A short little tale I’d like to tell you about my visit to a special place called…..

Stonehenge

October 31st high noon, just outside the London end of the Chunnel.

My first time in London but I’m not staying. Grab a cab and head to a car rental center outside of Heathrow, west of the city. The cab takes me over London Bridge, and, oh look kids, there’s Big Ben and Parliament! I’d like to stay and visit but I’m on a Quest.

“Sorry, sir, all we have is manual transmission,” says the Avis clerk.

It’s not that I can’t drive manual, it’s that this being the first time driving on the right I thought it better to have one less thing to think about and get an auto trans.

Sitting in the red hatchback Citroen I am very happy to see that although I’ll be driving on the right (meaning driver is on right side of vehicle but vehicle is driving on the left side of the road) the pedals are still as they would be if steering wheel were on the left. Right foot gas/break, left clutch. I thought the left foot would have to work the gas/break and right the clutch. This set up would’ve been too much, and when I think about it totally impossible.

With Google Maps printed directions I’ve been carrying with me through Europe for three weeks sitting on the passenger seat, determination in my heart and The Fool in control, at 130pm I finally get going west to Stonehenge and then Glastonbury where I’ll be staying for four days.

To my great surprise, driving on the left side of the road is intuitive and easy. It’s strange having cars coming at me on the right, shifting with my left hand is odd, and I’m hugging the curbs, but this makes sense. It’s not some impossible situation. Even the roundabouts aren’t too bad, you just have to stay very frosty, always looking to your right with a vengeance. With a prayer, I merge onto the M3, a main highway leading west out of London.

I take it easy the first couple of miles, but not that easy. This feels natural, dare I say better than driving on the ‘left’? I’m also happy the English use miles and not KM, it’s just one less thing to think about.

Something I hadn’t planned for is that in England this time of year, the sun sets 4:15. By 4:45 it’s full nighttime. I’m now in a race against the dark. Just west of the town of Blasingstoke, I split off onto the A303, a smaller highway. Stonehenge lies directly off the A303, about 40 minutes from where I am currently.

At times the A303 is a one lane highway and I get bogged down in traffic. I get off at a wrong exit and spend 10 minutes finding the highway after navigating numerous roundabouts and English driving fuckery.

The dark shroud of night has descended by the time I see the sign for Stonehenge. I swing off the exit (now, the exit is a mile past the old one, which is closed) and see several cars parked on the side of the road, people milling about, and a night watchman in yellow jacket asking them all to leave since Stonehenge is now closed (there is an official parking lot for the Henge, but these people are just parked on side of the road).

Closed. Stonehenge…closed.

I have to be at the Henge for Halloween. This is my own personal prophecy. I know what I have to do—I have to sneak into Stonehenge.

I drive a little further, then take a sharp left onto an access road, park, and make my move.

Draping two floor mats over the five-foot retaining fence around the Stonehenge property (a fence topped with three strands of barbed wire), I hurl myself over it, nearly rip a hole in my inner thigh very close to my package (I catch the left cuff of my cargo pants on the wire and for 30 seconds hang practically upside down doing a split straining to pull my leg free, but the wire doesn’t cut me).

I’m in.

Monolithic, shadowed, looming 800-yards to my southeast, I see the Henge. Horizon to horizon is full of stars, with Orion already high in the sky, Sirius rising just under it and the Pleiades just above, creating a perfect line between the three mighty celestial formations.

Without hesitation, I march on. I’m under-dressed as it’s already in the mid 30s but I work up a sweat trekking over the lumpy land until I’m 200 yards away from my target. I stop and survey the area. I have an arching 180 degree view horizon to horizon and a dome-like 360 degrees as a compass spins. The Salisbury Plain where the Henge sits is also elevated. You are at the best planetarium on the planet.

Casually I cross onto the path which encircles Stonehenge. There is a low rope barrier just after this path. Stonehenge has been closed to actual interaction with the stones since 2000 (but once a year at Summer Solstice they allow pagans and the sort to have a party among the stones for sunrise, sometimes there are 30,000 people there for this event).

I am alone. Alone at this ancient place of wonder and real magick.

In total awe I approach the Henge, cross into the first circle created by the stones. They tower over me, monolithic, vibrating, grey ghosts in the night. I touch one, hug it, then pass into the inner circle.

