treaclechops

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.

Cloudhigh and I fixed the wussy Jane’s flat tyre (honestly, you’d think an opinionated, stroppy, independent bird like her would know how to fix a flat tyre), picked up as we left the Whispering Knights. As I applied great force to the rigid wheel nuts, Jane was heard to say to the radiant Lissy “She’s better to have around than a bloke”, which I felt was a bit unfair to Cloudhigh, but nonetheless made me grin naughtily as I wielded the wrench with panache. But I digress.

After a fine Sunday lunch in the Chequers, we all bowled up at the Hoar Stone. It was Cloudhigh’s and Lissy’s first visit, and it certainly seemed to have an impact on them both, which was great. I for one couldn’t stop taking photos of Lissy exploring the broken chamber – there was something compelling about her vibe and the site’s vibe melding. Very cool.

After some time there, the delightful Jane left for the pictures, and Cloudhigh, Lissy and I all set off for the Hawk Stone.

The exquisite Cheryl and I came here today with some serious photography in mind. The light was priceless, and even better, we had the place to ourselves pretty much all the time. As we did the shoot, something was making a strange whirring call in the field at the back of the monument. Sounded like a grouse, but I’m sure there are no grouse up there. Partridge, perhaps?

Anyway, the shoot went brilliantly, and we felt entirely as one with the place. And we saw three hares chasing each other wildly round the adjoining field, which was just brilliant. No boxing, though. . . .

Thank you Goddess.

This is a great spot, and I’ve had some memorable times here. Watching the Leonids meteor shower on a freezing cold night in November at 01:00 in the morning; lying on the ramparts star gazing at midnight on a warm summer night; and stepping across the ditch in thick milky fog that truly felt like the veil between the worlds, where anything was cosmically possible.

Today, a chap in a tractor dragged the grass up in the inner circle, filling the air with fabulous smells. The exquisite Cheryl and I walked the green and sunny northern edge, pondering on life in general, as all of Oxfordshire lay before us and the skylarks chased each other over the downland. Bloody lovely.

Released from the daily grind, due to a week’s leave in which I can potter and please myself, it was a real treat to visit the White Horse on a Tuesday lunchtime with very few people about. There was an added frission due to the spectacular weather, and there’s nothing I like more than being out in spectacular weather on a week day.

Even better was the fact that I was in the company of the exquisite Cheryl, an earth magicy babe of the first order. We walked up to the White Horse, watching several skylarks whizzing about and squeaking at each other, and then just stayed there for ages drinking in the atmosphere and view (which was unfortunately pretty hazy). The delightful Jane calls this place the ‘roof of Oxfordshire’ and she’s so right. It’s an amazing landscape, one that calls for some real meditation and absorption. And a very healing place, should you require it.

It was wonderful to feel the warm breeze blowing across one’s skin, listen to the black-faced sheep bleating continually, and just zone out. With shirt sleeves rolled right up, and Cheryl basking in the sun, could it really be March, I wondered?

Well! This was a most memorable visit, and one I shall recall fondly. The Whispering Knights looked lovely in the open field – get rid of those sodding railings, and they would look stunning – and we started discussing the size and position of their erstwhile barrow. It would have been so impressive. I think the charming Cloudhigh was very taken with it indeed.

As we soaked up the views, and tried to rebuild the structure in our minds, conversation turned to the radiant Lissy’s professional talents as a voice over artist.

“Ever done the Shipping Forecast?” asked the delightful Jane.
“Oh, you mean ‘South Utsire, North Utsire’,” replied Lissy unwittingly, in her husky tones. It was too much for me.
“Oh *please*,” I implored her eagerly (several times, I might add), “Say ‘This is the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office at 14:00 on Sunday March 23’ . . . “

Lissy merely roared with laughter at my warped excitability; but eventually, sat in glorious sunshine beneath a beautiful portal dolmen at the furthest point from the sea anywhere in the country, the skylarks were briefly in competition with a mellifluous and husky voice –

“ . . . ‘Forties, Dogger, German Bight, rising slowly . . . “

The King Stone had its usual effect on me – i.e., not very positive – and it was interesting when the radiant Lissy said she felt similarly about it. The delightful Jane pointed out that what we were seeing was not it’s original shape, but I wondered if that would actually make any difference to the vibe. Perhaps, if it had been really important, but over the years had been seriously desecrated; maybe the energy has been twisted. Sorry, being fanciful again.

