Blink, and you'll miss 'em. Four stones are all that remain of this once proud circle, judging by the survivors. They are in a field not far from Bryn Derwydd farmhouse, so I wouldn't advise brazen trespassing.
They look quite pretty, nonetheless, and by balancing on rocks at the side of the drystone wall bounding the field, it is possible to have a good look at them as they sit in a graceful curving line.
Especially intriguing is their position in relationship to Cefn Maen Amor circle, which can been seen on the summit of Cefn Maen Amor mountain directly behind them on the eastern horizon . . .
Further along, there is a huge standing stone right outside the farmhouse, the Bryn Derwydd Standing Stone. It's an impressive erection, and like the remains of Red Farm, looks towards Cefn Maen Amor.
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What a corker! This is a huge, overwhelming, complex and thoroughly unusual hillfort. Massive ramparts tower upwards, on the eastern side numbering five banks, but on the west increasing to seven. Even more intriguingly, the western side has five massive pits built into the defences, a construction totally unique in hillfort design.
The history is rich (see weblog for full run-down), the views magnificent, the atmosphere lovely and unspoilt. An absolute must-see for any self-respecting hillfort fan, or those requiring a jolly splendid picnic.This post appears as part of the blog post " O We Try . . . And How We Succeed!" |
This is a short lump of greyish limestone that points up from the ground at a jaunty angle, probably no more that 2.5-3ft high. Stumpy and solid, it is the smoothest, roundest piece of rock for miles around; everything else is stepped and fissured limestone. It does appear that a few pieces have split or broken away over time, and so it might have stood considerably taller originally. It has the characteristic hollow in the ground on one side where the sheep use it as a leaning/scratching post; and as ever, the views it commands are stupendous.This post appears as part of the blog post " Eglwyseg's Easter Excitement" |
Clambering up on to the flat, plateau–like top of the fort, we were treated to the most amazing view across Oxfordshire, and what was clearly a very important Iron Age kingdom. To the south-west lay Churn Knob, easily picked out from the copses on the horizon by the bloody great cross erected next to the mound. (Blasted St. Birinus; but it does make a handy reference point – OK, I deserve a smack with a riding crop). Beyond Churn Knob lay the Blewbury Downs Tumuli, almost equidistant between Blewburton Hill and Perborough Castle. The same tribe, maybe, or a shared burial ground?
Looking round to the west, the land spread before us magnificently, leading out to the Vale of White Horse; then we were subjected to the unfortunate and grotesque Didcot Power Station, squatting like a homunculus on this realm; and in the north, Oxford. Further round, clearly and unmistakably, the twin copses of Wittenham Clumps and the Sinodun Hills rose up proudly from the flat fields. A kilometer from them stood the lonely tree on Brightwell Barrow. Looking north-east, we could see what I thought was Stokenchurch Tower, poking up from the edge of the Chilterns. Cloudhigh wondered if he could see Ivinghoe Beacon on the horizon.
And somehow, it suddenly all added up for me, this landscape. The different places flowed together across the land in one continuous line; a line the ancients knew; a line that continues throughout time, just as powerfully on a Sunday afternoon in the second millennium CE as in the first millennium BCE. Blimey, that’s 3,000 years!!!
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Sitting at the roof of Oxfordshire, just looking at the land below, the curvature of the earth, and the pattern of the fields became very centering. Time slowed instantly. The warm wind rustled gently through the long grasses. Its whispering was a panacea to my twisted, mangled, exhausted emotions [after the sudden death of my sister's boyfriend]. Goddess knew how my sister felt; I wished I could pass on some of this spiritual salve.
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Just over a month later, and happened to be near the Round Hill again under a burning hot August sun; so thought I'd pay it a visit, now we're acquainted. What a difference to early July! All the vegetation had died down, or been eaten by the cattle, and the barrow was clearly exposed to view.
It's much bigger than I'd previously thought, and neither is it entirely 'round'. There seems to be an additional bit of barrow to the most circular, raised bit; and I wonder if it had originally been a long barrow rather than a round barrow. Standing on top of the highest bit, and looking eastwards, this would certainly appear to be the case, as does looking side-on from the south. I measured it approximately in paces; the circular part of the barrow is about 54x48 feet, and if one adds on the the slightly flatter long bit, is 114x54 feet. I would say that this longer measurement makes it something in the region of half the length of Wayland's Smithy. But sort of all flopped out, like an exhausted spaniel.
