As dawn broke on the longest day of the year, 24,000 witches, pagans and druids descend on Stonehenge
By JANE FRYER
22nd June 2007
Daily Mail
Midnight on Midsummer's Eve and I'm standing in a soggy field in Wiltshire. To my right is Taloch the Stag Lord, who's wearing a black cloak, thigh-high boots and an enormous pair of antlers which bob about on his head as he talks.
To my left is a nice man called Melkin, the Arch Druid of the Dolmen Grove Coven. He's huddled against the cold in a long green robe and clutches a 6ft long beech staff topped with another pair of antlers.
"As you can see, we're not the archetypal devil-worshipping sect you see in films," he says cheerily.
"We're just normal people.
Er, OK. Though to be fair, the pair of them are blending in rather better than I, in anorak, bobble hat and wellies. Because, as far as the eye can see there are thousands upon thousands of druids, witches, hippies, students, drunken louts, tourists and hundreds of weary looking police, all lurching about in billowing clouds of cannabis smoke.
Here comes the sun: Jane Fryer (in the bobble hat) catches the mood of the Solstice celebrations at Stonehenge
Welcome to Stonehenge and the annual New Age get-together to welcome in the Summer Solstice - the moment at which the sun strays farthest north from the equator, creating the longest day of our year.
And while for most of the 24,000-strong crowd, staying up all night to see the sun rise is a top excuse for a party, for the druids it's one of the most important nights of the year.
They're certainly out in force - drumming, chanting, singing, reciting poetry, comparing staffs, milling about in the incense and drizzle and chuntering about all the imposters.
"It's all getting a bit mainstream," says Melkin, (otherwise known as Chris Walsh, 44, and an antiques dealer from Weymouth) - a lot of party people have popped in on their way to Glastonbury.
"For us, it's different. Paganism is our religion and Stonehenge is the temple where we worship. This is serious."
It certainly is. Hence the massive police presence, the raft of rules - no glass, no camping, no climbing over the massive 50-ton monoliths, no fires, no dogs and no disorderly behaviour.
Things started gently with a sunset ceremony among the stones - more chanting, drums and odes to the sun, earth, air, fire... you name it.
But in the 31/2 hours since, not much has happened - it's become dark, cold, started spotting with rain and a lot of people have taken a lot of drugs, banged lots of drums and tried to clamber on the stones.
Stonehenge as it appears on more peaceful occasions
Druids are mad for the stones. They rattle on and on about their "energy," "the DNA of past generations" and give a lot of very earnest chat about their cosmic value and how important they are to their members. Because it turns out there's a whole druid world out there.
There are more than 9,000 British druids, countless cults and covens, and even an official Council of British Druid Orders. Traditionally, they are shy, retiring creatures who hide away in dark woods and copses, but the Dolmen Grove are having none of it.
"Our moots [meetings] have changed with the times," says Melkin/Chris proudly. "They used to be in the middle of a wood, but now they're more likely to be down the pub."
And while there's no getting round the fact they look weird, they're terribly friendly.
"Hello and welcome... now you must come and meet King Arthur..." says Susannah, a handsome battle chieftain in the Loyal Arthurian Warband, otherwise known as Mrs Laford, a 62-year-old grandmother and occasional film extra and charity shop worker from London.
"It's all down to him that we're here today. He made it his mission to free up Stonehenge again for its people and he's done that."
King Arthur - isn't he dead? "Oh no!' she says, flower crown nearly falling off. 'Remember the myth of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table - they're not dead, just resting, ready to rise up when they're needed."
But it turns out that King Arthur - an ex-soldier, ex-builder, ex-Hell's Angel and ex-political protester who changed his name by deed poll in 1976 - is unlikely to rise up to anyone's assistance right this second.
"He was last seen sleeping in the car park after a session in the pub," chips in a passing pagan.
Next, I head off for a coffee and a chat with Taloch (aka Tony Jameson, 50, a musician from Anglesey - apparently, a huge druid stronghold) and his druid daughter Keri, 27.
"The difference between druids and witches," he explains, adjusting his antlers, "is that anyone can become a druid. But witches are born into it, with a special gift."
Are there any witches round here? "You're looking right at one, ha ha!" Oh goodness. And the special gift? "I know what's going to happen next, in the long and short term."
Such as? "I can't give examples," he says quickly. "It doesn't work like that."
And just then, a bleary teenager lurches over. "Hey, mate - yes you, Stagman. Where can I get some LSD? You look like you'd know."
"No idea," he snaps. By 4am, it's drizzling hard. But as hundreds of people leave, too wet and cold to bother with a washedout dawn, thousands more arrive, with children and grannies in wheelchairs and carrying cases of lager.
