Latest Fieldnotes

After parking next to Clatford Farm, and crossing the busy A4, the delightful Jane and I finally made it to the small footpath that leads about a half mile into fields and the only true dolmen in the area. The farm track was quite overgrown and very muddy in places, so involved much scrambling along the verge, getting covered in chickweed and grass seeds, pricked by particularly tough thistles, and being stung by the abundance of nettles that grew tall and lush all about. A hare loping ahead of us, and a small rainstorm added to the experience rather splendidly.

Finally, though, I could see over the verge top into a field of green, fat, waist-high wheat; and there, almost dwarfed by the landscape stood a wonderful dolmen. ‘Dwarfed by the landscape’ seems an odd phrase to use, because when this was originally a long barrow, it would have been huge. Clambering over the fence into the field, avoiding stingers, thistles, and barbed wire, we stood on a large stone, originally part of the barrow, that lay recumbent at the edge of the field. Following the ‘tram lines’ through the wheat, we made our way up to this magnificent dolmen.

Hemmed in tight by the wheat, totally on our own, we were completely dominated by this wonderful structure, big enough that a megalither could sit inside it comfortably. I had to move back through the tram lines to be able to take a picture (difficult even with the wide angle lens on), and my trousers were soaked with the fresh rain that clung to the wheat. Not that it mattered. This place was magical, serene, and spellbinding. I don’t know what it is about Wiltshire, but it’s the one place in this country that I feel so very close to the Goddess and the whole Mother Earth belief. Not that there aren’t others; but this place just emanates it in all-embracing waves.

We rested by the dolmen, reluctant to leave. I found a small, flat, squarish piece of flint on the ground, just the right size to use as a base for burning a vanilla cone. Lying it on the dolmen, I sat inside and let the smoke waft past, feeling wonderfully safe under the massive, softly rounded, three-foot thick capstone. It was like sitting in the heart of the stone, a symbolic womb. They certainly knew what they were about, these Neolithic builders.

After a while, we had to leave, and sadly we made our way back down the path, yet enriched by the vibe offered by the ‘Devil’s Den’, a misnomer if ever I heard one. It’s certainly a place I would like to return to in winter, or when there isn’t quite so much arable in the field – although wheat is such a symbol of fertility and abundance, perhaps it was entirely the appropriate experience.

When the delightful Jane and I arrived in Avebury on Midsummer’s Day, we were able to drive through hordes of affable people, and leave the car by a farm. It was lovely weather, blue skies, puffy white clouds, warm, breezy and sunny, but with denser cloud slowly moving in from the southwest.We set off eastwards along the white chalk track that met the end of the lane.

The map told us we were on the Wessex Ridgeway, and that a mile ahead, we would cross the Ridgeway itself. To our left, fields of green, slow-ripening wheat rolled away into shallow valleys and dells, every so often punctuated by occasional tumuli. The whole of this part of Wiltshire must have resembled something like the Valley of the Kings in its heyday. To our right, on the steeply climbing hill, yellow barley whispered and swayed with the strong breeze, while all around us skylarks circled higher and higher, their melodious, exaltative songs filling the skies.

It was a little bit like hard work for two non-walkers to trudge to the top of the down in the warm sun, getting thirstier with each dusty step, but it was worth it to turn and look westwards at Avebury and its henge nestling low in the broad, basin-like valley. Soft hills rose up on the far horizons, with all manner of greens and yellows washed across them in patches and swathes, broken up by dells and copses every so often.

We crossed the Ridgeway, then entered a huge green field that was on another rise upwards. The grass was close cropped by the flock of sheep wandering around, and the skylarks were even louder and more exuberant. Cresting the down, a beautiful piece of woodland called Delling Copse fell away to our left, while in front of us, the path led down into a steep, grassy valley which ran away to our right. The floor of this small valley was covered with huge grey stones, as far as the eye could see. Clearly, it was a glacial moraine, but seemed oddly out of place in the soft rolling Wiltshire countryside; you would expect to see this sort of thing in Scotland, Wales, or the Lake District – but in Wiltshire?!

The best part, though, was that we were completely on our own! A mile and a half out of Avebury, and not a soul to be seen. Admittedly, we had seen seven people on the way there, but there was probably something like 700+ in Avebury itself, so we weren’t doing too badly. We rested by the nearest comfortable stone in the valley, desperate by now to stop and have a drink. We looked down the valley, at the stunning view in front of us, and as Jane was getting her sketchbook and paints out of her bag, she spotted a hare across to our left, which was great.

