The Rollright Stones

The Rollright Stones constitute a stone circle in rural Oxfordshire that dates to at least 3300 BC. The circle is remote and is accompanied by several standing stones—these are partially positioned on a hill over the road from the circle; and it is said that a witch offered up a kingdom for the knight who could step up to the hilltop and see the offered lands—the knights fell a step short and so were turned to stone.

The site is used by local scallys to smoke joints—with nothing to do in the countryside, they roll up to the stones and smoke joints in the tiny lay-by until boredom sets in. So initially I lay in the dark—they had not noticed me—and listened to the music from their phones, something about “man’s tribal struggle for existence”. It is remarkable how close a person can get to a man lying flat on his back in the grass in the dark without a clue—especially when stoned. I could have slit his throat, but instead I just slipped away with my torch—to much consternation among the scallys.

Finally, around 12:14, it became quiet. Cars no longer stop-started in the lay-by. I set myself up in a field right next to the circle. I would have slept in the circle, but I was conscious that perhaps “anyone” could pull up in the middle of the night and have a quick poke in the circle, the lay-by is right beside the circle—I did not want to be taken unawares by the sort of person who plays loud music on their car stereo in a lay-by at night. As it happens, all the simple country folk and their simple tracksuit bottoms vanished after 12:14—yet by then I had rolled into my sleeping bag.

As with Hartsfell, I had hardly been asleep for half an hour before I felt compelled by a mental force to poke my nose from the bag. Down below, as the field rolled away, were five or so small red lights—at first I thought they were reflective lights from farm equipment, since that was how they looked; and yet I was puzzled at how they could reflect with no light source. So I rolled from my bag and began to walk towards the lights. It soon became clear these were not normal lights; they blinked on and off, rearranged themselves. I looked through my monocular and found I could not focus on them, the closest I managed was an image that looked like those fashionable bare lightbulbs you find in hipster coffeeshops. On my phone, it was a different story, as you can see from the video below—many more lights, now resolved to orbs with smaller orbs in orbit around them, as at Hartsfell, lay at the field’s bottom. As I went down the field, the lights blinked out—if I retreated they blinked on; it seemed I could never reach them.

Clearly, these were the same orbs I saw at Hartsfell—the same object type, anyway. This was confirmed when I heard a definite raspy breathing noise, effectively a low growl infused with considerable menace, above my head and to the left—as if there were a beast about 7ft tall next to me. This was accompanied by rustles from the hedgerows and, finally, hoofbeats—very heavy hoofbeats—about me. Bear in mind that I was in a completely empty agricultural field with no cattle and no other farm animals around me at all—not for miles. Yet these noises were close at hand and carried a definite air of menace—such noises are regularly reported at ghostly events. These eventually resolved into low screams and muttered conversation that never definitely became anything tangible. The temperature seemed to have dropped even further, admittedly on a clear October night, so that I was surrounded by a thin cold mist, rather as in The Exorcist.

I retreated to my sleeping bag higher up the hill and watched the orbs—they remained fairly steady; sometimes swapped position, sometimes a few vanished. However, the noise in the hedgerow had followed me up the hill, and throughout the night there was a constant rustle in the hedge behind me—although the torch revealed nothing to be seen, no animal would remain so close for so long; and, indeed, I experienced a similar rustle at Hartsfell—though not so loud and sustained.

I have visited this area before and noted the owls—there are many owls in the area, and several trees that, silhouetted on the skyline, look like frozen giants. Well, I was surrounded by an owl chorus from almost the moment the orbs appeared; and when I sat down it became almost constant. I also found that I could ask questions and receive a reply—with a hoot. Similarly, I asked the open question, “Are you the witch?” and received a vigorous rustle from the hedge in affirmation. I asked similar questions to the owls as regards nuclear war, Putin, and whether xxxx is my true love or not.

When I paused to urinate, the owls became very disturbed as soon as my water touched the field—so I duly apologised to the orbs and the owls. At about this time, I glanced up and gave a start to see a large red object in the sky—it was the moon, late risen; and it was exactly halved and completely blood red. I felt this to surely have been caused by the witch—for now I had no doubt the orbs were the witch, this was her field; she was the guardian of the field, its genius loci—indeed, similar orbs have been reported by people who make crop circles, the orbs hover in the field’s corner as mine did. After all, the field contained not only the stone circle but also a few other knights said to be frozen in stone by the witch, the whispering knights—so it was definitely her territory.

