The day began wholesomely, with a walk up Dragon Hill, at Uffington (where King Arthur actually slayed the dragon). We climbed further up to White Horse Hill, a neolithic landmark a chalky-white horse at the top. El-kiddo (14 years) insisted on going under the barrier (bit of old string), so he could touch the eye of the tiger horse. As a (not) very-law-abiding parent, I loudly told him not to do this, incase anyone was listening. Then quietly said, “If you’ve really got to touch it, just be quick”. Do I care if he breached the defences of the English Heritage? A bit of string arbitrary delineating a line, which must not be crossed. Really English Heritage, is that all you can muster for a 3000 year old monument? Asda shopping trolleys are better protected than that. Should a responsible adult like myself, preserved and protect it from my 14yr old gansta, raging against the injustice of ancient by-laws and countryside codes? My thoughts are, that for 3,000 years parents and kids have been grappling over this dilemma. It’s a big issue and not one I’m going to resolve on these hallowed pages. He and I probably fought over it in our past lives, as woeful peasants (sigh, again).
Hymm: “I wishe to to touche yea eye, of the majik horsey, Ma”
Selffe: “Ye knows yea must never poke yea horsey in thee eye, tis bad lucke and our descendants will be borne as pitiful peasants, cursed to eternal poverty.”
Hymm: “As god is my witness Ma, the devil has taken hold of me and is driving me arm forward and my hande, tis possessed.”
Selffe: “Yea is indeede yea are a childe of a devil, I remember hym well.”
Hymm: “What is that yea speak, Ma?”
Selffe: “Oh tis nothing there mye young’un, Twas just my wonderings when ye ole child support wyll be invented.”
So, as it feels like I’ve had this sort of pointless argument with my kids for 3,000 years; I sweetly advise him to go touch the feckin’ horse, but not to let anyone see him. Now, this is where yea olde supernanny gets it all wrong. At this stage she’d sit the kid on a step for 5 mins; telling said kid not to talk to anyone, while it thinks about its life choices. Whereas, I sit on the hill and wonder about my own life choices, especially the reproductives ones.
I’d better mention at this point that a completely disregard for Neolithic Britain is a national custom. The ropey bit of string, fencing off the 3,000 year old horse, has only been up for a few years. I remember we used to be able to sit right anywhere on that horse and have a picnic (around 2005 AD, by my carbon dating skills). Every year, there’s “ye olde re-whiten the horsey” day. When lots of very keen homeschooling parents and children, enact a made-up ceremony from the made-up Bronze Age. Clad like neothlic homeless people, in brown rags (which is all Neolithic people ever wore – according to historians, who frankly, lack imagination), they climb the hill and re-chalk the horse, so it’s nice and white. I think neolithic wo/man was far more creative about dressing than brown rags. According to me, they wore rabbit fur trousers and poured layers of a warm porridge mix over their upper torso, creating a custom vest. They adorned the layers of porridge-vest with flowers and berries, as it cooled on the skin, flexible and warm. Neolithic Mothers didn’t worry about snacks, they wore their snacks. Then, twisting twigs and branches together, inter-weaving them with feathers and colourful leaves, they fashioned wings. I’m telling you, Pride is a neolithic festival.
Around this time, a distant ancestor of Bansky’s, egged-on by his youthful peers, came up with the genius idea of etching a horse on the hillside; ruining the druids view of sacred Dragon Hill, forever. With the light of the evening bonfires, the fantastical white horse seemed to fly across the dark the sky – especially if you were tripping on neolithic mushrooms. Ancestral Banksey became a total legend to his peers, inventing the craft of graffytee; an ancient craze, to draw anywhere you liked. Initially, only vandalising the walls of caves, with what the Druid elders referred to as, “Shite pictures of animals and stick men.” The trend went viral and reached as far away as Egypt, where it stopped abruptly, when they pissed-off the Pharoahs. Commissioning all the young Banskeys to decorate the insides of the pyramids, they coloured the walls frenetically. Outside, the Pharoah nodded to his chief pyramid-architect and the last of the giant blocks, slid gently into place. Thus, neolithic graffiti was completely stamped-out by the Egyptians.
At the top of White Horse Hill, is the site of an ancient castle, of which, not a single stone remains. Again, the traditional English attitude towards ancient monuments is to defile and destroy. All the stones have been stolen, it’s nothing new, it’s been going on for thousands of years. Some builder from the year 200BC probably built his wife a nice patio, with remains of that castle.
Back to the top 10 of the UK’s complete disregard for its ancient monuments.
- Building a road tunnel directly under Stonehenge. Because cars are far too important to be diverted ¼ of a mile for a boring old Megalithic Henge.
2. Building a main road through the middle of Avebury Henge.
10. Building a huge waste tip next to Stanton Harcourt Henge. Which is well signposted, visited by thousands of people each year, and has a load of really useful information online. Unlike the Henge.
There are 35,000 megalithic sites in Europe; (megalithic literally means big ole stone thing, btw). Most of them we completely ignore – the important ones we defile.
