Druidfest: The Summer Solstice at Stonehenge

The mysterious, Neolithic rocks of Stonehenge mark the holiest site for druids across the world. On the eve of the summer solstice Will McGuire joins the thousands of revellers descending on the stones, for a night of mayhem to bring in the sacred sunrise!

‘Come on the sun!’ Chanted an impatient voice in the crowd. The relentless drums and tambourines and other assortment of noisy contraptions began to quieten for the first time since the solstice ceremony began, as the anticipation of seeing the sunrise became imminent reality. The many faces, adorned with flowers or smeared with paint, craned to get a good look through the Stonehenge rocks. All eyes were bleary and sore from a long night’s partying and excitement.

Stonehenge is the world's most important druid and pagan place of worship. Though its purpose is still a mystery, most say it has something to do with the planets and the sun. The stones were built back in 3000BC but now belong to English Heritage as their flagship attraction, with busses delivering tourists from London every day. On a normal visit you can’t enter the stone circle, and must keep to the walking path. However, on the druid's most important day, the 21st of June, the sun rises directly beside the Heel Stone and reaches it's highest point in the sky. This is the summer solstice and to mark the celebration the stones are open to the public, who spend all night partying like their ancestors would have done thousands of years ago.

With Covid-19 scuppering the last two solstice celebrations, this year marked the full comeback of the event. And now that I'm a Wiltshire resident and my birthday falls on the solstice date, I felt compelled to attend and embrace my spirituality. I arrived with girlfriend, Kirstie, and we joined the traffic procession and gridlock as tens of thousands descended on the Salisbury plain. Security directed us along an approved path towards the stones. 

A crowd gathered tightly inside the stone circle to witness the druid's opening ceremony. The participants dressed in white robes, with the women wearing a crown of flowers. Rollo Maughfling, the Archdruid of Britain, projected a Gandalf vibe, with his wizened features and long grey beard. He sported a red cape and a summery hat. He raised his palms out and led a prayer 'Let there be peace in the East', followed by the crowd repeating back. 

But this was all just warm up for the top billing act of the evening. The undisputed superstar of the druiding world, King Arthur Pendragon, entered the stones to raucous applause. He wielded a mighty staff and dressed in full regalia; white robes, with the emblem of his Order, a red dragon, emblazoned across his chest. 

'We love you Arthur!' Screamed an hysterical young Druidess. The King stretched out an arm as he walked by, so fans could touch him for just a brief, beautiful moment. Born John Rothwell, and leading a biker gang, The Gravediggers, in the 70's, His Majesty read a book on the legendary King Arthur and made the incredible discovery that he was in fact his reincarnation. John Rothwell officially changed his name by deed poll to Arthur Uther Pendragon and converted to druidism, transforming his gang into the Loyal Arthurian Warband, hellbent on getting free access for all to Stonehenge. 

'No pay to pray!' He reminded us as he took centre stage, pumping his fist. But the druids are also committed to peace, as long as you’re not English Heritage or trying to build a tunnel under Stonehenge. And so he led us in his own prayer.

 "We swear, by peace and love to stand, heart to heart and hand in hand, mark o’spirit, and hear us now, confirming this our sacred vow!"

And with that, the official duties were over. The druids retreated from the stones and the circle was overrun by a less dignified breed of worshipper. Trumpets sounded as revellers hollered and moshed like it was 2999BC. 

The event felt like a gathering of Britain's strangest people. An old man held up a wrinkled newspaper article, like one of those crazed, doomsday prophets reminding us the end is nigh. The headline read 'If people want Stonehenge to be a UFO landing site, it's fine'. I looked at him for some explanation, but he was suddenly trying to hop along the grass like a rabbit. 

Eager to meet druids, I approached one standing guard by his banner. He looked like the homeless guy in every movie, with a wild, frizzled beard that seemed to sprout from every part of his face.  His head was wrapped in a thick wreath of greenery and he carried a huge sword that could have been Excalibur itself. 

'Are you having a good time?' I asked. He just stared back, blank and confused. His white robes were tied so tight they could double as a straitjacket and, for whoever dressed him, I think that might have been the point.

'That's Merlin,' a priestess answered for him. A bracelet hung from her nose, that I tried not to stare at. 'He's been here every solstice since 200 AD,' she giggled.

'What's your name?' I expected her to say something cool like Guinevere or Boudica.

'Alex.' Oh.

'So what's that ceremony all about, then?' I asked and instantly regretted doing so, as she stumbled and choked her way through a word salad.

'- like the peace in our environment for everyone, for us all together, getting the geology of it.'

I watched her nose bracelet jiggle as she floundered, and wondered what would happen if I tugged on it. But most importantly I hoped she would introduce me to his highness, King Arthur. 

'Is he part of your order?' 

'Oh no. We're the Order of the Stones. He's the Loyal Arthurian Warband. They're more into protests and campaigns.' 

Her order was just into dressing up. I was wasting my time.

