Here's
London Walks' Pen (and Lensman) David
Tucker on the "new" Stonehenge…
Yeah, we went. December 21 last falling on a Saturday – well, it was a perfect fit for the Saturday Great
Escape for that day.
A more perfect fit because Stonehenge has
been transformed out of all recognition. Well, 27 million pounds worth of
transformation. That’s how much English Heritage has sunk into “re-doing”
Stonehenge. A new Exhibition Centre of course. But the really big deal is that
everything – including that main road that used to thunder right by it – has
been moved well away from “the ancient monument”.
So we’re now able to
see it in a way that it hasn’t been possible to see it for yonks.
See it in isolation. Right there all by
itself on Salisbury Plain. The way “they” saw it thousands of years ago.
The combination of that – and the Winter
Solstice – well, I wasn’t going to miss it. Truth be told, I liked the bragging
rights. “I was there on the very Winter Solstice when it was possible to see it
isolated, see in its pristine state. Instead of across a main road from a car
park.”
So, yup, joined the group.
Impressions? That which is likely to
“abide”? Well, the roiling skies above (somewhere up there, surely, the gods
were having a hammer throwing contest). And the sea of green at our feet and stretching
in all directions. And, yes, of course the stones – the sarsens and bluestones
and uprights and lintels.
But also the wind. Stonehenge goes back thousands of
years. Those people – those generations of people – are on the wind, in the
wind. They’re no more.
But the wind…
Well, it’s so many whispers…
And they’re not whispers from July 2013. Or
1930. Or 1066.
They’re BCE whispers. Whispers from
thousands of years ago.
But that’s enough auditory. That place,
this trip, this time is really about light. In fact, this whole ruddy island
and its people and culture and history – these northern climes – the
irreducible thing, the filament, is light.
I mean to throw a few more faggots on the
Stonehenge Winter Solstice fire, just think of the Yule log. And think of
Bede’s sparrow flying through the banqueting hall – outside winter storms are
raging but inside it’s warm and there’s light and laughter and fellowship. And
think of Turner’s dying words, “God is light.”. Think of Constable
painting light, but not vaguely
afternoon – or morning or evening – light. Rather, the light of a precise
moment, down to the minute really.
Think of Robert Burton’s*, er, whispering in our ear in The Anatomy of Melancholy. What’s needed is “wax candles in the
night, neat chambers, good fires in winter, merry companions; for though
melancholy persons love to be dark and alone, yet darkness is a great increaser
of the humor.”
Well, ladies and gentlemen – let the
decreasing of the humor begin.
Here
comes the sun!
*Burton fascinates me. He’s that rarest of
phenomenon – a great English writer who was pretty much untouched by London.
Indeed, he may never have set foot in the place. (Though there is one
tantalizing shred of evidence that he may have come to London in 1597 to be
treated by the astrologer-doctor Simon Forman for, yes, melancholy.) If you’re
looking for Burton, Oxford’s your place. Brasenose College and Christ Church
College. Both of which we look at, incidentally – shameless plug here – on our
Oxford caper.
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