No, I'm not implying that my derriere is somehow imbued with spiritual powers, although I know some ex girlfriends who believe that to be true (there was also a guy at Bournemouth Uni who decided, anyway, lets just say that love remained unrequited...) No what I'm referring to is that I went over to help police the summer solstice at Stonehenge earlier this month.

Basically I spent a few hours driving round the henge landscape getting the odd crusty to put out their fires and picking up litter. Solstice used to be a spiritual occasion at the henge, this year? Well, lets just say it's now more like a chaotic music festival, without the music. The area is now so full of beered up jeering chavs that there is no silent majesty as the sun turns up, just a special brew infused roar. English Heritage are their own worst enemies in this, as they've made it so well organised now, with floodlights and marshalls and the trappings of 'safe' modern society. The net result, the stones have about as much spirituality and dignity left as the solstice park KFC car park on a sunday afternoon, that is to say nada, 何も, zip, rien, ничего. Nothing but the piles and piles of rubbish littering the ground once all the vauxhall corsas have moved on taking their burberry clad drivers, complete with 'pumping' sound systems, home. Like the rest of the year, I'm amazed by just how diminished the stones are, English Hieritage's cash cow, let's face it, what's in it for them to make changes to the visitor facilities Etc? They don't want to reduce the number of people who go there or make access more difficult, it would loose them a fortune.



The countryside is starting to turn, colours becoming slightly browner. Nothing noticeable unless you really look, but the beginnings of the move into summer clothing for fields. The wild meadow at Bullbridge, full of meadow sweet, is almost ready for it's haircut. The Nadder, as it always does at this time of year is really coming into it's own now. High vegetation but if you can cope with the nettles, himalayan balsam and giant hogweed (yup, that's what I said, 8' high triffids with poisonous sap! perfect!)

Sometimes you take a step back, or at least I do, and realise that there are some experiences in life that money doesn't buy. I don't mean the obvious gushy things, but sometimes, just sometimes, you encounter something in your day to day life that makes you take that step back. Something that touches you in some way. The beauty of these encounters is that they are different for everyone, it's one of the things that makes us individuals and interesting.

I remember a few years back going to do some contaminated land testing at a closed down steelworks in Sheffield. Walking into the factory caused an immediate reaction to me, it was pure living industrial archaeology. The dartboard still had scores written in chalk, a tea mug still sat on the window sill. The workers had simply been forced to down tools one day and they left and closed the doors behind them.

Well, today I had a similar experience (although totally different if that makes any sense at all). I went over to West Dorset to look at Bottleknapp cottage with a view to installing a ground source heat pump instead of oil or lpg. Well anyway, the cottage was lovely as one would expect given it's age and location in the world.





What set it apart in my mind was when I opened a cupboard door to find messages from a succession of artists who had lived at the property. As far as I could see they traced a period of time covering 1956 through to January 2008. It seems quite silly when looking at the pictures, but these simple and often unreadable messages really gave me a ghostly touch of the people who had shared this house. Most of these would never have met and some of whom are long gone, but the cottage in it's isolated splendor remained. A flint and thatch thread connecting people across generations.

Like the days I get to spend on the rivers that haunt my dreams it's moments like this that will fill my life's story. Unforgettable snapshot moments, like pictures indelibly etched in my often over-full brain.













These things, not a fancy oil painting or tapestry; To me, they're the real gems. The human fingerprints that are all too easily lost.