In The Realm of King Arthur

I started my search for King Arthur on a local train in the company of a bunch of surfers on holiday from gritty Manchester. We all were going to Newquay, and they wanted to talk about the Jerry Springer show. It was hard to picture Arthur and his knights in the flat green landscape of Cornwall rolling by outside.

I’ve always been fond of Arthur’s story and the promise of Camelot, even though it is a bittersweet tale without a happy ending. Like so many great real-life figures I admire--JFK, John Lennon, F. Scott Fitzgerald--Arthur had a life of achievement but not fulfillment. He loved Guinevere, but he lost her to his friend Lancelot. He forged a great political alliance with his knights, yet eventually his quest for the Holy Grail would lead many of them to defect and even fight against him. He united bickering tribes to defeat invading Saxons and was mortally wounded in battle by his nephew, Mordred.

Of course, this is all legend, but it’s a legend that has been told since the 7th century, a durability that suggests very powerful roots.

Arthur, his knights, his wizardly advisor Merlin and the realm of Camelot are familiar to us moderns from T.H. White’s “The Once and Future King,” a 1958 bestseller that inspired the Broadway musical “Camelot,” and from comic books, movies like “Excalibur” and animated films like Disney’s “The Quest for Camelot.” It was the 1998 NBC-TV miniseries “Merlin” that gave me the idea of a vacation trip to Britain with Arthur and other legends as my focus.

There is historical proof that a Celtic leader forged a brief era of peace in southwestern England--in Cornwall and nearby Somerset--an area that had been overrun by Saxons after the withdrawal of the Romans about AD 435.

Was that man Arthur? Excavations at Tintagel, on the rocky Atlantic coast just 50 miles north of England’s Land’s End, have uncovered a clue about one noble former resident: a 6th century slate carved with the words (in Latin), “Artognou, father of a descendant of Coll, has had [this] made.”

I had to see the castle for myself. But first I had to get a room in Newquay.

It was September of last year, and the prices of hotel rooms were still high. A kindly cabdriver directed me to Mount Wise, where he said I would find affordable B&Bs.; After a couple of “no vacancies,” I stumbled on Leigh House, which had an attractive enclosed patio out front. A chilly evening had settled in, and I was wearing shorts, which must be why proprietor Dave Walton greeted me with a smile and the words, “You look like you could use a beer.” “And a room,” I said. “We have both here at the Leigh House,” he answered, and he led me past his cozy downstairs pub. I would end up spending a good deal of time there in the next two days, arguing with the locals about soccer versus football.

My room was typical of the affordable singles I’ve stayed in all over Britain: a small bed flanked by two small night stands, a dresser with a small TV on top. Everything about it was small by American standards, including the price, about $35. With its own private toilet and shower, it was quite a bargain.

I was traveling light, so there was not much unpacking to do before heading downstairs for that long-awaited beer. I asked Dave about Tintagel (pronounced tin-TA-jull). He told me which bus to take and said I should have a lovely time “if the weather holds,” a phrase I would hear throughout my stay.

Next day, I occupied myself on the two-hour bus ride to Tintagel with “The Winter King” by Bernard Cornwell and my CD player, with tunes like “The Battle of Evermore” by Led Zeppelin and “Guinevere” by Crosby, Stills and Nash.

The main street of the village was lined with souvenir vendors and pubs showing their allegiance to King Arthur. At the end of the street, a long dirt road headed down to the ocean. That’s where I caught my first glimpse of Tintagel Castle, perched high on a rocky cliff surrounded by impossibly blue skies and even bluer waters.

There was a sign pointing to the castle entrance, but I took a detour: I slip-slid down a long flight of stone steps to the rocky beach and Merlin’s Cove, where the surf’s weird sounds in the hollow rocks set the right mood of mystery. After climbing back up, I paid the admission fee--about $6--to the friendly custodian for English Heritage, the organization that maintains historic sites.

