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The Chalice: A Glastonbury Ghost Story (Glastonbury Ghost by Phil Rickman

By Phil Rickman

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Additional info for The Chalice: A Glastonbury Ghost Story (Glastonbury Ghost Stories)

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And no alternative bastards with dowsing rods and similar crank tackle. He hated the bloody Tor. Not much over five hundred feet high when you worked it out. Only resembled some bloody green Matterhorn, look, on account of most of the surrounding countryside was so flat, having been under the sea, way back. So nothing to it, not really. But look it the trouble it caused. Bloody great millstone round this town's neck. Thousands of tourists fascinated by all that cobblers about pagan gods and intersecting lines of power.

I said at least one of them isn't a thief. Besides, oddballs have always drifted towards Glastonbury. Look at me. ' 'Yes, but, Juanita, the essential difference here is that we saved up our hard-earned pennies until we could do it in a respectable way. We didn't just get an old bus from a scrapyard and enough fuel to trundle it halfway across the country before it breaks down and falls to pieces in some previously unsullied beauty spot. You see, what gets me is how these characters have the bare-faced check ..

One. Swear to God. Called at a pub called the Oak Tree or something. Nerves shot to hell after a run-in with a container lorry from Bordeaux. ' She looked dubious, puckering her lovely nose. In the lingering warmth of this year's strange, post-Indian summer, she was wearing a lemon yellow off the shoulder thing, showing all her freckles. Well, as many of them as he'd ever seen. 'Just that you're looking ... ' 'Hmmph,' said Jim. He let Juanita sit him down in an armchair, planting a chunky tumbler in his drinking and painting hand.

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