In Britain we're in the position of having a renaissance of usage of all sacred sites. For every
tourist at some sites, there's someone paying their respects to the ancestors - and you remember
this is a living, breathing history, whose useage has been hidden rather than forgotten. For
myself, true magic lies in the drive to the White Horse evey time things get a little wild,
to blow my troubles away on Dragon Hill while safe in the arms of the Mother. It is rainbows
over Stonehenge at the coldest of Winter Solstices. It is Wayland's Smithy, and Knowlton Henge;
ditch and bank, stone and barrow. It is home. It is the ancient sites and their call upon me
that has forced me back to a re examination of my tribal culture. Now I listen to the debates
of controlling access to our heritage, as I watch tourists and locals alike disrespect
monuments like Avebury in a way they never would a cathedral...and I know there are no easy
answers.
"We arrived at the car park next to Silbury Hill after an afternoon drive from London
peppered by intermittent torrential showers. It was raining again, the worst storm of the day.
We parked facing straight onto the western flank of the hill and watched in awe. Awestruck by
the ferocity of the rain, which was turning the car park into a lake as the water drained from
the A4, and by the sheer madness of Silbury Hill. I'd been there before, even climbed to the
top where you can play a game of cricket if you don't mind a long walk to retrieve the ball
after a boundary. But Theo had only seen pictures, and the reality of a 130 foot high manmade
mound of chalk and earth is something else." - Phil
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