king stone roll right web

Many years after this episode I discovered that my Father’s side of the family originate from 1700’s Great Rollright and Hook Norton. The family line subsequently following work into Birmingham during the industrial revolution. To become the components of machines as necessity for survival.

After I returned from the adventure as outlined below, I regrouped with two comrades who I’d come to this site with. As we sat in a hedge in the rain ( although subsequently we though it may have been traveller types relieving them selves on the other side of the hedge at various points, not actually on us I hasten to add) the odd hippy trying to negotiate an electric fence in order to relive them self in a more polite setting, It came to me. I looked at the patchwork work of fields other looked by the site. This was what I was into, the land was my refuge. My healing force. I was already a very experienced wilderness feral animal  but the penny dropped here proper. Anyway I digress, 12 hours earlier…...

On site, over the road from the stones. Limestone. Neolithic. Synced with a similar set up in Cumbria -Sun/Moon rise. Not to far from an ancient wayfarer track. I Sat with some fucked up self satisfied Mirror boy explaining to me that the Catch 22 scenario delight was , I quote “Our presence here in this field at Rollright is only possible because we can only be prosecuted after the damage to the land is identified but then We are gone”.

( Above- The Kingstone  -Rollright - So Dangerous they had to cage it to protest the public)

To be fair , I was in deep. Two days of contemplating the puzzle, the connections of wave energy and land memory combined with having spent 30 minutes trying to but a pair of black suede foundry boots on over my existing 22 hole lace up canvas, box boot type foot ware. It was part of a fantasy, running into battle , samuri like, kicking off the over foundry boots to engage in battle. Nimble. The water margins. Oxfordshire style. It was impossible. It had left me tired and dissatisfied.

I decided to drive to Oxford. I casually, and confidently, tight roped it to my Fiesta, parked off site in a layby within sight of the King stone. Wishing a hearty “good Morning to the police officers who had very kindly parked their command centre in the lay-by to keep an eye on my car for me whilst I was away. It was about 6.30 am.

I don’t remember the journey. Do not judge me, I was 22 and it was 1987. I was heading to MacDonalds. I knew there had to be one in Oxford. Centre of learning and all. I am not a veggie. I had already eaten a squirrel by the age of 22 ( a country one and cooked). MacDonald's was not on the cooperate radar in my head at that point.

I remember the smell in Oxford. High fragrance . Stop in your tracks. Do not smell the Girl. I was clearly not of this world. I needed a disguise. Confidence.

I spotted the McDonald restaurant . In entered , and strode to the counter.

“ Big Mac + Tea Please”

Big smile. Yes I am one of you.

“ Sorry. We’re on the breakfast menu. We don’t sell Big Macs until 10.00am

Mmm. This seemed unreasonable but respect the situation.

“ Oh What time is it then ?”

Calm, reasonable request.

“ I don’t know”

This was like a thunder bolt to me. Clear light.

“ Please don’t see me as critical my good fellow but do you feel that it may be worth knowing what the time was if you are going to live by rules that depend on an identified time based structure ?

I drew back and pondered this apparent paradox.

No Damage. No celebration with the connection with the land.

Follow the rules but don’t know the context.

Post Post scirpt Stone henge 1984

I remember the early morning pre dawn light, low level heavy bass ambient. Standing by the edge of the canvas tarpaulins arranged as shelter over raised boot hatch yellow escort estate , pole structure, motorbike and sidecar. No sleep. Ghosts and spirits wandering, casualties psychotic, girls smiling. Skylarks sing in the new day over Salisbury plain.

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