Intense buzzing, whole-body vibrations overcome me as I stand directly in the center of the stones. I stumble towards the most famous Pi-shaped formation, 25ft tall and hulking huge, hug it like it’s the calve of a giant. Cool to the touch, smooth, different than any stone I have ever felt.

(What we call Stonehenge is on a spot which has been sacred, it is claimed, for more than 8000 years. Over the millenniums there have been all sorts of monuments there. The stones we all know so well were placed there estimated 3500 B.C., then partially knocked down by The Church of England in mid 1500s, and then the ruins were rebuilt various times during the first half of the 20th Century. What I’m getting at is that the land, the actual spot, is truly where the sacredness radiates from, the massive bluestones help amplify it, but they are not the cause of the energy.)

I stagger to a stone laying prone, climb atop it, sit cross-legged, meditate. After some time I roll off into the sweet grass, lay there face down, absorbing the moment into my eternal soul.

I stand, unsteady, swaying, totally spun. Then I see a flashlight approaching. I do not even for a second consider running. I can’t even if I want to. They got me.

“Hey, bloke, you can’t be here!” exclaims the young watchman as he shines the light in my face.

I mutter something and he says “Eye, an American?”

“Yes,” I mumble.

“Well, guy, ya can’t be here, w’re closed.”

“Oh…OK, sorry.”

I am genuinely so spun I can only offer sheepish replies. I have no defense, no way, nor desire to spin this. No excuses. If I’m to go to jail for trespassing at Stonehenge then so be it.

“Come on, follow me.”

I follow slowly behind the guard. We enter a tunnel under the road and exit to the visitor center.

Another watchman, an older one, appears.

“Mate, is that your car on the road?”

I nod.

“Ya know we’re closed?”

“OK,” I stammer.

“Well, come back tomorrow we open at 930am.”

They watch me amble down the road. At the car I hang out for a time, soaking it all in. I had over 30 minutes alone inside Stonehenge…on Halloween night. The blessings are astronomical.

The night of adventure is not nearly done.

Still buzzing I manage to get back on the A303 towards Glastonbury where I have rented an efficiency on someones property. It’s still an hour drive to my final destination.

I get lost no less than three times. Somehow I end up in Sheptons Mallet, a small town 20 minutes east of Glastonbury. I am totally and completely turned around. I stop at a standalone pub, a beautiful old building, and just walk in. The pub is just filling up. If there were a record, it would’ve skipped. All eyes are on me as I mosey up to the bar.

“Hi, I’m looking for Glastonbury.”

Most people in the pub are dressed in some way for Halloween. One guy stares at me with bright red eyes, wearing some kind of insane contact lenses. Several pub patrons happily chime in about directions and I’m on my way, riding curbs, hitting more roundabouts, until I find Glastonbury.

The place I rented through VRBO is off of Bove Town Rd. Somehow I find the road but have zero luck locating the property. Frustration sets in as I drive up and down the steep, narrow road with no luck. Finally I see two girls in costumes walking and ask if they can help me find the house. They show me the way, only 20 yards up the road, then invite me to a Halloween party. It’s taking place in the basement of some ancient building off of High Street, which is the main road in the old town of Glastonbury.

After settling in to my flat, I go out looking for the party. On the way I meet a crew of people. Turns out they are going to the party too. All are dressed for the occasion. They are curiously delighted to meet an American, especially this time of year when there is no tourism. They ask me to say certain words and tell me I sound like John Wayne. One of the girls tries on an American accent. It’s pure comedy, worse-sounding than when most Americans try on an English accent.

On High St our group heads down an alley, down another alley, then down a shallow flight of stairs until we reach a door. There is no way I would’ve found this place without this group guiding me. A bouncer at the door looks everyone over, he double takes on me.

“Whose he?” the bouncer asks.

“An American mate we met on the way, he’s invited,” says one of the girls.

We enter and go down another shallow set of steps, around narrow dark halls of hewn rock until we enter an area where there’s a coat check and people collecting donations for the party. Thumping Drum&Bass emanates from behind another door. I notice a plaque signaling that this building is over 850 years old. I pay my 20 pounds and follow the crew into the party.

No Halloween decorations are needed. This dark ancient basement looks like a set out of Harry Potter, but it’s real. A grotto, there are ancient stone pillars and arches.

Walls are hewn directly from the bedrock.

A few hundred people are packed into the basement. I split up from the crew and get a beer. I’m one of the only people not dressed for the occasion. The dance floor is pulsing. I find a dark corner and just observe the scene, think about the wild day I’ve had.

