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Friday 23rd June 2006
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Before driving off to Oxford, we popped into the grounds of our local church (I don't think I've ever heard of the word 'practicable', but M**** seemed to think it was okay) before having an explore of our local village, Camelford - those are the top two rows. We spent a couple of hours at Stone Henge, never quite daring to run beyond the flimsy rope protecting the National Trust's precious stones from the unwashed hands of the proletariat. The security guards looked a bit flimsy (a couple of bored looking girls), but given the extortionate entry fee (it ain't no Castlerigg), the last memory of a Stone Henge toucher could be the sight of a red dot on their chest . . . or maybe three, in a triangle formation . . . now that would be scary.
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