There is a certain apophatic quality to The World of Stonehenge at the British Museum, which is defined by the absence at its centre—not unlike a Polo, the mint with the hole. This applies figuratively, in the sense that what anyone actually knows about Stonehenge is still very limited, and literally in the case of the stones themselves, which remain safely on their picturesque traffic island in Wiltshire. This is a poser, obviously, for any curator: how to lay on an exhibition about something that isn’t there, created by a culture that left no written records. 

The clue’s in the name, and Neil Wilkin and Jennifer Wexler have put together a show that covers a huge swathe of prehistory which places Stonehenge in context, while wisely not committing to anything too specific about the stones per se. They treat Stonehenge instead as “a portal to our historic past”, and open with exhibits from early European civilisations, all of which emphasise the importance of the firmament at a time when life was essentially local, agrarian, and fixed, and when it was thought that only the heavens moved. 

At a first glance the packed-in displays brought back memories of the regional museums I was dragged around as a child; antlers, bones, and farming tools predominate. A wall of axe heads, all made from different types of stone, looks like a prehistoric pietra dura table-top; two large wooden tridents would not look out of place in a salad for giants, but “may have been pitchforks, net anchors, or even mash forks for brewing beer”. An enormous auroch skull has horns that belong in one of Desperate Dan’s cow pies. 

It is all very earnest, and no doubt fascinating if one likes that kind of thing. Matters pick up considerably when sheer functionality gives way to early decorative art: swirls, grooves, and symbolic patterns whose cryptic messages are lost to the mists of time. Some pieces are gigantic, and some small. A set of stone balls from Aberdeenshire, none too big to fit into the palm of one’s hand, are playful, baffling, and clearly less delicate than they look. A couple have the markings of modern tennis balls: the Flintstones go to Wimbledon. 

Meanwhile, memorial tablets from the foothills of the Alps subtly present the direction of travel: the prominent rising sun on one makes it look like a pre-war Japanese flag. This is the point at which shining curatorial genius breaks through the clouds; the direction of travel is from darkness to light, and the reflective gold jewellery and clothing that come next only heighten the effect. The highlight of the whole is here: the captivating Nebra Sky Disc, dating from about 3600 BC and only unearthed by German metal detectorists in 1999.  

The disc is the oldest depiction of the sky known to man, and in many ways it sums up the concept: the world of Stonehenge was inhabited by people who looked to the cosmos to acquire some sense of their existence as they lived, procreated, and died. Thus they developed a sense of the numinous; this inevitably translated into an early form of religion, which then required ceremonies. Two splendid golden ritual hats “perhaps imbued the wearer with divine or otherworldly status”; no mention is made of their very obvious phallic qualities. 

In the last and largest space, a video installation across the end wall plays a repeating sequence of the course of the sun across the sky. It calls to mind the moment when Stonehenge Studies changed forever with William Stukeley’s observation in the mid-eighteenth century that the stones were aligned with the summer solstice, and it is remarkably powerful. The light rises and falls over cases that evoke standing stones, each containing items that present just a little more insight into the period; all are interesting, and some are exquisite. None is bested, however, by the Bronze-Age little Rillaton Gold Cup, from the Royal Collection.

A cauldron speaks of home and hearth; horns tuned for war represent the changing of order, and a recording of them being played is more than a little unsettling. With this literal turning of a corner, things draw to a swift close. This is perfectly apt, for all this culture, all this civilisation about which we know so little, was swept away soon enough. What remains is speculation, but the curators present it attractively and with enough scholarly frankness that to be left without any definitive answers in no way seems like a swindle.  

The last word goes to William Blake, who thought that Stonehenge was some kind of legendary temple of lost Albion; he was not entirely balanced, and there has never been an entry requirement to claim to be possessed of higher knowledge in this respect. One of the maddest theories came from Aylett Sammes, who was dismissed as a loony even by his seventeenth-century contemporaries, but not before he had harnessed Cæsar’s De Bello Gallico to plant a crazy seed that grew into the legend of the Wicker Man. 

Stonehenge really is for everyone, and this is amply reflected in the gift shop. Erudition rubs shoulders with kitsch; learned books appear alongside Stonehenge candles, Stonehenge travel cushions, Stonehenge cruets, Stonehenge ornaments, Stonehenge mugs, Stonehenge bookmarks, and Stonehenge jewellery. The last range is not modelled on the stones, but on ornaments found in the various burial sites nearby. I can already hear the exchange over the buzz of conversation at a certain type of party. “The necklace? Grave goods, darling. Stonehenge.” 

The World of Stonehenge is at the British Museum until 17 July.  

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