The Summer God of Love Oengus Mac Og

They say that Oengus Mac Og, the Irish god of love and inspiration, wit and charm, was a born liar. He could gab his way out of any tricky situation and gab his way into any advantageous one.

  

      

But if he was a trickster, it’s no wonder, because he was born of a trick. 

The Dagda, an Irish god so huge his club could not even be lifted by eight men, fell in love with Boann, goddess of the river Boyne, which flows past Newgrange in the northeast of Ireland. Boann was already married, but that did not deter the Dagda in his amorous pursuit. Naturally Boann fell pregnant and was terrified her husband would find out. So the Dagda caused the sun to stay still in the sky for an entire year, and when, at the end of what he though was a single day, Nechtan returned home, all seemed the same, except for a puzzling change in the foliage on the trees. 

On that one day, Boann had given birth to Oengus Og, and the Dadga had taken him away to be fostered in a good home.

I suppose his story really starts when he’s maybe fifteen — after all, it’s set in the smelly bedroom of an adolescent boy who wakes one morning to remember what seemed almost like a dream; the most beautiful girl had come into his room. From that day, in a love-sick fever, Oengus does not leave his bed, wrapt up in the dream of her. 

His foster mother asks him, ‘darling, what is wrong?’ But he can’t reply. 

His foster father comes to him; “Now, son, you’ve got to stop all this nonsense.’ But still he can explain.

Finally, they call the Dagda and to him, Oengus reveals the truth; he’s in love. The Dagda spends a year searching before the girl is found. 

Yewberry

Turns out she is Caer, or Yewberry, the daughter of the fairy king Ethal Anubal, who,with her 149 sisters, mostly wears the garb of swans. When Oengus arrives to claim his love, he has to pick her out from 150 white birds. But he knows her directly; she has a golden chain around her neck. He also transforms into a swan and they circle the lake three times before flying off to the Brough na Boinne. 

This was the ancient name for Newgrange, and it is said that it originally belonged to the Dagda, but when Oengus finally discovered he was his son, he decided to grab his inheritance. After all, his mother was goddess of the river that flows around this great edifice. He approached his real father, to ask if he could take up residence for a night and a day, and the Dadga gave his consent to that small request. 

Brough na Boinne –– Newgrange

However, the next morning, Oengus          refused to leave. Remember, that in old Irish, as in Welsh today, there is no indefinite article. ‘A night and a day’ would simply be ‘night and day’ and Oengus argued that  what he had been granted was residency at Newgrange for all time. 

Oengus wasn’t just god of love because of his winning of Yewberry. Perhaps it was more to do with the way he would successfully woo for others. He asks for the hand of the beautiful Etain for has friend Midir, and then undergoes many arduous jobs, such as clearing acres of land, before that hand is granted. However, Midir’s present wife is filled with jealously and turns Etain into a purple fly. She is blown about on Druidic winds for a long time, but finally Oengus finds her and crafts a bower for her, in which she can rest. 

Perhaps most famous is the story of Oengus’ foster son, Diarmaid. He had a great love for Grainne. Oegnus woos her for Diarmaid and they run away from her wedding feast after Granne drugs her new husband. They run from pillar to post -- or rather -- from ancient cairn to ancient dolmen. (It’s great fun searching for these ‘beds of Grainne’ which are scattered all over Ireland). 

Dairmuid and Grainne

After long years on the run, Grainne fell pregnant with Diarmuid's child, but fate was about to catch up with them. One day out in the wilderness, Diarmuid and Grainne came across a giant boar. Legend was, that a boar was the only living thing that could harm Diarmuid. As the boar charged, Diarmuid, protecting his heavily pregnant lover, wrestled it to the gound and killing it with his sword, but not before the boar had gored Diarmuid, fatally wounding him.

So what does all this mean? And why is Oengus the god of transformation, as well as love and wit?

