The Trials of Arthur: The Life & Times of a Modern Day King

This is a sample chapter of my book The Trials of Arthur co-written with Arthur Pendragon. If you would like a signed copy (by me that is: you'd have to go and find Arthur) then contact me via HubPages and I'll tell you what to do.

We ended the last chapter with a single five-letter word beginning with M. We start this chapter with another.

Magic.

Even writing the word adds colour to the text. The text itself comes alive. Feel it. It is magic.

Magic is the most important ingredient in this book. It is what this book is made of. It is what this book is about.

It is also important in Arthur's life and in the lives of the people around him.

It is not trickery. We're not referring to sleight of hand here – to a Paul Daniel card trick – but to something else. To a deep sense of place, to a deep sense of being. To the sense that there are Divine forces at work in the Universe, playing themselves out amongst us. To a sense of belonging that is older than time. To a sense of the landscape as a living being. To the sense of the breath of the Earth on the dawn of the longest day. To the feeling that history itself is looping, repeating itself in some vast fractal interplay of forces beyond our control.

Sometimes it comes in dreams.

For CJ it came in a dream about Arthur, that told him he would help write this book. CJ was tidying up his house in the dream, when he discovered that he had Excalibur. 'Oh no!' he thought, 'what am I going to do with this?' It was as if he was being landed with the responsibility for it. He was too busy tidying up. So he tried to hide it by burying it under his bedclothes. There were some medieval knights coming out of a church, dressed in robes, with swords strapped to their waists. They had been practising sword fighting. They saw Excalibur and came over to view it. CJ saw that it was damaged and that he was responsible for it. The strap was broken and the blade scuffed and scratched. In fact, it wasn't even a proper blade. It was just a lump of metal that hadn't been worked yet. Then Arthur arrived. He sidled in, floating like a ghost. He started singing this song, while a full orchestra played. It was magnificent music, very powerful, full of surprising shifts in tone and scale. These were the words.

'Some things move by love, some things move by time, but the Earth and the Sun they move by power, by power. Some things move by love and some things move by time, but some things move by power: some by power, some by power.' Something like that. CJ had no idea what it meant.

CJ had wanted to write a book about Arthur since he'd first gone on that quest to find him in 1996, but various things had got in the way. Mainly what had got in the way was that CJ had been indiscrete and had managed to fall out with a number of the Druids. He was a cynic when he started this quest. Meanwhile, Arthur had begun working on a book of his own with Steve Andrews and Liz Murray. Arthur was sitting in Louise MacNamara's office at Thorsons sometime in the summer of the year 2000, holding the manuscript from which parts of this present book were formed. Louise was telling him that they needed to get another author in to help with the work.

'Yes, but the Druids tell me, anybody but CJ', he said.

That's when CJ rang. At that exact moment. He called the Thorsons office and was put through to Louise MacNamara. He was looking for a book deal. He wanted to write a book about protest.

'That was CJ,' Louise had said, after their conversation. 'He wants to write a book. Um, you know what I'm going to suggest, don't you?'

'You know you said it should be anybody but CJ?' Arthur said later to one of the Druids who had specified his objection to CJ's involvement.

'Hmmmm?'

'Well, you got your wish. It's CJ.'

That's what we mean by magic. Serendipity. Synchronicity. As if the Universe is unfolding of its own volition. As if the Earth contains some presence, some force, larger, deeper, stronger than the human, but like the human. That the human story is part of its story. That we are serving its purpose. That we matter. And that our unfolding stories are the unfoldings of the Universe itself.

That's what Arthur's life has been. An unfolding story of the Universe told to him in magical coincidences.

As children, maybe, we all believed in magic. We believed in presences. We believed in the ghosts that lived in the shadowy places. We believed in stories. Now we don't believe any more. No magic. No presences. No ghosts in shadows. No stories. And then Arthur comes along and he has a story. It's an absurd story, of course. Ludicrous. Crazy. Ridiculous. And all the more appealing for that. He says he has some other name than the one he was christened with. That he's not Johnny Rothwell any more, but King Arthur Uther Pendragon. And why should anyone believe him?

Because there is magic in the name. And by calling upon the magical name, maybe, he has managed to invoke it. He has managed to make it real.

Because names are magic.

Because words are magic.

Because life is magic.

