Let's get all negative. Think about problems and things. People who don't quite make it.

So we say our spirit is a small chunk of God. Then quote an anecdote where summat cooky turned out okay. What about failures? There are always Two Sides To Every Question.

If you didn't know about the failures, you soon will. As soon as you tell anyone that you plan to be different. Talk to God. Follow intuition

Out'll come the stories.

Folk who've "gone funny". Heard voices. Never been the same since. Got into b-i-g trouble.

All of which, your informant will tell you, started when they took the precise step you're planning to take.

Rather like the letter we received from someone telling us that we'd "go into serious error" if we let ourselves be led directly by God instead of following a certain church's teaching. Then spent another couple of letters saying he hadn't meant us to take that the way he'd said it.

Fact is: people who cut loose, do their own thing, play hunches, follow up clues, listen to their Dad...

Do go funny. Don't slot neatly into society. Aren't yes- persons. Won't do as they're told.

Here's a bit of valuable advice.

Pick your friends with care. Watch out for your husband/wife/kids being got at.

You see, folk are fearfully insecure. They need to know that everyone's doing it, everyone has one (One what? Don't be vulgar!), everyone will be dressed that way.

If you come along, not giving a stuff about what other people think, yet enjoying yourself, their security collapses.

So they get all catty. Snipe at you. Try and get you back on the straight and narrow.

Drop 'em, if they get too heavy. Because sometimes they won't attack head-on, but sidle around to your nearest and weirdest when you're out and do an I'm-only-telling-you-for- your-own-good act.

Doesn't mean you only have friends who agree with you. No way. Try and pick up those who enjoy a good fight.

As long as they know what they're talking about. Prepared to listen, disagree - and remember what you said in case it makes sense later.

Relatives can be just as bothersome as friends. In a different way.

Relatives care for you. You're family; you belong. They want to see you right. Which, alas, means they advise caution. The look before you leap, cash in the bank, don't rock the boat attitude.

Together with the you-won't-do-anything-to-embarrass-us- will-you outlook.

All of which generates a bit of pressure. A Murphyish quality. Making it tricky to do anything because you choose to do it.

There's a tendency to go under; or react against friends and relatives; over-react. Look - love 'em and leave 'em, 'til you get your act together. Why make difficulties?

Incidentally, one difficulty you might stagger across in getting into the spirit area is pseudo-intellectualism.

Let's explain.

Intellect is soul level. Murphy level, of course, but part of life as long as it's kept in its place. But the pseudo- intellectual (who may be an utter whizz-kid or covering up for being a few bricks short of a load) has developed a tricky line in mental immorality.

He is programmed to come up with the points for. And against. Alternately. "Let's go fishing. But it might rain. Be neat, though - I could use my new rod. Maggy'd prefer going for a drive. The car needs a warrant, so we can't go anywhere. Better paint the shed. If it isn't going to rain." With a bit of practice it becomes automatic.

Guaranteed to drive those in the vicinity up the wall. Which is the whole object of the exercise.

The game can be played another way. As a form of conscience.

And everyone is righteously indignant at everyone else. Properly done, it can be kept up for hours, with late arrivals being called in to take sides.

Keep your mind in its place. Sure, consider alternatives. Be aware of your motives. But don't get your knickers in a knot over every possible permutation.

And never use an argument you know is dodgy to stall a situation for a moment.

In other words - don't let your mind be anything but a servant. A few paragraphs ago we used the word "conscience".

Herewith a bit of a footnote for religious types.

There ain't no such thing as a conscience. Not nowhere.

Rustle those india-paper leaves, sister. Stab an accusing forefinger at inspired chapter and verse, brother.

We'll still say it's not there.

We grant you, the word is. But it's a mistranslation. Not accidental, either.

You see, sometimes the Bible says "the conscience" is an evil thing. Needs dealing with. At other times there are dire warnings against ignoring "the conscience".

Fact is, it should have been translated "judgement". We don't "have a conscience", but we do come up with judgement. Sometimes - on soul level - it's damn stupid; especially when it's based on our tribal taboos and Victorian ethics. At other times, when it's from the spirit, it's spot on.

But you can't build a religion on that. So the good, devout, godly translators stuck tongue firmly in cheek and wrote "conscience". And religion has been developing the blasted thing ever since.

Don't do that...don't go there...don't eat this...don't read, think, touch...because we say so. (And, if you'd like to do your own research into mistranslation, try the words "church", "baptism" or "Easter". Follow their evolution. Quite an eye-opener.)

Where were we? Oh yes, keeping our mind in its place...

Perhaps you wonder if some folk won't make it. If there are any who haven't got a show of functioning on the spirit level.

In a word: yes and no. Anyone can make it. There's a wee bit of bias in favour of thick types - because there's not so much to get in the way...

But some people can make themselves into no-hopers. It takes a bit of working at, but it can be done. Take some time off and see where it applies to you. We're all more or less dishonest with ourselves at certain times and in certain situations. Which is okay in small quantities, but has a tendency to get out of hand and take over.

Here's how to be a no-hoper...

Find yourself a problem.

Some little moral or ethical hassle. A worry or fear. An obsession or two. A quirk of character or personality.