I think it may be connected to his dreaming of Caer. Okay, I likened this story earlier to spotty teenaged romance, but when you think about the story, it seems more like creative experience to  me. Everything is reversed, or in mirror image. The girl comes in a dream; or does the girl really arrive (in some versions of the story) and it’s only after she disappears that Oengus dreams of her? He dreams and dreams and finally, there she is, a gold chain around her neck. 

This is so much like the creative process. First; the glimmer of something new, which can almost be forgotten immediately, unless it is ‘dreamed’ into existence. Then, the search —the frustration and hard toil of turning a ‘glimmer’ of an artistic idea into something solid; a book, an art work, a musical composition. But finally, it is done. People are saying they love it. It is enough to make the artist take wing and fly into the sunset.

W.B. Yeats wrote about this in his poem, “The Song of Wandering Aengus” centuries later, in the late 1890s. 

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I think this paints a haunting picture. An old man reminisces about a life-quest, contrasting the earthly realm of ordinary life and the mystical otherworld of dreams.Check through the poem, to see where Yeats employs a semicolon or colon. These are used to make that shift each time we leave the real world (for instance 'he hooks a berry to a thread'), and move into the mysterious, magical otherworld

You can learn about my very own Yewberry here.

You can learn more about Newgrange here

You can learn more about Oengus Og.here 

You can learn more about “The Song of Wandering Aengus” here. 

Meeting the Glastonbury Pagan Moot - keeping a shamanic journal

 

I was honoured and delighted to be asked to talk to the Glastonbury Moot about Shamanism, but I was a bit worried – wouldn’t it be like teaching my grandmother to suck eggs? Or – more accurately – like teaching a load of pagans to walk between the worlds? I talked about my own shamanic journey through the years, and what I do with my shamanism now, so that we could open up a debate and share our shamanic experiences. 

I had brought my own 'secret diary' of my journeys over the years; nearly 25 years, in fact. I passed this round, so that people could see the sorts of things I write down when I return from a trance. I was delighted when this resonated with the mooters – some were able to talk about their own experiences in front of the moot, and others spoke to me personally, afterwards. I told the story of my relationship with my two main guardians on the spirit plane, Esmerelda and The Golden Boy, archetypes who advise, and often offer me gifts.  I was very happy to share this, and that caused quite a positive reaction, with many people sharing back. 

part of my shamanic journal

I believe it is essential that, before you forget, you note down everything that happened in any shamanic journey. Write down something of what you saw, heard, felt, etc, and any thoughts that occurred to you. 

Once you get going, you will probably want to buy a nice notebook to keep your writings in. I've had a few over the years, some are fabulous books, but mostly they are just Black and Red A4 notebooks.

The record is essential because it shapes the experience. As you write, tiny details will emerge which otherwise would be forgotten. As you write, some sense is made of nonsensical experiences. As you writer, you may spot synchronicities – likenesses and coincidences in life or story that make even more sense of the journey. And, of course, recording allows you to enjoy reading back after the event; I do this often and am amazed at how a path unfolds (linked to the word 'path working') and how enriched I am by remembering old journeys. Often, then I'll return to continue that adventure. 

But as a writer, I soon discovered I could also use these techniques to explore story so that my ideas almost ‘wrote themselves’ before I even got to a keyboard. And at that point, a character arrived in my life - a zesty twenty-something therapeutic shaman called Sabbie Dare, who kept telling me that I should write about her. “I see a lot of clients,” she told me, “who don’t really know what’s wrong with them. They’re on the edge.  They bring me some very difficult problems.”

I write the Shaman Mysteries for pagans and crime fiction lovers alike, so I have to be careful to walk a line between the truth of my own spiritual path, and the fictions I create. I don’t want to suggest that shamans can ‘solve crime’. And as the series progresses I am trying to introduce some of the aspects of shamanism and paganism that might enlighten the ‘muggle reader’. Book one, In the Moors, introduces the shamanic journey and Sabbie’s animal ally, an otter called Trendle.

