The Secret of Gun Control in Britain

Many others have been voicing their opinions on gun control in light of the latest massacre in America, so as it’s an emotive subject, I feel driven to say my piece on the matter. Before I’ve even started, though, I can see visitors to this post in six months time, say, scratching their heads and wondering precisely which shooting massacre in America I’m referring to, as such events have long become routine in the USA and will certainly continue to be so, long after I’ve written and published this post.

It becomes increasingly hard to remember the details of these shootings, as they all seem to blend into one with the passing of time, with only Las Vegas, Orlando, Charleston and Sandy Hook, out of a decades-long roll call of mass murder, remaining at all clear in the memory, by virtue of their sheer awfulness and the savage new depths the gunmen responsible for each atrocity managed to plumb.

So, whenever this vile subject comes up, my mind goes back to August 2002, when I was working in a busy Finds department at Wessex Archaeology, in Wiltshire. The end of the summer was overshadowed by the murders in Soham of two schoolgirls each aged 10, named Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman, at the hands of a local degenerate by the name of Ian Huntley, who was swiftly caught and charged.

Without trying to reconstruct the conversation in question, there came a day when a few of my friends and colleagues expressed some surprise or confusion on account of my reaction to the terrible events in Soham, which principally consisted of wishing that the guilty parties could be slowly hanged, drawn and quartered in public. My friends weren’t being remotely disingenuous in asking me why I was so angry, but because I was one of only two people working in the room that was a parent, it was simply a fact that with the best will in the world, the others couldn’t truly comprehend the raw emotions involved.

That was until the other parent in the room that day, a friend and colleague of mine named Angi, noticed that I was at a rare loss for words, so she simply announced that when you’re a parent, you would die to protect your kids. The vast majority of those who were present understand these matters perfectly now, as many of them have since gone on to become happy mums and dads themselves, but at the time when these harrowing discussions and exchanges were taking place, they were not in a position to fully grasp the depth of feeling involved when the subject of the murder of children comes up.

These emotions had arguably reached a peak about 8 years before, in March 1996, when a monster shot and killed 16 young children and one of their teachers in the town of Dunblane, in Scotland. My son was still a baby at the time and I felt physically sick when I saw the news reports of this appalling event, so it’s merely stating the obvious to say that I would have gladly given my life to save him from ever experiencing such a fate, while it’s equally safe to assume that I would have been just one of millions of parents here in Britain who thought along exactly the same lines.

Any notions of self-sacrifice were unnecessary, however, because without going into the minutiae of the legal proceedings that followed the massacre in Dunblane, all handguns apart from muzzle-loading and historic weapons were banned. We’ve had no school shootings since then, whereas America has had at least 18 school shootings so far this year, as I write this. I have friends in the police and in the armed forces, who by necessity deal with firearms as part of their duties, but I have never met a single person in my life here in Britain who yearns for public ownership of guns. I’ve met some farmers who own shotguns, while there’s a shooting lobby in this country who go in for killing wildlife as a recreation on the weekends, but no one I’ve ever met thinks that the standard and quality of life here in Great Britain would be improved one iota by mass gun ownership.

And so it is that I found myself watching the terrible videos on this BBC report with utter bemusement. I feel sorry for all the survivors and desperately sad for the father who lost his daughter, but what can I possibly say in response to this poor man’s agonised exclamation of “It should’ve been one school shooting and we should’ve fixed it”, other than “I could not agree more”?

Over recent years, I’ve read all the arguments put forward by the National Rifle Association, survivalists, supporters of the Second Amendment, responsible gun owners, patriots and the rest of the ‘guns and freedom’ obsessed crew. There is a gulf between their way of thinking and mine that will never, ever be bridged, while the strangest aspect of all is that so many of these people declare they will only give up their precious guns when they’re taken from their cold, dead hands, whereas I and many millions like me here in Britain would die – if necessary – to prevent guns being used against our precious children.

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Ghost Finder – Half a Century of Hauntings

A few weeks ago, a chance conversation with a friend of mine somehow reminded me of a fearful, otherworldly encounter that I experienced when I was about eight years old, around half a century ago in an unremarkable house in south Wales. The memory of this awful thing that visited me in the night still makes me shudder when I recall it as a grown man,  then last week, I found myself on Dartmoor, so I inevitably made my way to Postbridge once again – pictured above – as this stretch of road was home to a bizarre and lethal haunting that’s fascinated me for decades.

And so it was surely inevitable that I should cast my mind back to all those strange events that I’ve witnessed and been part of over the course of fifty years, between my stay in the house in Usk and my pilgrimage to  the road in Postbridge, during which time I’ve made a conscious effort to seek out myriad places that are allegedly haunted, both in Britain and sometimes abroad. These experiences have always proved so intoxicating that I’ve additionally sought out places that possess a notable atmosphere or aura, whether they be natural features such as pools or woods, or monuments and dwellings fashioned by men over the course of long millennia.

My abiding interest has always been in ghosts, probably because the tales in which these entities appear are invariably so alluring, but also because in Britain at least, it has always been very simple for me to visit an allegedly haunted location, as our small island is liberally scattered with them. There are many books that deal with this kind of thing, but as I’ve always made a point of asking other people about their experiences, I’ve learned of numerous other places that have not, to the best of my knowledge, ever appeared in any guide to supernatural matters, either in hard copy or else online, such as a strange lane here in Devon or a haunted bridge in south Wales, that I was familiar with as a child.

Over the course of the last few decades, I’ve written down many of my experiences, while an attempt I made to put them into the form of a lengthy, detailed book was abruptly halted when I was taken ill in March 2016. After that brush with death, which was averted thanks to an array of surgeons, anaesthetists, doctors, nurses and others, it took me a long while before I could gather my wits around me again or write as I once used to. Now, however, not only do I feel capable of putting together a detailed book describing the otherworldly encounters I’ve had over the years, but I feel positively driven to do so.

