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National Geographic : 1960 Jun
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National Geographic, June, 1960 graphic barrage laid down by scores of cam eras clicking away from the great Altar Stone. From our vantage point we could see its golden rim framed beneath the main entrance to the Sarsen Circle. Slowly the bright disk rose. Across its face were silhouetted trees on a distant Wilt shire hill. We had been instructed to watch where the shadow of the Heel Stone fell; presumably, it had some ritualistic signifi cance. But shadows are rather uncommon at dawn (we received more illumination from the sky's scattering light than from the sun itself). In any event, the position of the Heel Stone seems a bit irrelevant. The midsummer sun, as viewed down Stonehenge's axis, has never come up precisely over the Heel, and it will not for more than 1,000 years. Picks Made of Deer Antlers Unwilling to wait that long, I suggested to Bob that we get some sleep. We did, at an inn near Amesbury. In the afternoon, how ever, we rose and rambled through the Salis bury Museum, where many of the objects found at Stonehenge are now on display. With the curator, Hugh Shortt, we examined picks made of deer antlers, stone mauls for dressing the monoliths-even the port bottle left under one fallen sarsen by an excavator in 1801 for the benefit of future archeologists! It was fascinating to see, too, a bronze axhead of Irish origin, very like those found carved on the big columns. The next night we spent out at the ruins again, this time photographing them in the spectacular light of emergency flares we had picked up from a ship chandlery in London. At dawn it became apparent that clouds would mask the sunrise, so we retired to Amesbury once more. We wanted to save our energy, in any event, for the early hours of the 22d. We knew that, come fair weather or foul, a goodly contingent of Britons would turn out to honor the solstice. Nor were we disappointed. By afternoon caravans and buses had already begun to chug up. All during the night more pilgrims trickled in, not merely from other parts of England, but from Europe and even as far away as Ceylon. By the time the stars began to wink out, one by one, nearly 1,000 visitors were on hand. Most picturesque of the lot, of course, were the "Druids." Exceedingly little is known about the pre-Roman priests of this Celtic nature cult, but since the days of Dr. William Stukeley, the leading 18th-century antiquar ian, romantic Britons have been only too happy to supply details. For hundreds of years groups of latter-day mystics have gathered annually at Stone henge to perform rites which they ascribe to the ancient elders. The fact that Stone henge was a venerable relic long before the first Druid is known to have set foot in it has never dampened their ardor. In flowing white robes, then, our modern celebrants began before sunrise their pro cessional around the monument's encircling earthwork. From a rock at the west a Druid picked up a bowl of bread and salt; from the north, water. While a musician played a tune on a re corder, the Druid band marched to the Heel Stone and thence to the Sarsen Circle and the Altar Stone for sundry incantations and observances. Unfortunately for the ceremony's general effect, the sun rose but refused to shine. It was several hours, in fact, before it managed to emerge from the English morning mist. By this time the Druids had repaired to their assembly point on a small mound at the monument's southern edge, and a group of morris dancers took over. To the meas ure of a fiddle, they whirled through time honored rural figures on the greensward be tween the Sarsen Circle and the causeway. A holiday feeling possessed us all. In high spirits we exchanged jokes and lighthearted banter, spread our picnic lunches on the grass, and generally enjoyed ourselves. With or without archeological sanction, we had cele brated the summer solstice in fitting fashion. Stonehenge Keeps Its Secret Behind and above us still reared the enig matic rocks. Over the years we have un raveled some of the secrets of Stonehenge. Yet a great part of the mystery still eludes us, and perhaps we value and enjoy it the more for that. There is even an element of sardonic humor implicit in this venerable monument. As the English poet Michael Drayton wryly observed early in the 17th century: Ill did those mighty men to trust thee with their story; That hast forgot their names who reared thee for their glory. * * * 866
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