Tag Archives: stone circle

Stanton Drew…

HM15 146

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Names matter.

For practical purposes they are like elephants and flowing water.

They follow the shortest, flatest path to wherever they are going, and en route the jagged edges first get smoothed and then get worn away.

In this particular case we are on the path to understanding…

‘Standing Stones of the Druids’

‘STANding sTONes of the DRUids’

STAN-TON-DRU

Stanton Drew…

There are a number of ‘Stantons’ in England with an attendant ancient site, and for a long time these places were associated with Druids although we now know that they were around a lot earlier than the period normally associated with those infamous ‘Old-Time-Sages’.

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HM15 150

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This ‘fella’, could easily be a druid, although he could just as easily be a she, in which case one would be tempted to call her a witch.

It is the first stone that greets you at the site.

If you look closely at the first photograph you can see some of the other stones lurking in the background.

On our first visit to this site we were struck by how utterly ‘other’ the stones appeared in relation to their environment.

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…Everlasting to Everlasting…

The Silent Eye

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Euhemerism: an ideology that humanises the gods…?

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Euhemerus of Messene was a widely travelled man. He wrote a travel book in which he described his visit to an island called Panchaia in the Indian Ocean. In the island’s Temple of Zeus, he said, there was a golden pillar on which Zeus himself had written his autobiography as the king of Panchaia. Zeus had also written the biography of his father, Cronos, on the pillar, and Hermes had then added the biographies of Artemis and Apollo. Unfortunately, Euhemerus’s book does not survive, and no one else has ever found the island Panchaia, so later writers accused Euhemerus of inventing the whole thing.

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The most sympathetic account of Euhemerus’s work is contained in Diodorus Siculus’s, ‘World History’, where Diodorus explains that even supposing one accepts Euhemerus’s story it does not necessarily follow that the gods he described were…

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Yet another disappearing stone…

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“It’s got a ‘wen’ in it!”

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And if we had not already twigged

that really should have clinched it!

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“How are they pronouncing it anyway?”

“‘Bosk-a-Noon’ – ‘The House of the Elder-Tree.'”

“They’re ignoring the ‘wen-bit’ then.”

“Or, we could just call it hidden.”

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“How do they do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make a stone that size disappear.”

“Well, at least it’s not yet started walking…”

“Or dancing…”

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By the time we left, though,

all the stones in the circle had begun,

what we call, ‘morphing’…

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And somewhere a horn was sounding.

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“If I didn’t know better,

I’d say the Wild Hunt was abroad.”

 

Morrow…

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…Well, if they did,

they also intended us to work for it.

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Part of our problem proved to be scale.

What we call a lay-by is large and well marked.

What they call a lay-by is more of a ‘passing-point’…

And on a fast road, is easy to miss,

or pass-by, which we did,

at least three times whilst actively looking for it.

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Another part of the problem

is sign-posts disguised as fences.

Cunning that.

Anyone would think that they do not really want visitors to find

Boscawen-Un…

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But as we were about to discover,

some experiences are well worth working for.

 

 

Stones of the Night…

 

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You are a passenger…

You stay under glass…

You are driven through the city’s ripped back-sides.

You leave the city’s ripped back-sides on a road which snakes through low, rough, foothills.

Far on the horizon a solitary fin-shaped peak rises into view.

The motor vehicle which carries you pulls into a lay-by, its rubber tires scrunching on the smattering of snow and grit.

You leave the vehicle, stepping out into the cold, frosty morning.

The air is initially painful in your lungs: you expel clouds of warm steam from them like a subdued dragon.

You are no longer under glass…

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You make your way to the end of the lay-by.

Your sturdy walking boots call scrunching sounds from the tarmac with each step.

A frosted grassy-knoll rises before you.

The freezing temperatures have rendered footholds in what otherwise would be only scramble mud.

You climb its offered face without need of the silvery tussocks of grass on either side and as you crest its rise the first panorama opens before your gaze.

The cold wind now pinches your cheeks, a reminder that you are approaching the High Moors.

To your left a huge escarpment meets its end with a stone face seemingly etched into its profile.

Its stern stare appraises your longed for destination, below its millennia old lookout, which is yet hidden from your sight by a small wood of fern trees.

You stride forward following the line of the escarpment until it is swallowed by the trees and you start to lose height…

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