In the second book, I developed Sabbie’s ritual life, and otherworld associations, especially her guardian, a river goddess who she doesn’t yet quite trust. Book three, Beneath the Tor, uses a theme of transformation, including shapeshifting.This book is set in Glastonbury, and it was my great delight to be able to use some of the legends of the Vale of Avalon In book four, which I'm writing, I'm going to look at the Lower Realms, and introduce Sabbie's father, who is also a shaman.

We ran right out of time (I am hard to shut up, but they finally managed it!). I’m delighted to say that Oak

has invited me back, sometime in the future. There were so many aspects to living with shamanism that we didn’t cover, and I’d love to have that opportunity. The Glastonbury Moot, which meets on Wednesday evenings at the Mitre Inn, is a welcoming gathering, and I’d recommend it if you are looking for like-minded friends and live in that area.

                                                      Good Friday Sunrise by Kev Pearson

I was lucky enough to be able to stay the night with two kindly members of the moot, who have recently moved to Glastonbury. Kev is photographer, and (isn’t the universe strange?) I’d only that previous week discovered his wonderful images on the net. Check out his stunning photos, especially of the Tor at http://www.kevpearson.com/recent/ 

You can read some of the records I've kept about journeys by clicking on any of the links at the SHAMANISM PAGE (Shamanism; The Crystal Path to the Otherworld) 

July 2020 - A Ritual In Lockdown.

Sacred wild places are best

Since lockdown began, and we’ve all been staying at home, for me and lots of people, that means we've not been sharing our spiritual path with like-minded others. Whether it’s church, synagogue, mosque or temple, getting out to share worship has been terribly missed. 

At least I’m lucky; my place of worship is any place in nature where natural life flourishes, but especially wild areas where the trees, and the creatures living under or in them, are untamed and free.

And I’m also blessed with my own tiny, self-built stone circle, which takes up a more secluded area of my garden. These stones, although they are miniature, have long memories of previous rituals; Jim, my husband and I transported them from Bristol when we came to Wales, and so they have witnessed a continual pattern of outdoor seasonal celebration for twenty years...they certainly have stories they could tell.

Enter through the rose arch

We had planned to celebrate the Vernal Equinox in the circle with the usual group of friends, but I cancelled that, as full lockdown approached. Then Beltaine went by, at the start of May (and, for us, the start of summer), noted with just a couple of Zoom meetings with other pagans.

However, we have been using our stone circle, just the two of us, lighting the firepit and drumming and dreaming around it.

 On a sunny evening this week, we entered the circle again, robed and ready for ritual. I’d been re-reading a recent Indie Pagan*, in which the writer quoted an old saying…ask a stone a question and you will get an answer.

Jim said, “I’ve heard something like that Tell a stone a story, and it will remember for ever. Because the consciousness of the mineral kingdom is different from ours; slower by millennia, and deeper and more retentive.”

We decided to loosely base our ritual on the one described in that article. 

Casting the circle

That evening, we lit a fire and readied the circle, tidying it, brushing away the empty beechnut shells and bits of twig. As the smoke swirled high, we herded the hens into their enclosure, but the dog wandered freely, settling in a corner to 
watch. 

We entered the circle through the rose arch, each carrying four stones, to represent our four grandparents. Jim brought his staff to cast the circle, and I brought two big potatoes which I threw into the red hot coals of the firepit.

Consecrating with water

We always set our circle up in the Druidic fashion, asking Great Spirit for guidance and protection as the circle is cast, calling in peace, consecrating with fire and water and then welcoming the power of the four quarters – East, South, West, North – into the circle. We also invited the spirits of the lower, ancestral world, and to balance things up, the spirits of the upper shamanic world, too, calling ‘hail, and welcome’ to each of these.

We  took four other carefully chosen stones (there are a lot of stones in this ritual!) to further represent the quarters and their elements. A peice of white quartz for the airy East, a cracked stone previously from the firepit to stand in the fiery South, a beautiful fossil for the watery West, and a piece of sacred Bluestone for the earthy North.