No bother, I spotted the King just outside the circle, and no longer flanked by his Warband guard. There was just a drunk woman who wouldn't shut up and inadvertently acted as gatekeeper for his attention. I hovered to one side waiting for a moment to move in, but she didn't stop speaking at him even to breathe. 

My opportunity came in the form of an aggressive bumblebee, attracted to the wreath she had on her head. She shrieked as it swooped at her. 'That's the same bee that chased the guy with the flag!'

'It must have the taste for human blood - haha' I chuckled, stepping forward.

The woman frowned, unimpressed that someone else got a word in.

I put out my hand. 'My name's Will. You must be King Arthur?'

I asked about his campaigns, and he described how Stonehenge was closed during the summer solstice up until the 1980's when he took English Heritage to the European Court. He claimed that it was a religious site for druids and pagans and they were infringing on their rights.

'Guess who my lawyer was?' He demanded. 

I didn't know any. 'Uhh was it Tim? Wait, I meant David -'

'No - Keir Starmer, leader of the opposition!' He raised his brows like I should be impressed.

'Oh wow!' Though I didn't know who that was. 'So I guess everyone celebrating this occasion owes it to you?'

'We thank you, your greatness!' Cried one passerby, as if on cue.

'Well...' a grin spread across the King's face. 'I don't like to take all the credit.'

Another random bounded up 'Great speech, Arthur!'

The fans were peeling him away. Everyone wanted a piece of druid royalty.

But before he left, Arthur bestowed upon me a parting gift.

'Seeing as you got my question wrong, you can get rid of this for me.' And he handed me his empty water bottle.

'It would be my honour,' I told him as he was led away.

Kirstie and I made camp not far from the stones. I quickly realised why King Arthur saddled me with his water botte. There were no bins anywhere, and we were all too tree-hugging to litter.

As the light faded, the crowd fell into megalithic madness, forming an orgiastic party that raged inside the stone circle. Drums and chanting echoed from the centre; fireworks exploded. An unconscious, naked body was dragged out by emergency services. A group of lads climbed the tallest stone and danced on the top until security ordered them back down. 

Kirstie and I were like two old grannies. Instead of joining in, we were both exhausted and planned to dig in for a long night with a short kip first. We brought a large picnic blanket to lie on and a duvet, but didn't account for a thick fog that rolled in and left everything saturated. We lay down hoping to sleep but could do nothing but shiver, and as the temperature plummeted, I wondered if we might be corpses by sunrise. I sat up and decided there was nothing else for it. We needed to go in. 

The inside of the stone circle was an absolute scene of tightly packed howling, drum beating and gurning faces to the rich aroma of sweat and cannabis. People harnessed their inner Neanderthal and became possessed, shrieking to the stars and making ululating war cries. A strong light set up in the distance by security gave the stones a moonlight glow. Staring up at the monolithic structures and the night sky, swaying to the drums, I did feel a kind of spiritual experience. This was how the ancient people might have enjoyed the stones, surrounded by wild men and women.

Our souls nourished, we retreated back to our camp. The circle was fun, but we couldn't put up with it for long. Now we needed to try again to sleep.

'Where's our bags?' Kirstie asked. 

'I'm sure they were right here between those two.' I pointed to a ladies pink bag and another blanket.

'It can't be.'

Then I saw the water bottle. Right on our spot. Someone had taken everything but the bottle.

I just couldn't get rid of it.

'What are we going to do?' I worried. 'We've got nothing. We'll actually freeze.'

Kirstie recounted how penguins survive in the cold. They pack tightly together so that their combined body heat keeps them warm, with the centre becoming hot enough to get roasted. We watched the steam rising from the stone circle.

'We'll have to go in, and stay in, for the night.' I decided. 

Desperate, we joined the maelstrom of thrashing limbs and blaring horns, and engulfed our lungs in smoke and stench as we sidled into where it was warmest, at the epicentre of the action - the drum circle. 

Commanding the drum, and providing the beating heart for the entire festivities, was a naturally skilled musician. The rest of the band kept in with his rhythm. When he retired for a smoko, I shimmied in as his replacement. Why not be the centre of attention for a bit?

But slapping the drum was harder than he made it look and I was not sure what I was doing or what a beat was meant to go like. Without clear leadership the band fell out of time and the crowd lost enthusiasm. In this musical power vacuum, other acts emerged. One was a white guy dressed as a Sioux Indian who beat his own drum and turned a tune along the lines of:

"Fuck Boris Johnson/ He's a cunt! Fuck Prince Andrew/He's a cunt!'  

The jingle caught on, and soon a chorus of singers were reeling off a list of cunts. 

"Fuck the Queen/She's a cunt!' Proved a step too far.

A triggered, older dude roared into the national anthem. "God save our gracious Queen" he bellowed, as if the Sioux Indian held her in mortal peril. 