And I wondered how Jane knew it wasn’t its original shape; I realize she’s got an important birthday coming up, but she can’t be *that* old . . .

We were blessed with a stunning spring day for this visit to the Rollrights. The mood was admirably set whilst driving through the fabulous north Oxfordshire countryside in Cloudhigh’s sexy motor, listening to the 2nd Mvt of Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.5. Mmmm . . .

Meeting up with the delightful Jane, we didn’t have to wait long at the circle before we were joined by Lissy, who looked as radiant as the day itself. The Rollrights were pretty sexy too, and I was relishing the opportunity of some serious photography, so as the others sat and chatted whilst Jane painted, I crawled about in the horse-hair matting taking loads of intriguingly angled pics of the oolitic limestone. The strong lunchtime sunshine picked out the cavities and fissures on the rocks brilliantly, and their magic gently pulsed under the blue sky and skylarks’ cadenzas. Excavation work to repair the edge of the circle revealed several hidden/fallen/buried stones, so the legend is true – it’s impossible to count them all in one go!

After an hour spent enjoying the vibe, chatting, and people watching, we wrenched ourselves away to show the charming Cloudhigh the King Stone and the Whispering Knights.

After the excitement of last summer’s massive thunderstorm, it was very pleasant to re-visit this site under pure blue skies and golden sunshine, despite a chilly breeze.

Had not had the opportunity previously to examine the longbarrow itself, but was able to this time. What a parlous state it is in, to be sure. Despite the fact there were stones left at its far end, I felt unable to take any photos. It would be like photographing a crime scene or an RTA.

The big outlier stone was just as impressive, however, and the early afterenoon sun picked out the textures superbly. Another place with fab views . . .

Again, though sinking into the mists of time, and being swallowed up by modern detritus, one can just about get an impression of how impressive this site must have been. Up on a high ridge, once more with beautiful views all around. Hope the badgers like it there.

Not much to see here, but a mound sinking back into the earth. I think the fact the the forest track kinks round the end of it says more about the site than anything else.

Still clinging on 6,000 years down the line, though.

I liked this hugely. The sense of time here is something else. Although it the barrow itself is very ruinous, the fact that there were some stones left made me very happy.

What was especially impressive was its location deep in the heart of what’s left of the vast and ancient Wychwood Forest, previously a royal hunting ground of great importance. Today, there remains a flavour of what this woodland must have been like 1500 years ago, and as the delightful Jane said, it was very easy to understand how the Eastern European fairy tales came about when people lived in such environments.

But as we sat next to the dilapidated barrow, listening to the blue tits and great tits calling to each other, I found myself pondering on the terrain. Had this barrow in fact been built 6,000 years ago in a treeless landscape? Apparently, there were many other barrows (or remains thereof) scattered through the forest. Was this part of NW Oxfordshire as important a place as the Avebury area? What *did* it lok like in the Bronze Age? How many barrows have we lost? Did it actually look like modern Wiltshire up here?And the peace and quiet was sublime. This is a very special place. *Please* ask for permission should you wish to visit. It would be wrong to spoil the trust of such a landscape – if you know what I mean.

Jane is a wuss. I reckoned all we needed to do was ask nicely if we could have access to the barrow, but she was very shy of doing so; however, as there was no-one about, it was academic, really. Anyway, all they could say would be “Yes”, or “No.”

Still think it would be worth a look if at all possible, just to get an idea of the scale,especially having seen Leafield barrow just up the road.

