From standing stones, to ghosts, crop circles and UFO sightings, Sarah Jackson investigates the mysticism surrounding the ancient Wiltshire village of Avebury.
“Don’t y’all know that crop circles are a load of garbage?”
Amidst the audible gasps at this barefaced heresy, I spy a rather porcine American man leaning against the bar with, appropriately enough, a pint of stout.
“My wife said we had to come and check out these here ‘amazing wonders of the world’,” he continues to the astonishment of the barmaid and the assorted locals. “But I sure as hell don’t see anything wonderful about a bunch of kids horsing around and fooling y’all into believing in E.T!”
His wife, her doughy cheeks stained a deepening purple, is sitting at a table nearby and evidently trying to avoid detection. Unfortunately her vociferous spouse indicates her with a fleshy digit and she unwillingly curves her hand up into what looks like a mortified semi-wave. I feel the blood rise to my face for although I don’t approve of his candour, I am inclined to agree with him.
I am in The Barge, in the Wiltshire village of Pewsey, having lunch before I head off to the neighbouring village of Avebury. The Barge is renowned in these parts as being a veritable haven for hippies and “believers”. The walls are festooned with photos of alleged UFO sightings, crop circles, regional collections of megaliths and native musings on the unexplainable. Most frequenters of the pub who I've spoken to profess themselves to be firm advocates of the fantastical but I’m not sure how much of this is genuine faith, and how much is solely because they think I'm a tourist.
After a fortifying country-style ploughmans, I’m soon on the road and after cresting a low rise, the village of Avebury materialises; a mélange of the rural and the mystical. Rearing up from banks of lush verdure, great avenues of towering stones stand stiff and proud like ancient seers in the early afternoon sun. These stalwart giants converge on a ring of rugged menhirs nestled within a great earth mound. Older even than the man-made hill a mile or so distant, this circle has the whimsical suggestion of an ancient court; the giants without guarding the leviathans within.
On arrival I’m met by Gary, a cheery dreadlocked chap of about forty with skin like rawhide and an infectious grin. He proclaims with relish that he is to be my guide to “the secrets of the ages” which I find both reassuring and terrifying in equal measure.
“’Course it’s the individual stones that have the most interesting stories,” chuckles my companion, removing the guidebook from my hand. “You won’t need this love: I know all there is to know.”
He goes on to point out the Barber’s Stone, which unlike the others is lying prone. He tells me that in the 14 century a man was crushed underneath the rock when it accidentally toppled over. His skeleton was never recovered and is presumably still underneath the colossal slab. All that was found next to the stone was a pair of scissors, a lancet and three silver coins and so the eponym was born.
“He had nothing on Jesus,” Gary chuckles, moving on to his next informative titbit.
The Devil’s Chair, the stone which has fascinated me since I was a girl, is the second biggest in the circle, beaten only by the Swindon Stone, which purportedly weighs over 60 tons. The Devil’s Chair is so called because the structure forms a natural seat and my guide tells me that young maidens would sit there on Beltane eve and wish for their heart’s desire.
As we continue to walk round the circle I am astonished by the size of it. It is simply vast, measuring 1401 ft in diameter and covering a staggering 28 acres. The mysticism surrounding Avebury and the surrounding area is built on the belief that these stones had some sort of magic or spiritual import. The Diamond Stone for example is rumoured to cross the road when the clock strikes midnight. My guide finds this idea particularly humorous since the stone weighs around 40 tons.
“What sort of chicken crosses the road with that on its back?” he snorts, tossing back his head with a raucous guffaw.
As the sun hits the middle of the sky, my redoubtable companion takes me to the Alexander Keiller Museum. As we step into the darkened 17th century stable, the visual impact is remarkable after the glare of the midday sun. My nose tickles with the smell of musty fabric and my feet feel uneasy on the oaken floorboards that creak and groan with every step. All is going well until Gary overhears a teenager complain to his mother that “it’s not as good as Stone Henge.”
“Stone Henge?” he growls under his breath. “Stone Henge? This place is over 2000 years older than that dump!”
(I can’t help but imagine him sticking out his tongue.)