The crowd splintered into two warring, increasingly antagonised factions. And it was all my fault. As the battle for the soul of Stonehenge raged, I tried to slap a beat, desperate to restore order. But it was pointless. We were the band playing on board the Titanic as it sank. Except stinkier and with no talent.

As I considered clearing off with Kirstie, to avoid getting caught in the bloodshed, the lead drummer appeared, bemused to see the crowd descend into anarchy in his absence. I offered him his spot back. 

'Just keeping it going for you,' I raised my thumbs and crept away.

Immediately his beating brought the other band members into line and captured the attention of the belligerents. The enthusiasm for outing public figures dissipated and so did the anthem, and all of Stonehenge returned to their happy place of howling and hooting. It was the sort of Neolithic beat we could all dance to. 

Kirstie and I successfully roasted like penguins, feeling that delicious sweat rolling down our backs. Incidentally, we had also taken prime position for witnessing the solstice through the stones. The spot was highly coveted and we jostled off endless prospective space invaders. But it meant hours of standing and swaying and enduring a long, noisy night. The guy stood behind me wailed into my ear non-stop. I wanted to headbutt him. Kirstie is not a fan of crowds at the best of times and felt worn out and irritable by the early hours. 

We also had to watch out for this dickhead with a didgeridoo, who kept swinging it around. Everyone had to either limbo under it or get whacked in the face. 

At my feet sat this deranged, naked guy with long, greasy hair. He looked like a grubby Jesus who had dropped acid and then lost his clothes. He had made like a penguin too and come in for the warmth. I gave his head a little pet as he clutched his face and rocked back and forth, laughing hysterically.

We had gone from grannies to reluctant, inner circle hard-cores, who had partied and suffered throughout the night to hold our spot, and now, with the sunrise almost upon us, those spots had to be seriously defended. Outsiders tried to push their way through, hoping to sneak in at the last moment. One of these was a smirking, rotund woman who looked like Ursula, the sea witch, from The Little Mermaid. She clasped a crystal topped staff and used it like a crowbar, prying open the crowd, so she could squeeze through her big ass. Trotting behind her was an indifferent son, playing with his phone, and her gormless looking partner, whose face drooped on one side as if he had a stroke.

'Budge over' Droopy grunted at Acid Jesus, who looked up at him from the spot by my feet and then stayed put. Ursula gritted her teeth and smacked him with her staff.

Acid Jesus groaned in pain.

'Sorry! Didn't see you down there,' 

He rubbed his head and glared at her.

Droopy took a swig of a dark red liquid from a plastic, medical blood bag. Ursula grabbed it off him and held it up.

'It’s the blood of a thousand virgins!’ She cackled, her teeth stained red.

Kirstie rolled her eyes.

‘Oi!' Ursula railed on her partner. 'Giz us some ’baccy for my jay.’

'What's the time?' I asked Kirstie. 

'The sunrise is any moment.' 

The crowds pushed and twisted, hoping for the first glimpse. Even the drumming tapered off as we all stared. I couldn't see any sun though. 

'What about now?'

'It says the sunrise has already been.'

A bit of cloud seemed to block it.

'Does that mean we've missed it?'

'Come on the Su-un!' Chanted Ursula. She sucked on her joint and blew out a thick trail of smoke.

'I think we've missed it, Kirst?' Don't tell me we waited through all that for nothing.

Ursula pulled out a megaphone from her bag, and held it to her phone as she played garish, techno music, blaring it over every other noise in the circle. It was not the vibe. One guy tapped her shoulder and muttered something. She shrugged him off. 

In a misconceived act of defiance, a simpleton, dressed as Friar Tuck, picked up a drum and pounded it, right next to Kirstie's face.

Something popped inside Kirstie. 'That is fucking it! I've had enough' and she stormed off, abandoning her long held position. 

I started to follow, but then gave the sunrise one more minute. And I'm glad I did as just then, as Kirstie disappeared into the sea of jackets and hats, there was a collective gasp, as the sun peeked out over the clouds. Voices yelled at others to stand back. Cameras and selfie sticks flailed in a furious symphony of clicks and snaps. The sun rose straight, directly between the two main rocks and beside the Heel Stone, where the druids were performing their dawn ceremony.

As we basked in the sun, the drummers and wailers protested Ursula's techno. The oldest drummer, with a No Tunnel Under Stonehenge t-shirt spoke to her. She suddenly roared, 'They don't want us here! You're playing your shit, why can't I play mine! Fuck all you guys!' She stabbed her staff into the crowd to clear a path, dragging off Droopy and her son. 

Acid Jesus was still on the floor, clutching his face. He got trampled and missed the sunrise. For the rest of the survivors, another year's solstice was over, and we could all depart. The crowds dispersed through the early morning fog and I found Kirstie sat by the King's still unclaimed water bottle. I dropped down and wrapped an arm around her. Together we watched the sunrise like grannies, just the way we wanted to; no techno nonsense, wild howling or other clanging, banging disturbance.