Having revived, I left Jane painting a water-colour of the scene, and wandered off to take some black and white photographs. These stones are intriguing, and after a short while moving amongst them, it’s easy to imagine they are recumbent souls, sleeping in Rip van Winkle style. It is a place to stop and look, to see the images in the stones, hear the silence, and to enjoy everything surrounding you. Very healing for the soul.

As I was moving between the stones in the ankle-deep undergrowth, balancing briefly on one stone, I heard a rustle to my right, and saw a rabbit loping strangely through the undergrowth. ‘Strange gait that rabbit’s got’, I thought to myself. ‘Must have myxamotosis’ – then I saw a black-tipped tail, and realised that the rabbit was actually in the jaws of a stoat, which presumably was carrying lunch back to its kits. I was frozen for a few seconds, before realising I had a camera in my hand, but the stoat and its prey were out of shot. I ran after it, just as the stoat reached a hole, and disappeared with it’s prize in next to no time. Very exciting. Not so healing for bunnikins, however.The weather by now was beginning to get a little cooler and cloudier, so we decided to head back to the car and onto another site, the Devil’s Den. . .

Stanton Drew has rather cleverly hidden itself in the back end of nowhere (if you’re searching for grub at 14:45hrs on a Friday lunchtime, anyway), and requires a scenic drive through rather fabulously named neighbouring villages . . . Norton Malreward . . . Norton Hawkfield . . . but does offer the chance of an excellent pint of Abbot Ale at the Rising Sun, Pensford. (Yes, I realize my map-reading skills are pants, especially as we were travelling west from Stoney Littleton!)

We finally found a corkingly good slap-up meal at the Maes Knoll Toby Carvery, Whitchurch, of all places. As we dined outside, the gray skies suddenly broke up, blue patches prevailed, and the sun shone down at last. ‘Hooray!,’ I thought, ‘Excellent light for stone circle photography!’

And it was splendid. Arriving at Stanton Drew, not really knowing what to expect, we made our way into another field of sheep, who were all casually doing their thing amidst some of the most stunning stones I have ever clapped eyes on. The colours were fantastic, and I have already been exhorting the delightful Jane to get down there with her field box and sketch book. Watch this space . . .

Most of the stones are massive red blocks, and although many of them have fallen (or were they pushed?), it is easy to visualize how magnificent and awe-inspiring they must have appeared in their original architectural form. Studded with white quartz, and subtly covered in ages-old lichens, they emanate a very peaceful and noble vibe.

Particularly impressive were the stones that looked like a heavily pregnant woman, and a ship’s figurehead, minus the head. Also intriguing were the three rectangular blocks that stood in a line; they had such an air of timeless resolution and wisdom about them.

I spent ages scrabbling about in the grass and sheep turds – these seem to be a recurring theme this summer – enjoying the stones exerting their energy on my photography. This time, I wasn’t allowed to use a zoom lens. (See Long Meg for further notes on how stone circles control photography).

We stayed for a considerable time, not wanting to leave the idyllic complex of stones, content instead to watch the sheep using them as clearly deeply satisfying scratching posts. Wood pigeons soared past in the golden sunshine, and the stones glow with warmth, their scatterings of quartz glittering frostily.

It was a glorious summer evening, and the symphony of colour made me curse myself for not having a suitable film in my bag. Fortunately, the lovely Karen had her digital camera with her, and got some fabulous colour shots; post your photos, Karen! I hope I can justify this megalithic site with my black and white images. If not, I’ll have to return with a mix of film. That’ll be a hardship, then.

Negotiating some of the narrowest farm tracks in the world, including a huge puddle which appeared to be two feet deep, but happily turned out to be two inches deep, the lovely Karen and I finally drew up in Stoney Littleton’s small parking area – at the foot of a very steep hill. Well, it seemed pretty steep when struggling over stiles and rutted paths whilst carrying a very heavy camera bag and tripod. In addition, the weather was solid overcast gray; close, and warm. Yuk.

After trudging the tortuous path up the hill, through two fields of cute sheep, we scrambled over a nettle-bound stile into a field of gloriously yellow rapeseed. “A-ha!,” exclaimed Karen gleefully as she waded through the chest-high plants, “Here it is!”

Climbing over another stile, we were confronted by a beautiful Neolithic barrow cresting the hill. Above it’s subtle dry-stone walling, the grassy mound was a riot of colour, smothered in white campion, ragwort or common cat’s-ear (I think), and creeping thistle. In addition, there was a particularly gorgeous purple plant that looked like a heather of some description; it was trailing beautifully down the dry-stone walling of the south-west corner of the mound.