I felt that the first step in this process was to go over my archives for material I’ve already written and I’ve been delighted with the results. I discovered a lengthy essay provisionally entitled Is Anybody There? that I wrote a few years ago, on the subject of life after death, so I was pleased to see this again, but I was astonished to recover an account I’d written as far back as December 1995, detailing a visit I’d made to a medium in north London, in the company of yet another medium of my acquaintance. It was intriguing to read such a detailed account so many years later, to be able to examine it as far as any predictions made at the time are concerned, but I have no shortage of such written material.

I’ve written detailed accounts of two manifestations I’ve witnessed while I’ve been sitting in my study at this very desk, at this very laptop, while I’ve also recorded elsewhere the  strange way in which my dog Blueboy, in the last 18 months of his life, would regularly interact with beings that I could not see in my front room by night. But aside from and in addition to hauntings and the mediums that I’ve met over the years, I’ve also met healers, astrologers, palm readers, readers of Tarot cards and readers of auras, if that’s the best way to describe such people.

There may well be yet more documents for me to discover, as I’m hopelessly disorganised as far as computer files are concerned, but at the same time, I’m trying to comprehensively list the subjects I would ideally like to cover in my book. I know from prior experience, when I put together my book the Missing Years of Jesus, that now the idea of a book about a specific subject is firmly fixed in my mind, I’ll have to keep a pen and paper nearby, as memories appear without any warning and I’d hate for them to disappear into the abyss once more without being recorded.

I could continue thinking out loud about these arcane matters for hours, so perhaps I should start up a Facebook page to deal with them, and with the putting together of this book? I don’t usually need any incentive to write, but the discipline of doing what’s expected and providing regular updates on a social media site might jog my memory and spur me to write, so I’ll give it some thought. But finally, for now, even though I have roughly half a century of some passing acquaintance with everything from apports to Zodiac signs to write about, I still harbour many burning ambitions as far as visiting Britain’s mysterious places is concerned, because I’ve by no means seen them all.

For me, the jewel in the crown has to be St Mary’s Church in Bungay in Suffolk, the place where the dreaded Black Shuck went on his memorable rampage on August 4th, 1577, so I intend to visit this incomparable place as soon as I humanly can. I’m not short of sometimes terrifying stories about manifestations I’ve encountered or of notorious places I’ve visited, such as Littlecote House, but as far as these matters are concerned, it is my dearest wish to be able to write at length about my time in Black Shuck country.

Once again, my grateful thanks go to Hannah May Gardiner – actress, researcher, bibliophile and fortunate inhabitant of Bungay – for the photograph above of a gibbous Moon through the gloomy spires of St Mary’s church, Bungay,

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On this, the Anniversary of my Father’s Passing

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A Pilgrimage for Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A few days ago, I drove to the small town of Ottery St Mary, just five miles or so from my secluded home in a quiet, rural part of Devon. I parked close to the outskirts, then made my leisurely way through some winding streets and up a gentle hill to St Mary’s Church and its surrounding graveyard, where I was delighted to see a handsome plaque dedicated to the memory of the great poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, set in the stone wall above the narrow pavement outside that leads to the steps up to the beautiful, sprawling cemetery.

The church itself was old, beautiful and blessed with a serene atmosphere. After reading some of the detailed notices in one of the display cases inside, I was delighted to learn that the building had once served as a stable during the English Civil Wars – a period that has long fascinated me – for a troop of Parliamentarian cavalry. Over the course of decades, although I have little more than a passing interest in the subject of past lives, I’ve sometimes experienced what has turned out to be a vivid recurring dream, in which I find myself seated on a small black horse as a cavalryman for the Roundhead forces.

I’m rarely visited by these particular night visions, as I remember them appearing to me only once every few years or so, but just a few days prior to my visit to Coleridge’s birthplace in Ottery St Mary’s, I had once more relived the spectral lead-up through England’s embattled fields in the seventeenth century, to a violent confrontation with a Royalist cavalryman on the banks of a shallow, winding stream. This vision came back to mind with a rush in the church when I learned of its former use as a stable block, so I found myself experiencing some form of kinship with the long-dead troopers who had once stood where I gazed around me, lost in wonder on account of my surroundings.

When I eventually left the hushed confines of the church, I stood in the gentle, muted rays of a setting autumn sun, pondering the fact that Cromwell and Fairfax had once stayed in a house just a stone’s throw away, planning the further course of the English Civil War. I was able to gaze over the churchyard wall at the spot where the home in which Coleridge had been born had once stood, and then all around me at the churchyard itself, where Coleridge tells us that he played as a child.

For me, it was an almost mystical experience to be able to stand in this wonderful haven for as long as I chose, exulting in my presence in such a place. Back in November 2010, as I have recorded elsewhere on this site, I once spoke about my book The Missing Years of Jesus in the church in London’s Piccadilly where the incomparable William Blake had been christened and I had stood awestruck at the font in which he had been baptised. This was a profoundly gratifying and inspirational experience for me, and I felt similar heady emotions as I contemplated the stunning idea that I was once again sharing the same landscape once occupied by another of England’s literary geniuses.

I have neither the time nor the skill to do justice to Coleridge’s accomplishments, so all I can realistically do for now is to try to pay tribute to him in a way that hints at his greatness. This was the man who composed the tragically unfinished but nonetheless indescribably beautiful poem Kubla Khan. In 1798, Coleridge and his friend the poet William Wordsworth jointly published a book of poems entitled Lyrical Ballads, a work which is generally held to be responsible for the Romantic movement, which numbered such truly towering figures as Blake, Byron, Keats and Shelley, men who produced some of the most sublime and inspirational verse in the English language.

At one point, Coleridge was thought to be surrounding as much as two quarts of laudanum a week, which is no mean feat. Having had a brush with death myself last March, an event from which I have happily recovered, thanks to the kind ministrations of individuals from all over Britain and Europe, I can think of worse ways to leave this life than the manner in which Coleridge met his end, addicted to opium and brandy in the surroundings of London’s Highgate, a place I once knew very well. Furthermore, Thomas Carlyle has left us with this wonderful image of Coleridge in his last years, which furthermore gives us some idea of the status this great man had acquired by then:

“Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill, in those years, looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity of life’s battle … The practical intellects of the world did not much heed him, or carelessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer: but to the rising spirits of the young generation he had this dusky sublime character; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in mystery and enigma; his Dodona oak-grove (Mr. Gilman’s house at Highgate) whispering strange things, uncertain whether oracles or jargon.”