That's all. Then - get help. All the help you can. As often as you can.

Pour your little heart out to your friends (...just in confidence, Sidney...), to strangers in bus queues, to doctors, to welfare agencies. To every minister, priest, reverend, pastor and curate you can find. And (of course) to the opposite sex who can be so kind and understanding in situations like that.

With care, you can build up a roster of shoulders to cry on. Your problems will grow from an abstract Shortcoming to a bonny bouncing Difficulty with a will of its own and hairs on its chest.

And you will have enough good advice to keep you occupied over the longest wet Labour Weekend. You'll discover prayer lines and altar calls. Some churches - usually ones set towards the whoopin' and hollerin' end of the spectrum, but there are exceptions - give an invite for people to come to the front after the lecture and get prayed for. Out you shuffle. Head humbly bowed.

Try and be first - you receive more attention. And that way, you can beat the other regulars by a short nose.

Now, the funny thing is that all the sources of help I've mentioned - doctors, ministers, friends - really can and do make a difference to some people. Why, then. am I suggesting that they won't work?

They're okay as a one-off.

But a no-hoper makes a career out of his problem; collects counsellors; has boxes full of advice; feeds - or fights - his difficulty to find new angles to talk about.

There is no hope for a no-hoper.

Because the last thing he wants is to be deprived of his darling little raison d'être, his moment of glory. Something to shock sweet old ladies, to evoke instant sympathy in strangers, earbash the longsuffering and patient listener far into the night.

Not perhaps the most satisfying of careers. But a career.

How do you measure up? Guilty?

There is a way out if you're one of the rare birds who comes to their senses and feels like a change. Unfortunately it's a brisk, crisp solution with none of the cosy hours of chit-chat you've grown to love.

Take an example. A respectable one.

Let's say you're a compulsive nail-biter. For years you've bewailed the fact, castigated (eh?) yourself for lack of willpower and generally annoyed everyone within cooee.

Now - forget it. Grin and bear it.

Don't make the slightest attempt not to.

That's all. Well, not quite. You see, for years you've poured untold psychic energy into your nail-biting problem, feeding the brute. It thrives on attention.

It grows visibly on condemnation and discipline. Cold showers and willpower.

Forget it. And, meanwhile, get into something that grabs you. Something you choose. And the nailbiting (or whatever) will fade away like a politician's promise after an election.

Don't try and chart progress. "Ooh, I'm improving". Or "oops, I slipped back a bit yesterday". You can't assess how things are going in the murky, goblin-filled caverns of your soul. Don't try.

And that 's the way to quit the ranks of the no-hopers.

Trouble is - society in general (and religion in particular) demands an instant, total, irreversible reformation. No lapses, waverings or longing

So the normal technique, dealing with Problems, is to turn the old willpower knob up to maximum, grit your teeth and hope you don't bust a gusset.

It doesn't work. We've had too many pillars of church and society drive up to our door after dark and admit to a whole Pandora's box-full of sordid problems they'd been sitting on.

The price of respectability, no less. Problems feed on respectability. Don't believe us: read your local paper.

"I'd never have thought it of her. Brought up so well, she was. Lovely husband. The children were so polite, too. And all the time, there she was... Makes me feel ill, really it does." No it doesn't. Just insecure. Waiting for your turn.

If you want to fail, be a Lady or Gentleman. Discipline yourself. Smile politely. Control your temper. Dress neatly, unostentatiously. Shake your head sadly over the waywardness of others. Move through life like a duck over the tranquility of a pond... While underneath, your little feet are paddling faster'n hell. And you're hoping that old age and impotence will ease the pressure before the boiler bursts.

Let's carry on being negative.

Imagine, say, you've started looking for prompts. Hunches. "God speaking to you."

And you get the impression you should do something - and you don't do it.

Don't get condemned and remorseful. Woe is me and all that jazz.

Ask your Dad to play it through again. He can. And will. It's quite fun, sometimes.

And if you do something that turns out a total fiasco, ask Him why.

For one thing, mebbe you didn't blow it. It might just be taking a little longer than you'd reckoned to sort itself out.

Or, say it was a real clanger. He'll tell you why. But He might have to teach you a heap more before you can grasp the nuts and bolts involved.

Anyhow, don't go getting intense about mistakes and all that. Keep a sense of humour. God's got one. After all, He made you. Didn't He?

And maintain a low-key, controllable scepticism. It'll save going down the odd, elementary blind alley.

For example - one of the Objects of the Game is to get into a thoroughly supernatural, spirit-level, paranormal way of life.

But some folk bog down early in the piece because they're too polite and gullible.

I'm anticipating a bit, talking about close encounters with Beings from Beyond...but never, ever forget who you are.

A son of God. Which makes Him your Dad. And Jesus your brother. Not a bad position to be in.

Don't let anyone or anything hang one on you. Even if it comes in a UFO, glows in the dark and stands ten cubits high. You're still a son of God. Scruffy. But the greatest.

Where were we? Oh yes, being gullible.

An elementary clanger is the good old spiritualist seance.

All sit in a ring, hold hands, and the medium will bring a meaningful message from your dear departed.

