Lemurian Gypsy Camp

In spite of the usefulness of cars and trucks, there remains a close historic tie between gypsies and horses. A gypsy could usually find work as a horse dealer or handler in the past, and gypsies developed one of the strongest and gentlest horse breeds in the world – the Gypsy Cob.
The gypsies and their horses developed a closer bond than other horse owners for a number of reasons, the main one being that the two lived much closer in day to day existence. Gyspies had no stables so the horses lived around the caravans and were part of the everyday life of the camp. Children played with them, adults stopped to pet them and they were constantly aware of the movement of humans around them.
Gypsies practiced the `horse whisperer’ style of breaking and training. I was priveleged once to watch this in action.
A young mare, who had been badly frightened as a foal and refused to lead, had been sent to the knacker’s yard. She was bought for a small amount of money by a traveller, along with the advice that she would never be any good.
It took all the morning even to get her loaded into a horse box. She was in a constant state of terror, wouldn’t lead and wouldn’t let anyone touch her head without a fight.
The traveller built a small enclosure and turned her loose in this. Everyday for a week, he would visit her, and spend time talking to her. She had no food or water in the enclosure. She could only drink from a bucket held by her new master and eat from his hand.
By the end of the week he was sitting on the fence, with no sign of her usual panic. The next week he started climbing in with her, always talking, always gentle, always insisting she ate and drank from his hand.
When I called in to see them again, he was in the pen, crawling all over her back while she stood quietly. Soon he was able to lead her outside the pen and teach her to accept a saddle and bridle. All through gentleness – all through patience.
Known as master horsemen, gypsies were always to be seen at county fairs, horse races and horse sales. They were shrewd bargainers and always on the look out for a good horse. It was this knowledge of horses that led to the development of the Gypsy Cob.
The Gypsies bred their horses amongst themselves as early as the 17th Century to concentrate certain characteristics that were useful or considered beautiful. They wanted a strong, powerful horse to pull their vans, but also a safe and gentle animal that could be trusted in a camp where small children ran freely about.
For looks they preferred the two coloured horses; the piebald, which is black and white, and the skewbald, which is brown and white. In fact, these colours became so associated with gypsies and circus travellers, that they were frowned on in the show ring and racing circles.
They bred from heavy draft horses, like the Friesian and the Clydesdale, and the small tough English ponies such as the Dales and the New Forest, to produce a compact, short bodie, sturdy all purpose breed that could be ridden or used to pull carts.
The heavy horses added another characteristic – the `feathers’, or deep fringes of hair, around the hooves. Soon the gypsies were vying with each other to produce the animal with the lushest feathers, and mail and tail. These, and the two coloured coats, became the basic characteristics of the breed.
These magnificent horses have been revived as a breed today, with studs in the UK and the US.

As some of you know from posts I’ve made on other bloggers, some of my ancestors were dowsers– at least that’s what I’ve been told.

I did, a while back, fashion a pair of rods out of brass tubing and the plastic outer casings of ball point pens (to use as handles to allow the tubing to move freely). I fooled around with the rods and put them aside, determining in my mind that any pronounced movement of the rods had a rational explanation.

Earlier this week I lost an earring. It was an amber stone in a silver setting– not expensive, but enough so to make it worth my effort to hunt for it. I scanned the floor of my office, our parking garage, the sidewalk outside my front door, and of course every room of my apartment. No luck.

So, I’m sitting in my living room a couple of nights ago and saw the rods sitting on the top of my bookcase and I thought– “What the heck, I’ve done weirder stuff….” So I began to dowse for my lost earring.

I know you see this coming: I found the earring. It was on the floor of my bedroom where I had walked numerous times since I lost the earring but didn’t see it.

I actually can’t remember if the rods crossed right over the earring. It could be that I was simply walking much more slowly and looking more carefully. It might have been that, it might have been luck, or it might have been those darn rods leading my attention to the earring.

Anyway, I tell this story over the gypsy campfire and will let you all decide for yourself.

L Gloyd (c) 2006

‘twas a bit of climb up ta ridge to Grandie’s place, but he managed at nigh on a hun’ert, so I recon I wouldn’t be breathless long. Seeing as he was s’post to have ‘The Sight’ I didn’t send a message ahead, but brought a sack of goodies fer hospitality. Didn’t take any magickal divination to bring chocolate chip cookies and smoked oysters and sweet pickles. I threw in one of those new fangled combo pliers ‘n foldin’ tool gismos just in case. Them what have the ‘gift’ never charge but shore be likin’ gifts and carin’ – or so I’s been told.

Thar was a body scarce when I ‘rived the shack, but smoke still curled from the fire pit and his jug was by the porch rocker tellin’ he was near by. There was an axe honed mean stuck in the choppin’ round, with half a pile of kindli’ on one side, and a pile of chucks ‘tuther. I set my sack in the spring-house an’ savored a dipper of cool delight on my neck and sippin’ swaller. ‘twasn’t work, really. I get’s simple pleasure from choppin’ wood – an easy flow of muscles and getting’ done – the finished pile rightfully larger than the startin’. When I got done and looked up ole Grandie was a smokin’ in his chair, like he been there all ‘long and I just didn’t see.

