinking into the island’s cold embrace,
unable to move,
no longer sure where he ended and the island began.
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He lay there for an eternity, no longer than a moment.
His lantern lay to one side, flickering, growing dim, gently illuminating the seed-laden grasses, blurry diamond drops shining, too close for focus, the only stars in the cloudy night.
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In the distance he saw two brighter lights,
as though released from chains, he rose, went forth, and followed the lights.
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As he came close, two figures emerged from the gloom.
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Angels, perhaps.
Wise women, certainly.
Youthful in appearance.
Yes, two wise young women, each holding a bird, or a thought, or an emotion, or something else.
Careful, gentle hands, scarred with the wounds of their care.
​
And Kate and Sarah, for thus they were known in our world,
offered greetings to the man who was becoming a boy.
“Hello, Owen” they said.
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Around the leg of one of the birds was a ring.
He noticed that the ring was covered in inscriptions.
The wise women spoke -
"It is written in the books of our lore
that this ring is of great age,
it was forged in another millennia.
It has been under the earth,
flown the skies,
skimmed waves,
and escaped countless perils.
The wise women consulted their oracles and continued -
"It is written that this ring has travelled four million furlongs and more.
It has seen all manner of life and death,
ocean storms, mountain heights,
and wonders that no human eye has beheld
and no human mind imagined.”
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The man who was becoming a boy was spellbound,
unable to speak or move.
The wise women continued -
“This ring is so old, we need to replace it
for the inscriptions are precious to us."
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They both looked at the man who was becoming a boy -
"Will you accept stewardship of this ring?”
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He looked on in awe
as the wise women gently removed the ring from the bird.
“I will”, he said, “I will accept stewardship”.
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Receiving the ring, he held it with the fingers of both hands.
Though it was weightless, he felt some power in it,
a connection - to the ring, to the moment, to the place.
Rooted in time and space.
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The wise women left, travelling south towards the distant beacon.
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The man who was becoming a boy stood,
lost in wonderment at what power this ring may hold.
​
As he walked on in contemplation his eyes were opened
and his heart received the understanding
that this was
a precious ring,
a ring of power,
a ring of transportation.
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He knew the island to be a thin place,
and that the slender ring carried that thinness within it.
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He knew that whenever he had great need,
and held the ring of transportation in a certain way,
and allowed power to flow from eternity,
through the ring to his very self,
he would be transported.
Not back in time,
nor into the future,
but to the present moment.
Not to the heavens,
nor to the depths,
nor to the far side of the sea,
but to his present place.
And that present now and present here would be a thin place,
so thin that he would feel eternity close by,
so very close by,
brushing the goosebumps on his skin.
Here, Now.
Still here, still now.
The Beginning.
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Footnotes
This story was first told orally as part of a story telling workshop arranged by Crossroads Retreats
on Ynys Enlli in 2024. It is based on true events.
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Ynys Enlli (Bardsey) is an island off the north west coast of Wales.
The name translates as Island of Currents and Tides. The name Bardsey might refer to the Isle of Bards.
Its spiritual landscape reflects its physical landscape. Sedimentary layers of the hopes, longings and prayer of peoples over thousands of years seem to lie there. Alongside are the igneous formations - great eruptions of awakening recurring over centuries – including but not limited to the Celtic Age of Saints, the Augustinian revivals, and the many Welsh revivals in more recent centuries. It is the end point of the North Wales Pilgrim’s Way which is a camino still followed by many today. It is said that 20,000 saints are buried there – a number that is reflected in the story.
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A periglour is an old Welsh word for a soul friend. St Brigid (c 500AD) said that “a person without a soul friend is like a body without a head”.
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The red beacon light is a lighthouse at the south end of the island, built over 200 years ago. These days it uses a red lamp so that the birds do not fly into it.
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There is a Bird Observatory on Bardsey. The team there monitor the birds, also paying attention to the other flora and fauna of the island. Notably, there are over 20,000 pairs of Manx Shearwaters. These are remarkable birds that return to Ynys Enlli each year to raise one chick – usually in burrows under the ground or in stone walls. They spend most of their time in flight or on the water. They come to land on the very darkest nights – preferably when there is no moon - they are wonderful in the air and at sea, but unbalanced on land. Their cries are unmistakable – loud screeching and rasping, sometimes almost asthmatic. Their undersides are white such that, seen by torchlight flying past, they seem ethereal and otherworldly.
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The Bardsey Bird Observatory team place rings on the birds so that they can learn more about them and study their migrations. The ring in the story was first placed on an adult Manx Shearwater on 8 August 1999. Each year, this bird (and the ring) would have travelled from Ynys Enlli down the coast of Africa and across to Argentina for our winter season. It would then travel back up the coast of South and North America, past New York, and cross the Atlantic back to Ynys Enlli. They do not go to land during the journey, preferring to stay at sea until arriving back at Ynys Enlli, returning to the same burrow each year. It is estimated that the ring in this story has travelled over half a million miles (or 4 million furlongs) - probably much more.
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Due to the age of the ring and the risk of the lettering being eroded, the ring was replaced and given to the author. It was 2am and, as the night was particularly dark due to there being a new moon (i.e. no moon) and heavy cloud cover, the author had gone for a solitary island walk with a torch and a dubious battery since Manx Shearwaters land in the greatest numbers when it is particularly dark.
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Thin places are places where people often experience a sense a closeness to something that goes beyond words. Some would say eternity is close at hand, or heaven or creation or Creator. These are all words incapable of adequately capturing the inexpressible sense of a thin place, nor should they.
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