Breathless 'ush. Someone's stomach plays faint organ music.

A good, blunderbuss approach. There are endless variations. Headaches, money problems, bad backs and wayward offspring.

Then the show gets more specific.

"Someone is here for the first time." Big deal - you were asked that as you came in. "The spirits can sense you have doubts in your mind." One look at your face would tell a blind man that.

"But my spirit guide brings a message for you." Things are warming up.

"You had an uncle who tragically passed away overseas." That'll be old Bill - drank himself silly and drove into a creek somewhere in the South Island last year.

"He remembers you loaned him money." True; to buy the grog. No-one knew except you and him. Aunt would've skinned you alive if she'd known. So how does this thing work? Mental telepathy?

You go and look, and whadyaknow! A treasure trove of pearls, sovereigns or diamonds that even Aunt didn't know about.

Oooh and ah; it really was Uncle Bill. And you return to the seance convinced the astral telephone exchange has guaranteed person-to-person calls.

Piffle. Codswallop, even. If there is a spirit world (and we maintain there demonstrably is) it doesn't follow there's any information known only to dear old Uncle Bill. Any ghosties and ghoulies, not to mention angels and demons, can know everything Bill ever knew, plus a whole lot more.

There is absolutely no reason to imagine astral messages originate from anyone you've met. Unless you want to be fooled.

Unfortunately, there is a kink in human nature which comes out in the form of chronic gullibility in the occult department.

Maybe because seances, ouija boards and tarot cards work. More or less. And we're so taken by surprise that we fail to apply even an elementary degree of caution.

This is why the Bible hands out a rather sane piece of advice. "There is one mediator (or medium) between God and man, and that is the man Christ Jesus".

It is decidedly unsafe to use any lower spirit (or any living human) as an intermediary between you and your Dad.

Okay, we realise that in one simplistic fell swoop this cuts across the entire guru trip, the organised religious scene, and most aspects of spiritualism. But think about it for a moment...

If there is something "out there" (and at this stage in the book it's reasonable for us to take it for granted), then it's a pretty complex set-up. With good guys and bad guys. And they are - usually - invisible.

Ask yourself this question: what would you get up to if you had the gift of invisibility? Pause for a bit of wink- wink, nudge-nudge. The fact is that if we (or you) had the gift of invisibility, we'd get up to all sorts of tricks. Elaborate practical jokes. Utter mischief.

So? Think of all the folk-lore. Legends from the Pacific Islands. Tales from Europe. Of imps and elves, sprites and pixies. Mischievous spirits. Then ask someone genuinely involved in spiritualism about the trustworthiness of their spirit guides. You might be surprised at the answers, if you probe deeply enough.

But it's easy to be satisfied with a reasonable fifty-fifty reliability rate. With the wrong answers explained away as static or something.

The problem though, is because we approach the astral realm from the wrong angle. The conventional way is to regard it as a "higher plane". Which it indeed is, if we view it from the material level.

But God's intention was to make us realise the part of us called "spirit" is actually joined with Him on His level.

Therefore we are located as a point of fact in a position above the astral plane and we should regard that area as effectively beneath us. So it doesn't matter what rank any particular spirit being might hold. (Different religions use different labels, but familiar terms include angels, archangels, principalities, powers, cherubim...) Our position is above them. And any contact we have with them should arise from our relationship with our Dad and be continually referred back to Him for verification.

Now, maybe that's not quite as gimmicky as pushing a tumbler across a polished table or shuffling a pack of cards. But if we experiment at getting something going direct with Dad, all the rest of the "spirit world" falls into place. It doesn't become a no-no; only the techniques which will mislead us will be banned.

The main thing is to communicate with our Dad direct. Not to be satisfied with anything that keeps Him at a distance.

That's what religion does.

And spiritualism is just another religion.

Just a word of caution.

Beware of any religion. Beware of organisations.

Beware of anything that isn't open-ended. Regardless of the publicity. The brochures. The come-hither.

Ask questions. Look for wrigglies under the stones. Talk to folk who've been in it for years. Because anything organised must petrify. Or putrefy.

And because truth - Truth - isn't a thing. Or a concept. Or something you "believe".

"Believe" is a word which the Murphyfarm Veterinarian Services efficiently gelded to make it docile. And sterile.

Originally it was a spirit-level word. It meant though something was totally invisible and other, you'd put your last dollar on it, risk everything, lean on it, walk on it - because you knew. Nice word.

But dangerous to the Murphy Motivation and Management Bureau.

So creeds were written. Apostles, Nicene, Athanasian, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all...

Catechisms. Statements of faith.

"I believe..." In God and Pontius Pilate and Murphy and the inerrance of the holy scriptures and the quick and the dead and all sorts of things because I learned it at my mother's knee (pause for old joke) and if I didn't I'd be a heathen who believes in nasty things.

Belief became assent. An abstract acceptance.

A soul-level, Murphy-dominated word where we assent to certain propositions...

And don't do one damn thing with them... Don't bounce up and down on 'em to see if they break... Don't take 'em along to Dad and say "hey - do these things ever work?"

In other words - "belief", in today's strict usage - is unbelief.

