Firstly - my daughter Cloe bought it for me when she visited
I won’t ramble on about what
When I visited Stonehenge the world did not yet view every blade of grass as dangerous, nor did it worry that hard stone, having braved the elements for thousands of years, would be damaged by the abrasive hands of small children reaching out to wear it away with their puddingy soft fingers.
I ran through the stones, touching them. I even stood on some of the smaller ones and had my picture taken as I did so. I remember standing there on the Slaughter Stone, all huge smile and pudding basin haircut, as my grey overcoat and the yellow Hessian knapsack (made by each of us in the colour of our house, yellow for Windrush, blue for Thame, green for Isis, red for Cherwell) flapped around in the wind.
It was such a cold and windy place, this Salisbury Plain on that day of the trip, particularly for April. A few flakes of snow fell as we climbed down from the coach. It was like all the gods and demi-gods worshipped by those very ancient druids were assembling, all at once, and ready for a sacrificial ceremony. Even after over forty years I remember the names and colours of those junior school houses, each named after an Oxfordshire river; even after forty years I still remember looking at the Slaughter Stone and being convinced that I could see the long dried stain of sacrificial blood. Reaching out I touched it - and was sure I heard a distant scream.
I spent hours after that trip building a small, not very accurate, imagined model version of
Each time I look at this globe I remember my trip to