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An ancient well called Venton Bebibell lies hidden near Men Scryfa in Cornwall. It means “the well of the little people.” Not fairies, not elves, and not the glittering creatures we all imagine with sparkling wings. The little people. It is said carefully, said with respect, because, I’m told, in the villages of southwest England, you don’t use the real name. You call them the Good Folk, the Fair Folk, or the Good Neighbours.

There’s a tomb in Westminster Abbey where a king and queen lie side by side in bronze. Their effigies are gilded and crowned with the initials A and R. It’s as if they were pressed into the metal like a secret between two people who didn’t care if anyone else understood. Richard II commissioned and designed the tomb while he was still alive. And he specified one detail that was unique to an English royal tomb. Their hands were clasped together.

The word Druid means “knower of the oak” or “the one who sees the oak”. When I looked up the word, I learned that the Anglo Saxons also used it, giving it two meanings: tree and truth. It’s a word I contemplate whenever I’m taking a hike or meditatively observing the trees at the nearby park.

There are cliffs in Cornwall where the land drops into the Atlantic and the wind seems to hold the fragrance of earth and salt. Stand there long enough and the world behind you: the roads, the routines, the realistic life dissolves. What remains is raw. Ancient. Uncontained.