My previous visit to Stonehenge was around summer 1967 with mum, dad and brother. Dad stopped the car and we strolled over into the centre of the circle. Mum (a teacher) gave me the history lesson while my elder brother clambered over the stones. I don’t remember anyone else being there. Massive, elemental and wonderful, Stonehenge is a magical childhood memory.
Today we stopped at Stonehenge on route to Glastonbury. We parked in the car park, bought admission tickets, walked through the underpass on to the tarmac path and took photographs along with all the other tourists in the sleety rain. Due to the excessively wet weather, the grass path circumnavigating the monument was closed. I bought English Heritage jam at the shop as we left.
The rooks and jackdaws have the stones to themselves.
Or, as an American dad asserted confidently to his child, the ravens.
The best view was from the road on the way to Stonehenge: cresting a hill the stones sprouted from the landscape, small and huge at the same time. I couldn’t take a picture, I was driving.