Moments of Magick at the Stones – Stonehenge, England

Me, I haven’t rebounded on Earth since the Stones. Not yet. I’m a day back and my head is still somewhere on that wind, rain and mist-filled Plain of Salisbury. The Y2K solstice party seemed to be full of good vibes. No cause during the 20th or 21st of June for Jack Straw to blame travellers of any kind for anything in particular, apart from having a good time!

My only, and relatively minor gripe, was English Heritage. They need their knuckles gently rapped for playing pass the parcel with a few hundred of us on the afternoon leading up to the solstice. At about 3.30 p.m. the police asked us to move out of the main Stonehenge car park to a lay-by about three miles away up on the edge of the Larkhall military range. About thirty of us had a few hours gently partying and wondering whether we had been effectively separated and dumped in Army-land. A Centurian tank loomed ominously about 400 yards away and convoys of trucks and jeeps passed every few minutes. Having put us on the verge, the police were stuck with an increasing number of people and vehicles cluttering up the roadsides for miles around the Stones.

Finally, the police told us the Stones car park was being opened up by English Heritage at 6.30 p.m. Not hearing anymore, our group of about ten vehicles nudged its way back towards the parking area. We were still excluded; road-blocked, and the police were stuck with the job of urging the Heritage to get their act together, while locals had to contend with hundreds of our clans blocking up the link roads. Eventually, and seemingly reluctantly, it was nearly 8 p.m. when the parking area was opened up. A big communal sigh of relief and joy. 11.30 p.m. for opening the actual Stones seems fair, but everyone, especially those with live-in vehicles, children, dogs etc. need to park-up sensibly, well before that time.

In the park-up field, I met with quite a lot of old time new Travellers, who shared many memories of Stonehenge festivals and the battles of the Beanfield and Stoney Cross; a few Romanies, some of whom travel with new Travellers; newer visitors who’ve never had the chance to be in Stones since the 1984 clamp-down; smiling and gentle, Scottish and Irish (I think) Travellers in a group of about 15 bow tops and hand drawn; and many Druids, Pagans, ravers and more. Drums started a-drumming, small sound systems pumped out trance sounds and the Travellers rode their bare back horses around the fresh cut field as a tableau for a splendid sunset.

As the gates let the multitude in at just before 11.30 p.m., the Druid/Pagan alliance performed a really clever opening to the ceremonies. Stretching a good fifty yards from the gate as human fingers pointing towards the Stones, they constructed a human pergola, with their staves interlinked in a triumphant arch. All people entering the site were invited, and obliged, to walk singly within the corridor of paired elders of the pagan persuasions.
“You are one of us – you are a druid – you are anointed into our brethren” we were each told amidst the drumming, drones and chanting.

Fire twirlers, musicians, dancers, and many multifarious garbed-ones. Like all those present my mind raced and jumped wildly between hundreds of sound and vision spectacles. One moment a mystic chant, then rhythmic drumming and then Tibetan hand bells.

Towards the expected sunrise, the elements conspired a localised tempest of wind, mist and rain. Spirits weren’t thwarted though. Indeed the tempo raised in series of cacophonies, wilder drums, waving wands of fire, various processions of cloaked Pagans and Druids performing their rites. No sign of the sun, but no dampening of spirits – if anything the reverse. The Stones once more belonged to the people. An icon of celebration. A fine piece of very British whimsy, and thankfully a million miles (or at least fifteen years) removed from the clashes of the eighties, or the English football supporters in Euro 2000.

Magick moments indeed.