Where the dewdrops cry and the cats miaow...

Fisherton Street in Salisbury is a bleak place. The wind and cloud may have had a little to do with it, but mostly it was because of the bleary-eyed vagrants that kept shuffling past me and because it doesn't look like it's changed in 20 years. There's a weird lack of cash machines and an equally-weird abundance of sex shops. Throw in a Blockbuster Video and an Airfix shop, and you get the impression of a place that hasn't really moved along with the times.

Half 10 in the morning is probably too early for a pint. Everyone else in the Kings Head Inn Lloyd's bar seemed to disagree with me however, and stared at me like I was the weirdo for ordering tea with my food before the bus left for STONEHENGE. The tour guide on the bus said that the canals through the town were originally dug to provide fresh water to the people, but the dirty bastards started using them for sewage disposal, spreading typhoid and cholera throughout. I thought this might have gone some way to explaining the specimens I'd seen that morning, but he insisted this happened several hundred years ago. He also explained that, even after Spitfire production was moved to Salisbury, the city saw very little bomb damage; the cathedral acted as a major landmark for the Luftwaffe, who were under strict instructions to leave the town unharmed.

They do their best on the tour to build up the idea that Salisbury plain is an ancient and significantly spiritual stretch of land, which it obviously historically is, but they end up diluting that by using modern landmarks as reference points; "You will get your first glimpse of this ancient and mystical monument as we turn on to the A303", or "Look at the majestic Heelstone, which is located next to the fence nearest the carpark" aren't phrases that help spark the imagination. The prominent smell of cowshit doesn't help either. There were some beautiful pictures for sale in the gift shop of the monument taken at times of the day that I'm sure lend themselves to the spiritual ambience of the plain; a gorgeously clear sunrise peaking through the isochronously-spaced archways of the henge, and a rich red and pink canvas of streaky clouds highlighted by the glowing sunset. At one point, the audio guide instructed me to "slowly turn in a full circle, gradually taking in the entire view and power of this ancient plain" and I knew what they were hoping for; they were hoping I would become overwhelmed with a sense of mysticism and spiritual awe. Unfortunately, due to gaps in the clouds for sunlight far and few between, and the blisteringly cold gale-force winds whipping across the plain making my head throb, all I was overwhelmed with was a sense of the right royal arseache.