I’ve come to the Mecca of European Magick, the land of the Druids, of King Arthur and Avalon, of Merlin. The land has welcomed me with awe-inspiring synchronicity, wonder, beauty.

Suddenly the music stops. The dance floor clears. Someone steps front and center on a mic. He wears a top hat and is dressed in a dusty black three-piece suit that’s tattered around the edges. His face is a painted white like a clown with black circles around his eyes and black lipstick. He is very theatrical.

“Greetings friends, allies, initiates, and guests. Welcome. I would like to introduce an order as ancient as the Tor, generational and holy. Without further adue, I present to thee The Crow Clan!”

Out from a dark hallway come marching 24 people. The crowd parts to allow them onto the dance floor. Leading the Crows is a man dressed similar to the MC, but his clothes are much more tattered and layered, looking like black feathers. His top hat has two huge real crow wings attached to it. He carries a heavy wooden staff. The Crows form up into a line. Half are men, half women, all dressed in black head to toe. Tattered clothing. Hats, top hats, all carry staffs. Some of them wear vests, revealing giant crow wing tattoos on their backs.

Voice booming, no need for a mic, the ring leader address the silent crowd.

“We have come here tonight, the most holy of our nights, to initiate the chosen of you into the Rites of The Crow. The crow is darkness in the light. The crow is the sight of the All Father Odin. The crow is in complete harmony with life and death.”

After some time and more tales about the crow, the Crow Clan forms up into a grid square. The lights get very dim. The Crows square off against each other, staffs raised. In a low voice their leader starts chanting something, then the other Crows join, a fog machine fills the dance floor with smoke.

“To life……to death……to life and death as one,” chant the Crows quietly building it. Then they slap their staffs together, chant, lock arms, dance in circles making laughing crow sounds, and switch partners. The chanting builds and builds, gets louder and louder.

“To Life-SMACK!-To Death-SMACK!-To Life and Death as One! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAAA!”

The entire party joins in the chant. The Drum&Bass cranks up again and the Crows march off stage chanting.

I’m offered ecstasy. I turn it down and decide to call it a night. It’s been a long day.

Walking down an alley I come to the wall marking the huge property of Glastonbury Abby, the 7th Century Cathedral (some say Joseph of Arimethea first built a sanctuary on the land in the 1st Century). The Abby, now just ruins after it was burned and smashed in the 1400s, claims to have been the original burial place of King Arthur. I will visit there soon.

The next day mid afternoon I go to Stonehenge like a regular person. I park in the lot, pay my 10 pounds, pass through the tunnel with a small crowd and walk the path around the Henge. It’s a brilliant blue late fall day. Glorious. I sit on a bench and sit back, remembering my experience from the night before. Suddenly I think I hear someone calling my name.

“Alexi…”

What?!

The man keeps calling ‘Alexi’.

Well, this is perplexing.

A child runs by me, followed by a nanny. Behind her 20 paces is a beautiful woman with a stroller. Behind her is the man calling out ‘Alexi’, except he’s really saying ‘Alexa’, and the man is Matt Damon, the actor. He walks past me, tips his hat, smiles and carries on.

So it goes.

The next day I visit the Chalice Well.

I feel the well is the Magickal Heart of European Magick. The actual physical spot the energy radiates from. For sunset I trek up to the Tor where I meet a beautiful woman wearing the sweetest most intoxicating perfume. She takes me to the best Fish&Chips place in town, where they literally take a whole fresh Cod, batter it with a can of beer they open right before you and fry it up. It turns out the woman is the official mystic and astrologer for the British version of American Idol.

The Tor, according to legend, is where the gateway to the Fairy realm lies. From atop the Tor you get a commanding view of the land. It’s not a natural formation, but it wasn’t made by man. It’s from a time before the first men. You can see how and why this region was once called The Isles of Avalon, as it used to be watery with inland islands, but now due to canals (which are actually many hundreds of years old themselves) the land is dry. In the 17th Century, Christian missionaries built a church atop the Tor. All that remains today of it is the single spire.

The next night I return to Stonehenge, parking much further away. I approach from directly west. It’s very cold, mid teens. The guards are on the bounce tonight, several flashlights continuously dance around the stones. A second experience inside the stones is not meant to be. I do revel just being out there. Alone with the stars, the crisp air, and the peace of eternity shinning above.