Scott's Page

Upon grassy hills, nestled in amongst fields of fresh cut barley, two lovers live their days in the stone-and-moss thatched hut that is their Home.

Our gentleman returns from the pasture with sheep and ram, carrying with him three bundles of herbs, the flowering and scent-laden foliage of the season’s wilds.

Greeted by our lady, she awaits at the cauldron in the garden corner, warming an infusion of the mountain’s purest waters and the cottage’s most lovely fruit and flower essences.

A radiant gaze, an intimate embrace, and a fond handling of the wild herbs has them put in to the cauldron’s brew, with promises of fertility and vitality flowing freely from their medicine.

Evening comes, and the fragrant herb and fruit tea is poured off, gal and fellow tipping the cauldron’s majik in to a barrel of bough and barley, the vital presences of forest and field. Our lovers breathe the spirits of their concoction, delighting in the sweet smells, and in each other’s stories of Nature’s beauty on that day.

Morning comes, and the barrel is opened to drip, patiently outpouring the infusion of garden aroma, wild medicine, and wholesome nourishment. Once finished emptying, the mix is added once again to the garden’s cauldron, warming up among the rich sights and sounds within this space of love, and returned once again to the barrel of malted grain.

On the third day, crocks are pulled from the stone cellar, and yeast-laden boughs of juniper, of grandmother’s finest stock, are un-hung from the pantry. Our lover’s sing sweet songs of beauty, of delight, and add their cherished medicine in to the crocks, laying in the generations-old culture of dear grand mama. With reverence, and anticipation, the brew is left to birth its sacred mysteries by the warmth of the hearth in their stone-and-moss cottage.

The summer ends and the harvest season, blessed with bounty, comes and goes. Sheep are taken in to their winter beds, and the birds find season’s rest in the fruitful barberry hedge. A final festive journey to homes of friends and family heralds the first days of brisk mornings, of breathing the vital cold airs, of white days approaching.

On one fateful morning, our lovers awake to the bright sun reflecting off the snow-laden pastures, and of a cottage door that remains pinned behind the night’s heavy fall. A wall full of hearth-wood, a pantry stacked of wild’s and garden’s delight, lady and gentleman have been arrested from the labours of the world out there, and are handed the pleasures of a long and cozy winter, coddled with the fruits of their nature play and the amor of their sweet Heartsong.

It is a day for cuddles, a crackling fire, warm soups and favourite stories. The anticipation for the first dark night of winter grows all day long, a taste for the coming rites strong upon their soul. Dusk is heralded within the reflection of silence, and then the call of the wolf beckons our lovers to action. In the dark corner of the pantry alongside the warmth of the chimney, a crock is pulled out and is placed upon its throne of oaken carvings. Cedar mugs in hand, gal and fellow pour the first sippings of their bubbled drink, breathing the fragrant vapors of a beer well brewed. The first taste rolls through the mouth, placing sensations of vibrancy and vigor upon the tongue, and telling the body in intimate intuitions of the majik yet to come. Bodies begin flushing with the vital medicines of forest and flower. The sight of our companions is mystified with the love that is before them, around them, and coming from a deep source within them. Nourished strong with the brew’s hearty contents, dancing deeper in to it’s herbal ecstasies, and feeling the tonic of a new couple’s choice medicine, gentleman and lady begin a long winter’s reverie of Creation’s lively play…