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.
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