“Glad I could do that fer ya,” he smiled. That puzzled me a tad as I’d been thinkin’ I was doin’ it fer him. Then I realized that while I was a choppin’ my thoughts had kinda come together ‘n I was more prepared to ask ‘n listen. “Yer pa’s leg still painin’ him?” Grandie asked. This was done jest ta rattle me, I’m sure – seein’ as I had never met Grandie and my pa was settled eighty miles ta north.

“Thanks ya sir fer askin’,” says myself. “He’s off dem crutchers now but complainin’ jest ta get attention. I be thinkin’ he’s anxious ta get back ta his place at the mill – kinda worried ‘bout the young sawyers without his beady eye a trainin’.” I set on the top step ag’in the shaved post so to look up at him – seemed proper. “Been visitin’ my Aunt Mod down Pine Hollow way ‘n thought I’d come by to ask the truth of it – ‘bout this divination stuff ‘n magick ‘n all. Mod t’was sayin’ I’s got a bit a healin’ gift ‘n ought to be learnin’ more. Don’t rightly know.” Then I just sits ‘n listen to the jay birds.

He took a sip ta jug, but di’n’t offer none. I took out them pliers thing and worried a nail out of my boot. Then I opened a blade after searchin’ through a dozen wrong ones and started inta whit’lin’ this branch. Tired of that quick though and stuck that tool in the plank ‘tween us with a couple of foldin’ things stickin’ out like points of a midnight star. Then I drifted to the spring ta bring back lunch and ignore the tool was gone. He had laid out some jerkey ‘n pan bread ‘n apples – ‘nuff fer blenin’ into a fine spread with my bringings tumbled out. A canvas- wrapped stone bottle of cider was drip coolin’ from a peg, while he stuck to his jug o’ sweezings. Still say nuthin’ though, but din’t send me away, which was enough.

to be continued …

GYPSY FIRE

The bright protected flames flicker
in the caress of approaching night,
and roar in awe of sudden gusting
awareness of the approaching storm.
Strange shadows dance in symmetry
with the strumming of Mother Earth
and the breathing of our forest friends.
Gather close about to sing and dream,
for these torches will warm our hearts.

papa

Can Gypsies really foretell the future? Can they really know who you are from the lines in your hand?

To truly understand why Gypsies seem to have mysterious powers, you have to understand how they live.

Gypsies live very lightly in the world – they do not build anything, nor are they overly attached to possessions or places. They roam freely through it all, and living very close to nature heightens your senses about certain things.

Older country people, you may have noticed, have no trouble predicting the weather. “It’ll rain,” they say, while you look up at a cloudless blue sky in disbelief. But they noticed the little signs that point to a change in the weather – for example, spiders that build their webs in the corners of verandahs will retreat into the shelter of the eaves and take their captured food with them.

A Gypsy that lives truly free and one with the elements grows up keenly aware of these signs. Gypsies mimic nature by leaving easily overlooked signs for their fellows to show which way they have gone. They call these signs `patrin’.

They become very observant in other ways as well. It is not hard for a gypsy, basically as disinterested in the affairs of society as animals are in the affairs of men, to sniff which way the wind blows – just as animals know when we are around and plan to make a nuisance of ourselves.

A human hand can offer so much information that you may not even need to know how to read the lines. No use removing your wedding ring to fool a gypsy. Those sharp eyes will spot where it has been. They will also spot tiny calluses, scars and other marks that proclaim your profession.
Does this mean the lines in your hand have nothing to say? Oh no, because Gypsies believe that everything is connected and know that – for example – folk whose hearts rule their heads have a deep corresponding line across their palms.

If Gypsies seem to have more sixth sense than others, it is because they understand acutely how much we are part of nature, and how our story becomes written in our hands, our faces, and everything we touch.

Also posted at Squidoo Gypsy Camp

faucon

This week I was reminded of a Little Gypsy Caravan
Neighbours of mine Margaret and Ian came home with a caravan
Not just any caravan ,but a little pop top van
Just big enough for two
Coloured white and blue
They pulled it behind their ute (Holden Utility)
An Australian invention I am informed is the ute
I maybe wrong
It was first used by farmers who cut down a car
welded on a metal carry section for transporting hay etc.
and that was how the “Ute” was born

When I saw my neigbours pull into their driveway
I was immediately reminded of that “Little Gypsy Caravan”
Do you remember ,the one I gave to the Gypsies
on that day in July 2006
They had a party to celebrate
They contact me from time to time
just to let me know how its going
Still painted red and orange
and still being pulled by their horses

