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Near the Anglesey Shooting School, in a grassy field of the richest Hooker’s Green (what the hell had they been putting on it), with a backdrop of beautiful deciduous woodland, sits this imposing chamber. When we arrived, the Shooting School seemed to be having a clay shoot, so rhythmical pops and bangs broke the silence. Once again, some rather dodgy restoration work had taken place – presumably by none other than Chippy Minton. The most incongruous wooden brace was jammed under the capstone, rather spoiling the appearance of this otherwise very pleasant tomb. Yet again, I was put in mind of the Dyffryn Ardudwy type of monument. In the 18th century, this apparently provided shelter for a family of squatters. I imagine that with a few tarps or similar strung round the chamber, it would be quite snug.

On the way to our final destination, Presaddfed, we screeched to a halt by the roadside chapel of Llanfaethlu, just so Moth and I could hop out of the car and take a couple of snaps of the quite attractive monolith which stands in the next door field. This is much more solid than the previously described stones; much more like the traditional menhir. I liked the way it was still quietly sitting there, despite the Christianisation, and the road passing within a few feet of its field. Again, it enjoyed some lovely views, and the benefit of being utilised as a sheep rubbing post.

Three most beautiful stones stand by a dry stone wall on a rise in a sheep field. The views over Ynys Môn are spectacular, including the modern day fferm gwynt, wind farm. Forming an isosceles triangle, the grey, lichen-fronded stones reach up gracefully to the sky, and look very much like the elegant pair of menhirs at Penrhos Feilw. One of them is indeed extremely phallic. All of them are about six and a half feet high. My summer felt complete as I rolled about in the close cropped turf, flicking away sheep poo and photographing this fabulous trio of stones.

Did I say Pant y Saer was a stunna? Well, this is a stunna with knobs on! Lligwy has the most incredible capstone, a huge rectangle of rock, easily a yard thick all the way round. Interestingly, deep grooves are to be found on all sides of this cumbersome capstone, and I read on the information board a suggestion that they were caused by ropes rubbing into the stone as it was transported to the site. Can’t see it myself; why don’t other structures have such obvious grooves? It looked more like eroded drilling lines to me, if it were anything manmade.

This really is awesome. A large dug out chamber under the capstone held the remains of 30 people, and even has a reasonable shelf on which to lay a body. Only after squeezing through the constricting entrance way, grubbing around in the chamber for a while, and sitting on the (not uncomfortable) shelf chatting to a lady on the outside, did I later discover the 25 tonne capstone is only held up on three of the eight uprights. Gulp.

Once again, the prehistoric understanding of rock and engineering never ceases to amaze. . . .

I didn’t see one earwig.

What a stunna. Despite the fact the capstone has slipped, and the general appearance the stones offer is now that of a boozy looking, drunken effort to stay upright, it is still an awesome structure. Its disrepair is a shame though, as originally, it was clearly a very important and complex site. Pant y Saer means ‘Hollow of the Masons‘, an accurate title, as beneath the capstone are the remains of a rock-cut pit 16 ft x 10 ft x 3ft, which contained the burials of 36 adults, 9 children, and 9 full-term foetuses. Separately, there were two more burials in a possible Beaker cist. At the western end, between the horns of a dry stone wall, there had been the remains of a forecourt. Despite the wear and tear of time, this lovely dolmen still retains much of its prominence, and apart from anything else, is situated in a very good spot for a picnic.

Rain was swirling in the gloaming as we reached Ty Newydd, and I was also disappointed to note the utterly insensitive and ugly restoration work on this previously stunning cromlech. However, I suppose we shouldn’t be ungrateful, as brickwork aside, we still see the structure erect. Best of all, the capstone offers a decidedly nautical feel; seen from below, it looks like the prow of a large ship. I remembered trips to HMS Victory.

On reaching this pair of stones, I think we were all in awe at their sheer immensity. The first, a slender, wide, leaf-shaped monolith, stands a clear 13 feet tall – I thought it looked more like 18 feet, personally. Next to it sulks a brooding, ten foot high rectangular block of rock. Although impressive, I wasn’t as keen on the energy of this place. It was in total contrast to the elegant airiness of Penrhos Feilw. There is a suggestion that they are the remains of a stone circle – that must have been one hell of a sight! I think they were a couple of try-outs for comparison, and got left in a field by the early engineers . . .

