30. Let's Build A Stone Circle By Hand

They came in droves, the druids, led by ex-trucker turned megalithic giant, Ivan McBeth. He was the friend from Longleat who’d opened my eyes to the fuckery of the man with pigtails. Next time you’re at Glastonbury Festival, go to the Swan Circle. He built it. His ghost roams those stones amongst the people off their heads, his ashes are scattered there. When I’d arrived at the farm, I’d looked from the kitchen window at a flat jut of land on the hillside and rung him. I’d said, Let’s build a stone circle by hand, knowing he’d never done it, knowing every build before had been with forklift trucks and cherry pickers, and how much he wanted to feel the rough warm haul of his ancestors. One sentence and he came. Shamanic HQ was set up in the metal barn, the megalithic call was sent out. Ovates, bards and druids, they called themselves Club Meg; the keepers of the ancient sites, from Cornwall to Callanish. And with them came the others, the Wiccans and Pagans and hippies and people of the woods, sacred geomancers, engineers, those who knew what they were doing and those who really didn’t, travellers and runaways, the brilliant and lonely; we welcomed them all. Word spread. The land filled with benders, yurts, trucks and tipis. The carpenter climbed to the top of a sequoia and fixed a chair, it’s still there if you’re brave enough to see. And as the land filled and the seasons changed Ivan watched the rise and fall of the moon and plotted its course across the sky. By May he was ready, the stones found in a quarry in Portland and delivered to the site by truck, dumped in an unceremonious pile, eighteen nine-ton rocks which became nineteen when one in its crashing course from the tipped-up flatbed broke in half. We would begin the build with a festival, Beltane, when bluebells covered the forest floor. A hot tub was built, erected on stalks like a rocket about to take off. A huge and comfortable yurt would hold our meetings, a communal kitchen would feed us, we were a megalithic village appearing on a Surrey hillside; dogs, children, sunshine, the neighbours in sensible shoes came and gawped. But Beltane was coming, and we were full of fire, and Kings would race naked and a Queen would be crowned and the first of the stones would go in.The Literary Obsessive is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe