Amidst the manic crap and egotistical rubbish of some recent posts on TMA - the following abstract from one of TomBo's posts (reminding me what this site is all about and... just about as good as it gets).
"As we pulled up in the layby, heading to West Kennett Longbarrow to watch the Sun set after our afternoon in Avebury, we were as close to Silbury as we have been in this life. There was something archetypal in West Kennett's silhouette on the skyline that made me think of a slumbering giant. There were a few people coming down the track from the barrow, a sight that was also archetypal, in its way. I thought of how well-trodden that path has been, over the centuries, and I had strong feelings of taking part in a tradition as we made our way up the hill.
The River Kennett was a joy to behold. She was not wide, at least not there, and meandered lavishly around like a slow-moving serpent. There was something very <i>feminine</i> about this river. Perhaps my judgement has been coloured: I had certainly heard Julian equate the name <i>Kennett</i> with the once sacred and now profane <i>cunt</i> long before I came here, and I find this idea not only delightful but very credible. When I saw these waters, though, I could not help but wonder at the appropriateness of her beautiful name. What a graceful river! And what a graceful landscape: the gentle curved lines seemed impossibly kind, nurturing and feminine to these northern eyes. I am more accustomed to bleaker, rugged beauties, not this miraculous mildness.
When we arrived at West Kennett we did not go inside at first. The Sun was setting, so we sat on top of the barrow to watch. It was freezing, and the cold gnawed at our fingers and noses. There was only one other person there, and he danced around to keep warm, the cold forcing out the heathen stomp in him. We huddled and shivered, and the Sunset was beautiful. The cold, I believe, has a psychological, as well as a physical, effect. When I'm out in the snow and ice my senses are sharpened, everything is crisper, closer, more real. The frozen Sun was an icy jewel that evening and slowly turned salmon pink, radiant and dazzling. The colour would have looked warm had it not been for the deathly cold hues surrounding it, icy greys and blues, crystalline whites. Suil's face seemed remarkably clear to me as she sank into the snow-shrouded land, perfectly pure, clean and white.
And so, with the Sun set, we moved inside the barrow. It soon became clear that the man who'd danced the Sun down was here for the night. He'd left his large rucksack across the entrance to the mound in a way that seemed to say "this place is mine", the possessive thing. We just ignored him and his territorial pissings, though, and headed within. We went into the main chamber at first, and though this was certainly impressive I had come in here for some sensory deprivation. West Kennet's main chamber has had windows put in, so I retreated into the deepest, darkest corner I could find, in one of the side chambers...
The darkness in there was almost total even before I shut my eyes, and was more than complete with my eyes closed, silent and still. I had been worried that it would freak me out. I'm not that jumpy at night but my experiences in certain caves have taught me that dark, enclosed spaces can be utterly terrifying. The darkness at West Kennett held no fear for me, though, and I sat there with my eyes closed for some time. It was comforting, like warm velvet, and enfolding like the womb. A rich purple colour seemed to hover within it, shimmering, and I am not at all sure how long I crouched there, gazing into eternity."*
