Grey, bulbous clouds lingered over the stones as my bus arrived at Stonehenge. It was one of the days I had been waiting for, finally seeing the magical stones. Some of the girls I was with turned their noses up. “They’re just rocks.”

Except they aren’t. They’re historical and magical. If I hadn’t been so cold shivering in short sleeves, maybe I would’ve felt more magic. After all, the grass was an Irish green and black crows nestled on top of the stones, cawing ominously. It could’ve been the start of a story about how I found out I was a wizard. In reality, I walked around freezing my butt off, taking pictures of the rocks at every angle. One important note, the number of tourists probably also took away from the magic of it.

A bit away from the stones is a museum which was cool, but I’m only mentioning it because of the Druid. A woman in a white dress, antlers, and a purple sash sat in a corner of the museum talking quietly to visitors. She wielded an antelope staff and helped children connect with spirit animals or something to that extent. As I’ve only been to Stonehenge once, I’m not sure if there’s always a Druid there or if she was even a real Druid. Regardless, Stonehenge was worth seeing, and I’d probably go back during a different season and with warmer clothes.


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