Amazing what you find if you look. Tucked away behind Leafield village, looking magnificent in the glorious spring sunshine, stands a huge barrow.

This must have been a truly impressive tomb in it’s hey-day, and I presume would have been along the lines of a Severn-Cotswold design. I was disappointed that any entrance way had long since disappeared, but the views this site commanded were staggering. On the highest point in the area, one could see for miles in every direction.

Shame about the trig. point and the reservoir/substation, whatever, but the trees atop it were very pleasant.

This is a tremendous place. This time, visiting with the delightful Jane, we were able to enjoy wonderful early spring sunshine. It was great to squeeze down the narrow passage again, despite the fact I’d left the torch in the car, so couldn’t see all the details. A few quick blasts with the flashgun helped give an impression of what was inside.

I would have liked to have read the Vagina Monologues out loud, deep inside the barrow, and really had some fun with the acoustics, but unfortunately, the advent of eight noisy kids put paid to that idea. But what a cool place to recite such a celebration of women. I want to go back and do some more. . . .

Went here with the delightful Jane a couple of weekends ago. Interesting seeing it at the back end of winter, as oppose to the height of summer. Although the sky was the same fabulous blue as before, I think it needs trees in full leaf to bring out the redness of the stones. The sheep seemed happy enough, and watching the sweet little lambs gambolling around made me feel slightly guilty for serving up Honeyed Welsh Lamb in celebration of St. David’s day the night before.

Ooo, whoops, is a christian saint allowed to be mentioned in relation to these sites? ;0)

This is a very cool place. It’s almost too idyllic, and wonderfully evocative. If you believe in faeries and other spirits, this is where they live. And it’s a pretty marvellous place to spend eternity, so I recommend a visit.

This is something else. Magnetic, compulsive, binding. Lie back within its grassy bank on summer’s afternoon, and discover a portal to the cosmos. And I found it extremely difficult to leave the womb-like interior once inside; the sense of safety was profound.

Four days into the New Year, and the miserable weather finally broke, providing a classically sunny winter’s day. “Lambourn Sevenbarrows,” exclaimed the delightful Jane, at the other end of the phone. “Be with you in half an hour.” Cue frantic scramble for a roll of B/W film, only managing to produce a very old roll of PanF. ‘Bit chancy,’ I thought. ‘Give it a shot, though.‘

What a corking site it turned out to be; very powerful, yet utterly charming at the same time. I had expected it to be sited on the top of a high ridge, but instead it’s nestling in a small dell, the downs and ridges rising up all about. I spent most of my time amongst the main group of barrows, while Jane wandered up the hillside for a more all encompassing view.

Having been to see ‘The Two Towers’ the previous day, Tolkien’s characters were still filling my mind, and, albeit rather fancifully, I could easily visualise the Rohirrim assembled amongst the barrows in the cold winter light, come to honour their dead warriors.

In fact it felt very much like a neolithic ‘Valley of the Kings’, despite being a very well-used site indeed, not just for single inhumations. There is something very centering and special about this place, and seeing it for the first time in midwinter was very evocative; something to be recommended. I note that JC says it’s a fine place for a picnic, when the wildflowers are blooming in abundance. Can’t wait for May, then . . .

By the way, ‘The Two Towers’ is a jolly good movie, so go and see it; and if my photos don’t turn out, at least I’ve had the benefit of a merging of experiences. Did Tolkien ever vist Lambourn Sevenbarrows?

Stopped here for a short while whilst on the tour of NW Oxfordshire with the lovely Karen and bewitching Fiona.

Never been that enamoured with this stone; it fills me with an uncertain vibe. It has a very sinuous shape, and interestingly, Fiona announced that she felt it to be very ghoulish, like a wraith twisting up from the earth. She could perceive a distorted skull within the rock, it’s face contorted in agony. Chilling.