Interestingly, if it is a long barrow, it also lies on an east-west axis, with the high bit in the west. This west face also looks straight across to Wytham and Hinksey Hills (which were steaming gently like a Javanese rainforest in this unseasonal August heatwave), so therefore offers a pleasant view from the broad expanse of the meadow. I wondered about Goddess in the Landscape stuff.
This is another thing that made me wonder if it's a melting longbarrow; it lies on a water meadow which is home to free roaming grazing cattle and horses since before the Domesday Book. Is it possible that it has sunk due to erosion and flooding?
It's still gorgeous and lovely, and tugs me back every time I try to leave.
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A massive thicket of vegetation laid before me, all the plants about 4.5-5’ high, with the exception of a single leggy tree standing gallantly from the centre of the circle. Dense didn’t come into it; and even more intriguingly, a very solid wire, timber and metal fence was built round the circumference of the site. The whole thing was inpenetrable.
The size of this pen was so vast, it had to be constructed on the line of the earthwork; but I couldn’t help wonder what the hell it was supposed to hold. It wasn’t a pheasant pen, as the height was too short, so after walking round half of it, I concluded that due to the construction of the access gate, it was intended for wild boar. Either that, or the estate are breeding compsognathus dinosaurs on the quiet.
As it was extremely hot, and I was sweating like a horse, I decided to retrace my steps, and head for The White House pub in Bladon. I thirsted for an ice-cold lager, and felt I’d earnt it, all things considered.
Bit of a disappointment, but a nice walk.This post appears as part of the blog post " Oxfordshire Oddity" |
When looking across to Brightwell Barrow from Wittenham Clumps - or from road and railway whilst travelling south through Oxfordshire - something always tugs at my heart when I set eyes on this lonely outpost.
Brightwell Barrow lies just under a kilometre from Wittenham Clumps, atop a ridge in the middle of a vast field. The only marker of its position is a large tree growing on top of it; this tree adds to the sense of romantic isolation, and enables it to be seen from miles around.
Like Port Meadow Round Hill, I keep meaning to actually walk up to it someday (especially as there's a useful footpath), but in the meantime, I can't help but wonder about the society that built it, and presumably lived at Castle Hill on Wittenham Clumps. It's very easy to stand up there on a blustery day, and imagine a ritual procession walking the exposed ridge to honour their dead ancestor, lying so far from them, and yet so near, given the topography of the area . . . the essence of the ancients is very much in evidence at this Oxfordshire landmark.
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The exquisite Cheryl had been most insistent that I see this site – and I’m damned glad she was; although we only had ten minutes or so there, and the weather was poor, I was deeply moved by this broken, hugely impressive burial chamber. It’s utterly fascinating, and must have been awesome in it’s heyday.
What particularly interested me was the curving entrance passage, and the size of the chambers. In addition, the capstones are massive great slabs of rock; truly amazing. This somehow comes across as a splendid cross-section diagram; odd, as they are all like that, these broken chambers. But one really gets a sense of it here.
The views were also wonderful, and I wanted badly to spend some time sitting contemplating the universe, life, and women, despite the crap weather. But time was pressing, and we had to return to Oxfordshire. With a heavy heart, I threw my pack in the back of Nicole, and we drove away. The stereo was on, and Led Zeppelin’s ‘In The Evening’ filled the car – the most apt, moving, and beautiful music for this stupendous site. Thank you, Cheryl, for being so bloody insistent.
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"There she is!," cried the exquisite Cheryl suddenly, heading off into the field, and up a slight rise. Further up the hill, a large flock of sheep began bleating astonishingly loudly and persistently. Following Cheryl, we came to the most beautiful and charming standing stone, our arrival celebrated by the Powys Ovine Choral Society.
Carreg Hir is about five feet tall, wonderfully solid, round, and stout. Greeny-yellow lichens on her northern side were complemented by a large, thick, greasy black mark about her middle; she was obviously much frequented as a scratching post by the members of the choir.
As ever, she commanded stunning views from three points of the compass, but the view behind led to the nearby brow of the hill. What is that all about?
This particular stone felt very soft, welcoming and nurturing. She's definitely female. There was something of apple-cheeked farmers' wives about her, or the warmth and stillness of breastfeeding mothers, or even a priestess-like magnetism...
