Rooks among the rocks

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2015/may/27/country-diary-rooks-rocks-stonehenge

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The gatekeeper rook landed on a fence post with the consummate ease of someone who can read the wind and shape themselves into it. At rest, it kept one eye on the shuttlebus emptying tourists like seeds spilling from a pod and the other on Stonehenge, which they had come to see.

The rook knew the tourists would not take hold there, they came and went quickly, leaving trails of crumbs, but the stones would last for ever and give nothing. Grey rocks arranged like sails, each with its own character, presence and miniature meadow of lichens “performed” on the plain under a windy sky, dazzling sunshine, anti-clockwise; it looked like a film set.

We had never been to Stonehenge before, not avoided it exactly but not been drawn to it either because of its fame and its heritage and its symbolism, which somehow felt mistaken. This was an anti-pilgrimage. For Nancy’s significant birthday we decided to go somewhere significant, somewhere time meant nothing, somewhere mysterious. We were not disappointed that we were not as disappointed as we thought we might be. A feeling of mystery grew from the magnetic field of the stones, up through the ground, down from the sky.

The circle dance of tourists unsure how to respond to the enigma of the stones was charming. We were from all over the world, looking, photographing, recording, memory-making together.

Related: Country diary: Stonehenge, Wiltshire: Bird of play performs for the cameras

The rooks, on the other hand, were the stones looking back. They were there before the rocks moved in and their memories had never been taken beyond the orbit of Stonehenge. They drifted across the wind using an odd stretch and tuck motion of wings like a music hall routine. They alighted on sarsens and capstones, stalked through turf; perfected a studied indifference that was a bit disturbing. Eyeball to eyeball, they were more than capable of eating ours, yet there was such vitality and spirit about them.

Back on Wenlock Edge I stopped under a rookery in the treetops of a small copse to watch the birds celebrate their significant birthdays. As rooks flew in with grubs for their little baldies, I listened to the banter the next generation would inherit, a language we’ve shared for millennia.

Twitter: @DrPaulEvans1