Because there is magic in the air, in the wind, in the storm. Because there is magic in the seas, in the hills, in the vales. Because there is magic in the seasons and in the days of the week. Because the Earth is made of magic and the trees are made of magic and the sun burns by magic and the beating heart opens to its future, to its loves and to its despairs, by magic. Because the Earth is a Goddess and the Sun is a God. Because everything stirs with life. Because intelligence is here, in the Universe. Because the Universe was born of intelligence and human beings are here to learn from it. Because we are its children. Because the gods are waking up. Because they awaken as we awaken to them. Because they are made real by us, by our thoughts. Because our dreams will come true. Because trees whisper an ancient language. Because water remembers. Because the Earth remembers. Because the Earth itself remembers us.

Maybe. Allegedly.

Well, it's either that or we are all already dead.

By the time CJ got to know Arthur, there was something new happening on the British political scene: the road protest. This too was magic.

It seemed to come out of nowhere and to express sentiments and ideas rarely voiced before. It developed an intriguing new rhetoric, a strange mixture of radical politics and magic. It embraced new tactics, even a new language. It set about challenging many of the conventions of political debate. Were these people left wing or right wing? It was hard to know. On the one hand they were challenging the political and economic system that demanded an ever-increasing reliance on cars; but they were also fiercely patriotic, drawing much support from Middle England and the middle classes, while turning to St George for their central metaphor.

The road protesters saw themselves as St George. The dragons were the diggers, come to chew up the land.

There was much talk of the spirit of the land, of its magical rebirth. Of the spirit of place. Of ancient battles being replayed. Of mythical codes written into the very landscape. Of dark conspiracies on a magical level. Of Earth energy and Earth spirit. Of the return of ancient peoples. Of the power of rocks and stones. Of the secret places, of the magical places. Of the magical power of water. Of the ancient tribes and their ceaseless wanderings.

They said they were the spirits of the ancient nomadic peoples, returned to fight for the land.

It's hard to know where such thoughts come from. The people involved in the road protests would say that they came from the land itself. That the land – and all that lives and grows and walks upon it – is a living thing.

The first road protest began on Twyford Down near Winchester. This was sometime in the early 90s. A group of people – latter-day new age travellers maybe, post-rave drop-outs – were experimenting with sustainable living on the Down. They called themselves the Donga Tribe, after the lines of ancient track ways that crisscross the Down, making towards St Catherine's Hill. They were just quiet people trying to get on. Unfortunately, as they were soon to find out, the Down was about to be desecrated by a road-building project: the M3 motorway extension. Thus, their quiet seclusion was suddenly, rudely and violently interrupted and they were left with a choice. Either move out and find some other place to camp or do something. They decided to do something. They decided to stop the diggers in their tracks.

And that's what they did. They threw themselves in front of the diggers and refused to move until the diggers had stopped. Digger-diving. Using their own vulnerable bodies as their weapons. Later they developed other tactics, often chaining themselves to the diggers, so that it became harder and harder for the contractors to continue work.

They were fighting for their country. Literally.

Well, one of them must have heard of Arthur. He was already making a name for himself, as we know, as early as 1990, getting press coverage for a series of more and more unlikely actions around the campaign to free Stonehenge. They must also have known the literary and mythological threads that linked the name of Arthur to Winchester and to St Catherine's Hill in particular. They'd also had dealings with the pagan calendar. Probably they were pagans too. There was a lot of it about, even then. So, with this in mind, a letter arrived on Wendy's doorstep inviting Arthur to lead a Beltane ceremony in May 1993. Arthur was still using his sister's place as his postal address and his base, as he had in his biker days. He was intrigued by the letter and immediately agreed. Why not? If it was for the preservation of the land, then that too was a cause dear to his heart.

He led the Beltane ceremony at dawn, as prescribed, accompanied by Tim, Rollo and Parsley. So there were representatives from three orders there, calling on spiritual and magical assistance for the protection of St Catherine's Hill. Later, they were watching as a group of protesters started harrying a digger in order to stop it from working. The protesters were running in front of it, being chased by security guards, attempting to clamber aboard. Well, that was intriguing, wasn't it? It was something new. At the same time, it was something that Arthur could identify with. Action. That had always been his creed. Get in there and do something. Don't just waffle on about it.

