Latest Fieldnotes

Reg’s directions look spot on to me... have been there a fair few times as I don’t live so far away.

Last visited here on 25th august 2003, and, just as when i visited last year, once over the style and approaching the circle, a friendly chap with 3 very friendly dogs appeared from the woods on the left, taking them for a walk round the field. Be warned though, if you bend down to greet the dogs, you will be licked to death! :o) He stopped to chat with us and told us of the few things.

If I remember correctly, he said the couple of “rocky bumps” looking like cairns to the western side were found to have graves in them when they had been studied in the past, that there was a ley line coming roughly from the east crossing just south of the circle and that the parish boundary goes along the hedge at the edge of the field (not sure how useful that is to know though). He also said the stones had moved a little over time (as perhaps is to be expected).

I noticed all the holes in the stones, though didn’t think they looked that recent, and not bored very neatly, so I’d reckon they are of some age. I like the sound of the miners getting married reason :o) there’s also an iron post there which has a very definite magnetic field if you happen to have a compas handy by the way – I wonder if at one time it had a sign on it?

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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...

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.

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)

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!

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(

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.

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 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.

In a field a short way from the road, overlooking Carn Ingli. I wasn’t as taken with this one, having been spoilt by the Waun Mawn Stone. Nonetheless, the views it commanded were very impressive.

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 . . .

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 one was absolutely magic, and Jane and I both immediately and independently christened her ‘The Lady of the Lake’. The most gorgeous female lithic form was standing before us in a small body of water that virtually surrounded her base, save for a short, narrow causeway in front of her. The shape of the deep puddle instantly reminded me of the moat at the foot of Silbury Hill. Next to her, a clump of tall, strong marsh grass was reflected in the wind-ruffled surface of the water. This stone inspires reverence. It was so easy to slip into memories of the Arthurian legend of the Lady of the Lake, and even easier to see how this type of landscape could give birth to such a notion. It was there, and it was real. Somehow. I felt an urge to visit Bodmin Moor.

All above me, skylarks were singing, despite the wind and the low, racing clouds, and I felt myself becoming more and more enraptured and ensnared by this amazing menhir. Eventually, I had to very unwillingly drag myself away, and return to the others in the car. I have to say, this one’s a corker.

We reached our first destination, a cattle grid denoting the beginning of some bleak moorland . . . disembarking from the car, the wind fairly whipped around, and the chill factor was obvious. I was just very pleased to be wearing my new bush hat, which went a long way to keeping me toasty warm. After mooching along the farm track for a bit, we could see the first of our objectives, a pair of leaning stones.

By now, we were well into open country, the moor and the sheep sweeping away from us. This not only gave the stones an air of bleak romantic solitude, it also gave Rupert a miserable time in the relentless freezing wind. After enthusiastically taking some photos of the stones with the pattern of linking pebbles someone had placed at their bases, I suddenly remembered I had a useful stripy blanket in my rucksack. “How do you fancy an Iron Age cloak?” I asked Rupe, folding it appropriately and throwing it round his shoulders. He still looked chilled to the marrow, and my hat was getting in the way, so I dropped it on his head with a flourish.

Strangely, he didn’t look so much Iron Age, but more like ‘A Fistful of Dollars’ meets ‘Raphael’s Angels’.

This exquisite little dolmen sits within its own enclosure; truly a construction imbued with faerie magick . . . words really aren’t enough. The mellow Andy and I visited on a sunny afternoon, the first high shadows creeping across the capstone. . . dappled light from the holly and ash trees at the rear of the cromlech was falling over the capstone, and the birds were singing vociferously. I shot a fair few photos . . . then sat on a very comfortable stone by the dolmen’s uprights, and gazed towards Carn Ingli. Swifts chased each other through the air, chaffinches sang, and the peace was sublime. This place is a rare treat. Later in the week, I visited it for a third time, again with Andy and my fabulous mother, who was very impressed with it indeed.

I had wanted to climb this vast and imposing mountain during our holiday, but the road to relaxation is paved with good intentions (or something like that). Looking up at its towering bulk, and its relationship to the surrounding countryside, it’s easy to see why the mantle of sacred hill would be bestowed on it, and probably a very long time before St. Brynach hove into view.

The translation of ‘Carn Ingli’ is literally ‘The Mountain of Angels’, after the Celtic St. Brynach experienced visions and conversations with angels there. This extinct volcano, sporting a huge and wonderful craggy outcrop, is home to an Iron Age hillfort, and various settlements and enclosures.

