Time Rocks

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  Vart couldn’t swim. He was amazed when I did. We were close to where Glastonbury will be some day. It was a vast expanse of mere and marsh with a few cone shaped woody hills poking out of the water. My foot really hurt, and the sun was scorching. I just couldn’t go a step further, so I stripped off and dived in to cool down and ease my foot. Vart went crazy for me to teach him, especially the backstroke. Once he’d got the hang of it he wouldn’t come out. He enjoyed it so much that he was in the water for hours. All that splashing about washed the paint off his face and arms. It was strange to see him without it. He looked so much younger and not so scary. With his ginger hair and freckles, I could think of a couple of rugby jocks at school who look just like him.

  The swimming lesson earned me lots of brownie points. I decided this would be a good time to ask him to take me back to Stonehenge. He was not keen and babbled and stomped about, waving his arms and pulling faces. It was obvious he was warning me about the hunters and the danger. But I stuck to my guns. Finally, I gave him a Toblerone. It was squashed and mushy from the heat, but he loved it. He licked the silver foil long after the chocolate was gone and carefully saved it with its little cardboard case.

  The sun was setting in a cloudless sky as we began climbing the biggest of the cone shaped hills to find shelter for the night. I think it must be the one that some day would be crowned by Saint Michael’s tower. The tidal waters had receded back towards the Bristol Channel, exposing silky runs and ridges of mud. As we pushed through thickets of alder and crab apple, up to the hill’s gorse covered peak, I thought of modern Glastonbury. If this really was it’s eventual location, it would not to be the first time I’d slept in this part of the world under the sky. This time however, there would be no rock bands on a pyramid stage - not for five thousand years.