To my way of thinking, this was a fulsome tribute and one that many writers would yearn for, but it’s surpassed in my view by the observation made about Coleridge by William Hazlitt, a man thought by some to be on a par with the likes of Samuel Johnson and George Orwell; writing about Coleridge’s conversation, he said “He [Coleridge] talked on forever; and you wished him to talk on forever”, which in turn puts me in mind of how Dennis Wheatley once bestowed an almost identical accolade on Aleister Crowley.

Finally, for now, Coleridge was the author of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which I read with wide eyes as a child and which I still thrill to half a century later, while few days go by when I don’t find myself murmuring some of the wonderful lines it contains about water, madness or fiends stalking lonely country roads. It’s impossibly difficult to put these words into order of priority of enjoyment, nor could I say that I take greater pleasure from something written by Coleridge than I do from offerings by Blake and Byron, for example, but to my mind, the following verse from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is the supreme expression in English of our relationship with one another and with all the other entities attached to this staggeringly beautiful blue planet on which we find ourselves floating through space:

“He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”

I was quietly reciting these lines to myself as I made my way up the hill towards Coleridge’s birthplace, so you may imagine the sheer delight I experienced when I saw that someone had chosen to adorn Coleridge’s plaque with them, beneath the benign likeness of this incredible man whose writing has brought so much pleasure to the world. And if Fate steers you towards this place, or if you actively choose to seek it out, then I earnestly hope that you enjoy your time there as much as I did.

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The Las Vegas Massacre and the Ghost of Howard Unruh

The only aspect of the late, unlamented Stephen Paddock’s murderous rampage in Las Vegas on October 1st that genuinely surprised me was the fact that an atrocity on this vast scale had not been perpetrated by an American gunman decades before. It could be argued that the frequency and scale of what in the USA are called mass shootings have risen inexorably in recent times, so perhaps an outrage such as the one visited upon many hundreds of innocents in Las Vegas was inevitable, given that the population of America can be measured in the hundreds of millions, as can the amount of guns there.

Nonetheless, it is still a source of mixed wonder and relief to me that many scores have not been killed and hundreds injured in a shooting long before now, and while the Las Vegas gunman’s precise motivation for mass murder remains a mystery as I write this, the words and actions of one of his homicidal predecessors seem to me to be highly illuminating. Before I come to these prophetic words uttered freely by a monster that some would argue was the prototype for Stephen Paddock, I feel I must deal with a curiosity directly related to these slayings that appears with monotonous regularity in the British media.

When addressing the massacre in Las Vegas, we are regularly told that it’s the worst mass shooting in recent American history, but no clues are supplied as to which time frame we should be considering. From what I have seen, the most frequent objection to the idea that the killings in Las Vegas in 2017 or Orlando were the worst “in recent history” has been in the form of the mention of the massacre at Wounded Knee in South Dakota on December 29th 1890, when 150 or possibly twice that number of Lakota Sioux were shot by a detachment of the famed 7th Cavalry, while it should also be pointed out that these soldiers were almost certainly responsible for the deaths of 25 of their own men and for the wounding of 39 others, such was the nature of the madness that erupted that day.

Wounded Knee is well enough known, but it does not take an investigative genius to learn of other episodes of truly shocking violence that are not mentioned as part of recent American history, even though they are closer to us in time than the awful events at Wounded Knee. The confrontation that has come to be known as the Battle of Blair Mountain in West Virginia in 1921 was fought between 3,000 lawmen and strikebreakers on one side, against 10,000 armed coal miners on the other; in the course of less than a week, something in the region of 1,000,000 bullets were apparently fired, while the lawmen even arranged for aircraft to drop bombs on the opposition. This battle eventually came to an end when the US army and air force were sent in to break up the fight and it seems to me a minor miracle that as few as 130 men died in total, given the truly astonishing amount of lead and shrapnel that was flying around for 5 days.

He wasn’t a gunman, but the farmer Andrew Kehoe was responsible for killing 45 people, 38 of them children, mainly through setting off dynamite in a school in Michigan in 1927. He naturally achieved notoriety for this, although he is nowhere as well-known as he deserves to be for such an atrocity, while he bequeathed us a possible clue to his actions in the form of a stenciled sign he attached to a fence on his property, reading CRIMINALS ARE MADE, NOT BORN.

Two years later, 7 men were murdered in the St Valentine’s Day Massacre in Chicago, but I suspect that I could be here a lot longer, trying to decide what constitutes the precise parameters of both recent history and mass shootings. It would be simpler and more accurate for our media to describe these mass slayings – that will come, as surely as night follows day, because a complete layman can predict their hellish arrival with complete certainty – as the worst since a detachment of the US Army machine-gunned around 150 Lakota Sioux, as well as 25 of its own men, at Wounded Knee in 1890. This might not be palatable to some politically-minded media institutions, but it is nonetheless a fact.

Otherwise, I started this post by expressing my great surprise that a mass shooting on or surpassing the scale of the killings in Las Vegas had not happened long before, and this is why. The first American individual that I know of in the last century to embark on what we would recognise as a modern shooting spree was Melvin Collins, who killed 8 men and wounded 6 others before taking his own life on November 6th 1948 in what became known as the Market Street Massacre in the city of Chester, in Pennsylvania. Despite his ground-breaking rampage, Collins is virtually unknown, unlike the man who embarked on the methodical slaughter of men, women and children in Camden, New Jersey, less than a year after Collins took up a gun in anger.