So beware of believing something.

Because, as I said - Truth isn't a thing.

Truth is a Person.

So some book, some bloke, some organisation can say words at you.

But only what you experience has any value.

Why do clergy go on about the beauty of prayer, the majesty of God and His self-sufficiency? Why is theology taught in Bible Colleges. Along with counselling techniques and the divine art of sermon making?

Wouldn't it be refreshing if a reverend leaned over the edge of a pulpit and said "Okay. That's it. I've taught you all I know. Off you go. Try it out. It's between you and your Dad from now on."

Or if a sermon on faith closed with the bloke telling you to go move a mountain, uproot a fig tree or walk across Taupo. (The lake, not the city, stupid.)

Instead, the bottom line tends to be an exhortation to put another dollar in the dish 'cos the roof's started having a leak. All of which seems more Murphy than Dad.

• Keep in an open-ended system.
• Because Truth is a Person.
• So is Life.
• And so is the Way.

Technique tends to slow things down. It's usually a fossilisation of the route that some other bloke went. Which mightn't do for you at all.

Just imagine big. Expect the oddest things. Keep a sense of humour - especially about yourself. Don't be stuffy. Look for clues. Don't be self-conscious if Dad treats you with a bit of favouritism.

Friend of ours got "the treatment" while he was in the army.

He was overseas with heaven-knows how many other conscripts to prove a point a few politicians and generals had made.

Ordinary sort of fellow, he was. And one night he had a dream. An odd 'un.

Which neatly, systematically, flawlessly told him how to desert. (Ooh, naughty!) Every step. The documents he would need. How he should cover his tracks.

And how to begin a new life with the missus and kids.

He woke early in the barracks. Surprised to find every detail of the dream was clearly etched on him memory. He made up his mind to give it a go, although as far as he could remember, no dream had ever seemed even mildly important before.

And it worked.

Under the noses of the military police he took the complex route which led from the barracks to the docks. All the papers he needed for a new identity were obtainable by the methods he had been told. At the docks his documents were cursorily inspected and he was directed on board a troopship returning to Wellington.

Within a short time, he and his family were happily re-united (everybody say "aah") in a cottage on a farm out in the back-blocks.

No snags. Funny, eh.

Like we said - expect a bit of favouritism.

* * *

Rationalism is having a rough time.

It was easier last century.

When progress was steam and machinery. Industry and mass production. The tangible world of the merchant and the engineer. Where Darwin evolved man in his own image. And the gods shrank between the covers of poetry books or lay flat and lifeless on an artist's canvas.

While Murphy nodded his approval and said "my will be done".

Not so today.

Although school textbooks drag their feet and parrot the mechanical dogmas of a bygone age, scientists who are pushing further and further the boundaries of knowledge are beginning to learn that only the incredible is to be expected.

The universe may be ordered, but it is scarcely orderly.

Subject to laws, but with no legalism.

In other words - a neat place to bring up the kids.

Kids - the littler the better - seem designed to handle life the way it really is. They can have an invisible playmate whom they talk to, confide in. Without embarrassment. Or blether happily for hours in a nonsense language.

Their world runs alongside another which we cannot see. Which we are only beginning to admit to. Which eventually only the most intellectually stubborn will be able to deny.

Our trip back to Britain underlined how the world of the paranormal (good as well as bad) is becoming part of our world.

Even before we left New Zealand we noticed that the off- beat stories were taking a different twist.

Once it was UFOs. Now - close encounters: the special edition.

People claimed to be picking up hitch-hikers who would deliver some mystical message. Then dematerialise at 80kph.

Disconcerting, they said.

Sane and stolid Taihape cockies found themselves making a journey from A to B in a few minutes - that for years had been a good hour's trek.

And two Whangarei housewives of sober and honest repute...

Were driving to Onerahi late one night. Talking non-stop as was their custom.

And, more intent on talking than driving, they put their largish car in the ditch.

They were unhurt. The car was unbent. But well bellied down and undriveable out. They scrambled clear and wondered what their spouses would say.

A young fellow ambled along out of the night. Asked if he could help. The women said would he go to the nearest house and ring for a tow-truck.

"No need," he said. "She'll be right."

And - according to these good ladies - picked up the front end of the car and set it on the road. Did the same with the back end. Said a courteous "God bless you", and walked off into the night.

Try it with your own car sometime.

Well, we arrived in dear old Britain and began travelling round.

And it would be fair to say everywhere we stumbled over people with their own first-hand paranormal story...

There was the air-traffic controller who constantly has to file reports of objects whose speed, size and manoeuvrability corresponded with nothing on civil or military schedules.

The family living in an old rectory who were annoyed by a horse and cart which disturbed their sleep by driving endlessly around the house at night. Invisibly.

The tough, no-nonsense ex-army type who had grown used to a white figure appearing in his bedroom. Wasn't his missus. Or anybody else's, as far as he knew.

And a classic example to which every daily paper gave pride of place...

Most of Britain was enjoying a heatwave. Most. But not one particular house in Abbott Road, Bournemouth.

The couple there were shivering in their own personalised winter. The family Labrador was unhappy, barking incessantly.

