Circum Navigation

Guy shepherd

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An Introduction by the Author

My adventures with crop circles began in the summer of 2018. Unbeknown to me it signified a new beginning after a rollicking rollercoaster ride through a devilish decade of retail recession and damaging divorce. I was finding my feet again. It was the start of a miraculous return to my pre-marital cottage. It was the experimental year of its conversion to The Smithy art gallery. It was the first season of holiday rental on my recently completed outbuilding, The Boffy (yes, I know it’s spelt wrong). My girlfriend had just returned to Canada. Unbeknown to us, it was the start of over a year of visa wranglings before our reunification. Every day apart was increased agony as we experienced the true depth of our love. It was also the start of my ascent from the quagmire of chain smoking, persistent drinking and occasionally worse.

The catalyst for these changes materialised in human form. Elodie and Marc, a married couple from French Polynesia, arrived to stay in the Boffy with their Spanish friend, Consol. The pair had arrived from their south Pacific island paradise for their holiday in the Pewsey Vale. This puzzled me. Their beach home, on photographic inspection, boasted white sand, waterfalls, palm trees, a coral reef, dolphins and whales in the blue beyond. Those that know me personally and those that read my stories will all know that I am a great fan of Pewsey’s wonderful valley, nay, this earthly heaven, but I was intrigued nonetheless. Elodie had experienced an extraordinary dream a few months before. When she searched online for the various elements that she remembered from her revelation, she was drawn to the formation of crop circles and, due to the topological distinctions, the southern downs of England in particular. They made plans to visit.

By the end of their week’s stay, they were hooked on the field magic. The trio wanted to prolong their Boffy lodgings but it was fully booked for the summer. I already had a very good vibe about them so asked them to stay in my own cottage for a modest fee. A friendship was born. By day they would visit the latest crop circles. By evening they would cook delicious food and tell me tales. I’m a polite chap, so managed to veil my utter disbelief in their hippy dippy stories with lame excuses, drink refills and ashtray emptying. By night, the girls would chat to the resident ghost. They convinced her to leave before they did. It was an extraordinary fortnight.

Despite their continuous insistence, I never visited any crop circles with them. However, my rolling eyes routine only temporarily stalled their attempts to help me. They talked to me in a way that made me wonder about the futility of my current existence and the greatness of our planet and the universe beyond. They saw something in me that I had long lost. They saw my strength. When they left, I decided to find it. This decision was made easier by their encouraging messages in my visitors book, their thank you card and the crop circle book they gifted me. As a matter of respect for my charming guests, I read it. I was transfixed and mesmerised by the collection of science, facts and stories that Janet Ossebaard had accumulated in “Crop Circles: The Evidence”. Admittedly, like every other story, history, film, anecdote, eye witness account, experiment or finding on this subject, she has been ridiculed publicly and brassenly lambasted. But intelligent humans read beyond the fake news that we are spoon fed like naive babies.

The science in the subject was enough to convince me that I had a raison d’etre for my Wiltshire existence. The seemingly selfish life that I had battered myself into, suddenly had a chink of light in the distance. The cathartic process of personal outpouring through writing began in the late autumn. I vowed to cut down on the excesses in my world and concentrate on the work. Alone in my cottage for months on end, I attempted my novel. Wild and sporadic outbursts of my traditional excesses were eventually tempered by mid February 2019. I then vowed to remain sober for a year after thirty three years of not being so. I gave up smoking shortly afterwards. I felt incredible. The writing flowed. I finished the first draft by spring. It was an outpouring of my soul, a romance through others, a study in artistry and a humbling connection to the awesome power beyond.

Having written a fictional work about such a mesmerising subject, I thought I had better go and experience it for myself. I did not have to wait long. The first seasonal sighting was reported relatively locally on 22 May 2019 next to Norridge Wood, near Warminster, Wiltshire. I was buzzing with trepidation on the journey west in my pickup truck a couple of days later. I was slightly disappointed as I parked in the nearby layby and climbed across the detritus of inconsiderate travellers into the green field under grey skies. I immediately met my first enthusiast readying his drone for photography. His eyes danced as he regaled me with tales regarding his previous experiences. I was ready so, carefully following the tractor tracks, I plunged into my first crop circle. Shortly later, I left thoroughly disappointed after all the hullabaloo of the last few months. My overriding emotion was that I could have constructed the simple circles myself using rope and boards. I could not detect the tell tale signs of crop flattening without damage. My enthusiasm wilted like the broken crop.