The western quarter

We had worn our ovate crane bags into the circle. These function in the same way as a shamanic spirit bag, holding the memories from our time as Druids. We emptied them, going through the tiny objects and natural products, crystals and broken down bits of leaf, talking about the memories they brought to our minds. Leaving them on the Southern Alter, we spent some time smudging our eight grandparent stones and ourselves with white sage. Then we took our time thinking about each grandparent, and choosing where we would put  each of their representing stones around the cross-quarters. We took our time, because we were looking for the grandparent who gave us the biggest and most welcoming smile.

The alter is shielded by foxgloves

For Jim, that was easier. He remembers both his mother’s parents and loved them very much. Often, his grandmother visits him in his dreams. She was smiling very broadly indeed. 

I knew none of my grandparents. My mother was the last of seven, born in 1908. My father was the eldest of three, but born 8 years before the start of that century…an actual Victorian. Their parents were dead long before I was born. But I could feel each of these next generation ancestors as I moved around. This was probably influenced by their sepia photograph, and the stories I’d heard about them. I chose my father’s mother, whose name was Elizabeth.

In silence, apart from the crackle of the fire and singing of bedtime birds, we asked this chosen grandparent our question, and waited for their answer. Then we shared a story with them. I told my grandmother something I knew about her that Dad had told me. 

Once we had said farewell, we sat together in the circle and shared both the questions and the stories.

Growing dark...

It was time to ‘take down’ the circle, thanking the spirits of the four quarters (who function, for druids, as a hawk, a deer, a salmon, and a bear) and the spirits of the upper and lower worlds, saying ‘hail, and farewell’ to each, before Jim uncast the circle, widdershins. 

We left the stones in place, and pulled our chairs closer to the fire, which had died to glowing embers. We fished out the baked potatoes and lavished them with butter. Mmmm…a delicious way to ground ourselves after ritual.

Several days later, the memory of the occasion still resonates in my mind. We will visit our stone circle again soon, I’m sure.

A Ritual in Lockdown was Published in Indie Shaman Magazine in 2021

* Steven Ash; Finding Your Ancestors in the Medicine Wheel, Issue 43 (January 2020) available from https://indieshaman.co.uk

Patron of Hares, Saint Melangell

This week I went north  to visit the shrine of St Melangell, who is the patron saint of hares. 

The shrine is at this ancient church, in Melangell, which was built on the bones found in a Neolithic burial site.

A long time ago, I watched a pair of brown     hares race across a Wiltshire meadow, veering through the grass this way then that, bring and whitish streaks of joy. Something touched my innermost spaces. Those hares spoke and some secret and power part of me responded. I was transfixed in that moment, and the vision of these beautiful and sacred creatures has stayed with me, in my mind's eye forever. I knew then that the hare was my animal; my ally and totem, my inner confidante, my shamanic companion. 

The hare has staying with me every since that day in the late 1980s. 

So when friends asked me to go with them to the shrine of St Melangell, I jumped at the chance. I’d never heard of this saint, even though she is the patron hares, which are my totem animal

Her shrine is still kept in beautiful condition, in the small northwest Wales village of Pennant Melengells, It's one of the most remote shrines in the UK, located in the Berwyn Mountains. It’s only a short drive from St Mylin’s well, a far better-known shrine to a well-loved saint, who was probably Bishop of Wales at around the time Saint Melegell was born.

Melengell lived in the 7th Century CE, in what then would have been an independent Wales, still more Iron Age than Medieval. The Romans had long gone, and the old, local tribes called refi had taken over the rule of the land once more, led by a warrior aristocracy. The people would have spoken Old Welsh and held that powerful blend of belief; Celtic Christian, fused with a remaining underbelly of pagan belief, still clinging around the edges of this new religion. They'd only recently been converted to the powerful message of this still-new faith by saints like David and Mylin.

The tarn of Llyn Cau 
 https://petebuckley.wordpress.com/2011/04/05/
walking-in-wales-cadair-idris/

We arrived at the youth hostel, for our one night stay in Dolgellau, which is sheltered under the most southern tip of the Snowdonia mountain range. 

