Return of the Native Part I
Southern Heartlands Rediscovered
When the idea of a TMA Avebury Megameet Picnic was mentioned some months ago, it was pencilled in the diary and thought no more of – after all, August seemed an age away. However, time flies like knives (and fruit flies like bananas), for suddenly, the appointed day was looming. Although not particularly megalithically inspired in the last couple of years, the thought of visiting Avebury after a three year break caused an excited fizzing inside me, a tingle of excitement which was a delight to feel once more. The coach trip down to Oxford began in an Iron Age fashion, passing the hillforts of Castell Dinas Bran and Old Oswestry. The elevated position of the coach afforded fabulous views of both and was a very good start to the weekend.
Naturally, I was staying with Jane and Moth, and it felt much like old times, heading off to Wiltshire in their company the following day. As we rocked down the A420, I caught sight of my beloved Uffington White Horse and Uffington Castle for the first time in years, which was fantastic - despite cloudy, slightly misty weather smudging the view - then reacquainted myself with Liddington Castle as we bypassed Swindon. A short while later, we zipped through Marlborough, where Moth pointed out Marlborough Mound, situated in the grounds of the famous boys' school. Some TMAer I am – can't recall how many times I've passed the school, but until then I was ignorant as to the existence of this impressive spiral structure. One to visit next time.
"West Kennet Avenue way or Silbury Hill way?" asked Jane, as we drove along the A4. "Oh, Silbury way, please," I replied, tantalised at the thought of catching a glimpse of West Kennet Longbarrow. After passing a small necropolis of round barrows, and revelling in the sight of West Kennet and Silbury, we eventually parked in Avebury's busy National Trust car park.
Back in the Circle
And then, three years on, I stepped into Wiltshire air and sky and chalk, into a landscape of unfathomable importance to our ancestors; and like old friends, it was as if no time had passed, for we merged into each other's space easily, quietly and affectionately. The hordes of people rather blunted the edge of it initially – particularly the squads of chunky Americans – for, as meeting a lover one hasn't seen for some time, there was a need to be alone in the feeling of reacquaintance. Happily, the north-eastern quarter had been chosen for the picnic site, and the Cove was blessedly free of swarming crowds.
Thus followed a pleasant, mellow afternoon, spent in the company of some very lovely people I hadn't seen in years, and some equally lovely people I met for the first time. Shan't go into too much detail here, as Jane has covered it suitably well in a 'blog at: http://www.janetomlinson.com/journal/index.php?id=152 - but I was very pleased I had made the effort to travel down from North Wales for the event. It was a return to more than one circle.
After a while the urge to stroll round the complex became very strong, so I set off in a clockwise direction, beginning at the lattice work of gnarled beech roots crowning the eastern dip in the henge. It was then the sheer magnitude of the Avebury complex hit me again, somehow through older, wiser eyes. The size of the embankment and ditch struck home, and I recalled telling one of our neighbourhood children that it had been dug out using antler picks and shovels, the spoil carried away in baskets. Standing still, I looked at the chalk beneath my feet. It was densely packed, hard and dusty. Friends have deer antlers hanging by their back door; they're not especially large, and I tried to imagine what it would feel like to begin scrabbling at the chalk face with a similarly shaped smooth-handled bone pick. Can't imagine it would have made much impact. What a feat of engineering Avebury is – henges built 5,000 years ago, yet still supporting the footfall of millions of visitors a year.
Gazing across the rooftops of houses within the circle, and watching people playing with a frisbee in the north-eastern quarter, they appeared diminutive, tiny against the vast circle and sky. What would it have been like to stand on the henge when there was no village, when presumably it was built for the populace to bear witness to whatever form of rite and ceremony, under open skies and the theatre of the circle? How could you see what was taking place? Was the henge a form of seating, or was it to provide a barrier to arcane and esoteric practices? Could you lie on it in comfort to star-gaze all night?