Not unlike St. Lythans, Bodowyr stands in the middle of a field, but unlike St. Lythans, it is caged up behind a green metal fence. This prevents it being used as a shippon by cattle, or having chunks hacked out of it by farm machinery. This is a Good Thing, as it is a charming, faerie-magical dolmen, with a capstone that looks like a toadstool cap. Again, like Bryn Celli Ddu, Bodowyr enjoys a great view across to Snowdonia. Cute and charming. Bizarrely, I managed to take a photo which makes it look like an African mud hut.

This was the other site with which Kate had seduced me, on a golden day in late October. It was just as beautiful this time round. The vibrant green mound stood out wonderfully against the cerulean blue sky, and commanded a stunning view of Eryri. The uprights and other stones at both sides of the mound were covered with the fluffy, frondy grey-green lichens seen at Trefignath. As ever, the menhir inside the mound just blew me away. I love Bryn Celli Ddu; it has the most wonderful energy and a low, thrumming magicalness. The other thing that thrummed was the back of my head, after I cracked it against the interior lintel – the type of blow to the skull that makes anyone else present want to throw up.

I noticed that some thoughtful people had left an offering to the Goddess on a stone ledge inside the chamber. Millennia ago, the Goddess was often honoured with a burnt sacrifice of a prized bull, a sheep or two, or a few goats – now she has to make do with a handful of peanuts, a wizened crab apple, and couple of torn Quality Street wrappers. Quality indeed.

Parking in the RSPB car park – allowed, we were off bird watching after the huts –we crossed the road and progressed along well kept grassy paths amidst a sea of bracken on the lower slopes of Holyhead Mountain. Some mature American hippies/Bronze Age wannabees passed by, one of them wearing a very nice purpley-russet poncho. The sun shone down warmly, and rounding a corner, I was treated to my first hut remains – and was instantly enchanted. What a corker of a site. White dry stone walls, approximately two and half feet high, shone in the light, contrasting with dark green bracken fronds, vibrant purple heather, and brilliant yellow gorse flowers. The turf floors were cropped close, and despite the exposed position, the whole place looked very ‘gentle’, for want of a better word.

It was easy to visualise the low conical roofs of the roundhouses, and the people moving between the structures. Having just finished the third in Manda Scott’s Boudica series of books, I was put in mind of her Iron Age vision of life. What must it have been like living in a roundhouse on an exposed cliff face? The weather had by now broken into glorious sunshine, but winter gales must have been horrendous as they drove into the cliffs, straight off the Irish Sea. One roundhouse looked as if it would have made a snug bolt hole when the tribe gathered together for food, drinking, and story telling. Presumably though, our North Walian Bronze Age ancestors were nowhere near as nesh as a modern day Southerner – and of course, the climate was warmer in those days.

I thought of how they would have sustained themselves – fish caught from the beaches below, boar raised on the mountainside, and eggs taken by terrifying climbs on the perpendicular cliffs which are home to thousands of sea birds. Tasty! Before we left, I gazed out over the view our ancestors enjoyed. The Irish Sea stretched unbroken to the horizon, and to the south, the mountains of the Llyn Peninsula rose out of the sea in irregular, soft, misty blue silhouettes. It was, quite simply, superb.

These two lovely stones are in the middle of a field, and would have commanded a fabulous view across Ynys Môn when first created. Reminded me of nothing more than a gateway or spiritual portal, and I was put in mind of a reference to the rune known as Thurisaz: ’ Thurisaz is also held by some to be the gateway rune. It can represent powerful forces available for your use. The decision you have to make – the gateway facing both ways – is how to use them. Thurisaz exhorts you to choose your path and take action before it is too late. Which path will you choose? What force will you employ – attack or defence? This is the problem with Thurisaz- the chaotic element that makes it so dangerous and difficult to deal with.‘* Sure was some big gateway stuff going on here. These are a beautifully matching pair of stones – elegant, poised, subtle. Very other-worldly. I liked ‘em.

