Before I launch into the post proper, I must explain that I am not a Nazi. Before you navigate away from my blog in disgust, let me reassure you that I have not been inciting racial hatred, invading any European countries, or even listening to the views of the Royal Family. It is a lot more innocuous than that.
With a day to spare in Yorkshire, I decided to test my navigational skills in preparation for walking the Pennine way and ultimately across America by navigating a few miles across a large featureless moorland aiming at a small stone carved over 3000 years ago with a swastika, hence the Nazi connection.
Anyway, I set off up the Moor, map in hand. After a mile or two, I realised that I was walking through an area the map worryingly marked "danger area!". Unhelpfully, the map gave no clue as to what dangers I might face. Regardless, I carried on, slightly wearily, looking out for low flying aeroplanes, holes in the ground, and everything in between.
Another mile or so down the path, I stumbled across a line of grouse butts. Again, do not turn away in disgust, I am not being rude! Butts are dugouts in the Moors used for shooting grouse. This was a danger more deadly than any of those I had considered. Low flying planes are all well and good, but lead shot let lose by chinless wonders wielding aging shotguns is something altogether different.
I then considered whether it was or not shooting season. Somewhere in my mind the glorious 12th stuck out. Or was it the glorious 9th? Come to think of it, which month contains this oh so glorious date? I had no idea, so illogically decided to carry on regardless.
You may by now have got the impression that I do not approve of grouse hunting. Quite the contrary, I simply do not approve of landed gentry firing bullets willy nilly in my vicinity. Without the hunters there would be no grouse and no heather Moors.
This may seem a bit backward, but the Moors are an entirely manufactured landscape. Without frequent burning by hunters, the heather would be outgrown by bracken, the bracken would be outgrown by bushes, and the bushes would be outgrown by trees. The grouse would be long gone by this point, as they rely on new heather buds and shoots for food. Three thousand odd years ago, when the prehistoric inhabitants of Ilkley Moor were carving Nazi propaganda in the hill's rocks, the area was still completely forested.
Back to the walk, my path crossed another Neolithic feature of Ilkley Moor; the twelve apostles stone circle. Now I know the circle is called the twelve apostles circle because there are twelve stones and were twelve apostles, but would it really have been so difficult to think of something that existed by the dozen when the stone circle was built to name it after?
Finally, I found myself in the area of the swastika stone. Luckily, it began to rain. This is not normally lucky, but to be honest I did not really want myself, a bearded twenty something year old, to be found scouring the Moors looking for symbols from the Third Reich, and the rain had sent most ramblers looking for shelter. In actuality, I was quite glad not all the ramblers had gone home. A small crowd of three surrounded the rock rendering it slightly easier to find. Furthermore, the smooth curves of the prehistoric swastika looked nothing like Hitler's crude straight-lined efforts.
In case you are wondering, the slight similarity between the Bronze Age swastika and Hitler's symbol in no way means that the Stone Age Britons were Nazis. It might however mean that the Nazis were Stone Aged*.
Anyway, navigational test passed, I jumped on a train back to my Grandparent's house just in time for Grandma's shepherd's pie. There is nothing quite like Grandma's cooking. Thank you Granny!
*Edit (08/07/2010): Yes Mr O'Connor, I know that the Stone Aged was not 3000-5000 years ago, I was using a little artistic license.
Swastikas have been around for many thousands of years and are a sign of prosperity and goodhope. You can find repeating swastika patternation on many mason built churches across europe.
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