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Seven long strides shalt thou take,
And if Long Compton thou canst see,
King of England thou shalt be…
The pandemic has much to answer for. It was an emergency that ground the country to a halt, reshaping our lives for nearly two years, and only now are we taking tentative steps toward recovery. Those were dark, uncertain days, yet I owe them a debt. They sparked a creative awakening in me—a curiosity for the folklore and fables of this land—that still burns brightly. It began with weekly videos, little tales I’d tell on camera and share on YouTube, as much for my own solace as for anyone else’s. What started small grew steadily, gathering a loyal audience who’d request their favourite stories, offering me a quiet joy in a time of isolation.
Halfway through that strange season, a listener asked me to tell the tale of the Rollright Stones—a Bronze Age stone circle perched near Little Rollright, straddling the Oxfordshire-Warwickshire border. The site is a trio of wonders: an uncountable ring of weathered stones, flanked by two dolmens, the King Stone and the Whispering Knights, just beyond a copse of trees off a winding road. The legend tied to them is simple yet beguiling—a promise of kingship for the one who strides and sees—and it sank deep into my imagination. I couldn’t shake it. I longed to stand among those ancient sentinels, to feel the hum of their history beneath my feet.
But I couldn’t go.
The restrictions held me back, though perhaps it was more than that. The stones seemed to call me, their pull growing stronger with each passing week. I’d daydream of a summer’s day trip, wandering through that frozen army, the air thick with magic. I wondered if they truly held the energy people claimed, if I’d sense it too. Yet the months stretched into years, my tales moved on, and the Rollright Stones remained a distant echo in my heart—until this weekend, when I finally answered their summons.
I arrived on March 22, 2025, pulling up beside a quiet road under a bright, still sky. Spring hung in the air, that rare silence it alone can weave. A few cars dotted the verge; beyond the trees, figures moved near where the stones stood. I took a breath and stepped forward.
Déjà vu is a fleeting, elusive thing—I’ve felt it only a handful of times—but that day, it enveloped me like a tide. Before the pandemic, the Rollright Stones were unknown to me. I’d never visited, only glimpsed them in dusty books or fleeting online images. Nothing prepared me for the wave that crashed as I emerged from the trees and faced the circle. It was exactly as I’d dreamed it, yet more—familiar in a way that defied explanation. I *knew* this place. Not in this life, but in some distant past, I’d walked here, lived here. Every stone, every groove, every blade of grass felt like an old friend. The stones hadn’t just called me—they’d welcomed me home.
I’ve never put stock in past lives or reincarnation. I’m a storyteller, not a mystic. But this was undeniable, overwhelming—a flood of recognition that brought tears to my eyes. I stood there, rooted, feeling I’d belonged to this circle before, not once but many times. It was as if a piece of me had been waiting here, tucked among the stones, all along
.
Two days later, I’m still reeling. It’s an odd, introspective thing to share, I know, but I can’t shake the experience—it demands to be told. The Rollright Stones are magical, not in the grand, obvious ways you might expect, but in the quiet, personal truths they unearth. They’re more than a monument; they’re a mirror, reflecting something deep and unnameable. If you ever find yourself near them, take those seven strides. See what they whisper to you.
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