Strolling round the henge and through the stones, memories of previous visits filled my mind, individual stones calling up reminders of who did this, how this happened, where particular photos were taken, what conversations took place. I smiled inside, at a tapestry of life, friends, lovers, experiences and growth woven over the years amidst the stones – stones that never change, yet can change your life in subtle degrees from the moment you enter their world.
Earth Bones
After winding up in the Red Lion, before we left Avebury and its surrounds, I begged Jane and Moth for a visit to West Kennet Longbarrow. Although Jane didn't fancy the walk in thin, pretty sandals, she became slightly less unsure when we pulled up in the A4 lay-by; the longbarrow looked deeply appealing in the August evening light. In the event, the grubbed up hedge and re-laid grassy path negated the need for Brasher-like boots, and it was merely a gentle ramble to the top of the hill. Passing over the small River Kennet, it was noticeably choked with vegetation, unlike previous occasions. Memories of Jane and seven year old Rupert splashing about in its cool waters one summer five or six years ago flooded back. The muddy pool under the small stunted oak tree had also dried up considerably. Global warming in action.
We reached the longbarrow to find a small group of people reading the information board. I took photos like a woman possessed, desperate to take something back with me to North Wales, a decent set of pictures to reflect on when away from this most magnificent of places. It was thrilling to touch the stones again after so long, wonderful to stand in the small forecourt before walking once more into the dark, imposing chambers. Again, the structure of the place struck me through new eyes; the size of the rocks, the creation of this space, the awesome nature of the whole. It occurred to me that the stones appeared very much like the bones of the earth. Once again, memories of times past drifted through my mind, especially the last visit, which was strange and dark. I didn't want that memory to stay with me, but it persistently floated back, until a sudden trilling chirr and resonant, urgent wing beat broke the dark chambers' air. More squeaks, more wing beats, a dart of movement, and a swallow swooped out of the entrance, up the face of the forecourt stones, and into the night. A few moments later a rush of air signalled its return – they were nesting inside one of the chambers!
I hid behind a large stone and watched them fly in and out, while Moth and Jane sat above the entrance to watch their unerring, acrobatic passage back and to the nest. We were the only people there, immersed in the magic of the muted night's colour and smells, the timelessness and atmosphere of the long barrow and its stones, the sounds of wind through grasses and swallows' wing beats and chirrs. The feeling of re-birth, renewal, regeneration and life filled the place, and any dark memories were chased away, to be replaced by light and airy vibes of positivity.
As we left (I had to be practically shoe-horned away), the moon revealed herself through lazy blue clouds and a pinkening sky. Large, meltingly silver, just over half full, she appeared as fat as a ripened ear of wheat. The scene was bewitching. While she hung directly above the long barrow and its muted grassiness, the swallows flew by her light - across a vast, unknowable, 6,000 year old landscape of the ancients.
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Mantell Yr Wyddgrug
Old Gold from Mold
Unknowingly, I have moved from one of the most ancient seats of learning in the world – Oxford – to one of the most important areas of the country for Bronze Age culture. Perhaps Wrexham isn't such a bad trade-off after all . . .
Some of Britain's most significant Bronze Age artefacts have been discovered within a 10 mile radius of where I now live. These include the Burton Hoard; the Caergwrle Bowl, and, probably, one of the most magnificent treasures this land has ever offered up – the Mold Cape. The Welsh name is 'Mantell Yr Wyddgrug'. Strangely, I feel better using what little Welsh I have when referring to these items, as the core of our modern Welsh language has its roots in the Iron Age, and quite possibly beyond. It is as near as we can come to the language of our ancient forefathers.
Ever since watching a BBC programme on the top ten treasures of the British Museum, I have wanted to see them all, especially Mantell Yr Wyddgrug. Imagine my delight on hearing it would be coming virtually back home for the first time in 172 years, as part of an exhibition to be held at Wrexham County Borough Museum! The arresting Kate and I put the exhibition dates in the diary, and both vowed to go and see it as soon as possible.
