We walked slowly, stopping to stare, and each time I turned away from the stones and looked away to the horizon, knowing that within this area there are hundreds of other contemporary sites, burials, barrows, tombs, Woodhenge… for there were other henges than just those made from stone.
Because we were apart from the stones the banks were clearly visible, showing what a huge area the site was. These vast circular ditches would have been dug with deer antlers and the shoulder blades of cattle, thousands of tons of soil shifted. It must have been a stable and fairly secure society to be able to devote the amount of labour needed for construction. I looked to the distant hills, fields full of golden grain ripening in the summer sun.
At the south side of the site was the Heel Stone, aligned with the Slaughter Stone (it turns red when wet, there is no reason to believe it was a sacrificial alter) and standing by it and looking south I could make out a faint trace of The Avenue, twelve metres wide, descending to the River Avon.
I stood for many minutes, just looking at the henge, and then with my back to it again, looking at where it sat in the landscape.
“It’s wonderful,” Elly said. “Het is geweldig, echt geweldig”