The outside entrance to the chamber was very understated, and on the right, rather blemished by the huge gray slab commemorating the Victorians who restored the barrow initially after several pillages in the past. As usual, it had been erected in the most blindingly obvious place, thereby ruining the aesthetics. (See Tinkinswood for similar acts of vandalism).

I waited a moment before entering the passageway, clutching a torch as advised. There was a subtle nervousness to standing at the light end of a very long, very narrow, very dark passage that the original engineers had cleverly constructed to fall away slightly with the shape of the hill, thereby emphasizing the entry to the earth’s womb. I walked the few feet past the first two chambers, then was compelled to stop for a few moments before stepping down the slight lip into the rear half of the barrow; a place that truly was an Inner Sanctum. In order to enter, it required a scramble through on hands and knees, jagging myself on a portion of the magnificent dry-stone walling that created the whole of the inside chamber. (This isn’t because the passage narrows particularly dramatically at that point, it’s more to do with my lack of spatial awareness and general clumsiness).

By now, it was very dark indeed, and I rather edgily swept my torch beam round each chamber in turn, harbouring a fear of discovering something ‘from the woodshed’ so to speak. Or an animal’s home. But my fears were unfounded, enabling some contemplative time at the bottom of the tunnel, at the same time hugely enjoying the way the weak outside light fell into the passage.

On the way out, I shone the torch upwards, admiring the corbelled roofing (look for the slab with a wonderfully preserved limpet shell in the center), and all the little creatures that lived in the crevices. It was very cool. So was the temperature, as the close humidity was like a slap in the face when returning into the light.

After all that, I applied myself to photographing the site, both inside and out. Inside was difficult, as it was so dark; so whilst avoiding tedious photographic detail, I will reveal that it involved removing my t-shirt in order to cover the camera. (An illogical method of taking a photo, I agree). This meant I was scrabbling around inside with very little on, whilst Karen assisted at the camera end. The shirt was replaced minutes before another four visitors arrived, so they don’t know how lucky they were! (If the two lady ramblers who visited the site at around 14.00hrs on Friday 26 July happen to be reading this, thank you very much for eating your sandwiches at the other end of the mound, and letting me finish the shoot without rushing. It was much appreciated).

After spending a very pleasant couple of hours at the site, the lovely Karen and I were famished, so set off in search of food, sunshine, and Stanton Drew . . . .

After a small contretemps with an OS map, Jane, Andy, Mum and I all managed to slog up the long and stony way to this intriguing little circle. The hillside it was on was smothered with bracken, but within a small clearing, the stone circle sat contentedly within the elements.

We also discovered three picnickers sat contentedly in the middle of the circle with a copious and bountiful spread before them; and my heart sank. Not because I object to people having a picnic in these places, but because (as ever) the light was poor, and the weak modeling light available was fading away into a milky, contrast-less murk. So the photos weren’t going to look as cool as I wished. But you can’t ask a girl to get up and shift in the middle of her Tiger Prawn Terrine, can you?

Stoically, we plonked ourselves down on one of the destroyed outer circle stones, and watched the world go by. (And in my case, the light drain away). Nonetheless, the sweeping views over Morecambe Bay were really impressive, all the way from Heysham Power Station in the south, to the Lakeland mountains in the north. I tried to imagine what the place looked like when the circles were first erected; and whether or not ceremonies were performed by raven-haired priestesses as the midsummer sun broke over the far horizon, glancing off tentacles of seawater in the bay far below. I suspect they were.

After a few dog walkers, a family on an afternoon stroll, and two insane mountain bikers who barreled out of nowhere, threatening to ride straight through the cornucopia in the center of the circle, our picnickers decided they were replete, and ambled quietly off up the hill.

I took some photos, relying wholly on composition for dramatic effect, and feel that I have captured something of this beautiful little site. Jane had painted a lovely water-colour in her sketch book, very cleverly managing a scene which looked as if it had been viewed through a 24mm lens. I imagine this place at dawn or dusk is a real treat, and I would like to return when there is some decent light on offer.

A mile or so down the road from Tinkinswood stands St. Lythan’s dolmen. I didn’t know quite what to expect from this site, and so after battling through the nettley hedgerow into the field, I was thrilled to be instantly charmed by this exquisitely simple dolmen.