The museum is stuffed with ancient artefacts, including parts of the henge monument. These I study with an eager (albeit confused) expression, not being entirely sure what each piece signifies. Gary spends a while gazing at it with me. Just as I think he’s about to elucidate on the subject, he sighs and says wistfully.
“It’s beautiful isn’t it? Speaks for itself.”
I mumble something incomprehensible, which hopefully expresses agreement.
Like all true English-born, we head to the Red Lion pub for a final drink, which thankfully has plenty of benches outside and allows us a well earned bask in the sunshine. Gary knocks back a pint of bitter and informs me that this pub is 400 years old and is apparently on the top ten list of most haunted pubs in the country. As the sun disappears behind a dirty looking cloud, the cheery pub abruptly takes on a touch of the sinister.
“Ol’ Florrie haunts this place,” he says. “She was the landlady here many years ago. Her husband did away with her you know. Very sad business. But…,” he says brightening, “very good for business.”
Back at The Barge in the evening, my Wiltshire friends are anxious to hear about my day over a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
“It was magnificent,” I say earnestly, searching for something else to add.
“Ah ha,” one friend smiles. “We’ve got ourselves a convert!”
I’m about to answer when I notice our erstwhile friend Mr Stout advancing on the bar.
“What do you mean convert?” he grins impishly, clapping me on the back. “She’s British! It’s in her blood! You’re all a bunch of loonies!”
Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Saturday, 19 June 2010
Mama Put My Guns In The Ground
“There was a flash and then bullets punched through the windscreen. Suddenly we were both covered in blood.”
Charlie is tall and elegant. He has a pleasant home counties accent and his hands are long and graceful. He is more remeniscent of a concert pianist than a drug runner. You wouldn’t know that he had been witness to a gruesome murder. More astonishing yet, that it was one of his friends who had been gunned down beside him.
“Through school I'd always smoked,” he says. “Mainly hash but increasingly skunk. Pills became a regular feature of my social scene. Acid, mushies and coke were around though not as regularly.”
“This drug lust,” he chuckles, “meant that I was usually the one who offered to get drugs for other people.”
When asked why he looks embarrassed and, whilst modestly averting his gaze, scratches the side of his head with a neat digit.
“More and more I found myself donkeying larger and larger amounts,” he continues. “As this happened I got to know people that I otherwise wouldn't have got to know.”
He grimaces.
“There’s a fake social side of buying drugs. People think there's glamour or hard-man status attached: the MA-1 flight jacket guys or the the nut-ya skinheads. There are others who just like being mashed all the time.”
At this point Charlie stops, takes a huge drag from his diminshing fag and goes to stub it out. When returned he theatically throws out his jacket, as if it had been born with coat tails.
“Things grew from there really. As time went by I spent more time with these guys and specifically Jack, a man who was at the centre of things. I started moving things from here to there for Jack or going with him to pick things up from some other guys. My job was to stand there trying to look mean or friendly or whatever the situation seemed to demand.”
He tips his head forward self consciously.
“One day I agreed to go with Jack on some deal. Didn't know how or why, but the idea was that I sat in the car and looked dangerous while he got out and made the transaction. I can laugh at that idea now,” he says. “I mean I was only 20 at the time and had a babyish face. You'd be more likely to be scared of the Andrex puppy.”
He explains that he was supposed to act like top-cover (in other words, if anything serious were to happen, he would step in.)
“We pulled into the multi-story car park,” he said. “We saw a couple of cars a hundred yards or so away and pulled up about 20 or so yards from them. A couple of guys got out from each car and the next thing I knew there was a crashing sound swiftly followed by bangs and the world going completely to shit.”
Charlie wrings his hands.
“One of the blokes had pulled out a handgun and just opened up at the car. I have no idea how long, how many shots, anything, but I know that when it stopped, probably about 4 seconds later, the windscreen had a load of holes in it. The the car and my right side was covered in blood and Jack was dead.”
“My ears were ringing and my heart was making a hellish attempt to get out of my chest. Jack's shirt was soaked in blood. I wrestled with the door handle, desperate to get out of the car. The two cars must have screeched off but I don't remember them going. Everything was shaking. As I escaped the car my legs buckled and I landed hard on the tarmac. I could hardly see. There was blood all over me and I was sick over and over.”