Off to work as usual went the husband, somewhat startled to see the dog take off ahead of him as soon as the door was opened, streaking into the dim blue yonder like a bat out of hell.

He was even more surprised to receive an urgent message from his wife to come home. She explained that all the furniture and crockery in the house had gone berserk.

The husband was dumbfounded to return to the chaos. Any natural explanations which might have occurred to him were rudely disturbed as he watched an oil heater tip itself over. Unaided.

He picked up the phone and told the police to come at speed. Then shuddered as something plucked the receiver from his hand and smashed it against the wall

The police arrived. Notebooks at the ready. But there was no time for the standard "Now then, what's all this there 'ere" of the British bobby.

As they went from the blaze of summer to the unearthly chill of the house, a large kitchen cabinet lurched towards them and topple over. Any china left intact was hurtled to the floor. Handcuffs don't work awfully well in situations like that. But British policemen are wonderful; P.C. Graham Joyce was no exception.

He recommended an exorcism. And in no time the fun and games was ordered to halt in the name of Jesus. The poltergeist left, the chilly atmosphere with it. The family dog returned. Abbott Road, Bournemouth, was back to normal.

There's a problem in this sort of happening. Not unbelief.

You don't have much time for doubt when the Royal Doulton is whizzing round your ears and the three-piece suite is rapidly reduced to matchwood.

The problem is dealing with the thing.

Because religion has worked 'eavens 'ard at making people reluctant to mention Jesus. Religion - by a lengthy process of sentimentalising and innuendo, phoney piety and hypocritical awe - has managed to invest him with a gooey, effeminate image.

Downright inaccurate, whatever angle you study the record from.

But the slander has stuck, nevertheless.

We'd reached the Island of Mull after the encounter with the prostitute I was telling you about.

And settled in a wonderfully comfortable guest house a few hundred metres to the left of the jetty. This is an unashamed advert - the breakfasts are superb.

Eileen and I changed, and went downstairs into the lounge.

An American archaeologist and his wife were already there. They explained that they had been sent by a Californian university to do a dig in a hitherto undisturbed broch.

Despite much-boasted Scottish origins, I raised ignorant eyebrows. He elucidated:

"They're strange structures, brochs are. Imagine a stone beehive standing as high as a two storey house. Double walls, with galleries running between the two. The interior is one large hall."

"What were they for?" asked Eileen.

The archaeologist smiled. "Your guess is as good as mine," he replied. "There are as many theories as there are books on the subject. Chieftains' houses or communal dwellings. Places of worship. Strongholds. Burial chambers. There's evidence at one time or other some brochs have been used for all those purposes and more. But there's no consistent pattern."

His wife took up the explanation.

"Some never seemed to have a clear use. All we know for sure is that more than two thousand years ago, great numbers of these structures were built."

"That's not quite all we know," said the husband. "There are some odd tales about these brochs. Apparently it doesn't always do to disturb them."

"You believe that?" I asked.

"I wouldn't have," he admitted. "Except that we have - or rather, had - a good friend who came here from the States a few years back. Doing much the same as we are. Locals warned him to be careful, not to disturb things or take any stone samples away. But research is research..."

He paused.

His wife said flatly: "Within the year his wife and all their family were dead. All separate incidents. A car accident here, an illness there, a fire someplace else."

The husband looked enquiringly at us.

"Tomorrow we get to open one that hasn't been disturbed since 'way back. Okay, how do we avoid burning our fingers?"

He wasn't kidding.

"There's an answer." I began. "On the cross, Jesus -"

The archaeologist cut me off, flat.

"Sorry, pal. No offence meant. But we're not interested in joining anybody's religion. We're from California, remember? We grow religion like most folk grow grass."

"Steady on," I said. "This isn't religion. No more than you'd get all religious over a spade if someone gave one to you."

Briefly we told him of some of the experiences we'd had on the Maori settlement. Explaining that because Jesus defeated Murphy, there was no need for curses and spells to have effect. As long as one relied totally on the effectiveness of Jesus, not on any technique.

The American and his wife were genuinely interested. They questioned us late into the night to know reasons why exorcism worked, the function of intuition, relationship between themselves and God. The embarrassment which they had associated with religion was gone.

The next morning as we entered the diningroom in our usual breakfast stupor, they called across to us:

"Hey, so there you are. Look, George and Eileen, before we go off, let's just check that we've got it right. Okay?"

To the fascination of the other guests, the couple went over point by point what is theologically labelled "the doctrine of redemption". But with no hushed reverential tones, only the muffling effect of eating bacon and eggs at the same time.

And off they went, eager to begin excavating their broch.

As we moved around Britain, we were struck by the similarity of paranormal events there to those in New Zealand.

In Inverness, Eileen explained to some people we met about the Maori "death light".

"It's a large globe of light - rather like ball lightning", she told them, "that sometimes drifts into a Maori home. The oldest person there is supposed to look into it. If he or she does, they see the face of a relative or friend. Then they know that person

There had been several occasions when we'd seen neighbours piling mattresses and clothes into the back of a ute. We'd asked them where they were going. And They'd said something like "Oh, we're off to Kaitaia, eh! It's the old lady, she's dying."