The castle, built in the 12th century on a site occupied six centuries before that, is in two parts separated by a narrow isthmus. To get to the far side I had to climb down another long set of steps and up again, but the payoff was worth it. (There is a paved path, wheelchair accessible, around the upper castle grounds.)

I sat on a rock, looked out at the surf below through a large hole in the castle wall, and wondered who had sat here before me. I touched the stones that supported this once-proud fortress where, the guidebooks say, “two men could hold off an entire army.” Were those men Arthur and his father, Uther? Was this the place where Uther seduced Queen Ygerna, who would give birth to the “once and future king”?

Having seen where Arthur was born, I was determined to see where he was buried: Glastonbury, 5 1/2 hours by train and bus from Newquay.

My first glimpse of the mighty Tor of Glastonbury, which rises above the medieval town, set my heart racing. The tor (the word is Celtic for “sharp peak,” but this one has been worn down over the years) stands above what was a lake in Arthur’s day. It is one of the most mystical places in the world, the vortex of the Arthurian legend: the Isle of Avalon, where Arthur went to heal his wounds and be restored someday to his people.

It was late afternoon, a perfect time to climb the tor, and the experience was better than I’d imagined. Below, the world was quiet, a blanket of farm fields and pastures threaded by the River Brue, into which the Knight Bedivere threw Excalibur to keep it out of evil hands.

In the distance I could see across the Bristol Channel to Wales, and in the opposite direction the cathedral of Wells, six miles away. Farther south, I could just about make out a nub of a hill that might have been home to Arthur’s fortress of Camelot.

It’s 550 feet to the top of the Tor of Glastonbury, and although that doesn’t sound like much, it’s a steep ascent. I took the rough path, which was quite slippery in places, not knowing until I reached the top that there was a somewhat easier paved path on the other side. The climbing that’s involved here, as at Tintagel, discourages all but the most dedicated pilgrims, and in both places I found ample solitude for reflection.

I leaned against the tower that crowns the tor, a relic of a medieval chapel, and wondered at the unimaginable numbers of souls who’ve journeyed here. Arthur? Merlin? St. Joseph of Arimathea? Early Christians believed that this relative of Jesus brought the chalice used at the Last Supper (or, in another version, a cup containing Jesus’ blood) from Jerusalem to Britain. This merged into the legend of Arthur’s search for the Holy Grail.

The next day’s forecast of rain kept my plans undecided. I walked around a bit. There are only four main streets in Glastonbury, surrounding the abbey grounds. New Agers have turned the town into a tourist magnet of crystal shops and spiritual retreats for vegans. Sticking to traditional fare, I bought a takeout lunch of sausage, cheese, bread and beer and raced the rain back to my room.

I turned on the telly and watched a challenging trivia show that fired off about six questions a minute, like a caffeinated “Jeopardy!” It supported my theory that it’s always smart to have a room with TV in rainy Britain, even if you get only five channels.

When the show ended, I noticed that the sun was returning, beckoning me to the Chalice Well, the spot where legend says Joseph hid the Holy Grail.

Chalice Well is in the public garden at the foot of the tor. I entered at the front gate, and things immediately turned strange. A man wearing a medieval outfit and carrying a large golden cup appeared ahead of me and then disappeared into the shrubbery. I continued up the path wondering if I’d imagined him. But there he was at the well, in a knot of people and equipment making a video.

I peered through the grille over the well and caught my reflection, then turned back down the path to the Lion’s Head spring.

For centuries, people have been coming here to drink the water, which runs red with iron and minerals. Now it was my turn. There was one glass below the spout of the lion’s mouth, continually refilling itself. I hesitated. How many others have used this glass? Then I told myself to loosen up. I grabbed the glass and downed its contents. It tasted like . . . water, strong water, in the way a Guinness tastes like strong beer.

Next stop on the Glastonbury pilgrims’ tour was Wearyall Hill, about half a mile away, and the Holy Thorn Tree, the shrub that supposedly rooted when Joseph planted his staff here. It’s impressive because it’s the only thing growing on the barren hill.

