From Passengers Journal

In the land of crop circles, the logic of time spirals out, spinning like the globe itself. Everywhere is geometry. Here, in the quarries in the Preseli Mountains, dotted with ancient settlements of the long departed, Stonehenge’s igneous rocks were sourced. And here, where the Welsh coastline meets the civil parish of Nevern, Pembrokeshire, stands Pentre Ifan, a portalled Dolmen, a megalithic mystery. Composed of seven Neolithic pillars, it stands erect, like the abandoned remains of a sister-Stonehenge—with a flat stone ceiling.

"When we go back far enough to the time of long ago, there is only one place."

The view from its frame: a volcano sleeping in the westward distance, so deep in its slumber it is mistaken by visitors for dead. Its peak emerges majestic along the skyline like a grace note. Thought to be a burial chamber for centuries, there is curiously no sign of the perished. But make a wish under the shade of its 16-ton capstone, and you might wonder if you have died and gone to Pentre Ifan.

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