The four of them were standing on a small rise accompanied by local residents and members of the public. A second JCB arrived and a young warrior quickly shimmied up the arm, locking himself on. The security guards were running round after the protesters, trying to drag them off. It was like a game of tag, or British Bulldog, but with a more serious intent. Once the security had captured a protester, they had to hold on to them and wait for the police to arrive, so that they could be arrested.

All of which was highly enjoyable in Arthur's eyes: to watch these young warriors in full battle mode, women as well as men, in their bright clothing with their dreadlocks streaming, running rings around the police and the authorities. He was chuckling with joy. Where had he seen this sort of thing before? Oh yes! Last year, when he was being arrested on his way to Stonehenge. These were his kind of people.

Then two more diggers came over the hill, belching blue and black diesel smoke, roaring engines, clanking and rumbling towards them. It was obvious that the other protesters were fully engaged already and Arthur found himself striding out towards the diggers, brandishing his Druid's staff, his cloak streaming out behind him. Within a few seconds he found he was surrounded by security guards and, more to his surprise, the two robed Druids, Parsley in his slick leathers and various members of the public just a few feet behind. They had all struck out at the same moment, on the same impulse.

Well Arthur's tactic wasn't quite the same as that of the young protesters. They would skim and shimmy, duck and dodge to get close to the diggers. Arthur just strode. Twelve stone of compact biker energy, with a biker's fist on the end of each arm and a biker's set determination. It was an entirely different situation for the security guards. They grabbed hold of him and he shook them off, growling. They tried again, and he stared at them: that famous Mad Dog expression. They were shouting at him, he was shouting back. The police had also arrived by now and were lined up either side, while the diggers pulled to a halt in front of them. It was a stand-off. Arthur, three Druids and numerous members of the public, in front of the stalled diggers. They weren't actually doing anything illegal as such and the security guards didn't really feel like using violence, not only because they guessed they might get the worst of it, but also, with the police watching, they knew they would be liable to arrest too. So everyone just stood there. A supervisor was called, who consulted with the digger drivers, by now sitting in their cabs with their feet up on the controls, smoking cigarettes. The digger drivers shrugged. This had been going on for weeks and they were used to it. The supervisor spoke to the security guards. The security guards shrugged. They were bored and underpaid. He spoke to the police. The policemen shrugged. They were just doing their job, keeping an eye on things. What could anyone do? 'All right then,' said the supervisor, shrugging, 'we'll pull the diggers out and stop work for the day.' The diggers drivers cheered inwardly and started up their motors ready to withdraw, while Arthur and the other's went back up the hill for an afternoon of partying, merriment and dance. And a high old time was had by all.

After that, Parsley stayed on to become part of the road protest movement. And we have to add, at this point, that a number of the female protesters were very, very beautiful, and that Parsley was in his element.

Arthur and the Warband were joining a second front in the magical battle for the soul of Britain.

They were becoming road protesters.

Once more we have to take a pause. We have to ask why? Why were people doing this? Why were people giving up their time and their energy, their homely comforts, their warm beds and their duvets, their TVs and their central heating, to go out on the land, to live in makeshift benders, to suffer the cold and the damp and the alarming proximity of other human beings, to defend a few trees?

This was all rather new.

Traditionally, protest is undertaken out of a sense of injustice. It is the human response to a human situation. People take to the streets to protest against something that is hurting them. They strike for better pay and conditions or to defend their communities. Most often in the last half-century or so, protest has been organised by left-wing groups with a particular agenda. It has had a self-conscious political creed. Not so the road protests. There was no specific political philosophy attached except, maybe, the vaguest notions of being 'green' and having environmental concerns, with a touch of traditional anarchy thrown in. There were the lobby groups, of course, like Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace, but, although these groups were involved to some degree in the road protest movement – usually as office workers and support groups – they didn't organise the protests. The protests were organised by the protesters themselves.