Karen got a couple of smashing pictures, however, and they show it in a much more friendly light. Perhaps the flowers softened the vaguely sinister air that trembles around this intriguing monolith.Then again, it had been a New Moon the day before, and we might have all been having a weird reaction to that and the thundery, monsoon-like weather . . . .

On the way to Lyneham Longbarrow, Karen, Fiona and I stopped off at the Rollright Stones, but unfortunately were unable to get in, as there were rehearsals taking place for the ‘Lords and Ladies’ play. No matter, we decided to head off to the Whispering Knights.

I’m particularly fond of this site; don’t know why, just love it. The last time I visited was back in June, along with Jane, Andy, Karen, James, Louis and my enchanting sister, Deborah, on a fun day out. Then, the English summer was doing its usual crappy thing, and we hadn’t been there long before the first rain drops fell, necessitating a decampment to The George at Lower Brailes.

This time, however, we were treated to a little break in the clouds and a glimpse of blue sky, which meant we could really spend some time in the rolling wheat field that is home to the Knights. They stand at the edge of the field, lonely sentinels gazing towards Chipping Norton across an undulating north Oxfordshire valley. The stones looked lovely with lush growths of broad-leaved coltsfoot springing up from their bases, and next to them, occasional clumps of creeping thistle nodding in the breeze. Pock-marked by erosion, it was possible to see many mournful faces in the stones, and I loved the contrast of yellow wheat, green hawthorns, and blue sky.
Naturally, I was shooting in B/W!

How I *wish* though, that a ring of spiky metal railings didn’t have to encircle these magnificent megaliths. The bewitching Fiona was of the same mind, as it was clear she was yearning to feel the heart of the stones and commune with them. The lovely Karen was equally unimpressed, and we spent much time trying to photograph the stones’ essence without including their black corral. Karen got a corking view, including blue sky and white clouds, which was a bit good, all things considered. Not sure whether I captured them as I wanted to, despite sitting on a remarkably thorny thistle and kneeling in peculiar dampness in my efforts to do so . . . .

The skies had become a cauldron of meteorological phenomena by the time we drove along the ridge that led to Lyneham, and as we looked south, we could see a massively proportioned, purple and black thundercloud advancing up county towards us. It resembled something you would expect to find sweeping across African plains, as all round, the clouds towered into grey skies, their huge structures boiling and twisting into more thunderclouds as we watched. A strange light in the north filtered through more gigantic cumulonimbus, and clearly, a torrential downpour was imminent. Lightening flashed as we pulled off the road, and it was decided a very swift visit to this broken barrow would be the order of the day. The lovely Karen wisely elected to stay in the car.

As the bewitching Fiona and I strode through the field (keeping close to the hedgerow), towards the solitary stone that is Lyneham, another bolt of lightening lit up the sky, and a peal of thunder rumbled belligerently.

“How cool is this?!” I exclaimed gleefully, “Visiting a megalithic site in a thunderstorm, in the company of a megalithic goddess! Splendid!”
“Hmm,” replied Fiona nervously, more aware of the fact we were atop a ridge in open ground with only a hedge at the same height as ourselves. To the south, the countryside was obliterated by vertical sheets of water.

We reached the stone just before the first drops of rain, and spent a mad few minutes of camera work and stone appreciation; feeling the stone’s vibe seemed to calm Fiona’s sense of anxiety, and I felt the prevailing weather conditions really heightened this obscure site’s vibe. By now, the wind was whipping up, and the gigantic deluge was almost upon us, so we hurried back to the car, minutes before the storm broke.

We had planned to visit the Hawk Stone, and gamely made our way there through the tempest, but on arriving, it was clear we weren’t going to be able to reach her. After waiting 15 minutes, the downpour showed no signs of abating, so we returned to Karen’s for tea and biscuits, me cackling maniacally every time we drove through huge puddles in the roads. What a very impressive end to the day!