* Quote from www.runes.info

For once, ignore the surrounding landscape when visiting this place, otherwise you will be entirely distracted by the gigantic aluminium smelting plant just the other side of the A55, which runs below Trefignath. Focus instead on the monument itself, think to yourself how much it is reminiscent of Dyffryn Ardudwy. (This was the first thing to strike me about the site – further reading revealed that the esteemed Frances Lynch had indeed proved it had a complexity the same as Dyffryn Ardudwy). Pay especial attention to the two tall pillars at the chamber entrance, and the chamber itself, which is quite something. The huge capstone appears to have broken in half at some point in time. The second chamber is minus its capstone. Jane’s immediate reaction was that the whole thing looked like French allee couverte. Haven’t seen one, so don’t know. Sounds fun, though. I liked Trefignath, despite the drizzly rain, and particularly liked the nobility of the main chamber and the hairy, frondy, fluffy grey-green lichens that grew all over the stones.

Saturday morning dawned grey and dry, and inevitably, Jane was like a greyhound out of a trap, with the key to Barclodiad-y-Gawres the hare. Soon, the four of us (Cleo stayed in bed), were rewarded with one of the most spectacular dolmens in the country.

It takes a long time for one’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, but finally a very impressive chambered tomb becomes visible. Six stones are decorated with lozenge, spiral, cup mark and concentric circle patterns – the first and most impressive immediately to the right after unlocking the gate and entering the structure within a structure.

The large capstone has been skilfully engineered so as to appear to be balancing delicately and airily on the uprights, when viewed from certain angles. The back stones of the two side chambers are both carved with spiral designs. The best of these are on the eastern chamber – three spirals in a row. The handiwork of a Stone Age monumental mason, perhaps?

Whilst sitting on the comfortable, dry, sandy bank above the gloomy western chamber, listening to oystercatchers and the crash of the incoming tide on the cliffs below, two chaps entered, so I directed them to the Maglite Jane had left by the gate, and pointed out the carvings while giving them a (very) brief overview of the dolmen.

Upon arriving, the first noticeable change was the structured lay-by with a now dedicated wheel-chair friendly footpath leading to the entrance of the stones. Neither did it appear necessary to scramble over a rickety stile to get to the King Stone – there seems to be proper access via a small gate. I was keen to see what the circle would be like now its exterior was expanded by the purchase of land to the south.

No disappointments on this score. Moving away from the visitor’s hut, the circle opened up before me, more able to breathe within its landscape than for many years previously. It looks fantastic. What made it look even more fantastic was the sunshine spilling over the weathered, twisted, pitted stones, singing out the colours of honey-coloured oolitic limestone, egg-yolk yellow lichens, and olivaceous-green mosses. To the south, a wide, rustling field of sun-baked golden wheat rippled and shimmered in the warm breeze. Fluffy white cumulus clouds sailed in stately fashion across a sky of rich, uplifting blueness. Wild flowers poked up through the grass, and clumps of coltsfoot sat the base of some of the stone, their dark glossy leaves contrasting with the rock. Perfection in Oxfordshire.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

As our initial searching had been confounded by many erratics, the general consensus was that this might not be a very spectacular site. After hoping for something reasonably impressive, I was beginning to think this would be a few short, squat, piddly stones running in a line for 10-20 feet.

Thankfully, this wasn’t the case – Moth finally located approximately 100yds of Bronze Age handiwork, made from substantial stones, leading towards the Irish Sea. What a treat for a stone row virgin.

As we took photos and generally prepared for lunch, a hale and hearty woman approached, enquiring as to whether this was the stone row. We informed her it was, and she asked if we were students of archaeology. I replied that we were Modern Antiquarians, so in effect students of archaeology, but really just megalithic enthusiasts. She explained that she was an ex-midwife who led walking parties, and was walking Great Orme to suss out a new route, with places of interest like the Roman well by the roadside above the stone row. We suggested she check out Lletty’r Filiast.