No phone calls. No telegrams.

They'd arrive in time for the last farewells. Then stay for the funeral.

As Eileen told the Scots, one said: "This has happened here in the Highlands and Islands for centuries. The crofters would be after seeing the light, and they'd always know whose house they were to make for. Even if it meant a walk of several days through the glens."

From the north of Scotland we made our way down into England, then changed trains to reach the western edge of Wales.

Haverfordwest may sound a clumsy, unromantic place name. But a brisk walk out of the town brought us to a magical spot called Merlin's Bridge.

At first glance there was nothing unusual about the district. The bulk of the Kraft cheese factory overshadowed the grey houses around it, filling the air with a cloying stink. Sorry, Kraft - you make a good product, but it's no fun being around when you do it.

We stayed in the area for some time, exploring the surrounding villages, wandering the lanes, talking to the people we met. There was a peaceful relaxed atmosphere. Everyone was friendly.

And everyone we came across - with no exceptions, apart from those who had no time for more than a hi and 'bye - had had firsthand, frequent contact with something that was totally other.

A few years before, there had been what UFO enthusiasts call a "flap". They define the word as a dramatic increase in unusual sightings. A brief upsurge of paranormal events.

As we listened to stories told in shy lilting accents, confirming all that we had read of the "flap" and more, we came to realise the ufologists definition was partially wrong. In this part of the world, at least.

Doubtless there had been increased media interest in unusual happenings. Normally reticent villagers had come forward into the glare of publicity.

But these events were still taking place.

There is no point in my trying to re-hash what goes on in that corner of the United Kingdom. Randall Pugh has set down a well-researched set of stories in his book "The Dyfed Enigma".

It was the sequel to those and other stories that grabbed us.

The Welsh are religious. Painfully so.

Chapels abound.

And although the singing of the hymns has a fervour unmatched in the northern hemisphere, chapel-going has a stubborn legalism rather than spontaneous enthusiasm.

But the unusual happenings were changing people. Abruptly. Informally. On a highly personal, one-to-one level.

After all, if you sit by the fire one evening and feel the entire house shake, then run outside to investigate, and find an object about two kilometres square passing overhead - you're not likely to put on your best black suit next Sabbath and sing Cwm Rhondda in the choir, indeed to goodness.

Especially as you've been singing it since your voice broke.

Either you flip. Or else you catch up on your conversations with the Creator.

And - the folk around Merlin's Bridge weren't flipping.

So, in the chapels it was business as usual. While at home the people were learning to handle their off-beat environment. Direct, with Dad.

Unlike the people of Warminster.

Funny how atmosphere can change from place to place. Peaceful and relaxed at Merlin's Bridge. Antagonistic in Warminister.

It would normally have been unremarkable that the couple opposite us in the train began a humdinger of a quarrel as we approached the station.

Then as we walked to the guesthouse, along the streets were small groups of people arguing, jostling. For no reason that we could discover.

We reached the guesthouse. And watched with awe a pair who were leaving. They made what sounded to us like a reasonable and moderately worded complaint.

The proprietress took umbrage and began swearing at them.

They reacted in kind.

In a matter of moments the situation trembled on the brink of physical violence. And the police were summoned. Not an auspicious introduction to Warminister.

Again, as in Wales, we talked to as many people as we could. They, too, had their own stories to tell.

Of lights. Of unearthly beings. All the traditional UFO stories. At first hand.

There were professional people with reputations to maintain, garrulous housewives, school-children.

And while the odd events happened anywhere in the locality, one spot - Cradle Hill, on the edge of town - seemed to be the focal point of these appearances.

Still we couldn't understand the way the atmosphere contrasted with the peace of Merlin's Bridge.

Until we met a particulary enthusiastic researcher in Warminister.

We swapped stories, then Eileen told him about our thing in the gaol. "What a pity," he said, shaking his head sadly.

"Pity?" queried Eileen.

"Yes. Getting rid of it like that."

"But - it was an evil spirit," I said.

"No," he replied. "You don't understand. What you experienced was not evil. There is no such thing as evil. Everything is good, because everything is God. You would know if you came and stood with us on Cradle Hill on a night when the beings come down. Then you would be bathed in light. They talk to us of many things".

"Do they ever mention Jesus," I asked.

He thought carefully.

"No, I don't think they ever do. But it doesn't really matter, does it?"

We got the picture. He, and others we talked to in Warminister, had fallen for a standard ploy of Murphy's - the half-truth.

It is correct that everything originally was and ultimately will be God. Creation, as the theologians tell us (and they should know...) was ex nihilo - meaning God hadn't much to start with except Himself.

But. And it's an important but.

When Murphy made his Unilateral Declaration of Independence, his use of the soul level was a mis-use of something God had made out of Himself.

That, essentially, is a definition of sin.

Murphy didn't run round saying four-letter words or smoking joints or exceeding the speed limit. Or any of the other actions that earn public disapproval.

He merely (...or appallingly, depending on your understanding...) isolated an area of life from the perfect, direct and low-key control of God. And made it an intense, introspective, pro and con set up of his own.

Hence the built-in failure of everything under Murphy's Law.

