STONEHENGE

N O V E M B E R 5 , 2 0 2 1

There is a little-known fact about Stonehenge, that if you have an amazingly clever brother-in-law, he can sort out a semi-private tour of Stonehenge for you on your birthday. And I don’t mean just walking around the perimeter, devoid of the usual selfie-stick-touting tourist throng, but a private tour where you can actually go right up to and inside the sacred stones. Pause for dramatic effect. I’m not sure who he had to threaten or how he made it happen, and I don’t want to know – which means you’ll have to do your own research for the specifics on this one.

Stonehenge, located in Salisbury, is not accessible by train or public transport, but depending on where you are, there are several shuttle and tour bus options (try starting here). So Chef, Brother-In-Law, my Big Sis and I left Bath by car on the evening of my birthday in late June. As Chef’s beamer wound south through the fields and farms of Wiltshire, ominous clouds formed on the horizon. Unconcerned and shrewdly armed with smart little umbrellas, we arrived just as Stonehenge was closing to the general public (private tours are after-hours). Gathering in the shelter of the visitor center, eyes on the sky, we joined up with the 8 or so other people waiting to be shuttled out to the stones. A light rain begins to fall as we file onto the little bus for the short ride down the road. As the light rain steadily becomes a deluge, the guide informs us, “no umbrellas allowed” - her statement punctuated by a forked bolt of lightning. But nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to stop me from getting inside that stone circle.

Armored in a not-even-slightly-waterproof denim jacket and totting an even less waterproof camera, we disembarked at Stonehenge.

This was my third trip to Stonehenge, and every other time I’ve been there it has been absolutely packed with people. On my first visit, I remember sitting on a bench, trying not to be distracted by the tourists jumping repeatedly into the air to get that photo, doing my utmost to wish them away and take it all in. On my second trip, an American tourist was so awful to me that I actually cried at Stonehenge (it’s literally people like that guy who give American tourists a bad name, but I won’t go there). All this is to say that; all I’ve ever wanted is to be alone with the stones. To walk under and between them, stopping to press my face and hands reverently against the sun-warmed colossus of a sarsen stone and feel it hum with ancient vibrations. I desired the stillness and emptiness to imagine the sacred, and even mundane, rituals that that took place here over the millennia. I wanted to sit quietly in the middle of the circle and truly contemplate and absorb the sacred magnitude of where I was.

So not to be cliché, but not even the rain was going to dampen my mood. The guide, who Big Sis told me was very good, walked around talking about the history of the stones. I, on the other hand, almost immediately wandered off on my own. I was never going to get the place to myself, but I was often able to find areas where I could essentially be alone. Concerned about how the rain would affect my camera, I quickly put it away, cognoscente that I didn’t want to spend the entire time taking photos anyway (but obviously, I got plenty). In the partial shelter of some sarsen stones, I closed my eyes to meditate, to feel. I am not sure this is something I can accurately describe. I am not a religious person by any means, but this was a beautiful, and maybe even spiritual experience. I walked around, rain weighing down my clothes and dripping down my neck, slowly weaving in and out of those ancient sentinels, attempting to appreciate their magnitude and significance. It’s in places like this that I tend to get very quiet, very thoughtful. I did my best to be still and tap into the energy of that place, and in a small way, I connected.

A sunny day where I could have sat on the warm earth and just existed within the stones would have been perfect. But in the end, the cold rain and slate grey sky felt more primal, more genuine. You’re not supposed to touch the stones, but when no one could see me, I plucked a piece of moss off one of the sarsen stones, and picked a small clover growing at its base - to dry, and frame, and keep on my dresser. A simple reminder of a profound experience. Soaked through and freezing, I was the last person to leave the stones when it was time to head back to the bus. I’ve never been so cold or wet in my life, but turning back for one last look at the Stonehenge, I don’t think I could have been happier.