Brittany, the year 2001 after the birth of Christ
Years uncounted have flown by like leaves in the wind. Seas and hills and cliffs had heaved and changed. Stones had been removed and rebuilt. But between the cliffs and the hills there is a small dell, and at its back a spring surfaces between the heather and the gorse. A small shrine made of grey stones and shaped like a house receives the clear and cool water into a simple, square basin. The tympanum of the shrine is empty of any device or carved symbols. The water drips into the well in a soft murmur that echoes the voice of the one who first built a shrine between the hills and the cliffs. The water murmurs a prayer and a blessing for everyone who comes to this place.
Beneath the blue vaults of Heaven tremble the stars,
In the song of a voice, holy and queenly.
Who now shall refill this cup for me?
In the hope that you shall find Heaven and that your cup shall ever be filled.
There is a feeling of peace and quiet about this hollow and its spring that suggests traces of an ancient blessing.