Madron

Meandering gently beside the stone hedge, overhung by aged thorn trees, the path is soft beneath our feet. Dappled sunlight filters through the branches, to glisten from the still waters around their roots. For this is the Well of legend.

As we gaze into the clear water we see reflected there many colours. Looking up we see that the trees all around this magical pool are bedecked with rags and ribbons of every colour imaginable... left here as offerings to the Spirit of the Well. For it is believed that as the offering decays, so that for which the Pilgrim prays will manifest.

Making our way a little further along the old pilgrim path we reach the Baptistry. The roof is long gone, and the ancient stones are clad in soft green lichen and ivy. We sit on the granite bench, listening to the gentle notes of the sacred water as it trickles into the font beside us.

The sacred aura mesmerises the senses.

We spend a long while in silent contemplation, before returning slowly along the ancient Way, once more to the world of Everyday.

At shrines such as those at Mauriac and Orcival released prisoners have left rusted iron chains. At Rocamadour a model boat testifies to the safe deliverance of mariners who invoke the black madonna in times of trouble at sea. At Quezac there is a large collection of discarded crutches and shoes left by the lame who have been made to walk once more.