The 28 year old army veteran Howard Unruh was responsible for what became known as “The Walk of Death” that lasted around 12 minutes, during which time he killed 13 people, 3 of them children. Despite the fairly rapid appearance on the scene of something like 50 good guys with guns, many of them automatic weapons, Unruh survived the hailstorm of lead that was directed at his first floor apartment and he went on to become one of the few mass shooters ever taken into police custody for questioning. His story has been well-documented over the years and if you wish to, you can read more about it in this detailed, illuminating but perhaps not 100% accurate piece in the Smithsonian Mag, while here is a shorter but no less illuminating piece in the New York Times that was published to mark Unruh’s death at the age of 88 on almost exactly this day in 2009, after having spent 60 years in confinement for his awful crimes.

What is not mentioned in either of the otherwise detailed accounts above are some of the final recorded words of Howard Unruh, as spoken to baffled psychiatrists who were trying to understand what had driven this man to a virtually unprecedented assault on his fellow citizens. Unruh told those treating him “I’d have killed a thousand more if I’d had enough bullets” and if we rule out those killers who have targeted family members or former workmates in their deadly sprees, we can see that many of them were clearly driven by precisely the same urges and desires that possessed Unruh [pictured below] back in 1949. Stephen Paddock seems to have been trying to make Unruh’s chilling statement into a prophecy that he did everything in his power to fulfil and if there’s one thing I can be certain about in this world, it is that Paddock will not be the last of his lethal kind.

how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

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The Heresy of Stonehenge and the Mesolithic


A few days ago, I came across an observation in a lengthy essay in The Guardian that was so good and so insightful that I still find it hard to believe it had not been made long ago, or that I had not encountered it or a close variant before now. The words that so impressed me were, “We tend to think of heretics as contrarians, individuals with a compulsion to flout conventional wisdom. But sometimes a heretic is simply a mainstream thinker who stays facing the same way while everyone around him turns 180 degrees.”

In the years when I used to write lengthy essays of my own about Stonehenge on a regular basis, I learned to pay heed to quiet, distant voices that were straining to be heard before I wrote in depth about one aspect or another of Stonehenge in prehistory. Something about the wording of the quote I’ve reproduced above led me to do the same thing once again and a minute or so after I’d paused and listened, I was drawn to the opening two paragraphs of a full length book on Stonehenge I’d written in 2004 or thereabouts, which I chose to let lie in my archives and which I’m sure I’ve not looked at for at least a decade. The words in full are as follows:

The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane”.
Marcus Aurelius

The archaeologists tell us that Stonehenge ‘fell into disuse’ sometime around 1,600 BC, then it is supposed that any knowledge of its original purpose vanished within a few generations as the local people lost interest in the monument and its history, then moved on to the contemplation of far more important matters. Three and a half thousand years or so after this vast store of information apparently disappeared without trace into the void, there is an unprecedented degree of interest in the stone circle, which annually attracts around a million visitors. As well as the curious pilgrims to the windswept ruins, many other seekers after knowledge devote their attention to the stones, scrutinizing the layout and the heavens above for some clue as to their original purpose.

Some people see alignments with celestial bodies, some write of temples of the dead, some see solar and lunar ‘motifs’ in the precise setting of the stones and at least one person has noticed a face that they take to be that of the original builder, carved on the side of one of the huge uprights. A happy few see the ruins as the place where the Druids carried out their bloody rites or else gathered in their robes to greet the sunrise on Midsummer’s Day, while others scratch their heads in bafflement and gracefully concede temporary defeat. Among these people is Andrew Lawson, formerly Chief Executive of Wessex Archaeology, who commented in 1996 in an interview with the Daily Telegraph,It is difficult to say why Stonehenge is placed where it is – it is not next to the river, not the highest hill, not the deepest valley. It may well be that there was some significance to the place going all the way back to what Mesolithic peoples did there.”

Brief excerpt ends.

I worked at Wessex Archaeology in the early years of this new millennium, before Andrew Lawson vacated the post of Chief Executive there, and I spoke to him several times about any connection between the ruined monument on the plain and the people who had dwelt there, long before the earliest known incarnation of Stonehenge took shape.

I do not recall these conversations word for word, but they always centred around the fact that in the 1960s, when the car park for what was then the new visitors centre was being built, archaeologists discovered a series of Mesolithic pits, which have been written about exhaustively by myself and others for some years. The photo below, courtesy of my friend Juris Ozols of Minnesota, shows his daughter Lija and his son Chris in 1990 standing on one of the white circles marking the spot where one of these pits was located, while another of the three white circles is just visible in the background.

These pits caused a sensation, because the archaeologists were certain that they had once held pine poles roughly two and half feet in diameter and perhaps twenty feet tall, which had rotted in situ and which may have loomed over the surrounding landscape for eerie centuries before they eventually crumbled and fell. There is much else to be said about these strange structures, but perhaps the most interesting and pertinent point is that they were put in place during what we call the Mesolithic era, around five thousand years before nearby Stonehenge came into being.

No such monumental structures were known to have been raised by the people of this period in Britain. A study undertaken in January 2009 by my late friend Alex Down showed that one of our ancestors, with eyes at a height of 1.6 meters standing at what is now Stonehenge, would have been able to see one of these posts if it stood taller than roughly 1.5 meters. The girth of the posts suggests that they could have stood a great dealer taller than that, so unless there was a screen of some inordinately tall vegetation between the observer standing at what is now Stonehenge and the posts in what until recently was the car park, the posts would have been clearly visible to them, possibly for hundreds of years.

As it is, this curious structure or set of structures that was put in place during the Mesolithic stood only three hundred meters or so from the site of what later became Stonehenge. As I pointed out over a decade ago, the posts were situated to the northwest of Stonehenge, roughly on the line of the setting sun on the Summer Solstice, but a connection between the two places was patently obvious, even if no one could conclusively explain the precise nature of this link. This, presumably, was part of the reasoning behind Andrew Lawson’s observation as quoted by The Telegraph in 1996 and it was the equally sound reasoning that persisted among every archaeologist I worked with or spoke to on the matter at least eight years later.

In March 2008, an excavation at Stonehenge by professors Darvill and Wainwright discovered – among many other highly interesting things – pine charcoal that was dated to around 7,000 BC, or to the middle of the Mesolithic. Professor Darvill was quoted in the prestigious Smithsonian in October 2008 as saying “The origins of Stonehenge probably lie back in the Mesolithic, and we need to reframe our questions for the next excavation to look back into that deeper time.”

