As the car rolled down to the Ridgeway, synchronicities popped up like marbles in the road, spinning in and out of sight as time moved with them. Having navigated the car park, they set off to the waiting stones under a warm wind. People in coloured clothes walked up and down the tracks, children climbed on the ancient relics as if the monument was a playground. How different it would have been once, when children who approached the stones would be filled with awe and reverence, instilled by their parents in deference to powers far greater than their own, and grateful for them. And everyone would be wearing brown.
After the Avebury tour they had then to find Pewsey. The campsite nestled beside the River Avon, tucked into a corner known as North Newnton. The car nosed neatly into a spot at the waterside, where after tents had been pitched and food eaten, everyone settled to bed for the night at around 11pm. Half an hour later came the distant sound of gunfire.
Silence. Then bombs, out in the distance, rounding off the whole bizarre episode like the finale of an unseen firework display. As dawn broke, another drawback of the chosen pitch greeted its campers.
Cock-a-doodle-doo, cried one of the nearby residents hidden in an enclosed thicket about ten feet away. Another, less proficient cockerel joined the chorus. So ended a strange night, with a somewhat unwelcome start.
Then they all came home, and will with a bit of luck and a fair wind, live happily ever after.