With my faith in tatters, I half heartedly watched www.cropcircleconnector.com for the latest artwork. To compound my diminished interest, most of the crop circles reported were appearing in France. Despite riding a World War Two BMW sidecar unit around Normandy for the 75th Anniversary, I did not visit any Gallic crop circles that June. After the glorious distraction of Summer Solstice at Avebury World Heritage Site, I had nearly forgotten my pursuit of crop art, had put the novel to rest and only paid cursory attention to the web news. The only minor positive was that the circles had started appearing in neighbouring counties. Rumours were already spreading locally that the Pewsey Vale had had its day.

On 6 July, with German two wheel drive sidecar technology fresh in mind, I rode my Harley down to Alton, Hampshire, to test the new BMW Scrambler. It was a glorious day of blue skies behind bloated clouds, so I decided to lose myself on the roads beyond Winchester on my way home after the test ride. My nose is substantial but lends itself to directional efficiency which, when coupled with the position of the sun, is ample navigation on a motorbike. Following these simple hunches, I chugged through the picturesque town of Stockbridge, complete with an angling salesman giving a fly rod demo to a client on the High Street near the famous Test river. England really can be bloody marvellous. I throttled uphill to the west and into the sunshine.

A flash on my right was enough for me to slow down then turn in the vague north west direction of Andover and home. The sign claiming Danebury Iron Age Hillfort was sufficient for my subconscious to trigger limited databanks. It was the site of a recent crop circle. A mile or so later, I tripped over a hill crest and saw the green circle for the first time. I parked the bike next to the visitors and amblers, then climbed the hill to look down on the giant ring. It was beautiful. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of calm and peace. These are emotions often experienced by art fans. I walked down and along the winding track to the artwork. It was many hours later, having met curious, interested and enthusiastic patrons, I left with a new warmth in my heart. I had read a passage of my book to a dedicated devotee who had confirmed that I was spot on. That was enough for me.

With a spring in my step, I visited my girlfriend in Canada. It was the first time I had seen her in nearly a year. I returned a few days later with a double spring in my step. A combo of Smithy work and the start of my son’s summer holiday kept me away from the new agricultural love I was nurturing but, by 25 July, I was lulled back into its embrace. A seven circled artwork had already appeared at Pepperbox Hill, near West Grimstead, Wiltshire, so I rode off to see. As I gunned the bike along the Salisbury to Southampton road, I missed my opportunity to decelerate at the slip road to the appropriate village. As I prepared to slow and u-turn, a powerful urge to continue straight on overcame me. I did so and, as I climbed a hill, craned my neck to the left. Something told me that I had arrived. I could see no tell tale indentations in the field beyond but a small single track lane appeared which I instinctively took off the main road. Standing on the foot rests, I continued to inspect the crop beyond the hedgerow. Still nothing. I spotted a car parked in a gated entrance and stopped beside it. After dismounting, a large family joined me from the field. They were French and all bore the international signs of joy that crop circles appear to give their visitors, beaming smiles and sparkly eyes. On their departure, I vaulted the barred gate and walked the short distance to the brow of the hill. I was alone. The short hour that I spent with that creation, as the sun dipped towards the horizon, was one of mental exhilaration and an overwhelming peace in my body. It was true beauty.

After my annual vacation to France in early August, I publicly opened The Smithy for the very first time. It featured an exhibition of “Chubby Bathers” oil paintings by Rosy Modet. They were a suitable splash for a glorious summer which had accelerated the harvest by the afternoon of 23 August. Due to the rapidly dwindling supply of agricultural canvas, I had nearly given up on the formation of any more crop circles. However, my subconscious devised a plan to ride my bike down the Pewsey Vale and back again, taking note of any unharvested fields as possible future sites. What happened over the subsequent 72 hours or so can be modestly described as a series of incredible coincidences.

With the greatest respect to the town of Devizes, I decided spontaneously to vere off the A342 to avoid the town’s traffic at a junction I had never turned off before. It cut the corner, via the villages of Etchilhampton and Coate, back towards my favourite road along the north edge of the valley. Within a few hundred metres of dribbling along the high hedged lane, I had an inexplicable urge to stop and look at the field hidden to my left. I did. I looked out across the recently harvested field at the combines, tractors and trailers away up the hill. The scene seemed to cement the conclusion of my summer’s half hearted research project. In the obvious absence of a crop circle, I decided to bid farewell to the year’s seasonal art at the permanent stone version in Avebury. Ten miles or so later, I sat against one of the smaller Sarcens next to the village church at the start of the Avenue, one of the more powerful connection points to our planet’s subterranean energy lines. After contemplating both the great and the small, I had a last urge to check the crop circle website. To my surprise, one had been reported a couple of days previously. To my even greater surprise, it was in the Vale of Pewsey. To my astonishment, it was outside the village of Etchilhampton, until an hour previous, a place unknown to me. To my bafflement, the map grid location indicated that the circle was in the field above where I had recently stopped my motorbike. I returned the ten miles immediately.