If I had the time or the inclination, I could readily point out many more intriguing links between Stonehenge and the people who lived nearby during the Mesolithic era, but if they’re not immediately obvious, a search for the connections will surely prove extremely enjoyable for anyone with the inclination to embark on one. For now, it’s inescapable that five years or so after after Wainwright and Darvill’s excavation at Stonehenge, literally tens of thousands of Mesolithic flint artefacts and many other remarkable objects were being brought to light at an excavation overseen by David Jacques at Blick Mead, just over a mile to the east of Stonehenge.

The site has yielded evidence of a Mesolithic dwelling, as well as the remains of many aurochs, the tooth of a dog, the bones of a cooked frog and other wonders, so it is little surprise that the location has been known for some years as “The Cradle of Stonehenge”. With all this and more in mind, one would have expected that those who predicted that Stonehenge came into being as a result of ceremonies conducted upon the site by our remote ancestors who lived during the Mesolithic era would be regarded as visionaries.

However, it is at this belated point that I remind the reader of the quote that so impressed me, concerning heretics and how one of these dissenters is sometimes “…simply a mainstream thinker who stays facing the same way while everyone around him turns 180 degrees.”One might reasonably suppose that the way in which the evidence for a Mesolithic connection with or origin for Stonehenge has accumulated in recent years would mean that everyone with a professional interest in the monument would be hailing the discoveries and ongoing excavations at Blick Mead, but such is not the case.

Not everyone has turned through 180 degrees on this subject in recent times, but one of the most well-established and high-profile professional observers of Stonehenge has scorned the idea of any Mesolithic connection or origin and has consistently written about the excavations at Blick Mead in such a negative fashion that these essays have provoked strong responses online not only from David Jacques, but also from many others who are seemingly baffled as to why any professional should pursue such a course.

In all my many years of reading about and studying Stonehenge, I have yet to learn of an occasion when any two experts were in agreement about the site, so in one way, it’s entirely predictable that we should witness some kind of difference of opinion. However, as more of the monument’s past has been brought to light – if only in the form of literally tens of thousands of Mesolithic flints and indisputable evidence of sustained occupation during the Mesolithic in a spot just over a mile away – one might expect views to increasingly converge on the question of a Mesolithic link to or origin of Stonehenge.

I admit that while there might have been a time when I could have become passionate about this dispute to the extent of getting involved in it, those days are far behind me and I’m confident that the Universe is unfolding as it should. However, despite my well-publicised interest in what one might term the supernatural, I nonetheless subscribe to the scientific method and as such, I cannot fathom how the more solid facts you provide in support of a given premise – in this case, the idea that the origins of Stonehenge lie in the Mesolithic – the less likely that premise is to be true, in some quarters. As I’ve admitted before, I cannot boast of having a Degree in Archaeology, so for me, this matter must remain one of Stonehenge’s more baffling mysteries.

Only one thing can be stated with certainty about such structures as Stonehenge: the people who built them were much more intelligent than many who have written books about them.”
Sir Arthur C. Clarke, 1917 – 2008

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Oliver Cromwell and September the Third

Of all the figures from previous ages that I admire, Oliver Cromwell must be the one that comes to my mind most regularly, almost certainly because of what is to me his unforgettable date of death. This man died on September 3rd 1658 in the midst of a terrible thunderstorm, a meteorological phenomenon that was long believed to mark the passing of a warlock, so this is a curious and noteworthy event in and of itself.

However, as many others have remarked before me, the strangeness of his passing is notably enhanced by the fact that Cromwell had previously won the Battle of Dunbar on September 3rd 1650, while he also won what was to be the final engagement of the English Civil Wars when he beat a Royalist army at the Battle of Worcester on September 3rd 1651.

There were lurid, highly detailed rumours that Cromwell had been in league with the Devil Himself, so for these reasons alone, it’s inevitable that I would have taken more than a passing interest in him, as I’ve been fascinated by such matters for as long as I can remember. However, there are other reasons why Cromwell fired my imagination and continues to loom large in my thinking all these years after I first became aware of him, but I do not write this out of perversity, as I’ve long recognised that opinion is sharply divided as far as Cromwell’s concerned.

I do not consider myself to be any kind of expert on the man, so I’m not in a position to pass an impartial, informed verdict, one way or other, on the sum total of his deeds, nor do I suppose that I will ever be. Nonetheless, it is simply a fact that I’ve been in awe of a few of Cromwell’s accomplishments for decades, so as these things have haunted my imagination in a positive way for so long, I’ve decided that I should compose my thoughts and present them in the form of an essay, of the kind that I’ve sometimes presented on this site and which used to form the main part of the reading material on Eternal Idol.

Oliver Cromwell is not the only person from previous ages that I admire, so I intend to collect together my thoughts on other figures who have made a lasting impression on me, while it doesn’t matter to me that my knowledge of them is incomplete. Something of their words and deeds long ago made me sit up and take notice, so now that I find myself with more time on my hands than before, due to my two children leaving home to attend university, I intend to fill some hours that otherwise might not have been my own by writing about those who have gone before me and who have helped in some way to make me the person I am today.

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The Dark Magic of the Msoura Ring

“As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.”
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

In the north of Morocco, in the countryside south of Tangier, is an ancient site known as Msoura, or the Msoura Ring. To provide the simplest and the shortest description, Msoura is made up of a circle or ellipse of 167 standing stones, the largest of which is known as El Uted, or The Pointer, which stands over 5 meters high. Most of these huge stones seem to have been broken at some point, while other megaliths lie fallen elsewhere in the vicinity.

Inside this stone circle lie the remains of a vast tumulus or burial mound, described as fifty-five meters across and six meters high. As far as I understand, we do not know if the tumulus predates the stone circle, if the circle predates the tumulus or if both structures were raised at the same time. There is a cornucopia of fascinating aspects to this site and I will present just a few of them in this post, but good manners compel me to make clear at the start that I shall leave the curious reader to discover the vast majority of the details for himself or herself, as I wouldn’t knowingly deprive another soul of the intense pleasure that arises from the prolonged contemplation of these matters.