In the event, 'as soon as possible' became the penultimate weekend of the three month show, which I realise is dragging the heels for an avowed megalither. We entered the museum – which, ironically enough, was the old courthouse and police station; Kate enjoyed looking at the old 1950's photographs on display for various retired Inspectors she knows – and, relishing the splendour to come, we paced ourselves by entering the first part of the show, which was a few artefacts and a continual loop video presentation. First excitement belonged to Kate, as the centrepiece of the room was a reproduction of the Capel Garmon firedog, an Iron Age artefact, found near Carreg Goedog Farm, Capel Garmon, by a peat digger in 1852. Kate was particularly thrilled by this, as many years ago when she was heavily into Viking re-enactment, she owned a faithful copy of this awesome firedog as usable item. The light in her eyes when she saw it was nearly as bright as the time she first saw the Abingdon Sword in the Ashmolean Museum; she had fought with her very own replica of this rare sword, but had never seen the real thing. What a treat that particular afternoon was . . .
After watching clips of Julian Richard's 'Blood of the Vikings' in English and Cymraeg, we moved into the main room of the museum, where the centrepiece was a frighteningly life-like model of a Welsh archer from the battle of Agincourt. Even as we glanced at this, some invisible power caused us to look left, down the room.
Absolutely Fabulous
Glowing like a dawn sun, centrepiece of the exhibition, Mantell Yr Wyddgrug was framed by a doorway into a side room. Even from a distance, and in a glass case, it was possible to see what an awesome object it was – what must it have looked like when worn? The museum literature says it was the 'Mantle of a Woman of Distinction from the Early Bronze Age 1900-1600 BC'. I'm guessing she would have been extraordinarily distinguished.
The workmanship in this cape is stunning. I counted seven different types of punches used to create the flowing, graceful patterns, which were simple, yet beautifully ornate. From a distance, it is crafted to appear as if ropes of gold beads are lying on a gold cloth background; up close, the artistry is dazzling. Fine pin holes round the top and bottom edges of the cape suggest that it may have been stitched to some form of shift or dress to make it bearable for the wearer. The pamphlet accompanying the exhibition contains a picture of one very lucky woman modelling the cape in a controlled experiment to assess the fit.
It's an incredible garment, a unique artefact, and something which inspires reverence and respect on its own, let alone being worn by a venerated, respected and distinguished woman. What makes it all the more amazing is the amount of gold needed, when generally gold was retrieved by soaking fleeces in rivers to catch dust and nuggets swept out of rock face seams. I'm not aware of large Bronze Age gold mines in the UK, but please let me know if there were. Quite frankly, it is astonishing.
Discovered by a gang of labourers in October 1833, who were moving a mound of earth, the cape was lying in the ground encasing the remains of a human skeleton, along with a 'quantity' of amber beads, a strip of bronze and second gold object. Sketchy though these details are, we have the Rev Charles Butler Clough, Vicar of Mold to thank for them, as the land tenant and director of operations, a Mr Langford, was happy for the workman to sling the cape in the hedge, with instructions – 'to bring it with them when they returned for dinner'.
The cape had already been partially crushed in the ground, and the subsequent rough handling ensured more pieces of gold fragments were lost. The restoration work carried out by the British Museum is fantastic.
Of course, this postulates the question who would have worn it? The most current theory, after a breastplate, a peytrel for a horse, and a ?male chieftain's cape is that of a mantle for a woman. This is due partly to the first serious attempt in the 1960's at restoring the cape, and in 2002, a new restoration resulted in the artefact we now know (and love). Unfortunately, none of the human bones found in the destroyed barrow of Bryn-yr-Ellyllon remain, but the general opinion is that they were these of a woman, as additional grave goods included beads, pendants, and other ornaments associated with a woman's burial.
