It was a grey and windy day as we drove through the winding country lanes of the Oxfordshire countryside. Despite the light being dull and lifeless, my heart warmed at the green and leafy view, the bucolic charm of rolling hills and fields of sheep.

My friend and I parked up and made our way through the gate, to what we had come to see, the Rollright Stones, wreathed in myth and legend for millennia. Formed of three separate megaliths, they are a part of a wider ritual landscape here in the fertile heartlands of southern England.

The train took me through The Fens, running alongside little narrowboats on canals near Ely, vibrant and warm in their traditional rich colours. We pass slight undulations in the land and I can see canada geese floating together /click/ deer peering up from a field /click/ pheasant cock looking out for his mate. As I gaze out, hurtling towards the Bronze Age, I wonder, would this have all been marsh?

I woke up while the sky was still mostly dark, to set off on the first bus to Nyon train station. I had one weekend a month that I stayed in Switzerland where I was working, instead of taking the five am Saturday flight back home to Alicante for the weekend. The route back to Geneva on Sunday was then via Lisbon, Amsterdam or Madrid since there were no direct flights that day. It felt like a reprieve to have a Saturday that I wasn’t getting up at three in the morning, getting up at seven felt indulgently luxurious.