There seems to have been a belief that the giant Antaeus was buried in this place after losing his fight with Hercules, who fought and slew Antaeus either before or after his visit to the Garden of the Hesperides to steal the golden apples. There seems to be little doubt that Plutarch wrote in some detail about this strange tomb in an intriguing passage in his description of the life of the Roman general Sertorius [123 – 72 BC]:

“His [Sertorius’s] arrival in Mauritania being very acceptable to the Moors, he lost no time, but immediately giving battle to Ascalis, beat him out of the field and besieged him; and Paccianus being sent by Sylla, with a powerful supply, to raise the siege, Sertorius slew him in the field, gained over all his forces, and took the city of Tingis, into which Ascalis and his brothers were fled for refuge. The Africans tell that Antaeus was buried in this city, and Sertorius had the grave opened, doubting the story because of the prodigious size, and finding there his body, in effect, it is said, full sixty cubits long, he was infinitely astonished, offered sacrifice, and heaped up the tomb again, gave his confirmation to the story, and added new honours to the memory of Antaeus. The Africans tell that after the death of Antaeus, his wife Tinga lived with Hercules, and had a son by him called Sophax, who was king of these countries, and gave his mother’s name to this city, whose son, also, was Diodorus, a great conqueror, who brought the greatest part of the Libyan tribes under his subjection, with an army of Greeks, raised out of the colonies of the Olbians and Myceneans placed here by Hercules.”

I’m sure that a detailed study of Plutarch’s original text would repay the time and trouble put into it, but Dryden’s translation shows that something truly extraordinary took place. To begin with, however, there is a problem with the location of the grave, as Plutarch repeats the words of the Africans, that Antaeus was buried in the city of Tingis, or modern Tangier, whereas the Msoura Ring is some miles to the south. It may be that Plutarch’s original text allows for a sense of the grave to lie with the boundaries of a city state, or in a realm or region ruled over by a city, but this remains to be seen.

Be that as it may, the sense of the account of Sertorius being made aware of the grave strongly suggests that while he accepted that Antaeus was a historical figure rather than one from mythology and was furthermore a giant, the tumulus or burial mound was so huge that he doubted that any giant could have been so big. If Sertorius had possessed even a passing interest in these matters, he must surely have known that burial mounds or tumuli were always bigger, to a greater or lesser extent, that those entombed within them, so a huge mound would not have automatically suggested the presence within of an almost equally huge corpse.

Logic further suggests that when Sertorius was told about this being the grave of Antaeus, his informants must have assured him that a truly colossal set of bones was buried beneath the mound, as Plutarch tells us in as many words that Sertorius had the tumulus opened to prove or disprove the incredible assertions that had been made to him. Of course, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of any archaeologist or scientist admitting that there were once giants, let alone towering creatures to whom we were virtually ants by comparison, but Plutarch is admirably and unambiguously clear on this point.

He tells us that “…finding there his body, in effect, it is said, full sixty cubits long, he was infinitely astonished…” I’m not remotely surprised that Sertorius was infinitely astonished, because by my embarrassingly amateurish calculations, the remains that Sertorius’s men discovered in that unearthly tomb must have been roughly ninety feet tall.

We might not have been surprised if Plutarch had ended the story there, perhaps finishing with something along the lines of “Or so the old story goes” as a minor postscript or qualifier, but he did not. Instead, he records that after Sertorius had been infinitely astonished by the sheer size of the body he’d seen, he “…offered sacrifice, and heaped up the tomb again, gave his confirmation to the story, and added new honours to the memory of Antaeus.” It’s hard to imagine a more positive affirmation that this grave once held an unimaginably huge body than the one we have seen in Plutarch’s detailed account, but there are many other intriguing aspects to this ruin that is astonishingly so little-known.

The Msoura Ring may be a forgotten ruin in the middle of nowhere, but it seems that there’s a very good chance that we know some concrete details about it from antiquity, thanks to Plutarch. For example, we can reasonably infer from his account that the people of the region were so insistent that the body of Antaeus, an inconceivably huge giant, was buried in the mound, that their faith and lurid tales prompted a Roman general to get his men to unearth this giant’s remains, so that he could see and judge for himself.

Careful and meticulous excavation of the site ought to be able to tell us if the tumulus was indeed opened in the early part of the first century BC, when Sertorius was in the region, while it’s not unthinkable that evidence might be found of some of the other things that Plutarch mentioned, such as rebuilding of the mound at that time and propitiatory sacrifices of some kind. After all,  in recent times, Stonehenge has suffered centuries of abuse and destruction, including a terrible period during the 1950s and 1960s under the archaeologist Professor Richard Atkinson, but we are still occasionally able to glean knowledge of minor wonders from its remains. Some of this is due to archaeological excavation and subsequent study, but I’ve personally spent around two decades finding illuminating original information on Stonehenge from other sources.

Just one of the many things that consistently amazes me about Stonehenge is the way in which it is always described as a mysterious place with unknown origins, yet just as is the case with the Msoura Ring, we have a clear, detailed written account of how it came into being. This account or history was provided by the 12th century writer Geoffrey of Monmouth, who said that Stonehenge was intended as a memorial by King Aurelius to the three hundred British elders of King Vortigern who were treacherously slain by Hengist and his household. Aurelius summoned Merlin, who had learned of the king’s wishes for a memorial and the wizard replied to them in this now famous exchange:

“If you are desirous,” said Merlin, “to honor the burying-place of these men with an everlasting monument, send for the Giant’s Dance [Stonehenge], which is in Killaraus, a mountain in Ireland. For there is a structure of stones there, which none of this age could raise, without a profound knowledge of the mechanical arts. They are stones of a vast magnitude and wonderful quality; and if they can be placed here, as they are there, round this spot of ground, they will stand forever.”

At these words of Merlin, Aurelius burst into laughter, and said, “How is it possible to remove such vast stones from so distant a country, as if Britain was not furnished with stones fit for the work?”

