Chapter 7

Stonehenge

Every human being carries a myth. It is more than a story, it is more than a fiction, it is the sense of self-identity. It is who we are. It is culture. Without the myth we cannot live. We cannot explain ourselves. The myth is the living culture within us.

In the old times, the myth centred on place: on specific places. The myth made up stories about those places. The places drew people to them. The people were entranced by those places. They gathered. They told each other stories. They span webs of enchantment to explain themselves to each other. It was the places that told the stories. They were the enchanted places, the holy places. The people were made holy by them.

Arthur's story, of course, is that he is Arthur. It is a good story. It is a story of high adventure, connected to certain places, like the old stories. It was told to him in a squat in Farnborough, and then again at Stonehenge, and near Glastonbury in an apple orchard, and on top of Glastonbury Tor. Meeting the Druids helped the story to grow stronger.

The old stories told of gods, but the gods were in the places, not separate from the places. They were the voices of the dead talking. They were the voices of the night. The voices of the mists and the rain. The lonely calling of the raven, riding the air. The whispered voices of the forest wind, the willowing laughter of the forest stream. The roar of the waterfall, the tinkling of the spring. The voices spoke to the people where the stories were strong. In the mountains and the high places the voices raged like angry gales. In the vales of peace the voices were the voices of the plants and the animals. The plants and the animals were like the people. They also liked to gather. The people loved them and listened to their stories. The stories told of deeds once achieved and deeds yet to be achieved, of the people's birth and rebirth, of the people's place in the fellowship of being.

The Druids, too, tell themselves stories. They tell themselves stories of the old times. They believe themselves to be the representatives of the old philosophers returned. This is also a good story. It is a story of magic, of science and the arts, of learning and of Nature. The Druids have evolved systems of ritual to express their understanding. The Druid ritual is a way of focusing their belief in the old philosophies, in the old truths, and of their place in the modern world.

The people were resourceful. They were builders. They knew the work of the hands. They could carve, they could paint. They built shelter from the coming winds. They knew when the winds would come from the position of the sun in the heavens, from the position of the stars. The knowledge they had gained was greater than the sum of their individual wisdom. They were listening to the Universe and understanding its workings. It was complex and strange. It was hard to remember all of these things. They devised calendars to remind them of the intricate circling of the heavens, and then built them in stone in the places of legend where the stories began. The buildings were circles. The buildings were temples. They were the temples of the heavens. The buildings contained the myth. The buildings were outside and inside. They were inside the circles of the circling heavens, but outside, in the rain.

Rollo Maughfling, the head of the Glastonbury Order of Druids, who Arthur met for the first time that fateful Beltane morning, has a story too. It is a story about the area where he was brought up, on the peninsular of Land's End, a place known locally as West Penwith, associated in legend with the lost lands of Lyonnesse.

Rollo's story is the story of how he became a Druid. How as a child he was taken to Trencrom, how his father carried him on his shoulders through the bracken and the gorse to where the Cornish Druids would meet, every May Eve, to celebrate Beltane. And how in his wild youth he had met John Michell, literary interpreter of the visionary kingdom, and later Alex Sanders, the famous witch, and became his pupil. And how, later again, he was initiated into the 21 years of training required to become a Druid.

This is a metaphorical statement, of course. There are no Druid colleges anymore. His training was self-administered, and like Arthur, like CJ, he was learning on his feet.

Finally, it is the story of his name. It is a very peculiar name. It is derived, says Rollo, from the Maughlin mountain on the west coast of Ireland, and is the Saxon corruption of the old Irish name, which in the Welsh became 'Myrddin', Norman French 'Merlin'. So Rollo's story and Arthur's story correspond. Rollo is Arthur's Merlin.

Arthur's story grew stronger still, as his and Rollo's story combined.

What Arthur didn't know at the time was that, just as he had been waiting for his Merlin, so Rollo too had been waiting for his Arthur. He'd gone to bed the night before that fateful May Eve actually thinking about the matter. Thinking, in fact, that the whole movement to restore access to Stonehenge needed an Arthur as well as a Merlin. And then, the following day, there was a phone call and a cheery voice said, 'Hello, my name's King Arthur!'

Meeting the Druids had a catalytic effect on Arthur. It wasn't only the fact of Rollo's history or his name. It was being accepted by members of an alternative establishment. It was having backing from some source other than his own. The Druids had established themselves over more than two centuries. They had become something of a tourist attraction at Stonehenge, until the banning of the festival, and then the suppression of their own ceremonies in succeeding years. They too were incensed by the lack of access. They were well-known and had at least a degree of official backing. There was an organisation with its own rules, its own procedures. Arthur knew instinctively that he could work with them; or, if not with them exactly, at least around them.

