A leaden sky encompasses the sentinels while a cool mist falls on the flat, open plain that spreads to the far distant rolling hills. Today, there are no milling masses, only a handful have dared the bitter elements to pay their homage. Slowly we walk the graveled path approaching the wonder that is Stonehenge. A brisk wind tugs at coattails and tumbles hair-dos. My father must lean close to keep his words from being snatched away.
The giant stones tower over we few humans scattered at their feet, making us appear as insignificant insects in comparison. Their precise formation remains as it has for centuries.
Along with the millions of previous visitors, my credibility is overwhelmed by the immensity of this accomplishment achieved by ordinary mankind, unassisted by modern technology. Who? How? Why? In spite of past suppositions, the questions remain unanswered.
I sense an almost physical feeling of timelessness as I stand at their feet, a feeling that echoes the forces of nature now invading my contemplation. In spite of the cold and wet, I remain a vigil, held by the presence or aura of the place.
Then, seeing my father shiver inside his long wool topcoat, I agree to reluctantly seek shelter. As we drive away, passengers are spilling out of a tour bus.
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