Charlie’s voice is coming out in short bursts and each word seems painfully ripped from his chest, yet his top lip curls upwards in the ghost of a smile.
“After the initial shock wore off I was terrified that I’d been hit and franticly patted my body all over. It was only afterwards that I realised that it would have been obvious if I’d been hit by a bullet.”
He smiles bitterly.
“That was pretty much the state I was in when the police arrived; doubled up on the ground, puking and weeping, every inch the man of action.”
He takes a deep breath and goes on:
“I had more guns pointed at me as they swung out of their cars. Their words were muddy and thick in my ears. I was handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police van with cops all around me. I'm sure they weren't that happy about it considering the state I was in.”
“I was taken to the police station and for the next few hours things happened but I have no idea in what order or for how long. I know I was checked over by some kind of medic or doctor and told to change out of my filthy clothes in exchange for an jumble of ill-fitting leftovers. I was hustled from place to place, made to fill in forms and constantly shouted at. They took my things from me and put me in a cell on my own.”
"They questioned me over and over; enough for them to realise I really was a stupid middle-class kid who was in over his head. All I knew when they finally let me go and I stepped out into the greyness of an autumn day was that the whole world was messed up. Irreparably so. I walked like a victim, eyes down, shoulders hunched, just wanting to get away from people because they were looking at me. The world was all around me and I didn't want to be in it. The stench coming up from the plastic bag which held my clothes was acrid and foul.”
Charlie pauses and asks for a cup of tea. He seems calm, but his hands shake slightly as he takes the proffered mug.
“My housemates were kind to me,” he says ruefully. “The pity in their faces made me feel even worse because I knew I was a selfish coward. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s parents, who would have to find out the truth about his life at the same time they found out about his death. I still have no clue how they dealt with that. Their son was now, in terms of the papers and the police, only a dead drug-dealer.”
“I never saw most of those people again. I must have passed some of them in the street, but I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge them. I know there were a few of us at the hearing. It was an unlawful killing according to the inquest. Didn't count as murder apparently because they never knew who did it and could never prosecuted anyone for his death.”
“Everything changed for me. Not in an instant like in some imaginationless autobiography. Not when the bullets hit the car and my friend, but gradually. One by one, everything I had considered normal was rendered torrid and dirty, base and reprehensable. And I was a child; wrong, misguided and stupid.”
He pauses and lifts the tea to his lips. His hands are no longer shaking.
“ That was all ten years ago, “ he says. “And since then I have never hung out with people 'just because'. I pick my friends very very carefully. I can't stand risk, I can't stand confrontation and I can't stand aggro. I know where it can lead and I want no part of it.”
He beams suddenly and produces a picture from his wallet.
“ I am married now,” he says. “Last year actually. This is who I live for now. The past seems a long time ago, almost a different life time. And that is exactly where I want it to stay.”
Charlie is tall and elegant. He has a pleasant home counties accent and his hands are long and graceful. He is more remeniscent of a concert pianist than a drug runner. You wouldn’t know that he had been witness to a gruesome murder. More astonishing yet, that it was one of his friends who had been gunned down beside him.
“Through school I'd always smoked,” he says. “Mainly hash but increasingly skunk. Pills became a regular feature of my social scene. Acid, mushies and coke were around though not as regularly.”
“This drug lust,” he chuckles, “meant that I was usually the one who offered to get drugs for other people.”
When asked why he looks embarrassed and, whilst modestly averting his gaze, scratches the side of his head with a neat digit.
“More and more I found myself donkeying larger and larger amounts,” he continues. “As this happened I got to know people that I otherwise wouldn't have got to know.”
He grimaces.
“There’s a fake social side of buying drugs. People think there's glamour or hard-man status attached: the MA-1 flight jacket guys or the the nut-ya skinheads. There are others who just like being mashed all the time.”
At this point Charlie stops, takes a huge drag from his diminshing fag and goes to stub it out. When returned he theatically throws out his jacket, as if it had been born with coat tails.
“Things grew from there really. As time went by I spent more time with these guys and specifically Jack, a man who was at the centre of things. I started moving things from here to there for Jack or going with him to pick things up from some other guys. My job was to stand there trying to look mean or friendly or whatever the situation seemed to demand.”