Historically, for the most part they were dilettante antiquarians looking for an alternative to the customs and mores of the Christian Church. Their roots were in the 18th century. They were quaint and eccentric and decidedly from the upper crust – Rollo himself has a distinguished lineage. But they shared Arthur's concerns about the state of the Islands. Their fervent patriotism – like Arthur's – was inclusive, not exclusive. It was welcoming of other cultures and other stories. They too were searching for another kind of Britain than the one that was currently on offer, another kind of myth.

Later, a new Druid type emerged. They were veterans of the old Stonehenge festival who, much like the bikers, had become entranced by presence of the stones and influenced by them. They were recreating the Druid myth in a new form as an extension of the pagan and traveller movement. They saw themselves as revivalists of the ancient Nature religion of these islands, as Pagan Priests, with a pagan congregation, in the biker and traveller movements.

This was where Rollo came in. Rollo is one of the rock'n'roll Druids, influenced by the festivals.

And isn't there a mystery here, that these old piles of stones can have such an effect? That their message – whatever it is – has carried down the ages, inspiring new generations to join the chorus? They speak of something that went before, before the time of ignorance and stupidity, when the people were like holy scientists, observing the immeasurable Universe with diligence and care, while feeling its immense love for them, as a Mother loves her children. The stones speak of a time, long before history, when the people knew their place in the Universe, not as the centre, but as parts of a greater whole, circling in the circles of the heavens like the eternal stars.

And the people looked to the heavens from beneath the encircling moon. They read the stars and knew them. They understood the heavens by their motion. They devised systems. They knew measure and they knew number. They watched the stars in their eternal course and measured their regulatory flow. They saw the ebb and flow of the Universe. They heard the music of the spheres.

All of this knowledge is writ in stone in the ancient monument we know as Stonehenge.

Arthur was still living in the caravan in the apple orchard in Langport at this time and, true to his restless nature, he began a new round of recruitment in another pub. It was called the Rose and Crown, more popularly known as 'Eli's' after a former landlord. The new band were the regulars at the pub, mainly artisans in the local community. It was there he met a jeweller who made his iron circlet (for strength) and a saddler who made him a new leather scabbard, replete with a copy of the cross supposedly found above Arthur's grave in Glastonbury. The old scabbard was burned and, with due ceremony, its ashes placed inside the new one.

Meanwhile, Rollo had been negotiating with English Heritage (a government organisation charged with the preservation of heritage buildings) about access to Stonehenge for all members of the public for the autumn equinox ceremony in September that year. He invited Arthur and the Warband along to act as stewards. English Heritage (or 'English Heretics', as Arthur liked to call them) were being evasive. They wouldn't give a straight, 'yes' to the prospect, but they wouldn't give a simple 'no' either. They were dangling the Druids on a string. It was always 'maybe next time …' But it never was. Consequently, Arthur and the Druids arrived at Stonehenge for the equinox, only to find that everyone was being denied admittance.

This was also to be the first official gathering of the entire Warband, Arthur having called them together for the occasion.

The rituals are always carried out at dawn. People arrive the night before, or during the night, and park up in the droves near the monument, where they while the time away, drinking and chatting or warming themselves by their wood-burning stoves, much as the Old People would have done. It was the same this night. Arthur arrived and Rollo introduced him to another Druid, Tim Sebastian, Archdruid of the Secular Order of Druids. Tim was an old rock and roller, who had been in a 70s concept band called Gryphon and who had also, like Arthur, attended many of the festivals. In fact, Tim remembered Arthur from his pre-Arthur days as John the Hat, roaring out of one particular festival at the head of a huge V-formation of bikes. It was at Stonehenge-in-exile at Westbury, near the Westbury White Horse, the same year as the Battle of the Beanfield. It was a memorable sight. They were like the barbarian hordes, Tim thought. Arthur told him that, in fact, they had been arrested and that John was leading them off site in a dignified retreat.

It was a misty, damp, cold September dawn when they tried to get access to the stones. Of course, they were denied. Some of them leapt the fence, using the Hele Stone as cover, and gathered inside the stones. Later, some of those inside the fence joined hands with those outside. They formed a circle around the Hele Stone, over which the sun rises on Summer Solstice, holding hands through the fence and chanting and, according to Arthur, the fence disappeared. Not metaphorically: actually. By collective will they made the fence disappear. After that they were evicted from the site and everyone went their separate ways. It was a minor symbolic victory.