Whoever she was, I imagine she had been highly respected on a very wide scale. Considering Mantell Yr Wyddgrug is such a unique find, the huge amount of gold required for its creation, and that there are no other similar artefacts, could its wearer have been a phenomenally powerful and influential leader or priestess throughout British and possibly European Bronze Age society? As powerful say, as Queen Victoria? Would this explain why this area is known as a hot spot for Bronze Age Culture and artefacts? Could this area of Wales been something of a 'Constantinople' of the European Bronze Age – a confluence of peoples, cultures, trades and politics? Taken with the unique and probably Mediterranean-like Caergwrle Bowl, I believe it strongly suggests that the area surrounding what is now a regenerating ex-industrial town with a binge drinking problem was once the hub of Bronze Age Britain. That's exciting.
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Underwhelmed, Yet Intrigued
Only Here For The Beer . . . And Bronze Age
After spending a delightful weekend with friends in deepest Powys, we decided to wend our way home along a gloriously scenic route, taking in Clun, Bishops Castle, and, most importantly, Mitchell's Fold stone circle. However, the first stop was to be the Three Tuns in Bishops Castle, a pub with the happy privilege of having its own brewery adjoining the premises.
Four pumps of cracking real ale were on offer, and things got even better when we learnt they did carry-outs into the bargain. There was nothing for it but to leave with a pop bottle full of the Three Tun's seasonal Solstice bitter, the intention being to quaff it in the centre of the circle whilst watching a late August sunset over Wales.
Unfortunately, despite the beautiful afternoon weather, a hefty cloud bank had been steadily moving in towards us, and by the time we parked up at the bottom of the track leading to the site, everything was becoming a tad murky.
We walked up the track, which led onto a close-cropped, sheep-filled moor, the only noises being the warm wind and the constant bleating of lambs on the opposite hill. Swathes of bracken lined each side of the track, and after about a five minute walk, the arresting Kate spotted the first of the fifteen-odd stones, a fairly stumpy one, just past the information plaque.
Is That It?
I had heard several accounts of visits to this circle, and had wanted to explore it for sometime, especially as it seems to be the most significant site in the region. Sadly, I was totally underwhelmed when actually arriving after an anticipation-filled journey. It was at least half the size I had expected; I imagined it would be on the same scale as either the Druid's Circle, Castlerigg, Gors Fawr, Moel ty Uchaf or The Rollright Stones. It seemed fairly sparse in comparison, and therefore, quite disappointing when matched against these other hilly circles.
Of course, this may have been in no considerable part because of the awful gloaming, which was sucking the light and colour out of the entire landscape. The whole of the countryside was smothered in an oppressive, cheerless grey, more reminiscent of November than August. Matters weren't improved when I realised the beer was back down the track in the car. Still, there was no spectacular sunset with which to enjoy such quality ale.
Shropshire's Goddess
What was outstanding – and nothing but a pitch-black, moonless night would obscure this – was the landscape of Corndon Hill and surrounding hills. Mitchell's Fold lies in the shadow of the Godddess, in the shape of Corndon Hill. The impact of this vast landscape deity rising above the diminutive circle is quite something. I was immediately put in mind of the 'Sleeping Beauty' near Callanish, and wondered if a similar phenomena of a full moon travelling along the swelling, fertile body occurred at this site. Although I didn't have any accurate method of determining east, I figured the likelihood of this happening was very strong indeed.
Magnetic as the Goddess of Corndon Hill was, the hill directly below the circle to the south also suggested a powerful part to play in the cycle of life and death, for it appeared to be nothing more than a gigantic, natural, long barrow. Additionally, the views from this direction are utterly stunning. The country rolls gently into the distance for miles and miles, and even the lowering skies couldn't diminish the spectacular nature of this vista; what it would be to see it at dawn on a clear day!