He tips his head forward self consciously.
“One day I agreed to go with Jack on some deal. Didn't know how or why, but the idea was that I sat in the car and looked dangerous while he got out and made the transaction. I can laugh at that idea now,” he says. “I mean I was only 20 at the time and had a babyish face. You'd be more likely to be scared of the Andrex puppy.”
He explains that he was supposed to act like top-cover (in other words, if anything serious were to happen, he would step in.)
“We pulled into the multi-story car park,” he said. “We saw a couple of cars a hundred yards or so away and pulled up about 20 or so yards from them. A couple of guys got out from each car and the next thing I knew there was a crashing sound swiftly followed by bangs and the world going completely to shit.”
Charlie wrings his hands.
“One of the blokes had pulled out a handgun and just opened up at the car. I have no idea how long, how many shots, anything, but I know that when it stopped, probably about 4 seconds later, the windscreen had a load of holes in it. The the car and my right side was covered in blood and Jack was dead.”
“My ears were ringing and my heart was making a hellish attempt to get out of my chest. Jack's shirt was soaked in blood. I wrestled with the door handle, desperate to get out of the car. The two cars must have screeched off but I don't remember them going. Everything was shaking. As I escaped the car my legs buckled and I landed hard on the tarmac. I could hardly see. There was blood all over me and I was sick over and over.”
Charlie’s voice is coming out in short bursts and each word seems painfully ripped from his chest, yet his top lip curls upwards in the ghost of a smile.
“After the initial shock wore off I was terrified that I’d been hit and franticly patted my body all over. It was only afterwards that I realised that it would have been obvious if I’d been hit by a bullet.”
He smiles bitterly.
“That was pretty much the state I was in when the police arrived; doubled up on the ground, puking and weeping, every inch the man of action.”
He takes a deep breath and goes on:
“I had more guns pointed at me as they swung out of their cars. Their words were muddy and thick in my ears. I was handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police van with cops all around me. I'm sure they weren't that happy about it considering the state I was in.”
“I was taken to the police station and for the next few hours things happened but I have no idea in what order or for how long. I know I was checked over by some kind of medic or doctor and told to change out of my filthy clothes in exchange for an jumble of ill-fitting leftovers. I was hustled from place to place, made to fill in forms and constantly shouted at. They took my things from me and put me in a cell on my own.”
"They questioned me over and over; enough for them to realise I really was a stupid middle-class kid who was in over his head. All I knew when they finally let me go and I stepped out into the greyness of an autumn day was that the whole world was messed up. Irreparably so. I walked like a victim, eyes down, shoulders hunched, just wanting to get away from people because they were looking at me. The world was all around me and I didn't want to be in it. The stench coming up from the plastic bag which held my clothes was acrid and foul.”
Charlie pauses and asks for a cup of tea. He seems calm, but his hands shake slightly as he takes the proffered mug.
“My housemates were kind to me,” he says ruefully. “The pity in their faces made me feel even worse because I knew I was a selfish coward. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s parents, who would have to find out the truth about his life at the same time they found out about his death. I still have no clue how they dealt with that. Their son was now, in terms of the papers and the police, only a dead drug-dealer.”
“I never saw most of those people again. I must have passed some of them in the street, but I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge them. I know there were a few of us at the hearing. It was an unlawful killing according to the inquest. Didn't count as murder apparently because they never knew who did it and could never prosecuted anyone for his death.”
“Everything changed for me. Not in an instant like in some imaginationless autobiography. Not when the bullets hit the car and my friend, but gradually. One by one, everything I had considered normal was rendered torrid and dirty, base and reprehensable. And I was a child; wrong, misguided and stupid.”
He pauses and lifts the tea to his lips. His hands are no longer shaking.
“ That was all ten years ago, “ he says. “And since then I have never hung out with people 'just because'. I pick my friends very very carefully. I can't stand risk, I can't stand confrontation and I can't stand aggro. I know where it can lead and I want no part of it.”
He beams suddenly and produces a picture from his wallet.
“ I am married now,” he says. “Last year actually. This is who I live for now. The past seems a long time ago, almost a different life time. And that is exactly where I want it to stay.”
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