Stonehenge, that massive pile of carefully laid stones in the downlands of England, has been a source of speculation and admiration for generations. I remember first learning about it in some elementary school social studies class where the teacher hinted that the monument was originally built by druids.
Of course, she was wrong, just as those who claimed the Celts, the Romans, the Egyptians, and even King Arthur built it. The truth is nobody really knows who the master planners were. What is accurate is that Stonehenge took extraordinary effort to create almost five thousand years ago, and it is presumed today that such effort was for a specific, perhaps religious, purpose.
I have always been intrigued with Stonehenge. As a student, photos of it in history books were sure to draw my attention. Perhaps that’s why, when I was arranging my preferences on my new computer, I chose the icon to be displayed on as my desktop whenever my files were all minimized or closed. I love looking at the circle of rough-hewn stones rising upward toward a swirling Van Gogh sky.
I visited Stonehenge only once, in the late nineteen eighties. At the time, I was surprised at how small the area was in real life and thought that photos of it had given a grander impression. Truthfully, they only did it justice. It’s not so much the size as the mood that strikes you.
I understand the years since my visit have been less than kind to Stonehenge. A big highway roars by now and a circus has set up its tent not far away. I’m not sure I’d want to go there. But I still admire those ancient stones and still get that feeling of awe every time I see my monitor’s desktop in repose.
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