Ennui
Kate made a couple of circuits round the circle before walking back to the car, equally as disappointed in the circle as I had been. I wandered round a few of times, taking in the location, and trying to work out whether some of the recumbent stones were intentionally so, as the plaque suggested. I'm sure the tall one to the east and its fallen sister were some kind of gateway for the views to the west. Interestingly, the 'long barrow' hill almost disappears when seen from this position; it's only when one crosses to the western edge of the circle that its shape becomes clear.
After a bit more tramping about, sitting in the chair-like stone (which was nice), and stroking the two tallest stones while admiring their lovely sharp edges, the rock smooth and warm from the day's sun, the dark grey night began to close in with a sombre melancholy that I could bear no longer. Striding out with purpose, I joined Kate on the journey back to the car, wanting home and a warm bed.
I would like to return to this site on a clear evening, though, with a picnic and a planisphere for later – and next time, I won't forget the beer!
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Mysteries Of The Bog People
The day after our megalithic marathon, the four of us (Jane, Moth, the arresting Kate and myself), all set off for Manchester's Museum of Science & Industry to take a squint at 'The Mysterious Bog People' exhibition. Although the title is rather lame, and slightly twee, looking beyond it in the flyer I had picked up from a swanky Cheshire garden centre, I could see that there was potentially a great deal in this unique show that could be of interest.
Happily, I was proved right. Leaving the inevitable Mancunian drizzle outside, we entered the fabulously restored and modernised buildings of the museum, which are a conversion of the world's oldest passenger railway station. A few minutes later, we stepped back in time many thousands of years, when railways were as probable as interstellar commuting is for us at present. ("The 18.07 Virgin InterPlanetery has been delayed by 13 light years due to the wrong kind of comet trails in its orbit . . . .")
Following large bilingual displays into an increasingly dark room, we were greeted by a very clever presentation of Yde Girl, which I enjoyed for itself as much as the rest of the show. Museums in Canada, Germany and the Netherlands had combined to mount this globe-trotting exhibition, and it certainly showed in the wealth of artefacts on display. I don't want to enter into too much detail, for fear of spoiling it for you when you visit, as visit you must; but I should like to encourage you with a short list of my favourite and most memorable exhibits.
The show begins in the Neolithic, and there are some stunning polished flint axes on display, along with the most exquisite flint knives. The craftsmanship is just superb, as are the blocks of stone chosen for this purpose. The artistry of creating such things has been lost in the last four thousand years – progress?
Also impressive were the large chunks of amber linked to form necklaces; I wondered if they were ever worn - probably ceremonially judging by their size – or consigned to the murky depths of a peat bog as soon as they were completed.
Two of the most elegant items on show are the sinuous and curvaceous lurs, Bronze Age horns; simple in their design, I found them fascinating. To add emotion and atmosphere to the show, the sound of a note being mournfully blown on one of these ancient musical instruments echoed through the exhibition hall at regular intervals. It was then that Kate really brought the whole lot alive for me, when she said "I used to blow the Viking horn just like that; the sound and note are identical." Kate used to be a very active Viking re-enactor, and knows a great deal about their crafts, materials, customs, methods, and lifestyles. What is amazing is that although her era is the 10th century, it appears very little had changed from two thousand years or more before when it came to manufacturing tools, clothes and weapons.
At a display of Bronze Age axes, a short film, un-narrated, showed Bronze Age re-enactors making axes attached to shafts. "That's how we did it!", exclaimed Kate, before explaining in detail what was happening, and how the materials were used to create very effective axes. She also inspected the woollens on display in the Iron Age section, explained tablet weaving to me, and passed comment that the cloaks on display (modern ones made from information garnered from the originals), didn't cut the mustard as they had been machine-made, not hand-made, and were therefore not authentic. And I thought I was a perfectionist . . . but she's right. The plaids on display were lovely, and I could imagine my mother cutting a dash in one of the blue and green cloaks, especially because she is a dressmaking and handicrafts devotee. There is a timelessness about these items . . . once again, our ancestors are closer to us than we think. Do be sure to check out the genuine cloak on display; originally wrapped round two male bodies, its workmanship is breathtaking. Although the colour has been stained away by the peat, the weaving and manufacture are a delight to behold.