So our Warminster acquaintance made a fundamental gaffe when he swallowed everything up on Cradle Hill.

Trouble is, some spirits look impressive; one hestitates to quiz them.

("Well, love, he was such a nice man. Told me not to bother with the fine print and all the questions. Just to sign the form and he'd fill it in later." Add mood lighting and a bit of ectoplasm and who's arguing.)

We come to Murphy's some-of-the-people-all-of-the-time department.

This was where Joseph Smith and Ellen G. White (who kicked off Mormonism and Seventh Day Adventism) took a wrong turn.

(Leastways, if events happened as the official handouts say. Because pious followers have been known to edit, modify and even re-write the lives and works of their illustrious leaders. A few examples for your own research: John Wesley's "Journal" has a recurrent theme of supernaturalism and miracle cut out in modern editions; Mrs. Jesse Penn-Lewis's "War On The Saints" (an account of the paranormal during the Welsh revival) was deliberately edited to make Murphy win by ten goals to nil and scare the simple into looking under the bed o'nights; and the biography of Sadhu Sundar Singh has been brutally castrated of every outlandish story, including meetings with a several-hundred-year-old hermit, and his own vanishing into thin air.)

(That was another of these digressions.)

So, assuming the accounts of Smith and White are pretty close to what went on - their mistake lay in taking every spirit at face value. Mustn't.

It's a recurrent feature of the Bible that beings from the spirit world form a regular part of our landscape. But must be taken with a pinch of salt.

It's only difficult if you're religious.

Religious types imagine that God and the angels are frightfully serious fellows. Talking earnestly in low voices. Never a golden hair out of place. Never a wrinkle in their togas.

Oh dear. What if God enjoys a yarn with His cobbers over a glass of home brew? There's more than a hint in scripture on those lines. Remember, He used to drop in on Adam and Mrs. when they were stark in the park. (Before they'd had a proper church wedding, too.)

Didn't worry Him. Didn't worry them.

In fact it was Messrs. Murphy and Haute Couture who set them a-draping fig-leaves over their functional bits. Not Dad.

Murphy. To be copied by all the screwed-up Victorian missionaries who spread their own guilt complexes and neuroses across Africa and the Pacific. Preaching that sex is bad for one - and omitting to add that it's better for two.

Sure, we know that Dad went along with Adam and Eve's modesty trip. Even made 'em fur coats. But God has often gone along with man's dumb ideas. Sometimes just for a bit of peace, sometimes so man could discover his dumbness for himself.

Israel insisted on a king. Nice and visible, unlike God. God warned them of the consequences if He didn't rule the nation direct. Tough, said Israel. Okay, said God. And helped them select a ruler who proved the perfect pain in the arse, as prophesied.

Israel insisted on a temple. Status symbol, same as Ashtoreth and Moloch had. Not a portable badger-skin tent. I don't feel like settling, said God. Tough, said Israel. Once again God said okay and dictated the specifications. And now the Arabs have pushed them off the chosen site (...chosen by man, not by God, please note...) so they can't have a temple, so they can't get through to God.

Sometimes it's best to do it Dad's way. Which involves finding out what He's like.

And (to return from yet another digression) challenging anything and everything that flashes an ID card and claims to be His accredited representative.

The phoney, Murphy-minded spirits put quite a stress on love and light and peace, Jesus is ignored, or down-played to the level of just another prophet, spirit guide, medium, adept or whatever.

There will be no mention of the blood of Jesus. And antagonism if you refer to it. You see, technically, it was the actual outpouring of the blood of Jesus that made Him the literal final sacrifice to render man acceptable to God. Murphy can handle crosses (crucifixes, especially, because they freeze history at a point before the resurrection, i.e. before Jesus had demonstrated that He had won) along with all other religious impedimenta.

But the blood is the focal point of Murphy's defeat.

However, in other matters, Murphy can confuse us with orthodoxy. He can on occasion (depending on the grade of spirit he's using) be surprisingly accurate and polite about Jesus.

The demons that pop up from time to time in the Gospels, were usually more clued-up than the venerable St. Peter himself. They, early in the story, acknowledge Jesus as the messiah - the Christ, the anointed - the holy one of God and the son of God.

Didn't make them okay, though.

One test for dividing good and evil spirits gets spelled out at length in John's first epistle, chapter 4. It's clearly written although the inherent importance might not be instantly obvious.

The passage starts with a statement to the effect that spirits can be from God or Murphy. You don't ignore them, you don't worship them, you check them out.

How? Simple. A spirit from God will be prepared to offer you the information that "Jesus Christ is come in flesh". A Murphy-type spirit will deny it.

Anticlimax? The phrase "Jesus Christ is come in flesh" is terse, economical, legal language.

First, what it doesn't say. It doesn't say Jesus did come in human form two thousand years back. Murphy seldom denies this with much conviction. He and his henchmen fully acknowledged that Jesus became human when he was living on earth.

What the phrase does say is Jesus Christ is come in flesh.

"Is". Present tense.

Meaning that He - Jesus - is in us.

Important? Vitally.

The Bible states that the "mystery" - God's secret weapon, unpublicised until after the resurrection - "Christ in us". People became one spirit with him.