It’s so simple, it almost defies description. Four slabs of rock, sat on a rise in a field. But it’s the way they’ve been balanced, the way they are in total harmony with their bucolic surroundings, that have something to do with their compelling magic. For once, I’m not going to eulogize at great length, but simply say that you should go and visit this place on a summer’s day, with a soft blanket, good company, and a fabulous picnic. Sit by the wonderfully textured stones, feel the sun on your face, listen to the buzzards kew-kewwing overhead, and discover a beautiful inner peace.

The Goddess certainly blessed Karen and I the day we visited Tinkinswood, St. Lythans, the Pont-y-Pridd Rocking Stone, and Notgrove. The forecasters had predicted a sunny start, with cloud rolling in by the afternoon. But the Goddess had different ideas, and we were blessed with glorious June weather; blazing sun, brilliant blue skies, puffy altocumulus clouds and stunningly green fields for the whole day.Which made the arrival at Tinkinswood all the more fantastic. We walked through a fabulous hay meadow, rich with wild flowers and butterflies, the grasses whispering in the breeze, as chaffinches called to each other. Continuing up a slope, past hawthorns and more butterflies, eventually we caught sight of the magnificent capstone atop the gently swelling cairn.

A sign at the kissing gate that allowed entry to the cairn announced that ‘this site is being managed for the Secretary of State for Wales by Welsh Monuments’ (or some such body, I can’t remember exactly). Anyway, more importantly, someone had scratched out ‘Secretary of State for Wales’, and replaced it with ‘Goddess’. Well done, whoever you are!!! :-)

Tinkinswood is a truly impressive site. I mean how, just how, did they get that capstone up the hill, then erect it over the cairn? Staggering. The atmosphere was so serene and nurturing, it was lovely to just lie in the grass and drink it in. And I was very impressed how the energy continued to be so strong, as only a few hundred yards away, in the next field, a stonking great electricity pylon loomed over her. In addition to that, the chaps who had excavated the site in 1914 had built an unlovely brick pillar inside the chamber to support the capstone (which is great, but *brick*?). But they couldn’t leave it at that. Oh no. Just so everyone remembers, they thought, let’s slap into the pillar a dirty great plaque that says ‘Excavated 1914’, right at the front, so no-one can miss it – corking! Thanks guys. . . But ignoring that, and the pylons, I really enjoyed our time at this site, and was very reluctant to leave; her magnetism was subtle, but very strong. Do pay her a visit.

The delightful Jane possesses the ability to locate megalithic sites using only a few tenuous directions and her Inner Goddess. Just as well really, when you’re surrounded by a lush growth of meadow flora, with no idea where the circle you’re seeking is located.We had entered the field, Jane heading left, while I headed right. After a few minutes, I heard her yell emphatically “I’ve found her!” “Where?!” I yelled back, almost having a coronary as a cock pheasant exploded from the undergrowth two feet to my right.

I had been expecting to find Little Meg on an exposed patch of bare earth, as in the picture in TMA; but when we got there, we had to beat back the nettles and grasses from this badly broken and sorely neglected circle.

Nonetheless, Little Meg continues to exude a compact and serene energy, still calmly working away despite what the years throw at her. I liked her hugely, and I also liked the fact she was nestled amidst the green, fecund bounty of the summer; seemed more respectful than exposure on dry earth. Worth a visit, especially on a combined trip of Castlerigg] and [[Long Meg. Bit concerned that the carved spirals appear to be more eroded than the pictures in TMA, though.

Breathtaking . . . stunning . . . bewitching; I was bowled over by this site. After a few sharp turns round country roads, the stones suddenly appeared, the size of the place became evident, and the impulse to get amongst them was huge. Like the delightful Jane, I was out the other side of the car before it stopped moving, haring up the slope before the handbrake had been applied. Thank the stars for a very understanding driver!

Long Meg herself is wonderfully powerful, and a fabulous embodiment of the Earth Goddess. She’s constructed from red sandstone, contrasting wonderfully with the Daughters (or Lovers). I found her superbly pregnant, and so intriguing.As was the circle itself. The most obvious thing was the total lack of a sense of scale, which was very weird. Also fascinating is its construction on a slope, so that it was impossible to see the whole of it in one go – from certain angles, anyway. Had the earth shifted since it was built? Whatever, it certainly contributed to a fascinating energy.