 Rising above us was Cader Idris. Myth and legend have echoed around this high peak  for many a century and began with the fabled Welsh book of folklore, The Mabinogion. It’s said than anyone who falls asleep for the night at the foot of the Cadir Idris wakes, the following morning, either dead, mad, or a poet. We were about to lay our heads down is just that place, and I was hoping to wake with the latter quality!

The following morning (seemingly neither dead nor mad), we motored northeast to the village of Pennant Melangell. The far west of Wales possibly still looks, in places, very much like it did when the saints and the war-lords ruled the head and heart of early Wales.  As we travelled, my friends told me what they knew about St Melangell. 

She was the daughter of an Irish monarch, who had determined to marry her to a nobleman of his court. The princess fled from her father, across the Irish Sea, and took refuge in the isolated Tanat valley. She lived as an anchorite, walled into her shrine for most of fifteen years, without seeing the face of a man. 

The legend has it that one day Brochwel, prince of Powys, was hunting a hare with his dogs. In its desperation, the hare found this beautiful young lady wandering through the countryside, and took refuge under her cloak. The pack of hounds refused to go anywhere near the saintly Melangell, some howling and turning tail, some whimpering and lying down before her feet.

The prince was amazed to find a virgin of surpassing beauty, engaged in deep devotion, with the hare he had been pursuing under her robe, boldly facing the dogs. The Prince gifted her the valley of Pennant Melangell and she lived there, offering sanctuary and retreat to all who came.  She founded an abbey on the spot, and died abbess at a good old age.  Her tomb was in a little chapel, or oratory, adjoining to the church. 

I loved the carvings inside the church, especially the 15th Century oak screen with carvings that tell the story of Melangell and Prince Brochwel, and a fabulous series of stone carvings of the hare by the sculptor Meical Watts. 

But what we’d come to see, and be tranquil within, was the 12th Century shrine of Saint Melangell. Its stones are carved with Romanesque and Celtic motifs, and it contains what is said to originally have been the saint’s cell bed. Bones said to be those of the saint were deposited within the shrine. This was all were reassembled in the last century but it took a lot of fund-raising to eventually get the entire thing to be re-erected in the chancel at the back of the church. 

The church is now a Grade-I listed building. But more interesting to me, is that it sits in what is believed to be a Bronze Age site. In fact, Neolithic bones have been found on the site, which shows, as often is the case, that this sacred place had been used throughout time. I was overwhelmed by the ring of yew trees, planted before Christ was born, by people of the Iron Age...local druids, perhaps… These surround the churchyard. I spent a lot of meditative time in both saint's shrine, and under the trees, too.

Southey, when he visited the church in the 19th century wrote; 

And now I shall tell you why

It was proper that I 

Should go thither to spy

The place with mine own eye.

Tis a church in a vale,

Whereby hangs a tale,

How a hare being pressed,

By the dogs and much distressed,

The hunters coming nigh

And the dogs in full cry,

Looked about for someone to defend her,

And saw just in time

As it now come pat in rhyme,

A saint of the feminine gender.

To be honest, I don't think he'd had enough opium, that time…maybe he failed to sleep at the foot of Cader Idris!

For information about St Melegell's church and shrine, Click here for website

The churchyard is surrounded by yew trees, planted before Christ was born, by people of the Iron Age...local druids, perhaps.

 Then in the 6th Century CE, Melangell tells that she was the daughter of an Irish monarch, who had determined to marry her to a nobleman of his court. The princess fled from her father and took refuge in Wales, where she lived fifteen years without seeing the face of a man. St Melangell was still a young woman, when a hare, pursued by The  Prince of Powys, huntsmen and dogs, took refuge in her cloak. The prince was amazed to find a virgin of surpassing beauty, engaged in deep devotion, with the hare he had been pursuing under her robe, boldly facing the dogs, who retired to a distance howling, The dogs howled with fear and turned tail. The Prince gifted her the valley of Pennant Melangell and she lived there, offering sanctuary and retreat to all who came.  She founded an abbey on the spot, and died abbess at a good old age. She was buried in the neighbouring church, called Pennant, and from, her distinguished by the addition of Melangell. Her hard bed is shown in the cleft of a neighbouring rock. Her tomb was in a little chapel, or oratory, adjoining to the church, and now used as a vestry room. 