But to Arthur it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. There was a new fire burning within him. He was incensed at their treatment by English Heritage. Incensed at the lack of access. Incensed by their summary dismissal, as if they were nothing, as if their views didn't count. This was their monument, their temple. It belonged to the people of Britain – to the stars, to the Earth – not to some unaccountable government body whose only motivation was to fleece the tourists and make money. And what else was it for if not to remind us of our heritage, to remind us of our past, to give shape to our thoughts, as a focal point in history? What other purpose could it possibly serve, if not as a gathering point at these sacred times of the year, to mark off the seasons in their turning, to remind us of who we are?

Who made these stones? Who put them here? Whose art put them together? Whose observations of the stars laid them out in this exact formation? Whose labour brought them across such immense distances? Whose skill, whose knowledge, whose intelligence? Whose mind was it that could conceive and execute such a task?

Was it English Heritage? Or the British Government?

Who were we back then, when Stonehenge was built? How did we dress? What were our customs and our laws? To which gods and goddesses did we pray? What were our industries? Did we make art? Did we sing? Did we dance? Did we celebrate our lives in poetry and prayer? Were we generous to our neighbours? Did we wake at dawn to the thrilling of the lark? Did our hearts thrill too and rise singing into the air? Did we embrace our friends when we saw them? Did we drink a toast to those we had lost and invite them to our memories? Did we call upon the ancestors to commune with us? Did we share our thoughts? Did we share our dreams? Did we share our food? Did we share our lives with the whole of creation? Did we laugh loudly at our own jokes? Did we love our folk with fierce intensity? Did we call down the stars in our ecstasy? Did we stand firm in the heat of battle? Did we love our children and teach them? Did we love the chase and the hunt? Did we train the hawk and the dog? Did our hearts too chase laughing after them across the wild, restless plain? And in the forest and the glade, would we momentarily stop in our travels to give thanks to the Earth that made us, for our lives, for our souls, for our bones and for our blood? Were we rich then or were we poor? Were we free people or slaves? Did we read the stars and name them? Did we explore the alchemy of thought in the temple of the sky? Did we align the monuments in the sacred landscape to give substance to our dreams?

How many days have gone by since this monument was raised? How many nights has it stood here, on this dark plain, contemplating our ways? The stones are our grandfathers. They belong to no one or they belong to everyone. No one has the right to claim them as their own.

So, King Arthur had his cause at last. He had a battle worthy of his name. He was going to free the stones for the Druids and the free people of the Earth. He was going to gain complete public access for the quarterly festivals for which these stones had been laid. He was going to institute public ceremony here again for everyone to enjoy.

He had a cat-in-hell's chance. He was taking on the full might of the British Establishment, the Law, the Police, the Judiciary, the Government, the wealthy landowners of Wiltshire.

He decided to put his trust in the goddess and come out fighting.

He set up what has since become called 'the Stonehenge Picket'.

He moved out of the caravan, giving up his job and all hope of an income, and with his brother-in-law Chesh's help, set up a camp about two miles from Stonehenge in a small wood. The camp consisted of a tarpaulin draped over a hollow formed by a fallen tree, with a hammock slung between the roots of the tree and the trunk of a living one. That was it. His new home.

When we say that he was putting his trust in the goddess, it is meant to be taken literally. He'd left the caravan in the same way he'd left his home and his mortgage in a previous existence: just as it was, with cups and saucers and plates and books, a radio and a TV, with food in the cupboard and milk in the fridge, with the remains of his last night's washing up in the sink, with a dustpan full of dust, a half-empty sugar bowl and a half-full ashtray. He had no money, no cigarettes, no food. He refused to take any money from the State. And every day he would walk over to Stonehenge and stand outside the entrance to the tunnel with a picture frame in which was written, 'Don't Pay, Walk Away.' He was encouraging people to view the monument from the road rather than pay English Heritage for the privilege of being allowed entry and then being herded around like a flock of sheep, with the monument roped-off at a respectable distance. He was doing this on behalf of the Council of British Druid Orders, the Arthurian Warband and the Free Peoples of Britain. And he stood there, day after day, week-in week-out, through rains, through mists, through the lonely, cold winter, stubborn as a rock, like one of the stones in the monument, impenetrable, inert, his mind solidly fixed upon the goal. That was his life. Rising damp and cold in the morning mist, and falling from his hammock. Wrapping his cloak around him. Strapping on Excalibur. Placing the heavy iron circlet like a cold weight upon his brow. Breakfasting on stale bread left over from the day before, and rainwater from the roof. Walking to Stonehenge and just standing there. He asked nothing. He refused nothing. People would offer him sandwiches or the occasional cup of coffee and he would accept them. People would ask to be photographed beside him and he would allow it. He would answer questions when asked. But he didn't impose himself, nor shout slogans. He just stood. And then, in the evening, once the monument had been closed, he would trudge his way back to his little camp and light a fire in the spluttering fire bucket in an attempt to dry out his clothes, dodging the swirls of abrasive smoke which eddied and plumed in the heavy air, listening to the patter of rain on the tarpaulin, before falling into his hammock, exhausted, to sleep.

