Click the C » COSTA DEL SOL IMAGE-LED LIFESTYLE PLATFORM FOR THE CULTURALLY CURIOUS, DOCUMENTING THE BEAUTY OF THE REGION, ITS PEOPLE AND THEIR PASSIONS

Mystic Mountain

Silence. There’s nothing but silence so profound you could wrap yourself up inside of it and hide from the world for ever. I’m watching the mountains fade from orange, to brown, to purple as the sun glides over them. I’m sitting at a small table, inlaid with the wood a 400 year old Welsh oak, in a house that is so isolated that the instructions to reach it include ‘turn right at the tree roots’ and ‘don’t park too close to the edge of the mountain.’ My grandmother is standing to my left, stroking my hair and laughing. My grandmother has been dead for four years.

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I am at the home of Netty Cole – Welsh psychic, animal healer and hypnotherapist – and she is reading from the tarot cards I have chosen. Much like the mountains around us her auburn hair seems to change colour each time I glance up, she is wearing a purple sundress and a gentle smile. The smile of someone that already knows more about you than you will ever understand.

1

I have been in her garden for less than ten minutes and already have tears streaming down my face as she described my late grandmother, what my late grandfather is getting up to on the other side, my mother’s health, my husband’s work and the path my career is going to take. She tells me about my house hunt, I even get a date, and describes the people I am yet to meet and yet to learn from. Netty hasn’t been taught these tricks and she isn’t making it up, she didn’t choose her vocation, it chose her. Netty sees dead people.

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‘I’ve always seen spirits,’ she explains to me as she passes me a glass of juice. ‘From a young child I was visited by my grandfather that had died many years previously. It wasn’t strange in my family, we all had the gift one way or another, both my parents are Reiki Masters (healers through touch and working with auras) so it wasn’t anything strange or scary to us. Although in my small Welsh village having a vegetarian mother was weird enough, so none of us mentioned to our friends that we saw the dead!’

2
She continues to read my cards, intermittently looking over my left shoulder and smiling in agreement as my grandmother apparently chuckles at something I say or interrupts her. I ask her what dead people look like.
‘Oh I see them in all sorts of ways,’ she explains. ‘Sometimes they are hazy outlines, sometimes like the guy from the Ready Brek ad with a glow around them. Most of the time they look just like you and me, but not as solid of course, I can always tell the difference.’ I’m not sure how I would feel having unexpected people pop up when I least expect them to, surely it can be a tad inconvenient at times? ‘It’s funny,’ she explains. ‘For instance, when I’m driving to the Tarot parties I run I am never alone. There is always someone sitting beside me on the passenger’s seat, and you can bet that that person who has been chatting to me all the way there turns out to be connected to the person who will get the first reading.’

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Netty and her partner Kev, the talented carpenter who made the table that is now covered in tarot cards, moved to Spain nine years ago. They lived in a traveller’s site on a river bed for a while; they ran a bar in Lanjaron and recently built and painted a wooden gypsy caravan (which unfortunately for Click The C was sold not that long ago). They lead a simple life, venturing down the mountain for a weekly shop and unless visiting the coast for work or to meet friends they stay at home with nature and their two dogs Taffy and Bella. Instead of a pool she shows us her ‘swimming pond’ which she is more than happy to take a dip in. Her home is an extension of her free heart and the paintings on her walls reflect her fun yet spiritual personality. A large canvas of Elvis sits incongruously beside a dramatic portrait of a winged angel and a small painting of a Red Indian chief. He is Ay and he is her Spiritual Master.

‘This portrait was painted for me by the famous visionary and spiritual artist Patrick Gamble who was able to see my Spirit Guide. It was strange as just before this picture was painted an eagle had passed close to my head. I didn’t see the connection until I looked up the name Ay and discovered it meant nesting eagles.’

3

We are back outside and I could sit and listen to Netty for hours. Is it because I simply want to believe, or that she has an innate way of reading people, or that she is genuinely channelling messages from a higher realm? As she continues to read from each Tarot card I try and remain as cagey as possible, not give anything away, but then start gushing as soon as she hits the nail on the head. However it works, Netty believes it and admits to getting a thrill each time a non-believe is proven wrong. We discuss angels and she explains the power of talking to them on a daily basis.
‘As silly as it sounds, they are really helpful. I always ask them for advice and guidance, they are especially great at finding parking spaces!’
I hear someone scoff behind me but it’s not my late Nan, it’s Jeremy the photographer. He’s busy documenting the moment, but I’m not sure he’s as into it as I am.

4

Netty is a qualified hypnotherapist and specialises in regression therapy. So what does she remember from her own past lives?
‘Oh there are so many,’ she enthuses. ‘In one I was an eight year old girl who died after having her arm chopped off. And strangely enough my right arm has never worked properly. I also had a very strong regression once where I was the sister of a princess, but I wasn’t classified as one as I was too rebellious. I remembered what they all looked like, even the names of my then parents. I am no historian, but my partner is, so we spent ages on Google typing in everything I remembered until there they were, the names of a royal family back in the Phoenician times. They were called The Purple People, which was even stranger because as a teenager my nickname was Purple Princess, as I only ever wore purple clothes. You can say what you want, but when people are regressed they very rarely choose a past life their imagination would have chosen for them. We are not all historians!’

5

As well as giving physic readings on Heart FM TV and on-line for an American company, in the summer months you can join Netty at the Shanti spiritual retreat she runs in a chateaux in the Loire Valley in France, and another in Marbella during the winter. Netty also performs Reiki on both people and animals.
‘People say that Reiki is psychosomatic, that you feel better through the energy healing because you want to. But animals don’t lie.’ She demonstrates on Taffy, who visibly relaxed under her touch. ‘When they have had enough they walk away, but they do heal.’

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It’s time to go and as we get into the car I wave to Netty by the gate. She no longer appears so isolated up here in the mountains. Her home is enveloped in nature and she is forever surrounded by people that, for the rest of us, were lost a long time ago…surely there’s a comfort in that.

Jeremy and I arrive at our next interview early, worrying about finding a parking space.

‘Why don’t we ask the angels?’ I joke.
We turn the corner and there isn’t just one space but two, directly outside our destination. Jeremy shakes his head in amazement. ‘That never happens, seriously, that never happens,’ he mutters.
I feel something stroke my hair, maybe it’s my grandmother’s touch or the flutter of angel’s wings. I imagine Netty laughing to herself at the disbelief of a non-believer. How little the unknowing know.

It’s time to go and as we get into the car I wave to Netty by the gate. She no longer appears so isolated up here in the mountains. Her home is enveloped in nature and she is forever surrounded by people that, for the rest of us, were lost a long time ago…surely there’s a comfort in that.

Jeremy and I arrive at our next interview early, worrying about finding a parking space.
‘Why don’t we ask the angels?’ I joke.
We turn the corner and there isn’t just one space but two, directly outside our destination. Jeremy shakes his head in amazement. ‘That never happens, seriously, that never happens,’ he mutters.
I feel something stroke my hair, maybe it’s my grandmother’s touch or the flutter of angel’s wings. I imagine Netty laughing to herself at the disbelief of a non-believer. How little the unknowing know.

TO VIEW ALL IMAGES FROM THIS STORY PLEASE SEE SLIDESHOW AT TOP OF THIS POST.

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