Amongst all the erratics, the uniformity of the stone row was very clear, and picnicking above them, I wondered what their purpose had been. Interestingly, they faced north-ish, so presumably the setting sun would not have been visible at their end. Could they have been a ceremonial route, or something connected with shipping? Moth said they reminded him very much of Dartmoor stone rows, and on our return to the car, we had an interesting discussion about the possibility of Cornish tin miners being drafted in to work the Copper Mines, bringing with them new customs and traditions.

‘The Lair of the Greyhound Bitch’. Appropriately enough, the house next door had a yard full of dog shit and a pack of hounds who barked long and loud on our arrival. In addition, the throb of bitchin’ rap emanated forth – rather distracting in the otherwise secluded and peaceful setting of this small dolmen.

Unfortunately, the diminutive chamber is crumbling slowly away, much like a piece of Cheshire cheese. Enough remains to reveal what a charming structure it was, and happily, it is obviously looked after, as a helpful tourist information board is stationed nearby. The puddingy stone put me in mind of Carreg Samson, although there was no variation in the stones used here.

With its capstone in place, it would probably have appeared more dramatic, but sadly this broke in three or four pieces a while ago, and the chunks now lie where they fell. Remarkably, although access is very easy via the solid purpose built ladder at the foot of ‘Cromlech Road’ (big help, that), the site is very clean and tidy. I expected it to be ‘The Lair of the Burberry Chavs’, but there was not an empty bottle of White Lightening in sight.

Moth and Jane reckon that in its hey-day, Lletty’r Filiast would have been a similar size to Hetty Peglar’s Tump, which mean it would have been a seriously important site. Its position so close to the Copper Mines (just a few hundred yards above), is also interesting. It wasn’t as dramatic as I had hoped, but pleasant. At least Jane was bewitched, finding herself reluctant to leave.

Follow the footpath up to the right from the gate hole, turn right into a brambly snicket, then left, and stay against the hedgerow until passing into a small wood. There are footpath markers to assist. You will be able to see this intriguing chamber silhouetted against the sky-line. In your eagerness to get up close to the monument, which forms the edge of two raggedy barbed-wire fences, take two seconds to locate the kissing gate 50 feet up to the right at the edge of the wood; using it is infinitely easier than scrabbling through tetanus-loaded wire.

This secret, compact dolmen – the only one of the Conwy valley’s portal dolmens sporting the customary high portal stones – looks down a tranquil bend in the Conwy valley, towards Llandudno and Great Orme. Although compact, it is deceptively huge from a distance, resulting in the viewer feeling a little surprised on arrival. What is most certainly huge, however, is the capstone. It is utterly gigantic. Despite the fact it has slipped down on the northern side, enough space remains to see the interior of the chamber. It is possible to wriggle inside, which I thought of doing until noticing how the capstone is held in place. (See pictures). Frances Lynch in CADW’s publication Gwynedd says this is not for the squeamish. Quite right she is too – I didn’t fancy the idea of being crushed by a ten-ton capstone, albeit an appropriate way for a Modern Antiquarian to perish. With my wide beam-end, the dislodging of rocks one way or another was sure to occur. When the arresting Kate saw the pictures the next day, she said “Well, at least it would give you an idea of how it feels to be a grain of wheat under a quern stone.”

Although I was initially a tad disappointed in this site, it has stuck in my mind, and on reflection, I enjoyed it very much. It does have something about it which lingers in the psyche. I liked the remaining portal uprights, and the solidity of the site. I imagine if there are bluebells in the wood, it will look most agreeable throughout May. We would have stayed longer – Jane could have made a fab painting of the river vista – but a chilly wind chased us away to the next site.

Another effective method the arresting Kate employed to seduce me. She brought me here on a glorious blue, russet, and gold autumn day, and blew me away. This place is so beautiful, peaceful and completely breathtaking.

When Jane, Moth and I visited, a misty, slightly overcast sky greeted us, and lifted as we left – typically. Nonetheless, a superb view of Snowdonia was afforded which demonstrated beautifully why the ancestors chose this site. As ever, the placing of a Severn-Cotswold long barrow in the heart of North Wales fascinated me. Who were the builders? Were they a group of people who moved up from the south? Were they a tribe who had taken on different belief systems to the others prevalent in the vicinity? Were they traders? There are no such barrows anywhere else up here, so I assume this must be the case. Or could it have been the last one to have been built before that set of beliefs changed? Or is the only one that has survived?

