Cerne Abbas and its Giant
I had been sat in my spot for a good twenty minutes before the coach arrived. The engine that seemed far too big for the smallest of laybys rattled the bench I rested on so much that the peeling of edges of lichen jittered and shook. I jittered and shook. It was too much, too loud. It drowned out the quietness of an early Sunday morning, waking the neighbours and disturbing the giant on his hillside home; although I suspect he had sat with that sound many times before.
It’s not often we travel to overly popular spots, but the Cerne Abbas Giant had been calling to me for a while now. I can’t explain what it is about chalk carvings that summon me to seek them out. I don’t think it’s the carvings themselves, but more what they have seen from their sloped seats overlooking the landscape. It’s all the hands that have made them, all the feet that have walked them, and all the promises they are supposed to offer if we come crawling in worship with the correct offerings. They are England’s genius locis I suppose, tangible, visible spirits. An imprint that those who came before have stamped on the hillside to show what that place meant at that time.
There is plenty of speculation as to the Giant’s meaning. The most obvious was made apparent as the sun broke free of its clouds, tracing the male figure that lay flattened on the hillside bearing a club, and well, let’s be frank – an almost 36ft erection! It’s no surprise that people have visited in the hope of curing infertility. He seems like the obvious hillside figure to head to for such reasons. The woods that surround the hill, all overgrown with ferns and foliage were supposedly where couples would head to perform such rites. I was slightly worried that an early Sunday morning walk might end in an embarrassing encounter. But, it was just us, the kestrels, and the haggard hawthorns that clung wind-beaten to ancient chalk.
Up on the hill itself it’s hard to make out the Giant. The best view of this 180ft figure is from the National Trust carpark that sits in the valley dip directly opposite it. Which was where we were sat, resting our feet and enjoying a cup of tea when the coach arrived.
As its engine juddered to a halt, a new kind of noise filled the air. A chattering. Not the chattering of starlings or songbirds, or restless wind through hanging leaves, but a human chatter. The passengers had departed from the bus in a haze of vape smoke, it circled around their heads like halos or winter mists. They made not for the path that led to the base of the hill but to the fence line just in front of us. There they reached for phones and cameras, which they held as their own versions of offerings to the hill God. Some of them opted for photos of themselves alongside the giant, all smiling faces, giant sunglasses, and highlighted hair; the focus more on them than the attraction they had come to find.
A well-dressed woman with a clipboard made her way between them, counting under her breath, scanning those around her but not once looking across the valley to Giant’s Hill. Perhaps she had seen it all before, and what’s one giant chalk penis from another.
They stayed a total of 5 minutes. I know because I timed it. I timed how long the noise lasted. How long until the chatter stopped, and the soft sounds of woodpigeons replaced it. How is five minutes long enough to take any of it in? Can you get a sense of the place in such a short space of time, or were they just ticking off places to say they had been there?
I like to think that even if we hadn’t managed our early morning walk, that if we had just come to stare at a chalk outline of a naked man on a hillside, that we might just have sat with him for a little while. That as we clasped fingers around warm mugs, we would have been listening to see if the landscape had anything to say. If that giant in all his nakedness had any stories to tell. None of them saw the kestrels haunting the air above his ribcage, or the way the raven slid from one arm to the other, and I don’t think any of them looked close enough to see the pock marks of rabbit holes like burns across his body. They all missed how sun and shadows animated him, gave him breath, and changed the shades of green he wore. No one noticed that the still, silent silhouette was filled with life.
It felt like a hoard of paparazzi appearing, wanting that shot without taking in the context. Just another memento to flash around to everyone; look what I saw, look at him, look at the size of it! To be bored within moments, ready to just move on to the next place on their list.
Selfishly, I was pleased for the return of the silence. To have the place to ourselves again before the next coach load of visitors arrived.
