I have to admit, I’m sceptical of the historical existence of King Arthur at all, however I admit I enjoyed the Arthurian Legends when I was a lad.

Historically accurate or otherwise, it would be madness to deny the impact the Arthurian Legends have had on folklore and literature throughout the UK and Europe and other parts of the globe.

So, I thought you might be interested to discover that some historians believe that they may have discovered Arthur’s legendary ‘Round Table’ — except, that it’s not a table…

But rather than it being a piece of furniture, historians believe it would have been a vast wood and stone structure which would have allowed more than 1,000 of his followers to gather.

For the whole article, vist: Historians locate King Arthur’s Round Table, Daily Telegraph

I’ve just finished watching the rather spooky movie, Shutter Island, an atmospheric thriller set on a remote island off the coast of Massachusetts.

Aside from making me very thankful that I have never had to spend a night on an island like Shutter Island, the movie got me thinking about why islands feature heavily in scary stories.

What is it about islands that makes scaring the pants off people such an easy task?

Just to let the very few people who still visit this blog [1] know, I’ve created a Google Buzz profile on which you can take a peek at my more random mutterings. However, please be warned, these posts tend to be not only very random, but also extremely mutteringly, which isn’t even a real word.

Linkage: Murray’s Google Buzz Profile

Footnotes:

1.	Despite my inexcusable neglect of it over recent months! Seriously, it amazes me that anyone still visits…
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I thought I’d share a poem I was asked to read at my Father’s funeral service on Christmas Eve, this year.

It’s called Where the pelican builds its nest, by Mary Hannay Foott.

It speaks very much of my Father’s lifelong love of Australian poetry, and also gently tugs at a deep sense of longing and perhaps also of regret.

Where the pelican builds its nest

by Mary Hannay Foott

The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still —
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.

Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
And one with a grief unguessed.
"We are going," they said, as they rode away —
"Where the pelican builds her nest!"

They had told us of pastures wide and green,
To be sought past the sunset’s glow;
Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
And gold ‘neath the river’s flow.

And thirst and hunger were banished words
When they spoke of that unknown West;
No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,
Where the pelican builds her nest!

The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep
When we watched them crossing there;
The rains have replenished it thrice since then,
And thrice has the rock lain bare.

But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled,
And never from blue hill’s breast
Come back — by the sun and the sands devoured —
Where the pelican builds her nest.

I recently picked up a copy of Italian Folktales by Italo Calvino in a wonderful little bookstore while in Hobart. It’s a collection of distinctly ‘Italian’ folk stories [1], and while I’m only partway through it, I’ve discovered some interesting things when compared to folk tales with which I am more familiar, which generally come from Western Europe or the US.

Footnotes:

1.	Though some are quick to point out that it’s difficult to define ‘Italian’ in a folk sense, since historically what we think of as ‘Italy’ was in fact a number of distinct provinces with their own folk traditions and tales.
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