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Sue, Cheryl, and I walked through a grassy field on top of a small ridge. Either side of us, the mountainsides swept up in a shallow bowl shape. We still couldn't see the circle, so fanned out for better coverage. Just as we were thinking it was a lost cause, one small upright stone about 2.5 feet tall poked up from the lush grass. Nothing else did. Looking down next to the stone, I saw some much smaller, flatter stones half-obscured by the undergrowth. Following them along, and tripping over a couple, I began walking the edge of the circle, as did Sue and Cheryl from different points. After we had traipsed round it a couple of times, we realised we had a circle easily as big as the Rollright Stones – which was very exciting!
I have to say, though, it was the most Homes & Gardens circle I have yet come across; very neat, with similarly shaped stones evenly placed. I almost expected to find a garden gnome sat under a particularly bushy thistle; happily, I didn't. Odious bloody things, garden gnomes.
This circle is beautifully placed, and feels very calming; a sense of security is engendered by the gently sweeping hills either side, and looking down the valley, the most beautiful vista led out to distant mountains on the horizon. It did not escape my attention that two of these mountains looked remarkably like a pair of breasts. Splendid.
Feeling refreshed, we returned to Nicole, and set out for our next choice of megalith, Carreg Hir standing stone. As we did so, the friendly farmer came by again, and I thanked him for his hospitality. I also asked him if knew anything about the circle. "No, we just leave it alone. Don't know anything about the history, really, don't have the time. Glad you liked it though." So I figure it's not a Homes & Garden creation, but something that has been stewarded for hundreds of years. I hope so; it felt very much like it had been.
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I had entered the World of Anoraks at the end of May, but this was proof positive that I am now a seasoned megarak. To anyone else, this was a scrubby mound in the way of the track (which runs straight over the barrow); to me, it was a quickening of the pulse, and the discovery of something special.
Although half covered in thistles, grasses, sorrel, clover, and copious amounts of buttercups, it was obvious that beneath this fecund vegetation, there was still a reasonably well maintained Bronze Age round barrow. It was quietly exciting. I had finally reached this place that had gnawed at the back of my mind for years; until now, it was nothing but a starry mark on the OS map.
After walking its circumference, I stood atop the slightly depressioned barrow, feeling very satisfied, and gazed at the scene before me.The sky was a mix of shredded, ribboned, brushstroked cloud and blue patches, beneath which huge dark grey cumulonimbus clouds began to build, threatening rain later. The sun shone whitely through the clouds, glinting off the Thames across the meadow to my right. Dinghies from Medley sailing club floated up and down the river; dog walkers did the usual evening stroll; skylarks sang fit to burst; two attractive girls walked past me, deep in conversation – and all the time, I was stood on a Bronze Age barrow at the hub of today’s life, and at the hub of life 4,000 years ago. How bloody cool is that? :o)
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If you think Cerrig y Gof enjoys a good view, it's only experiencing a reasonable peek compared to Carreg Samson. This big baby stands in a cow field with the most inspiring view over the Pembrokeshire coastal cliffs and the Irish Sea, which was blue and lovely on this particular morning, despite the heat haze.
Carreg Samson is huge, solid and doughty, and appropriately named. Interestingly, it is also constructed from two different types of stone, the best ones being a conglomeration of lumpy stone, huge seams of rose quartz, amber quartzite, and dollops of black flint that look like cow poo, but happily are not. Something about the texture of all this reminds me of my grandmother's suet puddings; but I'm pleased to inform you all she never loaded hers with amber quartzite, preferring instead the tameness of currants.
I spent a considerable time photographing this from every conceivable angle, and also felt very at home when sat under the vast capstone. This is an extraordinarily good place to sit and reflect on life. Sadly, though, I didn't have all day, and all to soon, had to return to the car. But I love you, Carreg Samson!This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
We changed our plans to try and take in Pentre Ifan before the light went totally. We failed. By the time we got there, all the modelling light had gone, and a thin veil of haze began to fill the valley. This, however, didn't detract from the stunning location of this huge monument. It's not just Pentre Ifan itself – that's just part of it. The rest is the utterly amazing view it commands over a gorgeous valley.
To be honest, the view really did more for me than the dolmen itself. Granted, the dolmen is a phenomenal piece of engineering, but there's something about this place that needs it to be viewed as a whole. The sense of calmness was palpable, and there was a strange cathedral-like quality to the structure. . . you start thinking about its choice of location and placement, and begin imagining what it would have looked like in situ. Totally awe-inspiring. I'm definitely becoming more interested in the beliefs and engineering of these places, almost over the stones themselves, and would dearly like to be able to travel back 7,000 years to find out more . . .