And of course, there are the bodies. The oldest one in the exhibition was something like 3,800yrs old. Unbelievable. Shrivelled, tanned, wizened, these remains command reverence – we are looking at humans beyond death, beyond what or where ever they expected to end up; yet at the same time looking back at a snapshot of their world, and trying to comprehend their lives and culture.
Like Jane, I couldn't help but wonder what went through their minds as they were sacrificed/murdered and cast into the bog. Was it all abject terror, or did they meet their end in the same elevated state that enables a Budddist monk to immolate himself whilst sitting serenely in the lotus position? How many of these ceremonies (if indeed, there were ceremonies), were used to get rid of undesirables – or were these people specially raised or regarded as special, to be the ultimate offerings for the gods?
Of course, we will never know – but we are privileged to witness to some degree their lives and times, in a hereafter they would never have expected to participate in.
This is a fascinating show – do try and see it before it ends on 8th May 2005, as it is the only showing in the country. You will be intrigued, and moved.
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Three Go Mad In Conwy: Part II
Walk Together, Rock Together
It didn't take too long to drive from Great Orme to Penmaenmawr (taking in Edward I's impressive Conwy Castle), and work our way up the mountainside to the Jubilee Towers on Foel Lus - the start of the path up to the Druid's Circle. In my excitement at seeing them sticking up on the distant mountain-top horizon, I rather stupidly said to Jane: "Look! There's the Druid's Circle!"
"Where?
"There!" (Pointing to far away point on massive mountain).
"WHAT! You're kidding! We're walking up there?!" came the appalled reply.
"Yes, bring your paints, you'll want them," I replied, nipping out of striking distance for a cup of tea before we started off.
Thus it was with look of discomfited and grim determination, Jane set off up the mountain. To be fair, she did far better than I had expected, only complaining once, about halfway up. We had not long passed the Red Farm stones when she said she wished she had a horse, as they did all the walking and looking whilst you just had to look around. How could she possibly see anything when she had to keep looking at the ground?! In fact, she was looking at the ground so intently, she missed Circle 275. What a boring name for such a lovely circle.
Jane plodded on as Moth and I took photos of this ever-so-cute tiny stone circle. A gang of luridly-clad mountain-bikers tore down from the Druid's Circle and halted next to us while waiting for a straggler. They passed comment that we were much like train spotters in our hobby. Not unlike like mountain-bikers then, Moth sagely observed, as the straggler caught up, and the fluorescent numpties pedalled away furiously.
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We arrived at the Druid's Circle to find Jane looking cold and fed up, sheltering next to the largest stone. The walk had pushed her to the limits of her endurance, so she sucked on a Camel to recover, and be better able to take in the magnificent setting. Moth was blown away by the place, and I was a little disappointed the weather was so overcast; I had very much wanted to see it in sunshine. Just as we left, my wish was granted – sunshine broke warmly through, transforming the setting, and helpfully illuminating Great Orme into the bargain. By this time, Jane had steeled herself for the ramble back to the car, so didn't return, as Moth and I did, to make use of the precious sunlight. That was a shame, because when the sun lights the whole of the coastline and the stones, it's an inspiring sight.
We also took a swift peek at Circle 278 and ? Monument 280.
Back at the car, Jane announced most emphatically, and in a tone not to be trifled with, that she was not doing any more walking that day, come what may. (It should be noted here that the walk up to the Druid's Circle is in fact no more than a mile and a half, and is actually fairly forgiving. The steepest part is on leaving the car, and that rapidly turns a corner onto flatter ground. The path is sign-posted all the way, with suitable landmarks to break the journey. A wet proof is all that's really needed, in case the weather changes rapidly (it being a coastal mountain); in all, it's a pleasant afternoon ramble. As if to prove the point, a pair of star-crossed lovers in jeans and t-shirts skipped past us on the way up).