Sunrise is at 4.51am and finally, half an hour before, it's time for the predawn ceremony.
The stone circle is jammed with drunk and stoned revellers, so the druids and hangers-on - led by Rollo Maughfling, the Elder Arch Druid of Stonehenge - gather in a circle by a huge Heelstone, away to one side, to start the rites.
Rollo, in white robes, red scarf, long white beard, about four teeth and a grubby straw Fedora, leads the chant as the drums start up again.
"May there be peace in the East... May there be peace in the South... May there be peace in the West and peace throughout the world. We are the ancient Stonehenge choir, so sing after me... aye, aye, aye..." So we do. Just as King Arthur Uther Pendragon staggers over - sword in one hand, warm can of Stella in the other and white robes looking rather worse for wear. "I'm a warrior," he shouts. "I'm a chaos magician. I'm King Arthur."
"And you're totally p*ssed, mate," shouts someone from the crowd.
He's certainly very chatty. "I've got loads of children - I've no idea how many - and all by different women. The King's a bit of a tart, you see. I've more than one wife, so if you fancy a bit, darling, you're welcome to join my harem - particularly as you're a Stonehenge virgin," he growls, pulling me tight and making a great show of pretending to grab my right breast.
Back in the shadow of the Heelstone, the rites continue.
Next up, it's Victoria Marsden, a very tanned 56-year-old druid/ property developer from Glastonbury with an impressive cleavage who blesses a metal cauldron full of flowers - "Hail to the spirit of Aquarius".
And then it's Taloch/Tony's big moment to bang his drum and yell something about the gods of water, air, fire and earth. "Sun god, give me your aura."
"Give me your coat, more like - I'm bloody freezing," quips someone.
And now, just as I think I'm going to pass out from cold and tiredness, it's the big moment - 4.51am.
"Lift up thy shining spear of light to protect us," we chant. "Three cheers for the summer solstice."
Everyone cheers, shouts and jumps around. And we scour the grey sky for even a hint of sun.
"Look, look ... there's a bit of pink cloud up there."
Where? "Too late, you've missed it. Never mind. Last year, it was much worse. It was pouring and we couldn't see anything. Next year'll be better."
Maybe, but as we tramp back across the fields, picking our way over a carpet of beer cans, prostrate couples and discarded duvets, I know I'll not be here to find out. For me, welcoming in the summer solstice is most certainly a once in a lifetime experience.
dailymail.co.uk
By JANE FRYER
22nd June 2007
Daily Mail
Midnight on Midsummer's Eve and I'm standing in a soggy field in Wiltshire. To my right is Taloch the Stag Lord, who's wearing a black cloak, thigh-high boots and an enormous pair of antlers which bob about on his head as he talks.
To my left is a nice man called Melkin, the Arch Druid of the Dolmen Grove Coven. He's huddled against the cold in a long green robe and clutches a 6ft long beech staff topped with another pair of antlers.
"As you can see, we're not the archetypal devil-worshipping sect you see in films," he says cheerily.
"We're just normal people.
Er, OK. Though to be fair, the pair of them are blending in rather better than I, in anorak, bobble hat and wellies. Because, as far as the eye can see there are thousands upon thousands of druids, witches, hippies, students, drunken louts, tourists and hundreds of weary looking police, all lurching about in billowing clouds of cannabis smoke.
Here comes the sun: Jane Fryer (in the bobble hat) catches the mood of the Solstice celebrations at Stonehenge
Welcome to Stonehenge and the annual New Age get-together to welcome in the Summer Solstice - the moment at which the sun strays farthest north from the equator, creating the longest day of our year.
And while for most of the 24,000-strong crowd, staying up all night to see the sun rise is a top excuse for a party, for the druids it's one of the most important nights of the year.
They're certainly out in force - drumming, chanting, singing, reciting poetry, comparing staffs, milling about in the incense and drizzle and chuntering about all the imposters.
"It's all getting a bit mainstream," says Melkin, (otherwise known as Chris Walsh, 44, and an antiques dealer from Weymouth) - a lot of party people have popped in on their way to Glastonbury.
"For us, it's different. Paganism is our religion and Stonehenge is the temple where we worship. This is serious."
It certainly is. Hence the massive police presence, the raft of rules - no glass, no camping, no climbing over the massive 50-ton monoliths, no fires, no dogs and no disorderly behaviour.
Things started gently with a sunset ceremony among the stones - more chanting, drums and odes to the sun, earth, air, fire... you name it.
But in the 31/2 hours since, not much has happened - it's become dark, cold, started spotting with rain and a lot of people have taken a lot of drugs, banged lots of drums and tried to clamber on the stones.