In effect, instead of Jesus being limited to one body in one place, he is now living throughout this world. In individuals.

His work on the cross complete, he - in you, and me - can get on with the job of living. Swamping Murphy.

Little wonder that Murphy will never, ever, state that "Jesus Christ is come in flesh". He wants us to continue being religious. Waiting for the day when "everything will be okay".

That day's been around for a mighty long time. Live it.

Listen to Murphy, you'll miss out.

Follow the bland teachings of religion and you won't know how to handle off-beat, paranormal situations.

Religion's failure can be clearly seen throughout the Pacific. As we found in Rarotonga. Almost everyone - barring a few inevitable reprobates - belong to one of the four major denominations - CICC, RC, LDS and SDA. On Saturdays and Sundays the faithful crowd into church buildings dotted around the island.

So what? Don't look at the numbers in their best clothes with Bibles under their arms. Follow the Ara Metua after dark.

There are two roads around the island. An outer, tarsealed road of comparatively recent construction.

And an inner, metalled road whose origins date from before the present islanders arrived on Rarotonga many hundreds of years ago. The Ara Metua.

By day, a winding track which fords the occasional stream and meanders between coconut groves and taro swamps. As you phut along on the inevitable motorbike, you are forced to pull to one side and let an overladen horse and cart pass you, led by a mischievous eight-year-old.

But by night?

There's no danger. Just the possibility that the person you meet will turn out to be more insubstantial than you would feel easy about. As you watch, he will fade away, even in the light of a full moon. Ask the locals - all churchgoers - how they handle the situation. They have no answer, because their churches have no answer.

Or listen to the stories about the Black Rock. The way a woman stands at night to direct travellers down a road which doesn't exist by day. A road which fails to follow the curve of the island and leads straight into the sea.

And talk to the grader driver who was taken ill and sent to the well-equipped hospital set high in the hills. Every test was run, to no effect. Blood samples were flown to Auckland for further analysis. Again, nothing. The man continued to deteriorate. Then, one of the old people came to see him. Quietly asked if he had been working in such-and- such an area when he became ill. Yes. What exactly had he been doing; exactly. Grading this stretch of road, see, where there's a bit of a corner. And, well, there's this big stone that sticks into the road a way. So I go and angle my blade, eh, and push the stone, careful-like, until the stone isn't in the road any more. Then I start to feel sick, see.

The old person explained that the boulder is an ancient marker and should never have been moved for any reason at all. The driver was told to get out of that bed, out of the hospital and by fair means or foul on to his grader. He scarcely had the strength, but somehow managed to manoeuver the stone back to its old resting place. Within the hour he was fit and well. Back at work.

He was one of the lucky ones.

And the churches on the island continue to provide an earnestly ineffective European Christianity which - to quote the Bible's evaluation of religion - has "a form of godliness, but denies the power thereof".

Remember - you don't need a professional around to handle a heavy supernatural situation. You can deal with it. Even if you don't feel all that confident.

We got to hear of a Whangarei family who had been plagued by all kinds of odd hauntings. Ornaments went walkies around the mantelpiece. A brand-new video recorder would turn itself over to the regular broadcast programmes at each exciting moment in the tape it was playing. Doors swung around, and the Zip heater regularly switched on with nobody nearby.

Wife and kids were upset. Hubby pretending that's the way things are, these days. Until one teatime.

Lovely domestic scene. The whole family are sitting around the table, winding in the calories. Suddenly - chaos. Behind one of the kids is standing a blurred but menacing figure. Wife and children see it. Not hubby.

He sees the distraught family. Mutters something about "bloody spooks". At which point his plate of piping hot tucker lifts into the air. Turns upside down. And lands with a soggy splosh in his lap. Lots of fun.

Through a friend of a friend we were asked to call in. Quick. We went along, and found the couple to be your Mr. and Mrs. Average European. Just normal middle-class. Not the bug- eyed type. But the atmosphere in that house was something else.

So - we explained briefly to them that, because of Jesus, everyone had the right to take authority over annoying spirits.

Then, in a few unemotional words, we told whatever-it-was to go away in the name of Jesus. The husband looked doubtful. "Is that all? Will that be sufficient?"

"No. That one's gone. Often enough another will try and start up in a few days."

"Will you come along here and get rid of it?"

We refused. We told them it was as easy for them as for us. Okay, we had the advantage that we'd done exorcisms before. But for us or them the reason exorcisms work is because of Jesus. Nothing else.

So, off we went. And a couple of days later, all the turmoil in the house began again.

According to our friend-of-a-friend, the husband was home when it happened. And apparently the memory of dinner ruining his best jeans was still a sore point with him. The exorcism he did might have been low on politeness but it was high on emphasis and sincerity. There's been no trouble since. Nor any dependency on us. But a steadily developing relationship with their Dad.

Now, in practical terms, this means that for anyone, there's no panic in a situation where you find yourself face to face with somebody or something totally awe-inspiring.

Check it out. Deal with it. Even if you feel scared. Don't let it hassle you. And don't worship it, even if it's bigger than you.

Keep that for Dad.

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