Paris to Stonehenge meant the Eurostar, the Underground, another train from Waterloo, and finally Salisbury.
By the time I reached the hostel, I dropped my backpack onto the bed and sat beside it.
I unlaced my shoes, leaned back against the wall, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, the shadows had moved.
I stood, put my shoes back on, and found the innkeeper.
“When’s the next bus to Amesbury come?”
“Not sure. But why there?”
“I want to hike to the Stones.”
He looked at the clock.
“Be dark in a few hours. It’s getting cold.”
I had imagined this part differently.
I showed him the map I’d pieced together from grainy backpacker maps I’d found online, following old footpaths and hedgerows toward the monument.
“It’s only four miles.”
He smiled.
“Take the bus. It parks outside in twenty minutes.”
I took the bus.
~
Stonehenge stood low against a bruised sky. The wind carried the smell of rain and wet grass, cutting through jeans and flannel shirt, and chilling me in seconds.
Tourists moved in slow circles along the pathway, stopping to photograph the stones.
The monument was both smaller than I’d imagined, but also heavier.
I picked a direction and began photographing.
A minute later, the clouds moved, and the changing shadows rearranged the stones.
After completing my loop, I watched the light shift once more, then turned back toward the parking lot.
Another red double-decker tour bus marked “Salisbury” pulled into the lot, collecting stragglers.
The seats were warm.
The heater hummed.
I took a chair near the front and let the comfort settle into my bones.
“Just you?” the driver said, looking about his empty bus in the mirror.
I nodded.
Then my stomach rumbled.
“Hey, my shift’s ending soon.”
He paused.
“I was going to get some fish and chips. Mind if I stop?”
“Please. That sounds wonderful.”
When he parked, I followed him inside.
The paper parcel burned my finger—salt and vinegar cutting through the cold. The food, crisp and satisfying.
We ate in silence before driving back to Salisbury through the dark.