Tor Guide

From the top of the Tor they watched in fragile silence as the sun shrugged off the horizon and went to battle with the marsh-hugging mists, illuminating them into a shiting sea of amber. Cranes and marsh harriers hovered above the golden glow, as if warming their wings. It was, Sunetra thought, breathtakingly beautiful.

Finally Spencer dared to speak, though softly. 

“And so the Tor becomes the Isle once more,” said the pale old ghost. The sun’s radiance lent no warmth to his complexion.

“Sorry? What Isle?”

They were sitting next to the ruins of the church tower that perched atop  Glastonbury Tor, like a way-too-small wizard’s hat. Sunetra had always been intrigued by the Tor. The steep-sided hill interrupted the Somerset Levels almost rudely, yet something about its stoic slopes unequivocally stated, “I belong here too.”

As did Spencer.

Sunetra was on one of her occasional visits to Spencer, the ghost of the Tor. Not that he ever warranted a mention on Wikipedia or in the tour guides. Only other ghosts knew he was there. In the afterlife he was almost as legendary as the Arthurian myths that were woven into the folklore of the area. Sunetra had learned about him through Midnightish some years ago – just after she’d become a ghost herself – and had to search him out. And she’d come back many times since.

Not that Spencer was anywhere near as old as those tales of Camelot and courtly love. He’d once told Sunetra that he’d died in 1812. The fact that he was still lingering meant that he must have achieved some level of fame in his life – or perhaps infamy – because the persistence of ghosts depended on people remembering them. But the fact that he was quite faded meant he wasn’t on the Queen Victoria or Charles Dickens level. He was probably one of the 19th-century’s supporting characters, whose name would come up in popular history documentaries and exam papers every now and again. But Sunetra was no history buff – GCSE grade 5, then never a thought about 1066 or the Weimar Republic ever again – so she didn’t know anyone famous from the past called Spencer. And Spencer was never very forthcoming about the events of his real life. He took unassuming to new levels. 

But Sunetra liked him. There was something very calming about him. Almost zen-like. If it weren’t for the mop of silver hair, cravat and frock coat, she could have easily believed he was once a monk. And as she was a free spirit – not bound to anyone, anything or any place – she enjoyed coming back to the Tor every so often to chill out with him (she’d once used the phrase “chill out” while chatting with him, and he’d declared it “most rum” – neither really understood what the other was going on about).

“Some people are of the belief that back in the days of Arthurian legend this Tor was the fabled Isle of Avalon, and that Excalibur was forged here,” said Spencer. “It was literally an island then, surrounded by sea. Eventually, the sea receded and the area became marshes. Centuries later, men drained the marshes. Even in just 200 years, I have borne witness to the landscape evolving in most extraordinary ways. Even new rivers have been forged.”

It always amazed Sunetra to think Spencer had been here so long. 

“Don’t you ever get jealous of ghosts like me?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Free spirits. I mean, I love this place, but I’d go out of my mind…”

“I am a free spirit.”

Sunetra froze, her mouth half open. This. Did. Not. Compute.

“But I thought…”

“You never asked.”

“But you’re always here.”

“By choice.”

No free spirit ever stayed in one place by choice. They were free. Not tethered. They were compelled to roam, to explore, to discover…

“But why?”

Spencer simply gestured at the gently luminous landscape. The golden mist was slowly giving way to streaks of vivid blue. The trees and grass shook off the gloom and glistened with emerald dew.

“Yeah,” said Sunetra, watching a herd of roe deer in the distance skipping and splashing through a flooded field. Even the cars on the A361 – too far off for the roar of their engines to break the spell – crawled languidly across the view like outsized shield beetles, the sun catching on their chitinous bodyshells. “You may have a point.”

She thought she might stay a little longer this time.

© Dave Golder 2025

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