Indeed, the orbs at one point resolved into three red dots—as if there were two red eyes and one red top to a staff. Doubtless a yokel would mistake these for the eyes of the devil; and, indeed, I thought I could see a dark body that connected the eyes—yet perhaps that was imagination. When connected with the raspy breathing noise and rustles, I detected definite menace in the whole arrangement. I had, naturally, affirmed my quest for the Grail, the divinity of Christ and Buddha, and my adherence to the doctrine of awakening—so I felt fine enough to stay in the field with the witch. Frankly, I only left, some hours later, to spend the night in the bus shelter in the village below because I found the idea of what humans might stop in the field more worrisome—a few car lights dragged slowly past, even at 01:30. Ultimately, it’s humans you have to be frightened of—not spiritual entities, even witches.

So I remained in conversation with the orbs—and also with the sky. It was very clear and, as at Hartsfell, I noticed a few ambulatory stars that shimmered like rubies in my monocular and charted their own eccentric orbits. Around this time, I was seized by the idea that people only fail to see these things because they are too selfish and greedy—and I screwed myself up with the emotion (something similar happened at Hartsfell). Rather than speech, this is the real way to communicate with these entities—to activate the magical will—for there was suddenly a bright magnesium-like flash above the orbs. I said out loud, “The problem is that people are too greedy and selfish,” and there was a second white flash above the orbs, just like the first. When I thought it a third time, the flash came again. So perhaps the witch is not all bad—or perhaps some other entity was summoned by those thoughts and emotions, a whiter entity. Nevertheless, the point stands—the message from the creatures at the Rollright Stones is not very original, though certainly relevant: if people were less greedy and less selfish they would see that spiritual entities are real.

I had asked if I should go into the stone circle, and received an affirmative hoot—so I did so. I have to say nothing in particular happened—except I did begin to shiver convulsively and uncontrollably; it was a cold night but I had hardly shivered at all up to then, yet when I was in the circle I began to shake and shake—and, once again, the strange mist was present. I suspect interesting results would be achieved if you slept in the circle, but that would leave you exposed to human predation…

My view is that the orbs represented the witch: the witch is old, she has been there since at least 3300 BC, probably long before—probably when this was Hyperborean clay. This incident merely confirms my previous observations: Jesus, real; Buddha, real; Atlantis, real; Hyperborea, real—Britain is a lost part of Hyperborea, the stone circle relates to that primordial tradition. The stars are alive—as with my witch—and the three wise men followed them to Christ’s birthplace.

I nodded off to sleep and was assaulted by three images: first, Christ’s hands nailed into the cross with a great impact—a ka-pow comic book impact; secondly, the Buddha in a lotus position flying through space—and, finally, most strongly, the face of a goat, the notorious Goat of Mendes. All these images were surrounded by a torrent of yellow, red, and orange triangles that undulated beneath them. I also felt, as with the strange music at Hartsfell, that I could hear bells, church bells, being played across the field. Suddenly I heard myself say, “Please don’t go,” in my dream. I started up and looked down the field to see the orbs had all but vanished. As with the way they announced themselves—with a voice in my sleep at Hartsfell that said, “The UFOs are here”—the entities also told me they were going; although this only happens in sleep and is not like a conversation—it is like an invisible thread that guides the mind, guides it where to look when you open your eyes. Indeed, the best way to communicate with these entities is in dreams—I had limited success with speech, found they approached closer when I remained silent, and had no success with whistling.

They never completely left, I could just see one faint faint light at the field’s bottom through my monocular—yet the show was over, the owls fell silent. I walked down the field to probe right to the bottom, to where they had been, and duly found myself assaulted with hooves (goat hooves?) thundering on the field, the barks or squeals of dogs (there were none in the vicinity), and what I thought were muttered voices—perhaps the farmer—but which had no source. The assault was so strong I actually turned back at first, then I decided to press on—yet at the field’s bottom there was nothing, although it was very misty and cold. At last, on intuition, I left the field.