And there were a series of them throughout the 90s – Twyford Down was merely the first – not only protesting against road building, but also against any desecration of the landscape by road or by quarry (quarries and roads being intimately connected, of course). Twyford Down was followed by Solsbury Hill, by the Pollock Free Estate, by Fair Mile, by Whatley Quarry, by the Thanet Way, by Dead Woman's Bottom, by a whole series of increasingly elaborate protests with constantly evolving strategies. At Fair Mile, for instance, an ex-soldier named Kit invented the tunnel system, digging labyrinthine networks of interconnecting tunnels leading to caves leading to holes, with diversionary tunnels, with steel doors and lock-ons and concreted alcoves with hidden stores of food. The idea was that no heavy machinery could be used above ground while anyone was in residence. Once again, it was the protesters putting their own fragile bodies on the line. Other tactics included building aerial walkways between trees, fortified lock-ons, tree houses and the tripod. This last one consisted of three scaffold tubes bolted together at the top from which a protester would dangle precariously, sometimes managing to stay there for days, blocking an entrance gate or whatever, keeping the contractors captive in their own compound. It was this combination of startling innovation and heartfelt commitment that made the road protests so original. It wasn't just a question of marching through the streets and chanting a few well-worn slogans. It was a life-style. A whole culture.

And who were these people?

They not only behaved differently, they looked different too. Wild. Unmanageable. Free. With tattered clothing and body piercings, with tattoos and dreadlocks, with feathers and bells, playing penny whistles and cantering drums, they seemed like something out of story books or legend, like nothing less than the fairy folk of long ago. Coincidentally, like Arthur, they also changed their names.

So it was Lee Tree, Quabollox, Sunflower, Heghist McStone, Swampy, Balin and Galahad, a whole host of names from myth and legend, or made up or discovered, picked up from the forest floor like a feather to be worn in the cap. They were forging identity from the body of the Earth, creating stories for themselves and then living them.

They came from all backgrounds, from all classes: from the public school educated upper-middle class, from the professional middle class, from the aristocracy, from the working class and the underclass, from the drop-out class, the traveller and biker communities. And if they didn't have a unified political philosophy, they had something else. They had a spiritual belief. They believed in the sacredness of the Earth.

So this is what was different about these protests. These were people putting their lives on the line, not only for other human beings, but for the wilderness too, the wildness and beauty of the Earth and its creatures, the plants and animals that live upon it. Putting their humanity on the lines for trees, for birds, for bushes.

If you want to understand the pagan belief system, it's easy. There's no mystery there. There's no invisible God who you can't see or hear or feel, who nevertheless imposes his demands upon you. The pagan goddess isn't at all invisible. You don't need a priesthood to interpret her. Do you want to meet her? Then go out of your front door right now. That's her, out there, in the trees, in the bushes, in the landscape, in the soil, in the wind, in the rain, in the buds, in the shoots, in the clouds, in the air, in the very Earth that gave you birth, that sustains and nourishes you in all her fierce beauty, in her majesty and splendour, in all her moods, from quiet calm to raging, stormy anger, in all her changing aspects, her seasons and her cycles, and her lovely, curving form. And does she have intelligence or feelings, this Earth, this goddess? Of course she does. And who are we to argue in any case? Who are we to say who has intelligence and who does not, with our little, hot, watery brains like soggy walnuts, and without even the wisdom or the foresight to realise that by hurting the Earth we are hurting ourselves? Living lives confined by walls of our own making, in thrall to an abstract philosophy and a god made of paper interpreted by economist-priests telling us that all of this is 'necessary', 'good' and 'progressive', that the survival of whole, complex, delicate ecosystems, a billion years in the making, is less important than saving five minutes on our journey time? Who are we to judge?

And if it's us, as people, who are busy hurting the Earth, then it's up to us, as people, to stop it. It's up to us to do something about it.

We are the Earth.

The road protests can be seen as the revolt of the Earth against the tyranny of abstraction, the revolt of Nature against the tyranny of roads, the revolt of human beings against the tyranny of money. In the end, the argument isn't about whether the Earth will survive or not. Of course the Earth will survive. How can she not survive? It is the vanity of the human to think that we have it in our power to destroy her. The question is whether human beings will survive. It is the question we have to go on asking ourselves, again and again.

Of course, Arthur was only peripherally involved with most of these protests most of the time. He was occupied with other things. But he took a keen interest and watched with amusement as more and more of the knights became caught up in the movement. He would be called to one site or another to take part in a specific action or ritual, or he would use his by now highly-developed media skills to get publicity for the cause. As a 'colourful character' in the 90s protest scene, Arthur was always a hit with media. It made good copy: modern-day Arthur, fighting modern-day battles for the soul of modern-day Britain. He looked good on camera. And Arthur was always ready to oblige, being, as he would admit himself, a media tart, addicted to publicity. There was always some TV crew, some newspaper or magazine, some documentary film-maker hanging about, keeping an eye on his every move.