And this energy became very prevalent when I began taking photos. (No word of a lie, it interfered completely with my composition, which was very bizarre. Even when applying the rules of composition, many of the stones said “No, we’d look better in mirror image; which you can’t do, so there!”) I wondered if it was because I was walking anti-clockwise round the inside of the circle, so tried it different ways, but I still didn’t feel entirely happy with what I was photographing. I remarked on this to Mum (who had waited to get out of the car, once it had come to a complete halt), and she said “Well, maybe you’re not supposed to be photographing from inside the circle; they might not be looking in, but looking out.” So I tried that, and it all flowed together much more easily. Switched on woman, my Mum.

And the Goddess seemed to approve of Mum’s take on things, because literally out of nowhere in a dark and cloudy sky, the sun miraculously broke through, blessing us all with twenty minutes of gorgeous modelling light. Hooray! (Jane and the rest of the party told me later that I was running around like a mad woman, yelping with glee, and pumping loads of film through the camera). No Spaniards, either. (See Castlerigg . . . )I guess I just naturally assumed all stone circles were facing inwards – of course, it makes infinitely more sense to have them facing out, thereby protecting the energy within. (OK, so a few of us are slow on the uptake).

Whatever was going on, Long Meg and Her Daughters/Lovers is a magnificent site, and worth a Cumbrian weekend away as soon as possible! Prepare to be spellbound and enchanted; meanwhile, I’ll wait for my photos to be developed – and I get the feeling that they’re not going to be *quite* what I’m expecting . . .

As the delightful Jane said, last Saturday it was one bloody visitor after another. Hordes of ‘em. In addition, there was very bad light, threatening to turn into that sort of insipid gloom that works to suck every last vestige of contrast from a scene. But I speak as a photographer.

As a visitor of megalithic sites, it was wonderful to return to Castlerigg after a seven year absence. Then, I was seeing it for the first time on a cold, overcast winter’s day. The whole place was very muddy, populated by sheep, and punctuated by the occasional hardy soul clothed in Gore-Tex and a strong constitution. It was idyllic, breathtaking and magical.

I had forgotten just how small and diminutive it seemed, surrounded by the imposing mountains and dramatic, rolling skies. Small, and perfectly formed. The sheep were still there, but had moved off a little, and I was looking forward to getting some more interesting photos with the different type of light.

The stormy rolling clouds were hinting at the possibility of some gorgeous soft modelling light, and with the insane obsession only a photographer possesses, I laid in the extremely damp grass, avoiding as best I could sheep turds and muddy patches. The light glimmered, and instantly the stones began to sing, poetry against the plunging valley now lit with soft sunshine. Perfect!

Scrabbling up, covered in muck, I swiftly moved to get a shot of the massively female stone that formed part of the intriguing cist within the circle – exquisite, exquisite light; long lens; harmonious picture, here it comes . . . as did four garrulous Spaniards, who sauntered into shot, lit fags, hung around, sat on the stones, took pictures sporadically – and NEVER when the light was at it’s best, aarrgghh! – before ambling disinterestedly off to their car. Ten minutes of hanging about as if they were outside a coffee bar in Madrid. I ask you. The pain!

I wouldn’t mind, but it’s a long old drive from Oxfordshire, and as a non-driver, it’s even harder to get places. So with that, and the regular flow of people, this wasn’t quite the experience I was hoping for. Heigh ho. And that was it, really. The light went, the stones didn’t have quite their previous essence, and I returned to Jane and our group, swearing never to buy another Seville orange. Meanwhile, Jane was reclining on a heavy duty Eastern rug, having knocked out a lovely painting without any humans cluttering it up. I’m sure these water-colourists have it far too easy . . .

Had reservations about this site, not least because the stone circle around the Rocking Stone itself is relatively young – 100yrs old or so. Nonetheless, it was on the route home from Tinkinswood and St. Lythans.

After some madness driving round Pont-y-Pridd itself, we finally made it up to the steep hillside park where the stone lives. One advantage was the glorious June weather, but as we approached the stone, I did feel it looked a little like a modern sculpture park installation.

Our mood wasn’t heightened by finding the whole site littered with fag ends, fag boxes, crisp packets, and most ignobly, a pair of cola cans jammed in the crevice of the ‘rocking’ part. Helpfully, however, some oik had left a plastic bag lying in the grass, so swift housekeeping soon had the energy more upbeat. The other thing to go upbeat was my blood pressure when I spotted a litter bin only 20 feet away, directly opposite the stone. Small wonder this country has a problem with obesity; everyone stuffs their faces, but can’t be bothered to get any exercise by walking to the bin. However, I digress.

