Chapter Six: The Avenue
Opening the side door of the camper van, now re-parked a few minutes’ drive from the Sanctuary in a lay-by of the narrow road that ran alongside the Avenue, Conall took a enamel tin mug from its hook in the cupboard and piled a large spoonful of instant coffee into it, and then put his kettle on to boil.
While the kettle was heating he sat with his legs out of the side-door, enjoying the heat of the mid afternoon sun; then he stood and walked over to the wooden fence that divided the Avenue from the road. The stones of the Avenue stood pale and silent in the long grass that trembled slightly in the warm breeze; each stone stood taller and wider than a man – and were arranged in pairs, a few metres apart – as if a procession of giants, two by two, had, by some long-forgotten spell, been turned to stone while shuffling towards the circle that lay over the hill, out of sight. The Avenue snaked its way, in this fashion, to the southern entrance of the henge, a good quarter of an hour walk away from where Conall now stood, eyes closed, leaning against the fence, - the heat of the sun somehow melting the lead of his earlier sadness.
A steady rising whistle from the van alerted him to the fact the kettle was boiling, and so returned to the cool shade of the kitchenette and poured the steaming water into his cup. He blew on, and then took a sip of, the black liquid; coffee was perhaps too generous a description of this scorching, bitter, brew; a splash of cold water and a couple of sugars made it slightly more palatable.
He picked up an old and battered wide-brimmed straw hat from the seat and placed it on his head; then in a moment of inspiration took down the Collected Coleridge, removed the owl feather and stuck it into the rim of the hat. In memory of you both, he thought.
Setting the cup aside he rolled a cigarette, hung it from his lips and then, coffee in hand, pulled shut the camper door and walked over to the gate that lead into the avenue.
The grass in between the stones had been recently mowed, though the stones themselves stood in small islands of long grass where the mower had not been able to reach. Conall walked towards the centre of the Avenue – sipping his drink, and peering to where, some 500 yards distant, the stones disappeared over the brow of the slight hill. There, near the brow, a dog was sniffing about one of the stones, and he could hear the distant voice of its owner calling it back; it disappeared back over the hill, leaving Conall once more alone.
From this position at the centre of the Avenue it was plain to see that the stones had been arranged in some kind of order: those to his left were thin and pillar-like, while those to his right, bordering the road, were squatter, wider, almost diamond shaped. Male and female, others had reasoned; but archaeologists often lacked imagination, he thought, taking his lighter from his pocket and lighting his cigarette.
He idled over to the first of the ‘male’ stones and laid a palm on its side. These stones had, in the same way that old trees had, a kind of brooding physicality that gave them a sense of character; and this particular stone held special connotations for Conall – last spring when he had visited the Avebury circle for the first time, he had slept up against it, protected from the view of the road with its passing traffic by its width; a stone headrest against which he’d lain, gazing up at the night sky. Though he had a van to camp in, the desire to sleep here, under the stars, protected by this ancient sentinel, was stronger than the call of the sofa-bed.
‘Hello, old friend’ he muttered, breathing out a plume of smoke. ‘Do you remember me, stone?’ he whispered. Then removed his hat and he leant forward so that his forehead was pressed against the rough cool pillar, scabbed with lichen – beaming his thoughts into its heart. So much has changed, stone. But I’m back.
Just then voices in the distance alerted him to the approach of a group of walkers. Conall walked around the stone and sat down on the grass about its feet, on the sunlit southern facing side of the stone that hid him from the road and Avenue. The walkers came and went, and he settled back, the sun hot on his cheeks, and lighting up the inside of his closed eyelids with a blood-red glow until he pulled the rim of the hat down to shade them. He could hear the distant ratcheting churring of a magpie, the hoo-hoooo-hoo of the doves, and the bleating of the sheep in the next field. These sounds relaxed him, and the crackle of his cigarette as he inhaled helped this feeling along. Time seemed to slow, became irrelevant; a quarter of an hour or so he sat here, drinking in the sounds and smells of this Wessex paradise. His mind began to drift…
Which sense, he had often been asked, would you lose if you had to? Sat here, the smell of the warm mowed grass, cigarette smoke, and sheep shit seemed as vital to the world as vision – more so, perhaps. Perhaps he would choose to lose his sight. No books though, part of him countered – but what good were books anyway? Homer, after all, was blind, so they said. Had he always been blind? Did he never actually see rosy-fingered dawn or the wine-dark sea? Imagine never having seen the sea, or a tree, or a blade of grass? Imagine never having seen the face of a beautiful woman; if I was blind – what would beauty be to me? Where would beauty reside if the eye of the beholder were blind? I mustn’t fall asleep, he said to himself, shaking his head, aware his mind was beginning to wander – or I’ll wake up sunburned.
