The Rollright Experience

"As Long Compton thou canst not see, King of England thou shalt not be. Rise up stick and stand still stone, For King of England thou shalt be none. Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be, And I myself an eldern tree." So, there's this eight foot standing stone near the top of a rise, and an elder tree looking suitably witchy, and, on the other side of the road, a circle of stoned squaddies.

The Victorians added a few garnishes to the tale. The stones are said to go down-hill to drink from a brook at midnight on New Year's Eve; the King and his soldiers only sleep, to re-awaken in England's hour of need; the stones resist being moved, and curse those who try; the stones of the circle can never be counted, not to the same total twice. A fairly disappointing collection of tales, mostly borrowed from other sites, in other parts of the country. Stones is Stones.

If that was all there was to Rollright, then it wouldn't have been worth the trip. The inventions of tale-tellers can often give meaning to the meaningless, but in this case, they have missed the obvious. The "King's" Stone is North-East of the "King's Men", aligned so as to mark that point on the horizon where the midsummer sun rises. The Earth has moved since then, but it's still near enough. Not many years ago, it would have been thought incredible that such primitive people could have managed any astronomical precision, but thinking has moved, too. Monuments from all over the world have been 'decoded', admittedly with variable credibility. (In all fairness, I must say that the case for an astronomical explanation for the Rollrights is extremely tenuous, but, work with me...)

At Rollright, the stones align to midsummer sunrise; no question. This elaborate sundial was built so that it only had any purpose for one short moment in the year. Beaker production would cease, and the populace would gather for a communal celebration of the longest day. The priests would probably point out, smugly, that they'd got it right again, what would you do without us. And everyone else would have a picnic.

There may have been the odd human sacrifice or so in the last four thousand years, but fashions come and go. More appealing was the practice of barren women to go to the King's Stone, and press their bare nipples against it, whether for a remedy, or for the sheer thrill of it, is not clear.

The male ritual was a bit more predictable. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it became the done thing to have a piece of the King's Stone, to take off to war as a lucky charm, and it was this chipping which created that cavity we see today. So it was sculpted, after all.

I attended the Rollright Stones one midsummer night (purely for research, you understand), and the arrangements were probably more typical. Some two hundred people gathered late on the previous evening. During the short night, campfires flickered around the stone circle, each fire defining its own circle - of people anticipating a coming event with more than the usual degree of certainty. They're mostly young, idealistic, nice. They're mostly roughly-dressed, often half-dressed; known as hippies, travellers, threats to civilisation as we know it. They chat and laugh. They play musical instruments. Some take it very seriously; one stood in the centre of the circle all night, re-charging his crystal.

A fair proportion of those present belong to the broadly-based New Age community; holistic medicine, self-discovery, Green politics - people who would as soon believe in witches as not. Strangely, no one seemed to be afraid of being petrified by that elder tree. The truth is, most of them were stoned already.

As the sky lightened, we made our way across the road and stood on the mound which shafted the king behind us. We stood and stomped against the pre-dawn chill, eyes fixed on the North-Eastern horizon, until liquid red leaked past a distant cloudbank, at 4.42 a.m. British Summer Time. There were no formal rituals, just a few individual salaams to the life-giver.

By five o'clock, it was full daylight, and the congregation was already drifting away, to make the best use possible of the following sixteen and half hours, bearing in mind that most had had no sleep last night.

The owner of the Rollright land had agreed to allow this gathering, somewhat nervously, on condition that the revellers left by 5 a.m.

When that time came, the owner (a formidable looking lady) started to hustle us through the gate. But a small band resolutely refused to leave - until they had picked up every last scrap of litter. When they did leave, the stone circle looked as though no-one had ever been there.

The next time I went to the Rollright Stones, my car was broken into - in broad daylight. Not a hippy in sight - it was, almost certainly, locals. Apparently, this is becoming an increasing problem. Enthusiasts park their cars and tromp across several fields to gaze upon some megalithic monument. When they get back, their cars have been invaded

Take care. You'll meet lots of awfully nice people at megaliths, but remember that there may be barbarians lurking in the hedgerow.

This mid-summer ceremony, or anti-ceremony, has happened here nearly every year for at least four thousand years. It has outlived a hundred gods, and makes "The Mousetrap" look like a commercial break.

In 1997 the owners of the Rollright Stones put them up for sale. There was an immediate panic amongst those who loved the Stones - either for their archaeological value, or for their legendary associations. There were fears (on one side) that some property tycoon would turn these stones into a Heritage Opportunity, and (on the other) that some bunch of wierdos would snap up the place for a temple for unspeakable rites (there is evidence that various rituals - some murkier than others - are carried out at the Stones).

In the end, the matter was resolved satisfactorily (with a few ruffled feathers still unsmoothed).

The Stones are now controlled by The Friends of the Rollright Stones - with the backing of sympathetic City backers.

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