On a fine bank Holiday Monday, the exquisite Cheryl and I arrived at our destination to be greeted by an idyllic scene – fabulous light, a field full of new green plants, hordes of birds singing, and blue, blue skies. The Hawk Stone herself looked fabulous rising up on the horizon from the sea of green fecundity, and it wasn’t long before Cheryl was bonding deeply with her. After all, this was her first visit. Definitely not her last!

The amazing sunshine made the stone sing forth with colour, as ever, and we soon set to work taking some wicked photographs. We had arrived at the perfect time, as three frames from the end of the last roll, the light began to weaken, and the temperature drop. The sun was covered for a while by a wonderful cloud, so we headed back to the car, by which time there was the beginnings of a sumptuous orange and purple sunset which filled every horizon we gazed upon. Lovely.

Visited with the lovely Karen on fantastic spring day that was more like the height of summer. Were astounded by the phenomenal size of the place – it’s staggering! We left the car in the car park and trekked up to the brilliantly designed western entry, with its tangle of confusing earthworks. Blind corners everywhere, and as we commented, in the heat of battle, it would have been very easy to get instantly disorientated and penned in – especially as your advance would have been seen a good while before!

Atop the hillfort, we could really see how big it was – the grass simply stretched continously away from us on either side. I would imagine it would be very easy for the whole of medieval Oxford to have been swallowed up inside the enclosure. The views were splendid, and above us the skylarks did their thing, and the buzzards circled high in the blue sky. We walked well into the middle of the place, and sat and relaxed, until it got too cold. Walked back via the ramparts; amazing what one can do with an antler . . .

From there, we set off to see the Cerne Abbas Giant in the evening sunshine.

The lovely Karen and I visited on a wild and stormy Friday (“They call it Stormy Friday . . . “), a bracing gale force 5 wind whooshing across the wide open landscapes as we climbed towards this beautiful mound.

Churn Knob is a very appealing and solid barrow of considerable size, with a definite air of staunchness about it as it rises up from the centre of a chalk-chipped field. It commands stunning views northwards across Oxfordshire, taking in Wittenham Clumps and Blewburton Hill, whilst southwards it looks to the line of the Ridgeway.

Pitted with animal holes, sporting a hawthorn bush and attractive elder, it still keeps its integrity despite the outrageous defilement visited upon it by zealots unknown. The addition of an 18 foot high cross and scaffold pole topped with the Star of David made us aghast and appalled, and I had a bloody good go at ripping down the scaffold pole. Would have succeeded, too, but was concerned that in doing so, I would have torn up a large portion of the mound, due to some damnfool seeing fit to embed the pole in concrete. Not wanting to damage the mound further, I left it, but at much more slanty angle.

I suggested to Karen that presumably this means I can now go into churches around the county and start daubing up pagan symbols, and leaving such offerings as would be fit. Frankly, if I ever caught the evangalist who erected the cross, I’d love to string them up on their hideous edifice. There’s churchyards for that class of fundementalism.

Overall, though, I liked it very much, and the wild weather suited it tremendously – 5,000 years on, and the Goddess still rocks!

Visited on a blustery Sunday with the charming Cloudhigh and delectable JP. Stopped for lunch at the Red Lion, and bravely tried to eat lunch alfresco, but when the lollo rosso started blowing off our plates and across the courtyard, decamped inside.

Afterwards, paid a visit to the fascinating engineering work going on with a couple of the stones – how I would love to see neolithic engineering in action – and photographed archeologists stood in a hole.

Aware that the delightful Jane was burying her beloved cat, Finbarr, back home in Oxfordshire, sat on the henge by that magnificent stand of beech trees, and reflected on a splendid animal. The tempestuous nature of the day suited such an event, and it was great to have the wind blasting straight across the open fields and in to my face at about Gale Force 5. (“North Utsire, South Utsire, Malin, Avebury . . .“)

Cloudhigh and JP returned from a ramble round the earthworks and observed that I appeared to have been sellotaped to the henge, as other walkers got caught off guard by sudden gusting.

By now, a hint of hypothermia began to set in, so we all set off to Cloudhigh’s mother’s for a spiffing tea including an utterly succulent victoria sponge sandwich! :op

Evening sunshine was beginning to glow as the charming Cloudhigh, the radiant Lissy and I trudged up the field towards the magical Hawk Stone. We were engaged in a fascinating conversation about past lives/genetic memory as the tram lines in the new crop led us to the stone.

The placing of this monolith is fascinating. Was it a boundary marker? A sign post? A place for offerings – there seems to be a purposely made hollow in the top – or a gateway between the worlds? Notice how the northern landscape ends a short way away, whilst all other points of the compass open up for miles either side.

After some soothing stone hugging, we said our goodbyes and left this most excellent, ruminating monument.