“The natural assumption about a place like Brodgar is that it’s built to last,” Edmonds continued. “If stones are missing from the circle, it must be due to later intervention. In fact, there is a possibility that many of the stones did fall in the Neolithic. Some have strong foundations, but others are not set very deeply. If you were concerned about long-term stability, you wouldn't do it this way. What this tells us is that a place like Brodgar is actually a performative space. Its making is what matters. New stones are added, others removed. There is a fluidity to it, all this is something we can never see, but must try to imagine.”
I followed Edmonds to Ness, where the past went underground. An earthmoving machine operator filled in the trenches and returned Brodgar Farm to its original condition. Building 10, the imposing ceremonial building I had previously visited with Nick Card, was no longer visible.
“There’s also a question of consistency here,” Edmonds said. “After a couple of generations, Building 10 began to deteriorate and had to be partially rebuilt. Over time, it fell into disuse. Finally, around 2400 BC, it was sealed in a huge ceremony that included the mass slaughter of livestock.” Such “decommissioning” celebrations were common during the Neolithic era: they included the demolition of roofs, the trampling of pottery, and the breaking of gneiss club heads. Now, in a landmark replay that would have pleased George MacKay Brown, Structure 10 has been sealed once again.
The final stand was the magnificent Structure 27. After a greeting card and Tam at the excavation headquarters, Edmonds headed there to take some final soil samples. “Architecture with a capital A,” he said, as if still surprised by what he saw. Less subsidence occurred here. The megalithic slabs holding the building together differ in level by only a few centimeters.
“The orange soil is ash from the peat fires,” Edmonds said as he scraped the side of the trench with a shovel. “There's a layer of baked bone. It's a large slab of ceramic that decomposes back into clay, leaving behind dark pieces of igneous rock that were used to temper the pottery.”
Becky Little, an artist who teaches classes in traditional clay techniques, was visiting Ness that day and came over to say hello. “We’ve been living here for the last few days,” Edmonds told her. “By the middle of next week this will all be gone.” Little climbed into the trench and bent over a vertical stone covered with a web of typically Orcadian geometric patterns. “I didn't see this when I was here before,” Little said.
“The light is just perfect right now,” Edmonds replied. It was one of those hours of rapt pastoral life in Orkney, the midday sun creating a world of pure green and blue.
For the last time I stopped at the Stones of Stenness, which have remained in my memory since I was seventeen. Despite the flood of new data, megaliths have not given up their stubborn strangeness. They may not have been designed to last for millennia, but now that they are, they are stone doors through which the living try to touch the dead. I had the feeling that my own life was a pair of shadows flickering on a rock. Preoccupied with thoughts of time and death, and also worried that I would miss the ferry, I got into the car and disappeared. ♦
