“That feels so good,” was a fleeting thought that registered in my slowly awakening mind. In that gray area between sleep and waking, I felt a tickling on my left inner thigh. Assuming it was Sherry caressing me, I turned my head while opening my eyes. But, she was on her side, facing away from me and seemed to be asleep. Ah, just my imagination I thought.  

Closing my eyes again, I began to fall back asleep. And then, the tickling sensation returned once again. More fully awake now, I could tell from Sherry’s breathing that she was not asleep and not the source of the annoyance. And there seemed to be a chill in the air.

“Sherry,” I whispered.

Sitting up she replied, “something is not….”

But the rest of her words were caught in her throat and were never said as both of us at the same time saw the ‘eyes!’ They had an otherworldly feeling to them, ruby red and staring at us from in front of the armoire. 

“To-yaa,” from the depths of my soul, a martial ‘spirit shout’ escaped naturally from my throat. This was no macho response but a combination of fear and reflex. In the next moment, there were no longer any eyes and the chill had left the room.

If any words were expressed between Sherry and me, they have been lost to the passage of time. But I do know that we were unsettled and decided to turn on the light in the ‘loo’ for the rest of the night. Unable to sleep, time dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, with the first light of dawn, that beautiful light, all the dark imaginations rambling throughout our minds were swept away. 

Grateful that morning had arrived, Sherry and I eagerly got dressed and headed downstairs to breakfast. As we walked past the front desk, the innkeeper looked up from his paperwork and with a questioning look on his face asked if we had a restful night’s sleep. He must have known by our expressions on our faces our answer.

“I am sorry,’ he said. “Not everyone that stays in that room gets a visit from the monk.”

“So we could consider ourselves either fortunate or un-fortunate,” I replied, not sure if I needed to smile or to look upset.

Sherry was not at a lost for compassionate words as she said, “please we are not upset. It was our choice. In fact, we thought that if the tales were true we wanted to experience the ghostly monk. It was frightening but it was an interesting experience.”

The innkeeper now assured that we were not going to demand our money back shared with us the tale of the monk. As the story goes, the George, as it was known when it was first built in 1439, was the primary coaching inn for pilgrims arriving in Glastonbury. Many came not only as spiritual questors but also as visitors to the Glastonbury Abbey, at one time Britain's richest and most splendid monastery. It is also steeped in much legend, myth and tragedy—a fire destroyed the abbey in 1184 and in 1539, during the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Abbot Richard Whiting was hung to his death on the Tor, resulting in the abbey being wrecked and looted. 

The innkeeper explained to us that Glastonbury was at one time a great Druidic gathering place and a major center of the early Celtic Church. The Welsh Triads relate that one of Britain's three 'perpetual choirs' was at Glastonbury. The abbey as well as Glastonbury was also connected with the legends of King Arthur, the Holy Grail, and the teenager Jesus and his Great-Uncle, Joseph of Arimathea.

The innkeeper continued by explaining about our visitor in the night. Supposedly he used a tunnel that connected the abbey to the George to meet with one of the visiting pilgrims. The pilgrim always stayed in the same room that we had slept in. How long these rendezvous’ lasted is anyone’s guess. But eventually the monk’s escapades were found out and frowned upon by his spiritually ascetic superiors. 

One night as he was making his way through the tunnel, he was confronted by his superiors and knocked unconscious. The tunnel, with him still in it, was then sealed up. Needless to say, it must have been a rude awakening when the monk finally woke up and realized that he was sealed in and faced a slow agonizing death. It seems that his soul still clings to the earth revisiting the room at various times. 

The monk that haunts the George and Pilgrims supposedly used a tunnel connecting the abbey to the George to meet with one of the visiting pilgrims that had been staying in the room that we had slept in. How long these rendezvous’ lasted is anyone’s guess. But eventually the monk’s escapades were found out and frowned upon by his spiritually ascetic superiors. 

One night as he was making his way through the tunnel, he was confronted by his superiors and knocked unconscious. The tunnel, with him still in it, was then sealed up. Needless to say, it must have been a rude awakening when the monk finally woke up and realized that he was sealed in and faced a slow agonizing death. It seems that his soul still clings to the earth revisiting the room time after time after time. 

While the innkeeper had been telling us the story, he had taken us down into the basement of the inn to show us the tunnel. The Glastonbury Abbot, Selwood, had built the George during the time of Edward IV; pilgrims staying at the inn could have used the tunnel for secret access to the abbey. Conversely, monks could have also used the tunnel for clandestine visits to the inn. In the light of day, it was just another tunnel. But it did have an eerie feeling to it. Adventurous as we were, we still chose not to spend another night in the room. We needed a good nights sleep as other exciting activities surely awaited us.

Before we left Glastonbury, we visited the abbey as well as the Chalice Well. Later on in our journey we were invited to be the Baron and the Baroness at a medieval banquet held in Ruthin Castle in Wales. A twist on this honor was that a Japanese film crew was filming the banquet. The monk was not the only Otherworld visitor on our pilgrimage; Sherry also experienced the ‘gray lady,’ a ghost on the ancient battlements of Ruthin Castle.

In Edinburgh, the Scottish equivalent of Ruthin Castle’s medieval banquet was called Jamie’s Night where we were the only Americans surrounded by all Italians. The highlight of the banquet was the ‘man-stone’ competition—lifting a gigantic stone, which was a sign of manhood in early Scottish culture. Our fellow meal participants put up their Italian stallion against the lone American male—me. I wondered if it might be better to lose considering the macho culture of Italy. But in the heat of competition, I out lifted their Italian Stallion. I must say they did handle it pretty well. There were only a few dark sneers and mumblings.

After Edinburgh, we headed back to London to catch a flight back to the States. In my mind our journey was not complete. Considering that I had planned on visiting various sacred sites in ten days, ones that realistically would need at least two weeks to see, we had to abandon some planned sites such as Stonehenge. It was mentally and spiritually difficult for us not to visit them but there was just not enough time.

But then a wounding became a gifting—the Air Traffic Controllers Strike. This forced an extension of our journey and allowed us to visit Stonehenge and Avebury and experience more mystical adventures in our search for the Holy Grail. But those are all tales to be told at another time.