This roundabout walk primed me for the main attraction, Glastonbury Abbey.

What remains of the abbey--the Lady Chapel, a few walls, a kitchen--dates to the 12th century. But foundations have been uncovered showing an extensive enterprise, today surrounded by walkways, a pond and a picnic area.

Modern historians have validated what almost two millenniums of pilgrims believed: that this likely is the site of the first church in England, a Druid place of worship Christianized in the 1st century. It also has long been revered as the resting place of Arthur and Guinevere. In 1191 the monks uncovered the remains of a nobleman and woman, buried together, in an ancient graveyard nearby. The man wore a cross identifying him as Arthur--or so the monks said--so the couple was moved into a crypt. That was lost, along with the rest of the abbey, in the Protestant purges of Henry VIII.

Just as on the Tor of Glastonbury, I sensed something very powerful at work here. As I trudged around the tumbled walls I felt raindrops on my cheek, then heard the accompanying thunderclap. It suited my melancholy mood. I kept going until I found the marker for Arthur’s tomb. I knelt for a moment. My eyes were moist, and I can’t blame it on the rain. I thought back 1,500 years, when life was a terrifying experience. Invasions, civil wars, plagues, famines . . . somehow out of those truly Dark Ages, the legend of King Arthur, noble, brave and good, emerged to encourage and inspire and survive into our day.

In the “Merlin” movie, Queen Mab tells Merlin, “When people stop believing, then we cease to exist.”

Using that logic, if I believe in Arthur, then he does exist. Maybe his remains are not in Glastonbury, and maybe Tintagel Castle is just the site of a medieval duke’s summer home. But it doesn’t cost a penny to believe the opposite is true.

Joe Mock is a freelance writer who lives in Playa del Rey.

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GUIDEBOOK: Round About the Land of King Arthur

Getting there: Restricted round-trip fares for nonstop flights from L.A. to London start at $898 on American, United, Virgin Air, British Airways and Air New Zealand.

Two trains leave London’s Paddington Station daily for Penzance, with a change at Par for Newquay. The trip takes seven hours; the fare is $45 one way on the afternoon train, twice that in the morning.

By car, the most direct route from London is the M4 expressway west to Bristol to the M5 south to Exeter, then highway A30 west to Newquay.

When to go: This is an outdoors vacation with heavy hiking and climbing; the best bet for agreeable weather is early May to mid-September. Avoid Glastonbury in June, when New Age and rock festivals take over.

Where to stay: In Newquay: Leigh House, 16 Mount Wise, has rooms with bath for about $66 per night double, including full breakfast. Telephone 011-44-16-3787-3052.

The Beaconsfield on Towan Beach is a popular full-service resort hotel and dining room; doubles $45 to $81 with breakfast. Tel. 011-44-1637-872-172, fax 011-44-1637-850-711, Internet https://www.beaconsfield-hotel.co.uk.

In Glastonbury: No. 1 Park Terrace, Street Road, charges about $68 for a double room with breakfast and private bath. Tel. 011-44-14-5883-5845, fax 011-44-14-5883-3296, Internet https://www.no1parkterrace.co.uk.

For atmosphere, the well-regarded George & Pilgrim, 1 High St., is an inn with origins in the 15th century. Rooms run $56 to $128, which includes breakfast. Tel. 011-44-1458-831146, fax 011-44-1458-832252. For more information: Tourism Office, 9 High St., Glastonbury, Somerset, England BA6 9DP; tel. 011-44-14-5883-2954, Internet https://www.glastonbury.co.uk.

Cornwall Tourist Board, tel. 011-44-18-7232-2900, Internet https://www.cornishlight.freeserve.co.uk.

British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176-0799; tel. (800) GO-2-BRITAIN (462-2748), Internet https://www.btausa.com.

Other useful Internet sites: https://www.isleofavalon.co.uk; https://www.english-heritage.org.uk; https://www.mystical-www.co.uk/java/index.htm.