The Pendulum, The Pie, and The Girl on the Train

There is a specific kind of regret that only comes with a B&B named "The Chalice & Spoon."

But first, let’s talk about the train.

I took the Great Western Railway out of Paddington on Monday. It was one of those rare, cinematic UK days where the sun actually threatens to appear. I found a table seat across from a girl who looked like she’d walked out of a cyberpunk graphic novel—undercut, Doc Martens that looked properly stomped in, and a book on fungal networks.

We talked for an hour. It wasn’t deep—just the usual "where are you going" and "is that backpack heavier than you" banter. She noticed my tattoo. She asked about the script. She had this intense, deliberate way of listening that made the noise of the train car vanish.

She got off at Westbury. She smiled, said "Good luck with the ghosts, Tiliki," and stepped onto the platform.

It wasn't until the doors hissed shut and the train started moving that my brain finally caught up with reality. Oh. She wasn't just being polite. She was flirting.

I didn't get her number. I didn't even get her name. But for the rest of the ride, watching the green fields blur into grey mist, I didn't feel like the invisible ghost hunter Lenore hired. I felt... seen. It was a nice burn. A little reminder that I exist in three dimensions.

Then I arrived in Glastonbury.

If the train was a romantic comedy, my arrival was a farce. It was raining sideways. I stood on the High Street, paralyzed by choice, and flipped my trusty Euro coin. It bounced off a cobblestone and rolled into a gutter. I took that as a sign to pick the nearest lodging: The Chalice & Spoon.

Mistake.

The place smells aggressively of white sage masking the underlying scent of wet cat food. The landlady, a woman who insists on being called "Moondance," wouldn't give me my room key until she had "scanned my vibration." Apparently, my vibration is "cluttered."

She also guilted me into buying something from the lobby display case to "align my chakras." I panicked and bought the cheapest thing there: a clear quartz pendulum on a flimsy silver chain.

So, I am officially retiring the coin. Meet my new decision-making executive. I asked it if I should unpack. It spun in a wobbly circle. I have no idea if that means "Yes," "No," or "Run." I’m treating it with skeptical amusement, but at least it doesn't roll into gutters.

I did the thing, by the way. I climbed the Tor. Lenore promised me Earth Magic. She promised that the St. Michael Ley Line would surge through my boots and wake up my dormant spirit.

I stood at the top, leaning into a wind strong enough to knock over a sheep. I closed my eyes. I waited for the surge.

Nothing. Just wind. Just mud. Just the burning of my own lungs and the feeling of being very, very small against a very old landscape.

But honestly? That felt better than magic. Magic is abstract. Lactic acid is real.
Current Status: I am hiding on a park bench near the Abbey, shielding a meat pie under my scarf like it’s contraband uranium. The Chalice & Spoon is a "strict vegan vibration zone," and Moondance told me meat lowers the frequency of the house.

My frequency is currently "Starving." The pendulum says... well, it’s just dangling there. I think that means "Eat the pie."