Merlin replied: “I entreat your majesty to forbear vain laughter; for what I say is without vanity. They are mystical stones, and of a medicinal virtue. The giants of old brought them from the farthest coasts of Africa, and placed them in Ireland, while they inhabited that country. Their design in this was to make baths in them, when they should be taken with any illness. For their method was to wash the stones, and put their sick into the water, which infallibly cured them. With the like success they cured wounds also, adding only the application of some herbs. There is not a stone there which has not some healing virtue.”

Naturally, one highly intriguing aspect of these revelations of the origins of Stonehenge by Merlin is that the stones were brought to Ireland, apparently, by giants of old from the farthest coasts of Africa. One would imagine that the location of the farthest coasts of Africa would depend on a number of factors, one necessarily being the land in which an observer was writing, but there’s a good case to be made that the precise area in which the enigmatic Msoura stone circle is situated was regarded as one of these “farthest coasts”.

Without going into the vast amount of enchanting detail available on the subject, we know that the Garden of the Hesperides, the place to which Hercules travelled to fulfill his eleventh labour, slaying Antaeus somewhere along the way, was thought to be in the region of the Atlas mountains of north Africa and close to what we now call the Atlantic Ocean; in other words, as far as the Greeks and Hercules himself were concerned, they were the farthest coasts of Africa, far to the west where the sun set and where the Earth was girdled by the River of Ocean. How strange it is, then, bearing in mind Merlin’s description of the origin of Stonehenge, for us to learn of the discovery in antiquity of the body of a real giant, an event that was recorded as an historical happening rather than as a legend, while this giant’s tomb lay inside a huge stone circle at the farthest coasts of Africa.

The wonders do not end there, though, because I learn from elsewhere on the internet that in former times, the Berber people inhabiting the area believed that the stones and the tumulus had been raised by Djouhalas, or pagan giants from a time predating Islam. I do not know if this is true or not, but if it is, it is yet another intriguing echo of what Geoffrey of Monmouth told us about the origins of Stonehenge.

I also understand from a number of sources that the name “Mzoura” means “The First Ones”, but I do not know if this is true, either, while if it is indeed reliable, I do not know which “ones” are referred to. It may well have been remarked upon elsewhere by others before me, but when I pore over Plutarch’s description of the body of Antaeus being sixty cubits long, I am immediately reminded of an Islamic tradition that says that Allah created Adam and made him sixty cubits tall, although I don’t know if this size was said to have existed on Earth or later in Paradise, after Adam’s death. Either way, I find it to be an absolutely amazing coincidence that Adam was indisputably one of the ‘first ones’ or first human beings created on Earth and that there’s a well-documented tradition saying that at some point, he measured sixty cubits, while there exists a written record of a body measuring sixty cubits having been found in a set of ruins known as “The First Ones”.

I could continue in this vein for hours more, because as I said towards the start of this post, there is a cornucopia of fascinating aspects to this site. As I have detailed above, the Msoura Ring has a number of tantalising links to Stonehenge, which in turn is arguably the world’s most famous and enigmatic prehistoric site, to which roughly a million visitors a year are drawn. Stonehenge is rarely out of the news, but nowhere will you find so much as a mention of the Msoura Ring in connection with it, as far as officialdom is concerned.

A reasonable person might think that after Professor Atkinson’s rampage at Stonehenge, at the end of which he referred to the original builders of the monument as “Practically savages – howling barbarians”, the present custodians of Stonehenge might feel the need to inform the public about this astonishing monument to the fullest extent possible by way of compensating for the way that Atkinson ransacked the site for years, yet only published a bare minimum of his findings before he died.

As things stand, however, the amount of illuminating, thought-provoking information on Stonehenge available online to a casual enquirer from the general public is minimal, particularly so if the unfortunate querent is naive enough to go to what one might call an “official” source in the course of their search for enlightenment. When there is scant official acknowledgement that sites such as Bluestonehenge and the “Cradle of Stonehenge” at Blick Mead even exist, then we cannot be surprised that such seemingly exotic, Stonehenge-related subjects such as the Druids, the missing altar stone, Stukeley’s tablet of tin whose loss is “eternally to be lamented”, the Msoura Ring and countless others aren’t deemed worthy of mention in polite circles, let alone discussion.

Nonetheless, along with beliefs from a former time that Stonehenge was the last resting place of Boadicea, or that it was once visited by Joseph of Arimathea, these endlessly fascinating subjects comprise our intangible cultural heritage, so they deserve not just to be preserved, but to be promoted far and wide so that as many people as possible the world over can bask in the sense of wonderment that inevitably ensues from prolonged contemplation of these arcane and enchanting things.

There are others besides myself who are captivated by the enchantment that permeates the Stonehenge landscape and seek to preserve it, one being Austin Kinsley, creator of the Silent Earth site. On this occasion, I am indebted to my American friend of long standing Andrew Gough, who recently visited the Msoura Ring and with typical generosity of spirit, allowed me to use some of the photos he’d taken while he was there.

Andrew was researching the site, after which he presented his extensive findings on an episode of Discovery Science’s “What On Earth” series. This involved speaking to the site’s current caretaker with the help of an Arabic interpreter, while he discovered much else in addition to the meager fare I’ve posted above concerning Sertorius and Stonehenge.

As a few examples, Andrew looked into the curious affair of the Spanish archaeologist Montalban, who extensively excavated the site of Msoura in the 1930s, but who was thrown into prison and who died there before he could publish his findings, so no one seems to know what he discovered there. The site’s guardian informed Andrew that in recent times, the Moroccan military had stood guard at the ruins for days, while there remains the belief in some quarters that treasure is buried there, awaiting discovery.

There are yet more stories of the remote site being cursed, along with tales of some excavators having gone mad, while I’ve read elsewhere that some people in the region are said to refer to it as “The Devil’s Temple”. Anyone who is familiar with the rampages of the antiquarians in Britain and with the voluminous folklore attached to our barrows or burial mounds will find these stories eerily familiar, so in my view, it’s hard to overstate the cultural value that the Msoura Ring holds for us all.