It was a dismal, wet winter that year. It rained and it rained. And Arthur stood his stubborn ground, a carved sentinel, proud and immobile, full of concentrated effort, spurning the elements. The lady in the English Heritage café took a shine to him and would bring him cups of hot, sweet coffee to keep his embattled spirits alive. Until English Heritage warned her off, that is, and told her to stop giving him sustenance. She ignored them, of course, and Arthur always got his cup of coffee, no matter what English Heritage thought. And occasionally people would visit him from Farnborough or Glastonbury and bring him presents of candles and cigarettes, and while away an hour or two with him, bringing him the news or the latest gossip before leaving him for the comfort of their own fireside. And he stood, like a guard, to attention, through the blistering winds, bringing stinging sprays of rain like hard sharp darts across the bitter plain. And he stood, this foolish man, with a heart so fierce it raged against the elements and all that they could throw at him.

What chance did English Heritage have against such resolve? Those cosseted people in their central-heated offices, with their paper work and their plans, with their tidy minds and their tidy lifestyles, who thought that when Stonehenge had been given to the Nation, it meant that it had been given to them.

They threatened to take out an injunction against him, to remove him from their property.

In order to deliver the message, they sent someone down from head office in London. It was Brian K Davidson, Chief Archaeologist West Country. He told Arthur that he'd earned the nickname Mordred for his role. He had a deal to offer Arthur. He told him that English Heritage would let him use one of their castles – Tintagel was mentioned – if Arthur would only leave Stonehenge, but that if he refused they were going to take out an injunction against him. Arthur didn't have to think. He rejected their offer.

Afterwards, he blagged a lift as far as Farnborough on Brian's journey back to London and on the way they had an interesting discussion. In later years, after his retirement, Brian was seen at an Avebury ritual, and in 1999 his immediate supervisor at the time was also seen being dragged out of Stonehenge by the police. Arthur says it illustrates how grey battle lines are when they're drawn, and it goes to show what he always says: there's no them and us, they are only us who don't know it yet.

Arthur told Brian to pass the message on: that if he were moved he would merely continue his vigil by the roadside.

They dropped the injunction.

And so it went. Days, weeks, months. Rains, mists, hail and snow. Damp mornings and cold evenings. The sizzling of the fire, the spluttering of the candle. The moon in the trees. The raven's caw. The icy winds blowing. The branches of the trees creaking like aching bones in the night.

Occasionally, friends would arrive and 'Kingnap' him, taking him to Farnborough or Glastonbury for the evening, for a meal and a bath and the stinging taste of cider.

Once, an American ticket tout for the Grateful Dead drove him 50 miles to Farnborough for a good night's sleep, and then the 50 miles back again in the morning so he could continue with his picket.

And then there was Arthur's first appearance in the press during this time, in the Salisbury Journal, 1990:

ARTHUR MAKES A POINTED PROTEST

ran the headline. Followed by:

A colourful protester claiming to be a reincarnated knight of King Arthur's Round Table has mounted a one man picket at Stonehenge.

Arthur Pendragon left his job as a builder to start his peaceful protest outside the entrance to the ancient monument on Friday.

'I will stay here for ever and ever until they open the Stones for the Equinoxes and Solstices,' he declared.

Dressed in robes and standing beside his own version of the Sword of Excalibur he passes the time shouting, 'Don't pay, go away', at bemused tourists.

'They shouldn't pay because the Stones should be free. Their money just lines the coffers of English Heritage,' he told the Journal.

Arthur is one of 150 biker Knights from the Arthurian Warband, who believe they once served the legendry King Arthur.

'It is not just my protest. I am also representing the Grand Council of British Druid Orders and the common people who want free access to the Stones for worship', he said.

