England's Glastonbury combines Christian legends with ancient pagan rites, brewing an air of magic that can make your senses tingle, if you let it.

John Steinbeck, researching his epic fantasy The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights, felt the magic when he first viewed the crumbling tower atop Glastonbury Tor, a hill that once was an island in a legendary sea. The author recording emotions "like those slow, hot bubbles of molten rock in a volcano--a gentle rumbling earthquake of the spirit...this was noble gold, mystic, that makes the hairs prickle on the back of the neck..."

It was a misty, mystic May 25, 1993, when Dorothy and I drove our little rented car into the old Somerset town. We went to the Tor to see its time-scarred pilgrim's tower on the site that once was part of Avalon. Afterward, we wandered through the dramatic ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, past gaunt arches and ruined walls and a grave once said to hold the bones of King Arthur and Guinevere.

It is the place where, many believe, Christianity was first planted in Britain by Joseph of Arimathaea. Legend says he carried the Chalice of the Last Supper and that when he struck his staff into the ground it grew into a thorn tree. It is said that Joseph built a little church out of woven tree branches. It's a holy place for Christians, yet there is an aura of earlier religions and other gods strong enough to keep visitors reverently silent.

It also inspires Summer Solstice folk festivals attended by some whom the locals describe as very strange folk indeed.

We took a spacious room above a pleasant little pub directly across the road from the abbey ruins, and had a pint of bitter with a friendly old man who told us a few hair-raising stories about the seventh-century church that had, of course, been looted and burned on orders from Henry VIII.

One of the stories was of the unfortunate abbot who tried to hide the abbey's gold and silver plate from the king's men--a brave but unwise move. The abbot was not just hanged; he was also cut into pieces, with each piece buried in a different part of the kingdom. The intent, apparently, was to make it difficult for the poor man to get himself together on Judgment Day.

Steeped in such tales, we retired to our room to watch darkness fall over the abbey's grey remains. We slept fitfully until some time around midnight, when an earth-trembling thunderstorm suddenly swooped upon the town. After the first couple of flashes and booms I slipped out of bed in the almost total blackness and went to the window.

There was a prolonged flash of lightning behind the abbey site, starkly outlining the stone skeleton. A few seconds later there was another searing bolt--and all the lights in the town went out. For a long moment I could see only a small, yellow, flickering light, just like a campfire, somewhere out there amongst the bones of the abbey, and I felt a prickling on the back of my neck.

Could that be a campfire? And if so, what kind of person--or thing--might be crouched beside it? Did I hear the sound of a horse's hooves on the cobblestones, or the jingle of spurs? Or was I only dreaming that I had risen and gone to the window?

When Glastonbury's electricity returned, there was no mounted knight; only a few parked cars, glistening in the rain. The thunderstorm retreated, growling to itself. I retreated to bed.

In the morning we went down for the edible part of our bed-and-breakfast, and were mystified to find no one in the little dining room or in the kitchen. Eventually, we went out to a small cottage in the back garden and roused the occupants--the two women in charge of the food. Flustered and apologetic, they couldn't understand why their electric alarm clocks had failed until I told them of the power outage.

Anyone who doubts this little tale can check the events of May 26, 1993, with Glastonbury's electric power department and the Somerset weather office.

The horse's hooves, the spurs and the campfire are harder to prove, unless you believe in magic, or ghosts, or both. Or unless you spend a stormy night in that ancient, enchanted town.

Tony Eberts is a columnist and environmentalist whose 40 years with The Vancouver Province newspaper won him much esteem and respect. abeberts@telus.net