Mostly, I’d tell you how much I loved Stonehenge and Avebury. How the history and the stories and myths made me remember how I love to listen. I would tell you how I didn’t feel any energy coming off the stones but I felt like something was hitting me. I would tell you how experiencing a World Heritage Site as renowned as Stonehenge made me feel so small, both metaphorically and literally.
Then I would tell you about the tiny villages of Lacock and Castle Coombe. How they were the prettiest, most quaint and cultural places I’ve been to in England so far. How I felt like I could live so happily in Lacock village but, would never be given that choice because it is a National Trust Village, meaning only ancestral families can rent the homes and nobody can actually own them. I’d tell you about the tiniest priest door of any English Abbey at Castle Coombe and how it also houses the oldest clock in England.
I would describe to you how it felt to walk the same streets as the cast of Harry Potter and visit the Potter home. I’d tell you about my gasp when I learned that the main High Street was used as Meryton in the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice and how Johnny Depp once stayed in the village.
I would tell you about visiting the Roman baths and imagining all the tourists as visitors of the bath when it was open. I’d describe the roman architecture, the incredible series of rooms a guest entered before actually entering the main bath to get acclimatized to the temperature. I would describe my fascination with the draining system that was completely excavated and visible. I’d tell you how it felt to touch the warm water in the bath.