Stonehenge as it appears on more peaceful occasions
Druids are mad for the stones. They rattle on and on about their "energy," "the DNA of past generations" and give a lot of very earnest chat about their cosmic value and how important they are to their members. Because it turns out there's a whole druid world out there.
There are more than 9,000 British druids, countless cults and covens, and even an official Council of British Druid Orders. Traditionally, they are shy, retiring creatures who hide away in dark woods and copses, but the Dolmen Grove are having none of it.
"Our moots [meetings] have changed with the times," says Melkin/Chris proudly. "They used to be in the middle of a wood, but now they're more likely to be down the pub."
And while there's no getting round the fact they look weird, they're terribly friendly.
"Hello and welcome... now you must come and meet King Arthur..." says Susannah, a handsome battle chieftain in the Loyal Arthurian Warband, otherwise known as Mrs Laford, a 62-year-old grandmother and occasional film extra and charity shop worker from London.
"It's all down to him that we're here today. He made it his mission to free up Stonehenge again for its people and he's done that."
King Arthur - isn't he dead? "Oh no!' she says, flower crown nearly falling off. 'Remember the myth of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table - they're not dead, just resting, ready to rise up when they're needed."
But it turns out that King Arthur - an ex-soldier, ex-builder, ex-Hell's Angel and ex-political protester who changed his name by deed poll in 1976 - is unlikely to rise up to anyone's assistance right this second.
"He was last seen sleeping in the car park after a session in the pub," chips in a passing pagan.
Next, I head off for a coffee and a chat with Taloch (aka Tony Jameson, 50, a musician from Anglesey - apparently, a huge druid stronghold) and his druid daughter Keri, 27.
"The difference between druids and witches," he explains, adjusting his antlers, "is that anyone can become a druid. But witches are born into it, with a special gift."
Are there any witches round here? "You're looking right at one, ha ha!" Oh goodness. And the special gift? "I know what's going to happen next, in the long and short term."
Such as? "I can't give examples," he says quickly. "It doesn't work like that."
And just then, a bleary teenager lurches over. "Hey, mate - yes you, Stagman. Where can I get some LSD? You look like you'd know."
"No idea," he snaps. By 4am, it's drizzling hard. But as hundreds of people leave, too wet and cold to bother with a washedout dawn, thousands more arrive, with children and grannies in wheelchairs and carrying cases of lager.
Sunrise is at 4.51am and finally, half an hour before, it's time for the predawn ceremony.
The stone circle is jammed with drunk and stoned revellers, so the druids and hangers-on - led by Rollo Maughfling, the Elder Arch Druid of Stonehenge - gather in a circle by a huge Heelstone, away to one side, to start the rites.
Rollo, in white robes, red scarf, long white beard, about four teeth and a grubby straw Fedora, leads the chant as the drums start up again.
"May there be peace in the East... May there be peace in the South... May there be peace in the West and peace throughout the world. We are the ancient Stonehenge choir, so sing after me... aye, aye, aye..." So we do. Just as King Arthur Uther Pendragon staggers over - sword in one hand, warm can of Stella in the other and white robes looking rather worse for wear. "I'm a warrior," he shouts. "I'm a chaos magician. I'm King Arthur."
"And you're totally p*ssed, mate," shouts someone from the crowd.
He's certainly very chatty. "I've got loads of children - I've no idea how many - and all by different women. The King's a bit of a tart, you see. I've more than one wife, so if you fancy a bit, darling, you're welcome to join my harem - particularly as you're a Stonehenge virgin," he growls, pulling me tight and making a great show of pretending to grab my right breast.
Back in the shadow of the Heelstone, the rites continue.
Next up, it's Victoria Marsden, a very tanned 56-year-old druid/ property developer from Glastonbury with an impressive cleavage who blesses a metal cauldron full of flowers - "Hail to the spirit of Aquarius".
And then it's Taloch/Tony's big moment to bang his drum and yell something about the gods of water, air, fire and earth. "Sun god, give me your aura."
"Give me your coat, more like - I'm bloody freezing," quips someone.
And now, just as I think I'm going to pass out from cold and tiredness, it's the big moment - 4.51am.
"Lift up thy shining spear of light to protect us," we chant. "Three cheers for the summer solstice."
Everyone cheers, shouts and jumps around. And we scour the grey sky for even a hint of sun.
"Look, look ... there's a bit of pink cloud up there."
Where? "Too late, you've missed it. Never mind. Last year, it was much worse. It was pouring and we couldn't see anything. Next year'll be better."
Maybe, but as we tramp back across the fields, picking our way over a carpet of beer cans, prostrate couples and discarded duvets, I know I'll not be here to find out. For me, welcoming in the summer solstice is most certainly a once in a lifetime experience.
dailymail.co.uk