Saturday 24/04/04 Part One

M25, M3, A303, then first stop Stonehenge. Major accident blackspot on the A303 here. You come over the brow of a hill, the road goes from four lanes to two, and hey, look everybody, there's Stonehenge over there on the right. Bang. Not this time, though.

Four quid each to get close to the stones, which we're too tight to pay, having been here before. In any case, the eight quid only entitles you to get within about forty feet of the circle. Unless you're a fully-paid-up card-carrying druid, of course; then they let you in a couple of times a year to skip around doing druiding and stuff. I realise that it's impossible for me to look at Stonehenge without thinking of Spinal Tap, in the same way that I can't hear the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger. For some reason I find this slightly annoying. Sooz takes some photos through the fence and we get back on the road.

A303, M5, A38, next stop the Dartington Cider Press craft centre. When I lived in Devon ten years ago this place was just a toyshop, a pottery and a bunch of disused farm buildings by the side of the river. Now there's a whole business development with about ten different shops or galleries, a tearoom, and a large car park. Some of the stuff is fabulous - the wood-turning gallery has beautiful things errm, turned out of errm, wood. Expensive, but as each fruit bowl probably represents a day's work £150 is pretty realistic. However, Sooz and I belong to the school of thought that believes that money spent on anything but alcohol is pretty much money wasted, so we don't buy anything. Hang on, I forgot guitars. Money spent on guitars isn't wasted either. We don't agree on that one, though.

Some of the shops aren't selling handmade products; they're full of Global Hippy Tat; you know, all those drums and dreamcatchers and scented candles that are churned out in some huge factory, probably owned by Richard Branson. By the way: hands up all of you who bought albums from Virgin Records back in the 70s were stupid enough to think that Branson was a hippy and were astonished to find that he was in reality a venture capitalist with long hair and a beard. Yup, me too.

Next stop Totnes.