I liked the Rocking Stone greatly, and it felt wonderful to lay one’s hands on it’s smooth, dark, curvaceous sun-baked surface. Very calming and centering. As other contributors have noted, all the graffiti scratched into the top was none too pleasant, but that was soon lost in the energy flowing from the stone. We tarried awhile in the sunshine, taking photos, and came home pleased that we had gone there after all; it holds it’s own, despite all the ignomies surrounding it – kind of reassuring, really.

I had seen this site marked in the AA Driver’s Atlas of the British Isles, so assumed it would be worth visiting, despite not having heard much about it previously. As the AA only seem to mark important or distinguished sites, it had to be worth a look, especially as I enjoy photgraphing these places.My friend Karen and I decided to visit it as the last site on a trip taking in Tinkinswood Long Barrow, St. Lythans Dolmen, and the Pont-y-Pridd Rocking Stone.

As we are from Oxfordshire, by the time we were on the return leg from Wales, it was late in the evening, and therefore a race aginst time before the light ran out.Finally arriving with minutes to spare, I leapt out of the car, ran excitedly through the gate, and was confronted by a huge, featureless, and overgrown grassy mound that was virtually swamped by the surrounding vegetation.

Karen spotted a small sign that gave a few details about the barrow, finishing with the fact that it was managed by Gloucestershire County Council, who had thoughtfully backfilled the whole thing in 1979 to prevent vandalism. Hmmm . . . .

Unfortunately, all GCC managed that evening was to provide a deep sense of loss and disappointment. That sort of logic suggests burying Gloucester Cathedral, in order to keep costs down and prevent vandalism.It’s a real pity this site hasn’t been properly maintained, as clearly, it’s very important. Is there a ‘Save Notgrove’ site at all, much like the successful Stoney Littleton one?

There is a very worn cup and ring carving on a large boulder between the Stride and Nine Stone Close.....there are several other possible cup marks on the upper surface of the rock. The rock has several plough markings on it suggesting it has been moved to its present position...and it lays next to the wall.

As you climb the stile to go to the stone circle......in front of you are 3 large trees.....one next to the stone circle...one next to the stile on the way to the Stride......in between these is another tree that stands on the north-south running drystone wall.....the carved rock is underneath this tree.

A double circle Neolithic causewayed camp.

The inner circle can just about be traced all the way around, except where the circles have been interrupted by the downland scarp to the north. A right of way crosses the site, and the double entrances at both east and west can be made out best from this.

Also to east and west, right by the entrance in the case of the latter, are impressively sized Bronze Age round barrows (Impressive for this neck of the woods at least!)

This was the last causewayed camp built on the South Downs and it is roughly contemporary with Avebury Henge, where the Windmill Hill causewayed Camp was being abandoned in favour of the newer style of sacred enclosure, indicating how “backward” the Neolithic culture this far from the plateau of Wiltshire may have been.

This is a Cracker! I had a bit of trouble finding this stone because CANMORE has it sited in the wrong place. In fact nobody seems to have seen it since 1911.
The best Route to take when visiting the rock is to take the road from Balbeggie to St.Martins and turn up the Gracefield farm road , Follow the road up to the old farm and then go round the back, Follow the track east ( South Friarton house should be one field north on the right ) past the a few field clearance piles, Park at the end of the track beside the gate. If you see a couple of huge rocks at the edge of the field you are in the right place! Climb the gate and head up the track to south friarton. You will see a line of trees at the top of the field, the rock is at the west end of the trees at the edge of the field. Happy hunting. SCOTTY

When I turned up on site Jan Harding seemed pretty excited about these. There were two large pits, which Jan said were similar to the pits he had excavated a couple of years ago and he said they would have contained large posts – these are 2m+ in diameter!

He said they were part of a larger pit alignment he had identified from air photo’s and they were in line with the rising of Orion for the early Neolithic period.

Following baza’s careful and precise instructions (below) we drove down beyond the ‘Private Road’ sign. Nervously we proceeded, aware that not only were we trespassing (and therefore not setting a good example to the children!) but there were some mean-looking bullocks lurking around. We spotted a pile of what were clearly (to us!) fallen megaliths – the ones hamish had seen – and jumped out to take pics. Were these the Goose stones? The longer we proceeded down the lane, the more we saw! Were they ‘erratics’ or something else? There were tons of them! As we reached the end of the lane, we saw the one Celia Haddon had pointed out when she was taken there by Bennett and Wilson (authors of ‘The Old Stones of Rollright and District’). Which ones were the Goose stones? Had we seen them at all?

