I'm tired. Somerset is full of ghosts and I had an emotionally charged day yesterday. I am happy to cross the border into Wiltshire, where the skies open out to reveal gently sweeping hills. Everything is pastel coloured, as soft light diffuses through the clouds that will bring rain later.
I arrive at Avebury, a tiny village that nestles inside an ancient Neolithic stone circle.
The impression gained is of a landscape shaped for rituals that involved inclusion, exclusion and procession. The monuments may have been built as a public 'theatre' for rites and ceremonies that gave physical expression to the community's ideas of world order; the place of the people within that order; the relationship between the people and their gods; and the nature and transmission of authority, whether spiritual or political.
I walk a bit, stopping by each stone and placing my hands on it. I breathe.
A group of women sit in a circle holding hands and singing, walkers eat their picnics on the grass, and children clamber over the stones. I hear someone grumble to the National Trust staff about the clambering. They gently point out that the stones have been standing for more than 4000 years.
It's a warm day. I lie down in the field, in the middle of the circle, and close my eyes. I doze in the sunshine using my backpack as a pillow.
I hear a drum in the distance, so I wander in the direction of the sound. A huge lime tree marks the entrance to the next level of the stone circle. Its roots line the path, and there are ribbons and offerings tied to every accessible part of the tree. A man sits by the tree and hits his drum rhythmically. I sit for a while and listen.
I follow a chalk path around the rest of the circle, as it starts to rain. I retreat to my car, as huge water drops splash all around me and I make my way home.