Walking over the brow of the hill and seeing the artwork for the first time was a joyous feeling. The amiable couple I chatted to on descent to the circle oosed happiness. When I reached the perimeter, I felt a wave of joy envelope me. I joined a small ring of randoms who sat in silence in the centre. I basked in the sunshine and let an arable ocean of calm wash over my body. My mind conjured tricks with the cloud formations above. It was like a beautiful dream. When the sun began to set, the randoms began to peel away; four smiling women, three giggling men, a lady with a video camera and, finally, me. Grins and waves were the only farewell required. I drove east again, stopped the bike, walked up Adam’s Grave to watch the sunset and gaze at the last few unharvested fields in the valley below. I felt wonderful.

The feeling did not dissipate the next day. So much so that, after my day’s work at the gallery, I had nothing else in mind but to return to Etchilhampton. I was immediately rewarded by the same glow of warmth throughout my very core as I lay with my bare back on the perfect fold of wheat beneath me and my eyes fixed on the blue infinite above. My day dreams were broken by the introduction of a male shadow against the sun, one of the half dozen other visitors present. Chris had recognised me from the evening before and we were both delighted to share our mutual adoration of the artwork for the second time. Chris had been with his two mates the day before but had brought his wife and two year old daughter all the way from Bristol to bask in the experience. We were joined by Graham, a veteran crop circle enthusiast, and much banter was shared. Graham was sporting a t-shirt with a distinctive crop circle design. He explained that it had appeared during the Nineties in the fields below Milk Hill and Adam’s Grave. I explained that those fields featured in my literary work and that I had watched the sunset from there the eve before. I explained that there were still some unharvested fields and therefore, some hope. Firm friendships were forged before we all headed different directions home.

On return, I texted Chris a long term invitation to hunt crop circles, ate some supper and went to bed. Before turning in, I checked the Crop Circle Connector website. It contained some strange news. A new circle had just been discovered and photographed by Nick Bull’s drone. It had been discovered in one of the same unharvested fields between Milk Hill and Stanton St Bernard and at the exact same time as my newest friends and I had just been discussing. A strange coincidence for sure. Strange enough to ensure that, after a surprisingly deep sleep, I awoke before dawn with an insatiable urge to go visit.

That morning still feels like a fantasy today. I located the circle quickly from a parallel track, well known and used by me on my long walks through the hills. I have to admit that I was a little spooked. I had written my novel the winter before about a subject I had never actually experienced. Since finishing the story at least half a year before, my physical research took me on a fascinating journey. That navigation had now returned full circle to this surprising local reality. The crop circle was only a few hundred metres across the fields from my fictional version. I’m not sure what the odds on that are?

The sun was rising beside Adam’s Grave as I marched towards the field. I met a Dutch couple who had risen early for the same reason but were struggling to find the artwork. I explained that I knew where it was and would wave them up if I was correct. I walked up the field along the tractor track, stopped at the edge, took off my shoes and waved at my future friends. In the five minutes before their arrival, I made a video and took some photos. The crop circle was immaculate in its glory. I have never witnessed such exquisite perfection in nature. Had anybody else, since the artists, visited it the eve or night before? It seemed not. Was I the first person to visit the circle? I don’t suppose that really matters. What I do know is that I walked into a wall of extraordinary power and the following two hours were the most blissful terrestrial experience of my life. I will recall that feeling of pure love and total happiness forever.

But that is not quite the end of my little adventure. Yes, we three left at around 10am, numbers and hugs exchanged. Our idyll had been broken by the arrival of a family of three who stared at me menacingly when I proffered a friendly greeting of the morning. The man’s size and glare made me assume he was of the farming variety but our circular spell was broken so we left the magic behind. It was Bank Holiday Sunday so there were important tasks to complete. I drove to London where I met my beloved girlfriend, recently returned from Canada, and went for a boogie at Gaz’s Rockin’ Blues at Notting Hill Carnival. The next day, I went back into the Bashment, met my ex to collect my son for our last week of the summer holiday together. After a brief boggle to the Soca sounds and Reggae rumbles, we jumped back in the car for the journey home to Wiltshire. We stopped at a supermarket on the way to The Smithy. Having relaxed at home a while, I suggested an evening bike ride, walk and investigation of the beautiful crop circle. After this random series of events, my son and I arrived at the foot of the field at the precise moment that the combine harvester made its very first line through the artwork. It was an extraordinary coincidence of timings. A camera crew was also filming a documentary so we two piggybacked their idea by racing to the centre where we filmed the destruction of my beloved temple. Were we the last people to visit the circle? I don’t suppose that really matters. With personal affirmation of the power of the universe and group confirmation of my imagined fictional content, I returned home, edited the following story and awaited your judgement.

Guy Shepherd

The Smithy, near Pewsey, 2019