It was only afterwards it occurred to me that maybe ALL of them are the Goose stones...

This really quite BIZARRE stone is tangled up in the long history of Cropredy and its lost stone circle. On the maps its referred to as a ‘cross’ and certainly feels as if it had a Christian past, but it seems to me there is *much* more to it than that.

The stone itself consists of a font-type construct with what appears to be a spoon-like appendage sticking out of the top. I can honestly say I’ve never seen a weirder stone arrangement. (I felt it should have more accurately been called ‘mug and spoon’.) The fact that a small close of council semi-Ds has been built around it on what was once common land gives it an even stranger feel. It may be that some part of this monument (perhaps the ‘spoon’ element?) is the last remnant of Cropredy’s stone circle and that rather than discard it (and annoy the Dark Forces) it became Christianised and passed into the local folk legend.

A straight track runs from it to the burial ground on the edge of the village.

This one’s a complete mystery. And profoundly weird.

Saturday 3 May 2003
The stones are on the left as you arrive on the Bernera side of the bridge from Lewis.

Well, if Margaret and Ron Curtis reckon it’s a circle then I guess it is, but it didn’t feel like one to me!

I suppose it’s because a substantial part of the circle has fallen to the sea and, even more importantly for visualisation of the original site, any embankment has fallen too.

But who cares when it’s in such a beautiful spot and features such beautiful and imposng stones anyway. Well, me actually – it’d be mind-boggling!

I didn’t have a go on the birthing stone….

Saturday 3 May 2003
This is a short drive from Calanais, along the B8011. The circle is visible to the west of the road after about a mile. Plenty of room to park on the verge on the opposite side of the road I think.

The stones stand out uphill from the road and can now be reached by a well looked-after path, newly refurbished when we visited.

Despite being uphill from the road, Ceann Thulabhaig still manages to nestle below the actual hilltop, but commands a wonderful view towards an inlet that lies directly between it and Callanish.

The hilltop once more features a ‘low-key’ equivalent of Cnoc an Tursa.

The stones are real big bouncing beauties, and it is interesting to see much more clearly than at the other ‘big’ sites where the peat has been cut away to expose more of the stones.

Another quite welcoming circle, to me, but I suspect it would change to be quite, wild, dramatic and even forbidding in bad weather (whereas, for example Cnoc Fillibhear Bheag would ‘just’ be inhospitable in bad weather – if you see what I mean).

And it is certainly an excellent place to have a breather in peace and to take stock of your day, week, month, year, life!

Saturday 3 May 2003
Known by us as ‘Gary’(!!) I’m afraid. Easily visible between Callanish and Cnoc Fillibhear Bheag (’Philippa’). Best approached from ‘Philippa’ (Cnoc Fillibhear Bheag) or via a lane from the main road at NB222330.

Another stunner! It’s something I know all us ‘stones’ people think from time-to-time, but I’m going to say it here – please forgive me: “I’d love to have seen this circle when it was complete”.

Rarely have I felt it so strongly, almost desperately. This must have been an incredible place, lying between 2 other incredible places (Callanish itself and Cnoc Fillibhear Bheag).

Nowadays the remains of the circle are reduced, for more casual viewers at least, to a ‘side attraction’ and are undeniably overshadowed by both these other sites. Yet much more than a trace of majesty remains in these strikingly-shaped stones that still stand, and my feeling is that it was once not so easily dominated.

Nearby is a small outcrop, in common with the other ‘main’ Callanish sites, echoing the Cnoc an Tursa at Callanish itself.

Saturday 3 May 2003
Easily visible from the A858 on the left approaching Calanais from Stornoway – just before a cattlegrid. Soon dubbed ‘Philippa’(!) for convenience I’m afraid.

What a place. I first visited before I got my feelings for Callanish itself sorted out. This was no bad thing, as it allowed complete appreciation of this stunning circle and its ‘special features’ – see a23’s fieldnotes for superbly expressed details!

To me, as well as the fascinating ‘phallus & triple goddess’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty‘ phenomena, the most striking thing was how beautifully proportioned the circle, its stones and its setting in the landscape are. To me it also felt particularly ‘open’ and welcoming.

Julian comments in the big papery TMA that Callanish itself can easily overshadow the nearby sites. (I don’t like calling them ‘satellite’ sites or any term that could belittle these wonderful places.) And he’s probably right. But that’s just a crying shame.

