Salisbury

Salisbury had been somewhat of a Pilgrimage for us both and we had got a little excited as we neared the ancient city. First stepping on its stone paved streets, weary from the morning’s travel and longing for some warm food and warm people, we searched for a friendly place to rest. Being a town renowned for its people and tradition we expected life to be quite easy for two travelling entertainers. This is not what we found.

Stopping in a cosy-looking mock Tudor pub, we politely asked if they’d like some entertainment, but were practically asked to leave before we could order a drink. The worst cup of tea in the Northern Hemisphere soon had us on our way. A few other places along the way all seemed vaguely to extremely insulted by our propositions, except a few old bags who wanted us more for our bodies than our music. We left in a hurry.

We abandoned the city like so much of the joy and magic that left it so long ago; (the shuffling of so many Birkenstock sandals has scraped away its soul). We marched out the centre, upset and confused, towards the wee rolling hills in search of some rocks. As we strode out, an angel was sent to restore our faith.

We stormed up a hill, barely able to talk. Our quiet seething was interrupted by the beeping of a horn. Our instant reaction was to turn and scowl, expecting a second insult from some local yardies who asked us earlier if we’d like a lift to the hospital: “Er, no thank you very much!” This time, though, all we saw was a guy smiling and waving like an idiot. Our sort of idiot. It was love at first sight.

“Yes please we’d love a lift. We don’t care where you’re going just get us out of here!” We jumped in the front of his van, swept off our feet by this handsome knight. Here was someone! Someone who hadn’t let the dregs get him down, someone who rode above the waves of shit on a surf board of gleaming white and never let it touch him. When he found out our purpose for travelling he roared a demand for us to “Sing, right now!” whilst battering the steering wheel, we naturally obliged.

This kind sage drove us to his home, offering toast, magnificent tea, a hot shower, biscuits, cake, stimulating conversation and best of all, an enlightened view of the world which stimulated in us the joy for life which we endlessly search for through travel and song. It is encounters like this which make travelling across Britain such a magical journey of discovery, comparable with any tour of the Far East.

Having raised our spirits from the pavement to the stratosphere, this good soul offered a lift to Sting’s house. Not what we were expecting, but this is where the road to Stone Henge leaves town. Exchanging thanks and farewells we walked into the fading sun to find some rocks. A wooden sign pointed to Stonehenge 1½ miles, but we didn’t need that. It was pointing the wrong way. Or at least, not the way we wanted to go, so we promptly ignored it as being a sign for idiots and cut off across a field.

Seven fence jumps, fourteen right angle turns, one sheep attack and three hills later; we decided that we should have followed the sign. We instantly forgot this as a purple mirage of some tiny, distant tombstones emerged in a valley straight at our head. There it was! And wasn’t it magical? We had found some rocks!

We regarded the view. A seven foot, high tension steel, 2 inch square link fence. This eyesore blurred the view of the stones and numbed the atmosphere a little. Still, an uncertain amount of mystic energy had rubbed off on us and we felt a keen sense of achievement and belonging as we cooked up some beans and cabbage on the roadside and conversed with the various hippies and sightseers as the sun went down.