Triumph Dolmenite
I replied that she would be gutted to miss Maen-y-Bardd, but she wasn't having any of it. Wisely, though, I had calculated that by the time we had driven round the other side of Tal-y-Fan, and her last cuppa and Camel had taken effect, she would be able to be enticed out for this most splendid of dolmens. How right I was.
Despite the dense cloud promising rain at any time, I was relieved when Jane agreed to meander down the Roman road which cuts through the Rowen complex of megalithic structures. Moth walked along the raised field bank, and it was delightful to hear them both cry out in unison as they spotted Maen-y-Bardd. It has that effect; I challenge anyone not to say "Oh wow!" or just "Oh!" upon seeing it for the first time. Tired, and totally fed up with walking, Jane immediately nested inside it, and was promptly re-energised. Not surprising. The Iced Gem of Dolmens looked just as gorgeous and magical, irrespective of the rapidly lowering skies. Moth and I took lots of photos, before seeking out Rhiw Burial Chamber
After the arresting Kate and I had visited Maen-y-Bardd last year, I was a tad frustrated to discover there had been much more to see in this spectacular setting. Most importantly, I was keen to discover the 'Greyhound Kennel' (many North Walian tombs are given this title), or Rhiw Burial Chamber on this visit. The night before, a careful note of the OS grid reference had been made in order we could find it speedily. Great idea, but somehow on the day I left it in the car in my excitement to see all these wonderful sites.
After nearly bursting several blood vessels going the wrong way up the hill, I thought to get the Gwynedd guide out. Frances Lynch's comprehensive notes gave us guidance, and shortly after, Moth expertly spotted it next to a blasted hawthorn.
This was lovely also – much of the mound is intact, and there is a beautifully preserved row of ceremonial stones leading up to the chamber. This is reminiscent of Arthur's Stone in the south Walian Borders. The chamber itself appears to be set into the hillside, rather than part of a man-made mound, but as Kate pointed out later, it might well be the case that the hillside has evolved round it – it is 5,500yrs or so old, after all. Erosion may have engulfed it somewhat. It is a cracking chamber, not obvious from the road, but a fun one to discover.
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All Be Upstanding . . .
By now, the clouds were very dark and heavy, and a gloaming, rather than dusk, was falling. We were running the risk of a soaking, so started back for the car, passing Ffon-y-Cawr standing stone, and Cae Coch standing stone.
This stone points in very phallic style towards the Conwy valley. There wasn't time to get much closer than a squint from the wall side, due to the weather conditions, but thinking about it now, I would like to see how it lines up with Cae Coch, which is very different.
In contrast to Ffon y fawr, this monolith is very solid, stocky and rounded. Could there be an allusion to male and female within the landscape due to the placing of this pair of stones? No time, and too tired to walk up to it to discover more.
Although by now we were running out of steam, we dared the heavy, gloomy, dark clouds to rain on us as we squeezed in one last site – Cerrig Pryffaid. I was glad we made the effort, as 'The Perfect Stones' to translate the Welsh, are 14 diminutive rocks hiding in a sheep field near the end of the Rowen complex.
One of these stones in the wide-spaced ring had fallen – Jane and I resurrected it, appropriately enough, on Easter Saturday. The method we used might not have been the same as that of the ancients, and was definitely not approved by the HSE. Jane lifted the stone from between her legs, as I shoved it from behind, until it was virtually up her fundament. Interesting interpretation of phallic rocks. We packed its base with smaller stones, and left it balancing.
Finally, we had to defer to the increasing gloom and heavy cloud, so left, sated. We were even more sated on discovering Ye Olde Bull Inn at Llanbedr-y-cennin and a pint of J.W.Lees' 'Dragonfire' ale. Arrived home, knackered, exactly 13 hours after setting out, but enjoying a fabulously megalithic day.
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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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