Recently the shrine of the saint has been revamped.They found a bricked-up door in this special area at the back of the church and opened it out to create what had originally been her  cell bed. 

People still come to visit the shrine. 

Southey, when he visited in the 19th century wrote; 

And now I shall tell you why

It was proper that I 

Should go thither to spy

The place with mine own eye.

Tis a church in a vale,

Whereby hangs a tale,

How a hare being pressed,

By the dogs and much distressed,

The hunters coming nigh

And the dogs in full cry,

Looked about for someone to defend her,

And saw just in time

As it now come pat in rhyme,

A saint of the feminine gender.

To be honest, I don't think he'd had enough opium, that time...

Her bones still lie there.

The following morning, after staying in Dolgellau, we visited the Centre for Alternative Technology

Seahenge.

SEAHENGE.   

About ten years ago, a strange phenomenon grew out of the Norfolk coastline. A dark circle with a central core; like an atom, like a cell. 

People thought at first it was the rotting carcass of an old boat. But it soon became clear that this was a magical thing. It brooded like an eye, suddenly open and clear-sighted; a spectacular timber sacred circle.

This henge manifested itself from the coastal waters as they retreated, generation on generation. Constructed from wood blackened with two millennia of submersion, it had an upturned oak-bole in its very middle, the tapering fingers of the old roots pointing at the sea, the sky, the land. It emerged from what might be considered its grave like a benign vampire; mysterious and ancient.

I can imagine the excitement Francis Prior, a local archaeologist, felt as he came upon the henge... We walked for hours – or so it seemed – across tracts of sand, blasted from time to time by penetrating winds. At last we reached the circle. Three archaeologists from the Norfolk County Unit were clearing washed-in sand and debris from the gales of the previous day. As we arrived the sun came up, and I rapidly clicked off half a roll of film. The site was much smaller than I had imagined, but extraordinary, nonetheless. I was struck by its simplicity. It consisted of a rough circle or oval of oak posts, with what looked an upside-down oak in the middle. I can only guess at what this inverted tree meant, but I felt it had something special to tell...(Francis Prior, Seahenge, HarperCollins 2001)

Frances Pryor has a written many books on his specialist subject of the archeology of the east coast of Britain, and I particularly loved Seahenge, as it was so close to my own heart. Francis Prior became an archaeologist in the early seventies, and is married to archeologist; Maisie Taylor. He's best known for his marvellous work on Flag Fen, Flag Fen, a Bronze Age site developed about 3500 years ago, which has a wooden causeway about 1/2 a mile long  built  across the wet fenland. Part way across the structure is a semi-man-made a small island waswhich was most likely a site of religious ceremonies and significance. Prior reconstructed a lot of the site including a typical Iron Age roundhouse dwelling, and created a visitors' centre. The fens are redolent with Bronze Age workings,  the perfect high point being the discovery in 1998 of a spectacular timber sacred circle on the coast of the Norfolk coast – a strange phenomenon which suddenly seemed to be growing out of the Norfolk coastline. A dark circle with a central core; like an atom, like a cell. 

I have always wanted to visit the seahenge. When it first emerged, druids and ‘new agers’ clustered around it as if it was a rare flower and they were bees; they sat upon it, protesting the plan to uproot the entire henge and remove it from the place it had been built thousands of years ago.

