Summer Solstice

There’s something quite magical about the summer solstice. In this busy world, solstice is a time of unity, as people from a range of backgrounds come together. Some years my husband and I mark the occasion at Avebury, and other times we choose to be somewhere outside but away from the crowds. I decided to return to Avebury for this year’s event. Without my husband, as he had to be up for work later on in the morning. But for the first time, our son joined me, tucked up in his backpack.

Summer solstice is also known as the longest day of the year. The day on which, in the northern hemisphere, the hours of daylight are longest. The exact time varies, but falls between 20 and 22 June. The term solstice is from the Latin, sol (Sun), and stitium (still, or stopped). At this point, the Sun stops appearing to move northwards in the sky, and begins moving southwards again, leading to shorter days.

No one quite knows when the summer solstice was first celebrated, but historians suggest as far back as the Stone Age. Certainly for ancient civilisations, crop growing success depended on understanding the passage of the Sun during the year. In Ancient Egypt, it corresponded to the rise of the River Nile, a time when flooding was more likely. For Ancient Greeks, solstice was a festival of equality, when slaves and their masters celebrated as equals. Pagans lit bonfires to boost the Sun’s energy, ensuring good weather for the crops, and a plentiful harvest.

A ridge overlooking the stones offered a good view of the eastern sky, brightening by the minute as we edged towards sunrise. The official sunrise time came and went. Still we waited, dozens of pairs of eyes watching the horizon intently. Then, shortly after 5 am, a sliver of fiery orange appeared in the distance. It grew quickly as the Sun rose higher. Day was breaking on the longest day of the year.

The crowd stayed, watching as the Sun climbed. The chill of the early air now eased by a gentle warmth. People who had never met before chatted to each other, drawn together by the moment. As I stood, our son sleeping in his backpack, I reflected on the history of the solstice. How many of my ancestors have stood peacefully and watched the Sun rising on the longest day? Perhaps some have been at Avebury to witness the occasion.

Surrounded by strangers, unified in a moment, I felt a surge of gratitude that I was able to be there. To share the time not just with our boy, but with others who were drawn together to mark the event. The German woman who had travelled from Norfolk with her friend, the trainee solicitor from Bath, the Scottish couple who told me about their granddaughter, the young man visiting for the first time who had stayed overnight. The backgrounds don’t matter. What matters is that we were joined in harmony. The magnificence of nature embracing us as one. We didn’t care about country of origin or religious leanings. We talked instead about love for our planet, and our hope that we can raise a generation who will cherish it more thoughtfully than previous generations have done. Of a movement towards universal compassion and tolerance in place of bigotry and selfishness.

Driving away from Avebury, I promised our boy that we will return for future solstices, summer and winter. It’s the sort of experience which I hope he will appreciate as he grows. These are people that I hope he can learn from, who will encourage him to think for himself. But as the cars leaving Avebury turned off along their separate paths, until just a few remained from the initial convoy, I began to wonder how we can create momentum towards a better world for future generations. The answers don’t lie in lavishly furnished offices in London, nor inside the walls of buildings which are closed to the public. They lie within the people whose love of nature and the planet transcends any differences. The people who want to work together, not for fame and acclaim. But for the future.