Rising, he moved away from the stone, but fleetingly touched its side as he did so. See you later; he whispered.
Having made sure his van was locked Conall set off along the Avenue, intent on reaching the circle and grabbing something to eat in the pub that stood at its centre. The heat of the day was increasing rather than abating, and he removed his shirt and tied it about his waist; the heat of the sun on his skin felt good. As he crested the hill he saw, in the distance, a small group of people in bright yellow visi-vests huddled about a small area of stripped soil at the foot of one of the male stones besides which a small tent had been erected; he passed them with a ‘hello’ - not stopping to ask what these archaeologists scraping at the sunbaked soil were trying to uncover; he didn’t envy them lying out in this heat, with their white hard-hats on. A few minutes later, having crested another rise, he stopped to take in the vista that now spread before him – a sight that never usually failed to stir him, though today its effect was bittersweet: the great circle of stones of Avebury; so vast one could not take it in from any single viewpoint – set within a staggeringly impressive circular bank and ditch, once some 40 feet deep. From his present viewpoint he could see only the southern half of the circle – the southern entrance lay before him, through which now passed the road to Swindon, cutting through its mighty banks. To the right these same banks were crowned with great trees, but the section on the left was clear, giving one an unimpeded view of the massive sweep of stones around which visitors were treading, many picnicking in their shade, and the line of buildings beyond which were part of the village of Avebury. There, where the Swindon road met the village high street at a staggered cross-road, was the Red Lion, a large two-storey building under a heavy thatched roof, its forecourt that bordered the road spread with wooden tables, crammed full with people enjoying a drink in the sun. Conall suddenly felt very thirsty.
Leaving the avenue Conall entered the circle itself, passing between the huge stones that once marked the southern entrance; roughly angled, these stones dwarfed him as he stepped through them; but he did not stop to admire them, nor the smaller circle of stones, again, one of a pair, that he walked through. He would have time to admire the stones later, he reasoned.
The pub forecourt was busy and loud with laughter; an eclectic mix of new-age types with long hair and loose clothes, bikers in their leathers and families here for a day out crowded the tables. There, in one corner, sat a group of young people in visi-vests; more archaeologists, Conall assumed, probably university students on their summer dig; while on a table nearest the car-park a folk-group in white shirts decorated with coloured ribbons were taking musical instruments from out of their black cases. From all around the smell of fried food and cigarette smoke reached his nose. He hadn’t expected it to be so busy, but he supposed last year he had been here in April, after the Easter holidays had finished, and although the place had not been quiet, it wasn’t anything like as crowded as today.
No, he thought, turning away from the pub, I have something to do first.
He walked westwards past the pub and along a narrow road, past a small group of shops selling souvenirs, and a row of Bed & Breakfasts, until he had left the banks of the circle, and the street grew quieter; the street narrowed to a row of small brick cottages on the left, and on the right was the wall of the churchyard.
A cottage stood opposite the lych gate, a window box below the window thick with Nicotiana, its pendulous white flowers still closed; its doorway, newly painted, bore the name Church Cottage, and the small porch had been fixed-up by the new occupants; but the old occupant lay a few feet away across the road, as his granddaughter’s letter had informed him; the memorial plaque was simple:
In loving memory Alfred John MacGovan-Crow 1935–2011
Con found it easily thanks to a posy of nicotiana placed on the grave; someone, then, in the village, still cared.
He knelt beside the plaque and removed the pouch of tobacco from his pocket. He took a pinch and crumbled it on the soft grass:
Itsipaiitapio’pah – he said.
Bless you, Old Man, he mumbled. May the Great Spirit protect you.. and those you love.
The inside of the Red Lion was cool and dark after the glaring heat outside, and Conall suddenly remembered he was shirtless; putting the shirt back on and removing his hat he waited for a gap to appear at the bar; after a couple of minutes the pretty barmaid smiled at him and he asked for a pint of Green King bitter, and while he waited for it to be poured he grabbed a menu and hungrily poured over the choices. There was no chance of nabbing a table outside, he reasoned, but a small table stood free in the corner opposite the bar, so Conall told the barmaid he’d be sitting there. She gave him a table number scrawled in marker pen on a wooden spoon and he sat down with his pint.
A shaft of sunlight bisected the table like a wall of fire; and for a while Conall sat entranced at the dance of the particles of dust illuminated by it, while outside the folk-group were playing accompanied by claps from the crowd. Then he raised his pint, delighting in that first cool mouthful, the bitter tang of hops, and felt himself begin to relax. And now what? He thought.