They tell me there are no leakes in the roof
no problems with the wheels
no maintenance needed except a bit of grease from time to time on them
and the horses (2) love it because it is so light to pull.
They tell me they can take it anywhere ,over rocky roads,
up steep hills,even crossing small streams and rickity bridges
As you know Gypsies are only small so they can fit 3 or 4 in the little van.
They pull up every night ,make a camp fire,have a hearty meal
retire to bed and thank their ancestors for the life they lead

I called my little van “Faraway”
The Gypsies have renamed it “Romanyi”
I like that !
Now as I look sadly ,and a little teary eyed at my neighbours
going away in their little pop-top van
I am wishing it was me once again
But…I pull myself together and say to Jessie Dog
“What grand times we had together you and I”
In that little van we gave to the Gypsies

I must be strong and say to myself
It was grand while it lasted
- it was our little piece of heaven
But we all must move on
And wave goodbye to others much younger that us
who can enjoy the magical voyages we once had
Life is full of events that bring up memories
Or as Le Enchanteur might say
Lois, Sweet Pea ” Its Syncronicity”.
Or maybe Margaret and Ian are just trying
to get back to enjoying the simple things in life
Camping and travelling in a little Gypsy Caravan
has got to be one of life’s great journeys

Lois(Muse of the Sea) 8th Sept 2006.

I hope this doesn’t offend anyone,
but it seems appopriate for a campside fire.

Before I joined these blogs I was on another site
where postings became fairly pornographic.
I suggested that it was possible to write erotic stories
without any four letter words or descriptions
of hidden parts. Many challenged me –
seeing no difference between ‘erotic’ and ‘porn’.

This was the result ….

papa
………………………………………………………………..
HAND DRUM

The light mist breathed in and out of the trees as if controlled by a dragon in the ravine. It was profound enough to transform brush and logs into shifting forms. Monsters? Elves? Lost lovers? For each friend bunched around the fire ring, the effect was different. Memories became defused with imagination and wine. A silent owl drifting above might have found the scene humorous. To those within there was an element of fear, or at least self-doubt. Out with the bad air — in with the good. Time seemed controlled by the pulse of the coals. Passion was imminent. The drumbeat began.

Chunk
Chanunck
Skrip Thop
Chunk

Other drums, large and small joined in. Some were divine in artistic embrace. Others carefully selected sticks. One an animal skull. Somewhere echoed the simple sound of hands clapped alternately on knees and chest. It had begun.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna – chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

No one led – no on followed – heart and fire called the tune.
One hand soft – one held silent – no one dance except in heart.

The twelve ring-bound players prayed with their fingers and chance touching of swaying shoulders; so close were they huddled against the back chill and grasp of the forest. Each sat on a folded blanket or cloak, legs extend – one folded – lotus – kneeling. Position was no more dictated than rhythm; except by cramp of spirit. Shannok was guided into a relaxed lotus by the size of the drum in his lap — resembling more an upturned squat kettle than a dumbai. He had to clutch the rough cedar edges between his knees for support. Everyone was energetically engaged in magically syncopated spontaneity. Each was detached in individual visioning. A hand touched his thigh.

The feather caress was light enough not to cause alarm — more like amazement, as it was not possible for either elbow partner to have a free hand. His committed contribution to the now repeating rhythm allowed for nothing more than a furtive glance to each side. On his left, swaying Noktorus seemed to have vanished into his beard — closed eyes no more than dimples. On his right, slender Dalana had allowed her golden tresses to fall around her face. The mysterious hand reached within the strangely unbuttoned flap on his baggy trousers. The drum easily hid the surging response of his neglected pride. Knowing fingers released memories and yearning as well as sigh. He closed his own eyes. He had never pulsed so readily and strong.

Chunk – whop snick – kunk
Chuna-chuna – chunk Klack
whop Whop – snick – Chuna-klack
snick-snick – Klunk

The fingers knew their own rhythm — his shifting and grasping thighs an ancient call. Together they blended then surpassed the drumbeat — drumbeat song. He again glanced to each side, trying to disguise his trembling breath. No clue – only swaying passion matching the other nine — no ten — unknowing drummers. The embers pulsed in time with drumbeat and forest breath. Red/gold agony — black retreat into past and eternity.

A log tumbled from its precarious perch in a shower of sparks. The waning fire roared high in cracking response and disguising flare as if driven by the passion of the twelve. Two knew differently. Two shared a prayer beyond hope — future — and dream. The drumbeat was now that of earth song and faint moonlight. The hand withdrew.

Twelve swaying drummers. One smiled a secret kiss. One shuddered in ecstasy and puzzled churning mind.

Leaping spirit — secret love — speak to me!

The stars twinkled slightly as the eternally drifting owl swallowed the secret of the night.

“Who – who,” it called.

We need some appropriate music for dancing around the campfire.

Click this link and listen.

I’ll bring the finger cymbals and tabla.

Lori Gloyd

(This link is from The Visionary Dance website.)