Yet to me, at Cnoc Fillibhir Bheag, Callanish does not truly dominate. It’s higher up, bigger and ‘more fancy’, true, but ‘Philippa’ is also raised well above the land between herself and Callanish, with the remains of Cnoc Ceann a’ Ghàrraidh lurking significantly more or less between the 2, on the low-lying moorland that separates them.

For me, the relationship between the 3 is intriguing.

Noteable is that like the other main ‘Callanish’ sites, there is a nearby ‘low-key’ equivalent of Callanish’s Cnoc an Tursa. There is also a very significant looking ‘v’-shaped gap in the hills looking south (in the centre of this picture).

Visited briefly again on Sunday 4 May, mainly to take more photos. Still in love with the place.

Saturday 3 May 2003
Well, where do I start? Probably like many people, with my expectations.

There is an element almost of confession here. This is one reason it has taken me nearly 2 months to write this. It’s now getting on for 4 months since I was actually there.

If you’ve reached here via my weblogs, you’ll know that this was a very special trip for me. Not only had I been longing to see the place for many years, but turmoil in my personal life had added an extra, emotional ‘charge’ that is unusual for me when visiting a site. And it lived up to every expectation. Eventually.

Right up until I turned the corner on the path from the visitors’ centre and saw the stones from anything other than a distance, everything was fine and my expectations were undented.

So, I turned the corner, and… I really can’t say whether it was the view approaching from that direction, or whether it was sheer weight of expectation, but I knew straight away… To my total astonishment, I just didn’t ‘get’ it.

All those years. All those miles… and I was just looking at some more rocks. A lot of rocks. A lot of beautiful rocks. But still ‘just’ a lot of rocks.

I was quietly mortified. I couldn’t even blame crowds – we saw maybe 3 people in the hour or so we spent there before I was happy (almost relieved) to go to Cnoc Fillibhir Bheag and Cnoc Ceann a’ Ghàrraidh.

Of course the setting is beautiful. Of course the place is spectacular. Of course the sheer number and sizes of the stones are massively impressive. Of course the stones are intriguing shapes and colours and textures.

But there was no feeling of inspiration or even reverence that I have felt at a few very special sites. No feeling of ‘homecoming’ or perhaps ‘belonging’ that I have felt at some sites. No real connection, no real understanding.

Sunday 4 May 2003
On my second visit, the following day, it began to dawn on me however – expectation and understanding were the whole problem for me. Before visiting most sites I read a little bit about them in fairly ‘analytical’ Burl (usually) type terms – maybe read a few comments on this website or in the big papery TMA.

With this limited preparation I don’t expect to understand them or connect with them. It’s just not normally an issue. If I do – great. If I don’t – I’ll have enjoyed seeing them anyway.

With Callanish though, there was a whole lot more – an entire chapter in Julian’s book. Various telly progs including Julian’s. And more recently, a couple of other books. I approached the place thinking (subconsciously) that I understood – that I knew what to expect. So when I didn’t I was confused, disappointed and bewildered.

This feeling of realisation increased steadily and luckily it was convenient to revisit regularly over the 3 days and I was able to discover Callanish as I actually see it – not as I expected to see it.

Seeing it with too many expectations was, for me like photos of the complete Callanish I from ground level. They never quite really show it. I’ve seen great pictures of it – there are some good ones on this site and I took some that I’m pleased with, but they still never quite do it.

It’s one of those places where I cannot see how a photographer can capture the full picture. The complexity and sheer number of stones makes it seem confusing in photos, yet makes perfect sense as you walk it on the ground.

Monday 5 May 2003
By my fourth and final visit (for now) I was happy. Right now at 11pm on Monday 18 August 2003, I could happily stand between the northern rows facing the circle and laugh and shout for joy. It’s awesome. Not a word I normally use. Ever.

Friday 2 May 2003
A clava cairn in a beautiful and peaceful setting next to a small stream (or was that just the rain?) not far from a small river.

If you’ve seen Clava Cairns, this is another one – on it’s own. If you haven’t, it’s a chambered cairn with a stone circle round it (11 stones?).

The top of the cairn including the capstone(s) is missing, but most of the chamber sides and rubble construction is in place.

Very nice.

(Nearby is the Mony Stone standing stone at NH372301.)

Located near Dooncarton 1 mile Northwest of Pollatomish below the Dooncarton Radar Station. 200 m East of the site the (maybe)remains of a court tomb.