I crawled about in the freshly-strimmed grass, and took some pictures, but fear that the lack of light will not imbue these shots with the required drama. Heigh-ho. :o(This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
A few days later, my fabulous mother had joined us (unfortunately, my enchanting sister was unable to do so), and she and Jane and I went out for a brief megalith one evening. We had very good light as we drove over the Preselis (again, along the B4329, with it's dramatic view, just as lovely in the sunshine), and to Gors Fawr, the only stone circle in the area. This small and discreet circle isn't easily obvious from the road, primarily due to the proliferation of gorse bushes surrounding it, lovely as they are in their golden splendour at this time of year.
Nonetheless, after a short walk along the footpath, we could see the short, dumpy stones appear. It's a pleasant enough circle, but again, what was so dramatic was its location. The broad moorland spread before us for some distance, and then suddenly swept up to become Mynydd Bach – truly impressive. I tried to visualise what the view must have looked like when the circle was constructed, but feel that the barren slopes we see today offer more drama and sobriety. By now, the clouds were building, and the sun was playing hide-and-seek with me, providing even more dramatic shadow when it appeared. I'm not sure if I got the shot I wanted, despite being there for some time.This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
After negotiating the best access to it with a lascivious farmer who was fixing a large agricultural implement. . . we were allowed "over the gate into the field where that sheep is lying, there." After tramping across one field, we reached the gate, and instantly discovered that the sheep shared their field with at least 15 very inquisitive bullocks. . .
The hill fort [is] quite small, with a good proportion of earthwork still visible, but it was hard to appreciate how big it had originally been, as the farmer had told us part of it had been bulldozed in the '50's. Splendid. Not.
What was dramatic, however, was its southern side. This was an incredibly steep drop into a deep little gorge, which is presently filled with oak-based deciduous woodland. It was an ideal spot from which to observe the surrounding area, and if necessary, repel invaders. Now, it was an ideal spot just to stand still, look at the flowers, and listen to the concert of rich bird song. I could hear all the usual songbirds, and remained there mesmerised as the others headed back over the field. Just as well I did, as I was lucky enough to see my first Goldcrest, albeit fleetingly. Wicked!
I returned to the gate, to find everyone the other side, and a dense wall of Welsh beef between me and them. To find out how I got back to write this fieldnote, check out the weblog . . .This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
This place is in a field next to the very fast A487 Fishguard-Cardigan drag. (Be warned, the locals drive like Colin McRae). The delightful Jane was eventually able to park up next to a small bridge in a rut, and we nipped across the road into the field. It really started raining then, but this did not diminish the beautiful view. Cerrig y Gof looks across to the dramatic cliff faces of Dinas Island, and the Irish sea.
This is a very unusual monument, as all of its chambers look outwards in a five-pointed star pattern. I wondered if it had been originally designed that way, or had been yanked about by various folk in the recent past. It's a pretty large structure, and becoming fairly overgrown with brambles and wild flowers. I liked it very much, especially the view from one of the chambers through to Dinas Head. I would have liked to spent more time here, but the persistent rain and the need for tea prevented this. Never mind.This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
After some pacing about with the map in the deserted high-banked country lane, I finally spotted the top of a stone hiding under a hawthorn bush, and practically built into the bank. "Here, Rupe, if I give you a bunk-up, can you see what that stone looks like?" (Key element of any megarak's kit: one small boy with a willingness to try stupid things). Rupert scampered along the six-foot high bank, and peered into the field.
Jane and I scrambled up after him, and peered through the rusty barbed wire. It was quite a handsome stone, about six feet tall, patterned with lichens and moss, and very snug under its hawthorn bush. A nice juxtaposition, actually.
So it was all three of us were balancing precariously on a foot wide bank, Jane taking pictures of Rupert and me pointing at the stone and grinning maniacally. I just prayed a tractor didn't coming bowling round the corner, or for that matter, the woman on the horse. Don't think she'd have been terribly impressed. It was probably at this moment in time I realised I had gained entry to the World of Anoraks . . .This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
As Jane says, there is no public access to this stone, but that didn't prevent her leaping over the gate, leaving me to deal with anyone passing who might want to know what we were up to. Like the lady on the attractive horse, for example...This post appears as part of the blog post " Preseli's Prehistoric Paradise" |
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"Out of the strong came forth sweetness"
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Treaclechops died on 4 January 2007 after a three-month battle with cancer. She was 38.
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