It was early in 1996 by now. A large protest was taking place around Newbury. It was the largest road protest ever. Nine miles of woodland and wilderness, of silence, of shade, of the delicate interlacing embroidery of living foliage; nine miles of countryside, of laughing streams, of sunlit glade, of woodland walks, of bluebell woods and wild flowers, of the chatter of birds, of memories; nine miles of habitat, of woodland creatures in their abode, of birth and death and rebirth, of foraging through the undergrowth, of snuffling warmth; nine miles of damp and moss and lichen and fern, of leaf mould, of fungus, of fecundity, of abundance, of earth; nine miles of living England, of eternal England, of timeless England, the land of our fathers, the land of our mothers, the land of our birth; nine miles of our past and our future under threat by the A34 bypass, to save five minutes on our journey time, to please the road lobby and the car lobby and the fuel lobby, to serve private enterprise, to bring unnecessary goods and services from around the globe, to pump out fumes.

The protest was being billed as the Third Battle of Newbury. The first two had been fought during the English Civil War, in 1643 and 1644, between the forces of King and Parliament.

Several of the knights were already there. The evictions were starting.

Earlier, one of the other Druids had put out a press statement. He'd said, words to the effect that, 'We're Druids, we're not political, and although we feel for the trees we have no views on whether the Newbury Bypass should be built or not.'

Being non-political is always a political stance. It allows those with other agendas to do what they like. Being non-political is to wash your hands of the whole dirty business, to pretend you are above it, to look on with haughty indifference while allowing events to take their course.

This was a challenge, of course. Arthur couldn't remember any such statement having been cleared by previous CoBDO meetings. And it raised a number of ethical points, given that members of several Druid orders were already in residence, it posed a question: one that Arthur immediately set out to answer.

He scrounged a lift to Newbury and arrived late that Sunday night via the pub (so no change there then) and then on to Pixie camp, one of the 30 or so camps that had sprung up along the route. Evictions had begun the week before but the contractors had broken off for the weekend, giving the residents a chance to regroup, to reinforce and to rebuild. There were lock-ons set up at strategic points, tree houses, walkways. A kitchen area and an eating area. Benders for accommodation. A fire pit dug into the living soil and ranged about with planks for seating. A shit pit. All the comforts of home, but in the open air.

Actually, when we say that this was new, that's not quite true. Such innovations of open-air living had already been practiced by the Convoy and free-festival goers at Stonehenge years before, and used as a tactic of protest by the Peace Camps at Greenham and Molesworth. It all goes back to Stonehenge, once again. But here it was so much more evolved, and with trees to defend there were more possibilities for raising the stakes, as it were, to higher levels. Tree houses are just benders in trees. But those who chose to build them and live in them soon found themselves drawn into a sort of psychic relationship with the tree. Trees and human beings meshed in psychic embrace.

Not that Arthur was contemplating such niceties. He was doing night watch. He was sitting by the fire warming his bones. He was having a crack. The Whippet was there, amongst others. The Whippet, the bloody Whippet, Kris Kirkham, the guy who'd named him and set him on his course. He hadn't changed. He was as loud, as wild, as scathing and as funny as ever. Once more fate was intervening in Arthur's life, indicating its approval. He was obviously in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.

The Whippet had long since gone his own way. After Arthur had left Farnborough to begin his Arthurian quest in Glastonbury, they'd lost contact. The Whippet had become a traveller – though the exact distinction between a traveller and a biker is probably a moot point. It's only down to the choice of transport really. When is a biker not a biker? When he drives a mobile home. And he can always get on a bike again, any time he wants. Indeed, he can carry his bike in the back of his home and be both at the same time.

So it was a long night and a long day and another long night of serious reminiscing before the contractors finally came to continue the evictions.

'Fucking bastard!' said Arthur to the Whippet, indicating his peculiar transformation of dress, his robes and his cloak, his sword and staff: 'Look what you've done to me. Bet you never thought you'd see John the Hat in a white frock.'

