Landmarks around the world often evoke an unexpected reaction. You may have seen them in numerous photographs but nothing compares to the real experience. The first glimpse at the rock of Gibraltar from the Mediterranean sea, the striking norias of Hama in Syria or the peaceful bays of Cook and Opunahu in Moorea, each vision can stir emotions in even the weariest traveller.
Stonehenge is one such site. Situated about 8 miles north of Salisbury in Wiltshire, the mass of Bluestone, Sarson and Welsh Sandstone has its unconfirmed origins steeped in folklore. Undoubtedly, this is a contributing factor which makes it one of the top destinations to visit in England.
The drive through Salisbury plains to reach Stonehenge typified England for me. Drab and grey, bleary with muted colours, and that’s in the height of summer in July. When we finally reached it in the afternoon, I was heady with anticipation.
I looked up at the imposing rocks. I looked around the circular structure. I closed my eyes, allowing myself a moment to conjure up an emotion, any emotion, let alone a mystical experience.
But none came.
Stonehenge can elicit a reaction to some visitors while leaving others stone cold. For me, it was just a bunch of rocks.
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