It proved to be a challenging excursion to the megalithic sites of Oxfordshire (challenging because we couldn’t reach half of them, and the weather became increasingly pants); this time with the lovely Karen, and the bewitching Fiona, (who, it must be noted for the record, is something of a megalithic goddess). “Oh, take me away from Coventry for the day,” Fiona had implored, so we duly obliged.

Arriving at the Hoar Stone first, both Karen and Fiona were instantly enchanted by the huge, green stones as they stood hidden within their grove of holly trees. Thousands of sparkling water droplets dripped from the boughs after the rainstorm earlier in the morning. The brooding silence was amplified by the wet day, and the vibe was great.

We were able to linger, and spent much time communing with the stones, savouring the sense of calm stillness they generate within the soul. This is such a wonderful, secret place, it’s well worth a visit. Eventually, compelled by hunger and the thought of a pint, we reluctantly tore ourselves away to visit Lyneham Longbarrow, via Chipping Norton.

When we reached Yelcombe Bottom, the valley below the Giant, it was already early evening, and a warm golden glow was spreading across the land before us.

The gradient and angle of the carving means that it can only be seen properly from the air – not dissimilar to the Uffington White Horse. The car park opposite the Giant is a tranquil, peaceful spot, apart from the occasional car passing by. A thoroughly good vibe permeated the whole sunny valley, as evening songs of blackbirds, robins, chaffinches and wrens filled the air. It’s very easy to feel that the Giant owns Yelcombe Bottom, and there is a definite feel of mystery about the place. Worth a look.

After visting the Hoar Stone, the delightful Jane and I walked through a stubbly field deep in the heart of north-west Oxfordshire’s skylark country. It was a perfectly still evening, and I dawdled along the footpath to the top field, watching the skylarks performing. (Vaughan Williams captured this so brilliantly in The Lark Ascending; which is some achievement, considering the nature of bird song).

Jane, on the other hand, shot ahead, and had already reached the Hawk Stone by the time I saw this unique stone appear on the horizon. This is a very mysterious monument, hidden and solitary, but gazing over a fabulous vista from her hillside perch. (Excuse the pun). There really is a sense of time and eternity here, and as I was going through a particularly stressful time, I found this stone a salve for the soul.

The stone glowed all sorts of yellows and purples in the evening sun, and Jane was given to moments of delighted squealing every time a particularly bold colour was revealed: “Look! Look! That’s *pure* Naples Yellow – wow!!”

I’m not so good with understanding colour, being a B/W photographer, but when I screwed my eyes up I could see something that resembled one of the messy colour blocks in her field box. I, very stupidly, had not brought a camera with me, but instead had decided to try out my sketching skills. Would have been better off with a camera, quite frankly.

We sat for a couple of hours in the field, listening to the birds, observing a hare (Jane and I always see hares when we’re out in the landscape), and watching the sun sink. As we left, I noticed that the south face of the stone bears an uncanny resemblance to Picasso’s ‘Weeping Woman’ . . . how weird is that?“

Do you know, this is my favourite way to spend an evening,” Jane said, as we walked back down the field, trying to work out the age of the hedgerow. “You can forget all your nightclubs, boozing, et al; leave me in a field with some stones, my paints and a flask of tea anytime – it’s *brilliant*!”I agreed it was, and to make it even more brilliant, we went and had a bag of chips in nearby Woodstock . . .

On an evening excursion out to the Hawk Stone, Jane and I stopped briefly at the Hoar Stone, a very lovely spot virtually hidden in a small copse on the A44 (the delightful Jane gives directions below). This is a broken up barrow, but still very impressive.

It was early summer when we popped by, and the massive, fabulously mossy stones brooded quietly under dense foliage – notably a large amount of holly trees, which was nice. Dog’s Mercury carpeted the woodland floor all around the stones, and despite being on a busy road, the place was very centering and peaceful.

I notice Jane reckons it’s impossible to photograph; well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we . . . and taking some atmospheric photos of this site is high on my agenda. Looking forward to the return visit.

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.