Which once more brought up the question that had been troubling him. Who, exactly, were the real Druids? Were they the guys on the ground wearing the white dresses, consecrating the trees? Consecrating trees that were about to be slaughtered: not so much a consecration as a requiem mass, he thought. Or were the real Druids the ones up the trees actually doing something to defend them?

Both were arguable, of course. He was about to answer the question himself.

It was early Tuesday morning and the alarm sounded a mournful, piercing note, echoing around the quiet woodland like some prehistoric bird cry. Suddenly Pixie camp was shifting from a peaceful open-air campsite to a battlefield. People were scurrying to and fro, shinning up trees to their tree houses, preparing their defences, locking-on to a number of fortified positions in and around the camp. Arthur was just standing there watching, feeling the pump of adrenaline in his blood from the mounting excitement.

And then the troops were moving in: sheriff's officers, bailiffs, security guards, chainsaw operatives, in yellow jackets and hard hats, police in their uniforms, tramping through the hedgerows and the undergrowth, looking and feeling like the Roman battalions marching to battle against the ancient British tribes.

And that was it. Arthur suddenly found himself free-climbing the nearest tree, a beech, fully robed, and with Excalibur at his side, closely pursued by a chainsaw operative. The beech tree already had a tree house in it. It was only on climbing past it that Arthur realised who was in the tree house. It was the Whippet, once more. Of all the trees, in all the world, who else's could he have chosen?

'You all right mate?'

'Yeah, sound. Let's go for it, right? Time to kick arse.'

'Yeah, right.'

So Arthur had the answer to his question: who was the real Druid, the guy in the white frock, on the ground, consecrating the tree, or the guy up the tree defending it? It was neither. It was both. It was the guy up the tree wearing the white frock, consecrating the tree by defending it.

He was high up by now, in the swirling canopy, overlooking the scene below. A cordon of security guards circled the camp, while a 'cherry picker' trundled in. Police were arresting anyone who tried to breach the cordon or as they were cut out from their ground-based lock-ons. Yellow jackets moving around, running this way and that, tree climbers with chainsaws ascending the trees, much noise and confusion, shouts, cat calls, guffaws. People calling across to each other from their different positions. Slogans being chanted. The roar and splutter of the chain saws, like demented mopeds, the creak and crack of branches, the scattering of birds. He was holding on with two hands, his feet wedged between the branches. The chainsaw guy was down below at the tree house. One of the occupants was eventually removed, while the other did a quick shimmy further up the tree.

Looking across, his eyes were greeted by the awesome sight of a Pictish warrior dancing about in some mad aerial ballet, greased up and naked despite the biting January cold, on one of the walkways between the trees. It took several of them at least half an hour before they finally had him in their grasp and he was led away, his Celtic manhood shielded by a policeman's helmet, to the waiting meat wagons.

Only the day before the same warrior, a protester down from Pollock in Scotland, had asked Arthur if the eviction would be tomorrow. He was considering going back up to Scotland for a few days rest and recreation. Arthur told him to wait, that the eviction would be tomorrow. 'I'm a Druid, I know these things,' he'd said.

So it was quite a relief that this prophesy did, in fact, come true. And, oddly perhaps, his predictions mostly do come true. Arthur says he has no idea how this happens since most of what he says is straight off the top of his head.

After this it was Arthur's turn.

Now here's a funny thing. The climber with the chainsaw who had cut away the tree house only minutes before, threw a rope up to him, and he was hoisted a massive bar of chocolate and a full bottle of sherry from the tree house stash. Maybe the chainsaw guy knew what was coming, who knows? Maybe he already admired these people for their dedication and nerve. But it goes to show once more, how easily battle lines can shift, how people on opposing sides can learn to understand and even respect each other.

So Arthur was happy, wasn't he? In full battle mode, with a bottle of sherry to keep him company. He was less interested in the chocolate.

And then the chainsaw operative was ascending, the heavy machine like a two-handed, mechanised sword, whining and wheedling, cutting away the branches as he ascended. Arthur scrambled downwards, thrusting his unprotected arm towards the saw as he did. 'Take my arm off,' he yelled. Well the chainsaw guy was a little bit startled at that. He backed off in surprise. There was a moment of reflection between them. Arthur explained that he would resist any attempt to damage the tree, while the chainsaw guy said that Arthur would be arrested for obstruction.