Whatever the reasons, this is a fabulous structure, definitely worth a visit. The remaining capstone (on the western chamber), is awesome, and it is easy to imagine how the thing must have looked when originally built. The post and panel work inside the chambers is a joy to behold, and even though it has been extensively restored, remains of the original dry walling can be seen in the lower courses of the eastern chamber. 5,000 year old dry walling. Cool.

We enjoyed a good half hour here, joined briefly by two other visitors, and watched by many fluffy sheep.

I remember visiting Hengistbury Head many years ago whilst accompanying my grandmother on a weekend break away from home. As I recall, there is some variety of motorised train ( several carriages hitched to the back of a tractor/land rover) which takes one round the promontory. The whole thing is home to masses of heathland flowers and wildlife; I recall Grandma saying that there was lots of ling growing there. It was very cold and windy, and for some reason I kept thinking about Willan & Searle’s ‘1066 And All That‘ in which they claimed that it was the spot Hengist and Horsa landed, then started agriculture – or something. Those of you who have read it will know what I’m on about. Good views though.

This circle of recumbent stones is quite lovely, and lies right next to a smart farmhouse (how is it these Welsh folk get to have such antiquities in their gardens?! See Fairy Oak Round Barrow). Some of the stones have been robbed, but nonetheless, an idea of the commanding nature of the place remains. Fab mountain views are to be had on all sides. Pretty.

A large mound, with two uprights like snaggly teeth, sits in a field on the Dee floodplain. This must have been very impressive in its hey-day, but sadly has been robbed for stonework. Still lovely, though, especially under a winter sunset, while a thrush sings through the dusk.

This is a stunning site; set in magnificent scenery, relatively diminutive, yet equally as magnificent for its completeness. It is quite easy to believe that the original builders abandoned it a few hundred years ago, let alone 4,000 years ago.

We visited on a classically beautiful late winter afternoon, and were bewitched. The peace of this cosy circle is deeply regenerating; its effect has continued on in me for days. Do visit, and prepare to be transported.

A rare and unexpected Bronze Age treat to be found, surprisingly, in the heart of Wrexham. In the centre of Wrexham County Borough Museum stands an unassuming box on a plinth, with a large piece of black foam rubber resting on its top. Lift this up, and suddenly you are transported back in time approximately 3,600 years, as you look down into a Middle Bronze Age burial cist. Even more exciting is the fact that the original inhabitant of this large box remains in situ, grave goods beside his disarticulated bones.

Brymbo Man, as he is known, was discovered in 1968 when a new housing estate was being built in Brymbo (pronounced ‘Brumbo’), an outlying village near Wrexham. Near what is now 79 Cheshire View (give a big clue on the terrain; the most wonderful views of the Cheshire Plain can be had from the local hills; evidently just as emotive these days), a workman’s pick hit Bronze Age pay-dirt approximately 1 foot below the ground’s surface. Intially they had discovered a capstone five and half feet long, but below this lay a burial cist, containing a human skull and a few bones, besides a large beaker and a flint knife. The entire lot, including the cist, was intially moved to the National Museum of Wales in Cardiff – but happily, 30 years later in 1998, Brymbo Man came home to his present resting place in the County Museum.

The museum have made much of this corking find, and have a very good display on the Bronze Age as result – very child friendly, too. Probably the next best object after the cist and remains is the reconstructed head of Brymbo Man, giving an idea of what the ancient peoples of this area looked like; not much has changed, really!

This is a real archaelogical and anthropological gem, well worth a look if ever you are passing.

Find out more at:

https://www.wrexham.gov.uk/english/heritage/brymbo_man/bm_revealed.htm

Originally discovered when excavations took place in the grounds of Hillbury House. Now very little remains of this barrow in what thse days is the Nazareth House complex. Without the aid of a detailed map (and assistance from the County Archaeologist at the local musuem), you would be forgiven for assuming this rise in the ground was just an attractive piece of landscaping.

