Druids Temple

She’s playing John Frusciante. We’re speeding down a tiny country road in her little yellow car with the racing seats inside. Her driving is much improved on the last time I was in the passenger seat next to her in an attempt to drive the little blue Cinquecento down the road in Burneston…without a driver’s license.

Yorkshire country roads look something like this…

We are heading through green fields, past sheep, down, down, til the road is no longer a road but just a tiny track snaking through the trees. She turns in to another of these tracks, each look the same as the next. How does she know where she is going? Does she know where she is going? We are heading along a route you wouldn’t go with a person you didn’t completely trust, if only to be sure they weren’t taking you there to kill you, or to steal your trousers and leave you to figure out your own way back to the village. I am lucky that she doesn’t elicit that kind of fear in me.

She parks Tessa at the edge of a forest and we start walking. I’m walking with rolled up jeans and silver shoes that want the bin. Never mind. We trek along the path, not a soul in sight, until we come upon the temple, a sort of mini-stonehenge that I can’t help but want to climb on. She tells me that the hippies come for the summer solstice and have a celebration. I want to go too.

View from inside the cave, though I had to hop a giant puddle to get in

At the top of the hill this tower has been built. It looks like there have been a few fires recently as well. She tells me that her and her roomie had tried to see how far up they could get. Not very far.

We walked down to the bottom of the hill, passing over a dead rabbit on the way down. I’m sure that’s bad luck. There’s a reservoir down the path, she promises, it looks like a painting.

As usual, she’s right.

We spend the afternoon stopping in for drinks in the pubs in her town. I love proper authentic British pubs in Britain. The 3 Coopers has a pub dog called Rolo who came for crisps and to sit on my chilly toes while I drank my cider. They’ve always got dusty books on their shelves, old maps and bits and pieces on the walls, proper wood or coal burning fireplaces, rickety wooden tables, pork rinds and barbecued peanuts behind the bar. Magic. I love this country.

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