'Chainsaw Guy.' It was becoming his name. There's a strange intimacy that occurs with one's opponent in battle. It goes beyond right and wrong. Arthur, naturally, felt that he was in the right. Chainsaw Guy probably had no thought of right or wrong, but considered he was doing his job to the best of his abilities. He was well paid for it. But across the ideological gulf that divided them, there was a spark: a spark of blood. They were close enough to smell each other's sweat, to hear the panting of breath, to feel the tension in each other's thoughts.

Let battle commence. It was like this. Chainsaw Guy would raise the saw towards a branch, and Arthur would thrust his arm in the way. Chainsaw Guy would parry and thrust, feint and weave, while Arthur danced, free-standing on the branches, stooping down with his arm held out. Occasionally a branch would fall with a crack and a shiver, but mostly Arthur held on to most of the branches. And on and on and on it went, while they both breathed and sweated, trying to outmanoeuvre each other, trying to guess each other's thoughts. On and on. Thrust, parry, counterthrust, biting machine versus raw flesh. Sinews that screamed. Blood pumping. Hearts swaying. Arms that racked and ached. Bit by bit the branches were falling as Arthur's foothold was beginning to give way. People down below were looking up in stunned awe, as Arthur maintained his delicate stance. People said it looked like he was levitating, so small were the twigs on which he was balancing. But still he held on.

And then something very strange happened. Who knows what goes on in people's heads in the midst of battle? Arthur found himself taking Excalibur from its scabbard, and raising Chainsaw Guy as a brother knight of the Warband. Sir Chainsaw Guy, as he must now be called.

The cherry picker was called up. It loomed up at him like a mutant bird, craning its neck in some mad parody of a mating dance.

Crazier and crazier. Arthur had gone several days without sleep. He'd just drunk a whole bottle of sherry. He was free climbing, unharnessed, between twigs hardly bigger than his fingers. He was swaying about in the wind, drunk but not disorderly.

'Touch me and I fall!' he yelled, as they continued the ascent, trying to cut the tree away from beneath him. Anyone else would have given up hours before. But he was less King Arthur than Mad Dog Arthur by now, still pushing everything to the limits. People who had laughed at him at first, for his pretentious name and ridiculous dress sense, came to see what we all see in the end, that – call it what you will – there's a mad warrior spirit that inhabits the man at times, which is undeniable and, occasionally, awesome. Arthur Uther Pendragon is only another name, after all.

The people were gathered behind the police lines, protesters and well-wishers and other assorted locals, clapping and cheering him on. Centre stage at last. He always was a show-off.

But – well – all good shows must come to an end, and this one had lasted two-and-a-half hours. It was the best two-and-a-half hours free entertainment many of them had had.

Arthur was making another of his flying leaps when Excalibur got caught in a V in the branches, and he was stuck. They managed to get handcuffs onto him, and a line was put around his chest. Only now he'd wrapped his legs around a bough, and was refusing to let go. They were pulling and tugging at him, trying to drag him away, but those old biker legs were staying put. How else had he managed to stay on his bike through all the mad scrapes, but by gripping onto it with fierce determination? No one was going to move him. And you can imagine it, can't you? The gaggle of sheriff's officers and police officers and bailiffs and contractors swaying about on a cherry picker, hands around this one, mad, Druid, biker King, all puffing and panting, trying to drag him away. Crazy.

One of the Sheriff's officers shouted, 'Throw the sword,' but Sir Chainsaw Guy was having none of it. He tied a line around the sword and lowered it to the ground. After that they managed to get another line around Arthur's chest, which was tied and tensioned, and he blacked out. This was illegal, of course, but since when did legality get in the way of 'progress'? He came to in the cradle of the cherry picker, surrounded by boots and arms as it was lowered to the ground, after which he was arrested. And you can see the picture. How many people does it take to arrest a King?

Count 'em and see.

'Am I alone in thrilling to this noble throwback to the age of Celtic romance? Our Prime Minister is a grinning charmless twerp; our Archbishop of Canterbury has a much spiritual charisma as a raw potato; and the House of Windsor is dullsville. I'd dump the whole pack of them tomorrow and replace them with a single Royal, Spiritual and Political leader - King Arthur.' AN Wilson, Evening Standard.