Two medium-sized chestnut trees grow out of it, and a unlovely set of flats in the vast Nazareth House grounds back onto half of it; a concrete path cuts across the barrow, access for the flats. Sad.

A large round barrow dominates a green sward belonging to a Victorian villa in Wrexham, Jewel of North Wales. Fairy Oak lies within the grounds of a Victorian walled garden, with neatly trimmed lawns (as if for croquet), and busy traffic the other side of the red brick walls.

The grassy, rotund barrow – about seven feet high or so, and probably not dissimilar in size to Churn Knob – takes up most of the garden. One huge and clearly ancient oak tree grows out of the southern side of the barrow, whilst an equally huge chestnut springs forth from the south-western corner.

The owners of the property have plonked two fairy silhouette figurines (of the type found at a garden centre near you), on the barrow, the elvish characters racing their way across to the chestnut tree. Sweet. Corny. Inevitable. The trees themselves provide a wonderful amount of shade and a sepulchral, cathedral-like quality to this well-kept round barrow. The house is called ‘Fairy Mount’, and can be found on ‘Fairy Road’. Splendid that the ancient structure is commemorated in the name of the street – even though it is invisible from the road.

The house has just come onto the market – and I can’t afford it! Bah!

The British Camp has to be one of the first ancient monuments I can remember being taken to see as a child. I have very clear memories of playing with my sister on the side of the ramparts on a hot summer’s day, and can still visualise rolling down the grassy slopes. I think I was pretending to be a medieval archer, as my brain wasn’t able to compute anything much before the 13thC BCE timewise. I do remember feeling that it was an utterly awesome place, and very special. I believe I was about 14 yrs old, and hadn’t yet become obsessed with things megalithic.

I recall wondering why the British camped there when they had the whole of the country to camp in, and wondered how long ago they camped in the place, in what sort of tents, and why would they camp on something with so many banks? Seriously. I was an odd child, but that won’t surprise readers of this site.

Nine years later, I returned for a nostalgic visit, and can well remember approaching the British Camp from the opposite end of the Malverns. I was deeply impressed with it’s size and construction. Through the haze of an August afternoon, in hills covered with banks of rosebay willowherb, the ramparts of this phenomenal fort shimmered into view, huge, impressive, daunting, and glorious at the same time. We didn’t quite make the fort itself on that occasion; but that view on an English summer’s day, with Elgar’s music in my mind (he lived in Great Malvern), will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I’m surprised it hasn’t been covered in fieldnotes before, so do take a day out to visit (probably mid-week, to avoid the crowds), as it is wonderful. Jane, it would be a definite subject for a painting!

What an exquisite place, and an exquisite structure. A definite one to visit, a megarak’s must-see.

I said to the arresting Kate that it was a little gem, and then was put in mind of small iced biscuits. Now, I’ll never be able to eat a purple-topped Iced Gem without thinking of this most divine example of dolmen building.

It is perfectly constructed in every way, and enjoys terrific views over the Conwy Valley. (See weblog for further details).

Go on. Treat yourself this summer. You won’t be disappointed.

This a confusing one. There is a ring cairn which I believe to be Circle 278 just beyond a far more interesting jumble of stones*, which appear to have been moved about somewhat. There is clearly confusion over the name of this mix of stone; please refer to my weblog for a more in-depth discussion.

It’s all very lovely, nonetheless!

*Edit by TMA Ed: the “jumble of stones” is now generally thought to be Monument 280“.

A splendid place. Certainly one to sit and contemplate in for a while, enveloped by the sea, sky, and land which entirely surround the observer on all sides. A large ring, with some significant stones; most spooky being the one that has the form of a white-robed druid.

The location of this circle is intriguing; despite stunning views over Conwy Bay to the north, it has been sited behind a steep mound, thus blocking the view of the sea. Or has the mound been built in front of the circle? There is no doubt that the mound, whatever its origins, is an excellent observation post for anything that might be taking place in the sacred space below.

Also interesting is the proximity of Circle 275 and Circle 278, which flank this larger circle a few hundred yards away on either side. Were they used in conjunction with ceremonies inside the Druid’s Circle?