The better-known it becomes, the more likely it will be that our Moroccan brothers and sisters can eventually benefit from something approaching the kind of tourist numbers that Stonehenge or the Giants’ Dance has enjoyed for so long, while we in turn can only become richer through learning of ancient giants, Roman generals and dusty ruins, somewhere on the farthest coasts of Africa.

Once more, I’m enormously grateful to Juris Ozols of MOJO Productions for his infinite patience and technical assistance. All photos taken in Morocco are copyright and the property of Andrew Gough.

“It is not down on any map; true places never are.”
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

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The Forgotten Fairy Origins of “Eldritch”.

I have been familiar with the word ‘eldritch’ for decades, as a result of seeing it appear in the incomparable works of the horror fantasy writer H.P. Lovecraft. Knowing Lovecraft’s fondness for what most people today would consider to be exotic language, or exotic English, I had always assumed that ‘eldritch’ was an archaic form of the word ‘old’ or perhaps ‘elder’, because to my partially-trained eye, the words seemed to be related, and also because this meaning always made sense in the context in which it appeared.

Earlier this evening, however, a conversation with my daughter prompted me to look up the word ‘eldritch’ in my battered copy of The Concise Oxford Dictionary and I was astonished by what I saw. Firstly, I was told that the word was Scottish and that it meant either weird or hideous, not old or elder, so I found it hard to believe that I’d been attributing the wrong meaning to it for so long. What really made me sit up and take notice, however, was the rest of the entry for ‘eldritch’, which reads [16th c,: perhaps f.OE elfrice (unrecorded) ‘fairy realm’ ]

I do not claim to be an expert on the way dictionaries are compiled, so I admit that I do not know how the word elfrice can be shown while at the same time being said to be unrecorded, because such a thing seems to me to be a contradiction in terms. That aside, I have long had far more than a passing interest in the subject of fairies, especially in the Caer Sidhe, so I know from personal experience with my investigations into various words associated with Stonehenge and Silbury Hill that an awareness and study of both eldritch and elfrice will inevitably open some gaping portal for me that I never previously suspected existed.

“I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more.”
H.P.Lovecraft, Dagon.

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The Choirboys

Last Sunday, my daughter Tanith presented me with a unique and unforgettable handmade card and a very welcome bottle of superior red wine for Father’s Day, while my son Jack bought me a book that had long been missing from my collection, because I had lent my last copy to someone a few years ago and I had never got it back. The book was The Choirboys by the American author Joseph Wambaugh and while its contents were long ago indelibly branded on my memory, it was nonetheless shocking and thrilling to delve once more into the pages of this supreme masterpiece and to be reminded of the tragic and uproarious stories that made such a lasting impression on me when I first encountered them at some point in the late 1970s, not long after the book had first been published.

For those of you unfamiliar with The Choirboys, the title refers to ten policemen who would regularly meet up in a park in the city of Los Angeles after their shifts had finished, to indulge in wild parties that they euphemistically termed ‘choir practise’. They held these ribald celebrations as a means of winding down after the shocking scenes they regularly encountered during the course of their shifts, and also to find solace and understanding from their fellows. At this point, I had yet to read A Clockwork Orange, among others, but I was already familiar with other lurid written material such as The Siege of Trencher’s Farm and the works of Catullus, a Roman poet to whom I’d been introduced by my enlightened Latin teachers.

One of the recurring themes in The Choirboys was the way in which a policeman could commit an act so outrageous that it instantly earned him a macho nickname and which made him the sole topic of conversation throughout all the police stations in the city within twenty-four hours. This seemed to be an echo of events from centuries before in England, when Sir Francis Dashwood’s Hell Fire Club became notorious on account of the activities of its various members, and I’d read about this colourful institution within a few years of picking up my first copy of The Choirboys.

As I suggested in A Tale of Sound & Fury, an autobiographical work I penned a few years ago, I was grateful for the way in which these books opened my eyes to various ways in which I might enjoy myself when I was in my late teens and early twenties, while I always kept an eye out for other people of a broadly similar disposition. While I was leafing through my new copy of The Choirboys prior to reading it once again, I naturally thought of the five years I spent from 1988 to 1991 working as the Earl Marshall on what was then the world’s only touring mediaeval jousting tournament, as I do not remember a solitary day in all that time that could ever be described as boring or mundane.

While I was idly reminiscing about some of the more colourful characters I’ve met over the course of my time, I was also reminded of a former colleague and drinking partner from my time in London, who now seems to have happily taken up residence in the Philippines. Neither my son or daughter could reasonably be described as unworldly, I feel, but they were both stunned and absolutely appalled by just one brief memory of the aforementioned gentlemen, so I feel the nature of the fund of tales I’ve yet to tell bodes well for the next installment of my autobiography, something I’m more and more inclined to start work on.

And by one of those sad coincidences, I learned later that night of the passing of a man by the name of Martin Chandler from Usk, the village in south Wales where I was born and where I grew up. The first time I remember seeing or encountering him was when I was a child at some point in the late 1960s, when he was employed on a building site that produced what would become my family’s home, as well as other houses. Martin drove a dumper truck and he let me ride for a while beside him, something that would simply not happen in these days of micromanaged health and safety regulations. I thought that splashing through great pools of water and scrambling through banks of mud on this growling machine was the most exciting things imaginable and it’s something I’ve never forgotten, so for this reason alone I’m forever indebted to Martin.

As I grew older, I became more and more aware of Martin Chandler’s jaw-dropping social exploits and when I was a teenager, I would often drink alongside him in a few of Usk’s pubs, most notably the Royal Hotel. Some of the stories of what this man got up to after a few pints defy credulity for those who were never lucky enough to meet him, but as the innumerable posts on social media all make clear, he was one of the most colourful characters my home town has ever produced, and a legend in every sense of the word. One of these fine days, I shall have to try to write about my recollections of him in greater detail, because he was also an incredibly amusing and warm-hearted man, but for now, Martin, God bless you and it was a true privilege to have known you.

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