Archdruid from Glastonbury Abbey, Rollo Maughfling, helped Arthur on his first day by talking to tourists and collecting signatures for a petition.

On one occasion, someone gave him a five-pound note saying, 'Get yourself a drink.' He resolved to do just that. So bedraggled, sworded, robed and wet, he walked into Amesbury, the nearest town, and entered the first drinking establishment en route. It was a British Legion Club.

The doorman looked at him slightly puzzled, wondering who on earth this wild creature could be. 'Sorry mate: members only,' he said.

'I thought the British Legion was set up for ex-service men?' said Arthur.

'That's right,' the doorman said.

'Private 24341883 Rothwell, 1 st Battalion Royal Hampshire Regiment!' he barked in reply, standing to attention and giving a sharp salute. He was asked to wait there.

The doorman returned with the Chairman, who looked Arthur over, laughing, and said, 'Well, as one infantryman to another, I'll sign you in as my guest.'

So, Arthur entered the British Legion Club and went to the bar for a drink. There was already a drink waiting for him. He poured that down his throat in greedy gulps (how long was it since his last drink?) while people gathered around, asking questions. He was already a celebrity after the Salisbury Journal article and other articles in the local press. Everyone wanted to know him.

'So you're King Arthur are you?'

'Well, I think so.'

'So what makes you think you're King Arthur?'

And he'd tell them the story.

Someone took his cloak and hung it over the radiator to dry and, before he'd finished his first pint, there was another waiting for him.

Someone came up to him. 'Are you hungry?' he said.

'Er … Just a little bit,' said Arthur, understating his case by at least three miles.

And they sent out for fish and chips.

It was his first hot meal in more than a month.

And they kept plying him with drinks and questions, with ribald commentary and laughs, with comments on his dress and support for his stance, with observations about Stonehenge and about the Druids (who, they said, they'd been welcoming to this town for many years), with memories of the festival, both good and bad (the off-license did very well, they said, while the supermarket suffered some losses), and of the police presence in the town (it was in a state of siege over the solstice period, they said, people could hardly get in and out of their own homes), with complaints about civvy life and fond reminiscences about army life, and it was all that Arthur could do to spend his five pounds. He made his way, zigzagging through the night at closing time, back to his little camp, where he flopped into his hammock, weary, drunk, but proud.

Even in the midst of battle there are times of great joy. Indeed, in the midst of battle the joy is seen for what it is – sheer normality, the ordinariness of everyday existence – and is all the more poignant, more special, more memorable for that.

But this was a strange kind of battle: one befitting the superficiality of 20 th-century life. There he was, day after day, positioned before the turnstiles at English Heritage's entrance to the site, and his main activity, aside from stamping his feet to keep out the cold, was to pose for photographs. He must have had a thousand photographs taken while he was there, either of just himself or posed with the family of the Japanese tourists – who had absolutely no idea of who he was or why he was there. Most of them thought he'd been provided by English Heritage for this precise purpose: to be photographed. He was like one of the guardsmen in front of Buckingham Palace: a little bit of quaint English colour in the midst of the grey English landscape. And all over the world there are photographs of King Arthur in family albums. King Arthur leaning on his staff. King Arthur smiling broadly surrounded by diminutive Japanese teenagers. King Arthur with the head of the household, looking suitably heroic. King Arthur holding up his placard saying, 'Don't Pay, Walk Away.' King Arthur brandishing Excalibur. King Arthur, the legend. King Arthur, the man. King Arthur, the myth made real.

And in every photograph there was a raven too, as there was always one perched on the fence behind him, giving the photographer the evil eye.

In this time, Arthur came down from his running weight to under 10 stone. He remained at his vigil from September 1990 till the middle of January 1991. While he was there, Margaret Thatcher fled from office in a welter of tears to be replaced by John Major, Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and Britain fought a war. In the end, a friend of his sister decided that he had had enough and that he should come home with her to Farnborough and commute the distance to the picket. In order to do this he had to ask permission of the Hampshire Constabulary to carry Excalibur to and fro between Stonehenge and Farnborough. Permission was duly granted in the form of a letter which Arthur carries to this day (as he does a number of letters from other Constabularies, obtained in succeeding years, also giving him specific permission to travel with Excalibur across specific counties to specific destinations).

So it was that the Stonehenge picket ground to an unsteady halt. There were other more pressing matters to command his attention.

However, this was not the end of the battle for Stonehenge. Only another 10 years to go to complete that quest.

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