What happened was not what he had expected.
Opening the side door of the camper van, now re-parked a few minutes’ drive from the Sanctuary in a lay-by of the narrow road that ran alongside the Avenue, Conall took a enamel tin mug from its hook in the cupboard and piled a large spoonful of instant coffee into it, and then put his kettle on to boil.
While the kettle was heating he sat with his legs out of the side-door, enjoying the heat of the mid afternoon sun; then he stood and walked over to the wooden fence that divided the Avenue from the road. The stones of the Avenue stood pale and silent in the long grass that trembled slightly in the warm breeze; each stone stood taller and wider than a man – and were arranged in pairs, a few metres apart – as if a procession of giants, two by two, had, by some long-forgotten spell, been turned to stone while shuffling towards the circle that lay over the hill, out of sight. The Avenue snaked its way, in this fashion, to the southern entrance of the henge, a good quarter of an hour walk away from where Conall now stood, eyes closed, leaning against the fence, - the heat of the sun somehow melting the lead of his earlier sadness.
A steady rising whistle from the van alerted him to the fact the kettle was boiling, and so returned to the cool shade of the kitchenette and poured the steaming water into his cup. He blew on, and then took a sip of, the black liquid; coffee was perhaps too generous a description of this scorching, bitter, brew; a splash of cold water and a couple of sugars made it slightly more palatable.
He picked up an old and battered wide-brimmed straw hat from the seat and placed it on his head; then in a moment of inspiration took down the Collected Coleridge, removed the owl feather and stuck it into the rim of the hat. In memory of you both, he thought.
Setting the cup aside he rolled a cigarette, hung it from his lips and then, coffee in hand, pulled shut the camper door and walked over to the gate that lead into the avenue.
The grass in between the stones had been recently mowed, though the stones themselves stood in small islands of long grass where the mower had not been able to reach. Conall walked towards the centre of the Avenue – sipping his drink, and peering to where, some 500 yards distant, the stones disappeared over the brow of the slight hill. There, near the brow, a dog was sniffing about one of the stones, and he could hear the distant voice of its owner calling it back; it disappeared back over the hill, leaving Conall once more alone.
From this position at the centre of the Avenue it was plain to see that the stones had been arranged in some kind of order: those to his left were thin and pillar-like, while those to his right, bordering the road, were squatter, wider, almost diamond shaped. Male and female, others had reasoned; but archaeologists often lacked imagination, he thought, taking his lighter from his pocket and lighting his cigarette.
He idled over to the first of the ‘male’ stones and laid a palm on its side. These stones had, in the same way that old trees had, a kind of brooding physicality that gave them a sense of character; and this particular stone held special connotations for Conall – last spring when he had visited the Avebury circle for the first time, he had slept up against it, protected from the view of the road with its passing traffic by its width; a stone headrest against which he’d lain, gazing up at the night sky. Though he had a van to camp in, the desire to sleep here, under the stars, protected by this ancient sentinel, was stronger than the call of the sofa-bed.
‘Hello, old friend’ he muttered, breathing out a plume of smoke. ‘Do you remember me, stone?’ he whispered. Then removed his hat and he leant forward so that his forehead was pressed against the rough cool pillar, scabbed with lichen – beaming his thoughts into its heart. So much has changed, stone. But I’m back.
Just then voices in the distance alerted him to the approach of a group of walkers. Conall walked around the stone and sat down on the grass about its feet, on the sunlit southern facing side of the stone that hid him from the road and Avenue. The walkers came and went, and he settled back, the sun hot on his cheeks, and lighting up the inside of his closed eyelids with a blood-red glow until he pulled the rim of the hat down to shade them. He could hear the distant ratcheting churring of a magpie, the hoo-hoooo-hoo of the doves, and the bleating of the sheep in the next field. These sounds relaxed him, and the crackle of his cigarette as he inhaled helped this feeling along. Time seemed to slow, became irrelevant; a quarter of an hour or so he sat here, drinking in the sounds and smells of this Wessex paradise. His mind began to drift…
Which sense, he had often been asked, would you lose if you had to? Sat here, the smell of the warm mowed grass, cigarette smoke, and sheep shit seemed as vital to the world as vision – more so, perhaps. Perhaps he would choose to lose his sight. No books though, part of him countered – but what good were books anyway? Homer, after all, was blind, so they said. Had he always been blind? Did he never actually see rosy-fingered dawn or the wine-dark sea? Imagine never having seen the sea, or a tree, or a blade of grass? Imagine never having seen the face of a beautiful woman; if I was blind – what would beauty be to me? Where would beauty reside if the eye of the beholder were blind? I mustn’t fall asleep, he said to himself, shaking his head, aware his mind was beginning to wander – or I’ll wake up sunburned.