‘This is a book about heroism, patriotism, liberty, poetry, martyrdom, history, mythology, personal self-fashioning and other unforeseen consequences of enjoying cider, cigarettes and laughs with a bunch of mates. It is an epic true story of war and religion set in Britain during the Dark Ages at the end of the twentieth century, which manages to remain at once, like its main character, passionately serious, irresistibly compelling, and hilariously good-humoured.’ Professor Ronald Hutton, Bristol University.

‘The Trials of Arthur is the amazing story of one singular man. But it is also the inspiring tale of an unjustly maligned British counterculture. Searching, funny, intelligent and illuminating, it is on one level a rip-roaring read, whimsical and compelling, and on another a haunting elegy to all those people who refuse to accept that they cannot make a difference in a world they know must change.’ Deborah Orr, The Independent.

‘In a nutshell: soap dodgers, druids, bikers... all manner of life romps through this funny and intelligent true-life tale. It gives a worm’s-eye view of the eco-protest movement.’ Sprit & Destiny.

‘The Trials of Arthur... is the compelling and often hilarious story of how an ex-soldier, ex-builder and always-biker donned a white frock (his words) and changed his name legally and regally to Arthur Pendragon. Trials? He’s had the odd run-in with Her Majesty’s police forces, mainly when protesting against new bypasses. One of the appendices lists 26 court appearances... So is this long-haired, bearded, cider-loving guy with a sword really Arthur Pendragon? His passport and driving license say so. In his passport photo he’s even wearing his crown. But is he really King Arthur? The co-author has his doubts. So, at times, does Arthur himself. And he’s perfectly happy for everyone else to think he’s a raving nutter. If people accept him as King Arthur, then he is King Arthur, king by acclaim, as it used to be. In any case, as the book says, if Geoffrey of Monmouth, Chretien de Troyes, Malory, Spencer and Tennyson can reinvent Arthur for their own purposes, spiritual or political, then so can we; he’s the King Arthur reinvented for today. 9/10. Great story of counter-culture King.’ Fortean Times.

‘The Trials of Arthur is filled with sagas, some hilarious, others sad and poignant, which show that this man is a human being on a mission to uphold “Truth, Honour and Justice”. The authors have been careful not to force their ideals upon the reader and encourage them to make up their own minds about Arthur and his deeds all the way through. However, they illustrate their beliefs in a humorous and dramatic way and, by the end of the book, the reader can’t help but like the man who calls himself King Arthur Uther Pendragon.’ Hampshire Chronicle.

‘For those of you not familiar with Arthur Pendragon, Druid King and Stonehenge defender, you’re in for a treat. Arthur’s story is one that is needed in these days when the people of Britain are being led into conflicts not of their choosing and are suffering at the hands of politicians and bureaucracy. Having faced racism and the worst that British society can offer, it is no small relief to find this patriotic upholder of all the good things about being British. Long live the once and present King! Highly recommended.’ Tania Ahsan, Prediction.

‘The Trials of Arthur... is the partly ghosted autobiography of an ex-soldier and biker called John Rothwell who reinvented himself as “King Arthur” in the 1980s and became a leading eco-warrior. A larger-than-life eccentric character renowned for frequently being found “tired and emotional” in ditches, he has been in and out of court and jail in his role as a political campaigner against motorway construction and for public access to Stonehenge. If you still think that being a pagan in the 21st century means wearing dreadlocks, living in a tipi and having a mongrel on a string then you will probably enjoy these wacky adventures of a Peter Pan character wandering around in a retro-hippy Never-Never Land.’ The Cauldron.

'Most people within the UK Pagan/alternative movement will be familiar with the figure of the man who calls himself “King Arthur”. Most will remember him as the crazy guy who got arrested for wearing a sword, regularly found at Stonehenge or eco protests during the nineties. If you ever wondered who he really is, and how or why he came to claim to be Arthur then you should probably read this book. Co-written by Arthur and CJ Stone and told in the style of an epic tale of old it is an interesting and at times highly amusing read. Whether you agree that he is the once and future king, or not, you can’t fail to be impressed by a man who turned his life inside out to make a difference to the world, even though he knew he would be ridiculed for it. Sometimes its bardic prose style doesn’t quite work, but in the main it is so unbelievable, it might just be true.' Awen Clement Kindred Spirit