I had a hankering to go too, and be with my friends, but I also had some sympathy for the case of the experts. As soon as the old wood emerged from the salt water, it was at risk, the air would rot it away to nothing. If it was left where it was, it would eventually be lost. But pulling it out did feel like pulling teeth; like moving old bones from cemeteries; brutal and tactless. Even so, the ‘sit in’ on the upturned tree roots also felt naive and insensitive in its way. The only way to preserve this amazing creation was to move it, and finally...inevitably...the archaeologists had their wicked way. Seahenge was taken south, so that the curators of the Lynn museum could learn how to care for it from the experts...the people who had worked on the Mary Rose after it had been dragged up from the sea bed.

the display at Lyn Museum

Now, I have seen the Mary Rose, and I can remember my reaction to it clearly. It made my spine tingle. It stands – a hulking wreck of a ship – inside a perpetual shower. Water drains and runs and drips over it every second of its life. I seemed to me something between a form of torture and a form of giving life. I have never forgotten it, and since Seahenge erupted, I’ve longed to see that too.

Francis Prior became an archaeologist in the early seventies, and set up the Fenland Archaeological Trust in 1987, constructing Neolithic roundhouses and allowing visitors to see the long history – natural and man’s history –of the area. I’d always wanted to see Flag Fen in the same way as I longed to see Seahenge. So when I had the opportunity to go to Norfolk to refresh my knowledge on keeping chickens, I decided to combine business with pleasure.

The dark history that separates the origins of Seahenge with the present day cannot be exaggerated. Thousands of years have passed. And to this day we don’t know what the henge was built to do. Sacrifice, is always people’s first thought, but it’s always my last. I prefer to believe that it was used for sacred rituals more benign...the connection of man with the old gods. Nevertheless, there seems to be a black hole that stretches between me and the henge.

We set out to King’s Lyn from Norwich quite early. It looked a long way on the map, and that proved the only correct assumption of the day. It was almost lunch time before we reached the city, so we ate first, and wandered around a bit, then went to the museum. 

It was shut. Until future notice. No reason given. 

I visualized the henge, locked up inside, perhaps happy to be alone again, and in the dark, beneath its constant torrent of water.

The plan had been to drive on to Flag Fen, but that wasn’t exactly around the corner either, so I phoned from the car. 

I spoke directly to Francis Prior.

‘No,’he said, ‘we open at the end of the month.’

‘But it said on your website you opened on the 1st?’

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Lynn museum is shut too.’

‘Really? Why ever is that?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

I might, at that point, have asked...’would it be sensible of us to drive to Holmes by the sea, just a short drive from Lynn, to see if we can spot the second henge that’s come up out of the sea? The one that has been left there to do its own thing? After the troubles of uprooting the first? The one you can see if you’re there at low tide?’

I didn’t ask any of that, of course. I didn’t even ask when low tide was. We just drove off, following the road to the east coast. We passed through the prettiest villages imaginable. Behind this was the sea, separated from us by low lying marshes of grass, creeks and dunes. A place of wild salt water birds and wild winds.

‘Even if we don’t find the second henge,’ I said, ‘we could have a lovely walk.’

‘I’ll park here, then, shall I?’

Even as we came to a halt, we knew we were stuck. Two wheels were deep in mud, skidding round, going nowhere.

We got out. My partner examined the mired tyres. I stared out to sea. High tide at Holmes by the sea. A gull wheeled. 

We stuck everything we had under the wheel; even the blanket from the boot. The tyre squealed and whizzed on its axel. 

A lady came by. ‘Oh dear, your stuck,’ she said. ‘I’d help you if I could...’

‘Gosh, no you’re to do no such thing,’ I said.

‘Well, I am nearly ninety,’ she said. ‘But I go for this walk each day. I don’t believe one should just give up, do you?’

‘No,’ I said, staring at the tyre and the ripped, sodden muddy blanket.

She walked on. I kicked myself. I’d forgotten to ask her if she knew what directions I should give the RAC.

A family came a little later. Young couple, pushing a buggy; older man and wife. I stopped them to ask where exactly we were.

The men took charge immediately. They went home, collected their 4X4 plus a tow rope and we were out of the mire in minutes. 

As we drove away, I contemplated on our wasted day. It was as if the henge had not wanted us to have any success. It had not wanted to be seen...twice over. 

Maybe sacrifices were made, after all.