Rising, he moved away from the stone, but fleetingly touched its side as he did so. See you later; he whispered.
Having made sure his van was locked Conall set off along the Avenue, intent on reaching the circle and grabbing something to eat in the pub that stood at its centre. The heat of the day was increasing rather than abating, and he removed his shirt and tied it about his waist; the heat of the sun on his skin felt good. As he crested the hill he saw, in the distance, a small group of people in bright yellow visi-vests huddled about a small area of stripped soil at the foot of one of the male stones besides which a small tent had been erected; he passed them with a ‘hello’ - not stopping to ask what these archaeologists scraping at the sunbaked soil were trying to uncover; he didn’t envy them lying out in this heat, with their white hard-hats on. A few minutes later, having crested another rise, he stopped to take in the vista that now spread before him – a sight that never usually failed to stir him, though today its effect was bittersweet: the great circle of stones of Avebury; so vast one could not take it in from any single viewpoint – set within a staggeringly impressive circular bank and ditch, once some 40 feet deep. From his present viewpoint he could see only the southern half of the circle – the southern entrance lay before him, through which now passed the road to Swindon, cutting through its mighty banks. To the right these same banks were crowned with great trees, but the section on the left was clear, giving one an unimpeded view of the massive sweep of stones around which visitors were treading, many picnicking in their shade, and the line of buildings beyond which were part of the village of Avebury. There, where the Swindon road met the village high street at a staggered cross-road, was the Red Lion, a large two-storey building under a heavy thatched roof, its forecourt that bordered the road spread with wooden tables, crammed full with people enjoying a drink in the sun. Conall suddenly felt very thirsty.
Leaving the avenue Conall entered the circle itself, passing between the huge stones that once marked the southern entrance; roughly angled, these stones dwarfed him as he stepped through them; but he did not stop to admire them, nor the smaller circle of stones, again, one of a pair, that he walked through. He would have time to admire the stones later, he reasoned.
The pub forecourt was busy and loud with laughter; an eclectic mix of new-age types with long hair and loose clothes, bikers in their leathers and families here for a day out crowded the tables. There, in one corner, sat a group of young people in visi-vests; more archaeologists, Conall assumed, probably university students on their summer dig; while on a table nearest the car-park a folk-group in white shirts decorated with coloured ribbons were taking musical instruments from out of their black cases. From all around the smell of fried food and cigarette smoke reached his nose. He hadn’t expected it to be so busy, but he supposed last year he had been here in April, after the Easter holidays had finished, and although the place had not been quiet, it wasn’t anything like as crowded as today.
No, he thought, turning away from the pub, I have something to do first.
He walked westwards past the pub and along a narrow road, past a small group of shops selling souvenirs, and a row of Bed & Breakfasts, until he had left the banks of the circle, and the street grew quieter; the street narrowed to a row of small brick cottages on the left, and on the right was the wall of the churchyard.
A cottage stood opposite the lych gate, a window box below the window thick with Nicotiana, its pendulous white flowers still closed; its doorway, newly painted, bore the name Church Cottage, and the small porch had been fixed-up by the new occupants; but the old occupant lay a few feet away across the road, as his granddaughter’s letter had informed him; the memorial plaque was simple:
In loving memory Alfred John MacGovan-Crow 1935–2011
Con found it easily thanks to a posy of nicotiana placed on the grave; someone, then, in the village, still cared.
He knelt beside the plaque and removed the pouch of tobacco from his pocket. He took a pinch and crumbled it on the soft grass:
Itsipaiitapio’pah – he said.
Bless you, Old Man, he mumbled. May the Great Spirit protect you.. and those you love.
The inside of the Red Lion was cool and dark after the glaring heat outside, and Conall suddenly remembered he was shirtless; putting the shirt back on and removing his hat he waited for a gap to appear at the bar; after a couple of minutes the pretty barmaid smiled at him and he asked for a pint of Green King bitter, and while he waited for it to be poured he grabbed a menu and hungrily poured over the choices. There was no chance of nabbing a table outside, he reasoned, but a small table stood free in the corner opposite the bar, so Conall told the barmaid he’d be sitting there. She gave him a table number scrawled in marker pen on a wooden spoon and he sat down with his pint.
A shaft of sunlight bisected the table like a wall of fire; and for a while Conall sat entranced at the dance of the particles of dust illuminated by it, while outside the folk-group were playing accompanied by claps from the crowd. Then he raised his pint, delighting in that first cool mouthful, the bitter tang of hops, and felt himself begin to relax. And now what? He thought.
What happened was not what he had expected.