Small, but perfectly formed. Very endearing, and evidently the smallet circle in the British Isles. I can well believe it. Definitely worth a look when exploring the Penmaenmawr area.

This is clearly an important and impressive site – and the views it commands must be stupendous. On this occasion, we saw it from the Red Farm circle; yet the size of the boulders that form it are huge, gazing down magisterially from their lofty summit, a significant sight for miles around.

Footpaths circle the whole of the mountain. To reach the peak, the footpath crossing the southwestern side is probably the best choice, but it will still necessitate a hearty stroll across the mountaintop on unmarked land.

Blink, and you’ll miss ‘em. Four stones are all that remain of this once proud circle, judging by the survivors. They are in a field not far from Bryn Derwydd farmhouse, so I wouldn’t advise brazen trespassing.

They look quite pretty, nonetheless, and by balancing on rocks at the side of the drystone wall bounding the field, it is possible to have a good look at them as they sit in a graceful curving line.

Especially intriguing is their position in relationship to Cefn Maen Amor circle, which can been seen on the summit of Cefn Maen Amor mountain directly behind them on the eastern horizon . . .

Further along, there is a huge standing stone right outside the farmhouse, the Bryn Derwydd Standing Stone. It’s an impressive erection, and like the remains of Red Farm, looks towards Cefn Maen Amor.

What a corker! This is a huge, overwhelming, complex and thoroughly unusual hillfort. Massive ramparts tower upwards, on the eastern side numbering five banks, but on the west increasing to seven. Even more intriguingly, the western side has five massive pits built into the defences, a construction totally unique in hillfort design.

The history is rich (see weblog for full run-down), the views magnificent, the atmosphere lovely and unspoilt. An absolute must-see for any self-respecting hillfort fan, or those requiring a jolly splendid picnic.

This is a short lump of greyish limestone that points up from the ground at a jaunty angle, probably no more that 2.5-3ft high. Stumpy and solid, it is the smoothest, roundest piece of rock for miles around; everything else is stepped and fissured limestone. It does appear that a few pieces have split or broken away over time, and so it might have stood considerably taller originally. It has the characteristic hollow in the ground on one side where the sheep use it as a leaning/scratching post; and as ever, the views it commands are stupendous.

Clambering up on to the flat, plateau–like top of the fort, we were treated to the most amazing view across Oxfordshire, and what was clearly a very important Iron Age kingdom. To the south-west lay Churn Knob, easily picked out from the copses on the horizon by the bloody great cross erected next to the mound. (Blasted St. Birinus; but it does make a handy reference point – OK, I deserve a smack with a riding crop). Beyond Churn Knob lay the Blewbury Downs Tumuli, almost equidistant between Blewburton Hill and Perborough Castle. The same tribe, maybe, or a shared burial ground?

Looking round to the west, the land spread before us magnificently, leading out to the Vale of White Horse; then we were subjected to the unfortunate and grotesque Didcot Power Station, squatting like a homunculus on this realm; and in the north, Oxford. Further round, clearly and unmistakably, the twin copses of Wittenham Clumps and the Sinodun Hills rose up proudly from the flat fields. A kilometer from them stood the lonely tree on Brightwell Barrow. Looking north-east, we could see what I thought was Stokenchurch Tower, poking up from the edge of the Chilterns. Cloudhigh wondered if he could see Ivinghoe Beacon on the horizon.

And somehow, it suddenly all added up for me, this landscape. The different places flowed together across the land in one continuous line; a line the ancients knew; a line that continues throughout time, just as powerfully on a Sunday afternoon in the second millennium CE as in the first millennium BCE. Blimey, that’s 3,000 years!!!

Sitting at the roof of Oxfordshire, just looking at the land below, the curvature of the earth, and the pattern of the fields became very centering. Time slowed instantly. The warm wind rustled gently through the long grasses. Its whispering was a panacea to my twisted, mangled, exhausted emotions [after the sudden death of my sister’s boyfriend]. Goddess knew how my sister felt; I wished I could pass on some of this spiritual salve.

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...