In the 80s I went to one of the last big solstice festivals at Stonehenge. My friend Dave and I took peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a few cheap bottles of wine and a tiny tent. Unfortunately we conked out (call it stoner-henge) and missed the famous sunrise. So I made a pilgrimage back to see the newly cleaned up site (reopened December 2013). No-one knows for sure what Stonehenge is – giant celestial clock, Neolithic burial site, healing circle or sacrificial plateau. It is over 4,500 years old (many of the hefty stones were lugged 100 miles from Wales) and it is not especially unusual. There are dozens of stone and wood hedges in Briton, some of which are interconnected via land avenues only visible from the air. I walked a mile and a half over fields past giant burial mounds to the site and found its dark brooding energy depressing. After Watts chapel’s sweet contemplative celebration of life and the afterlife, Stonehenge felt like a macho power trip. But don’t take my word for it.

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