Ah, the winter solstice. December 21st has finally overtaken us.

Today we will pass one of the most potent signs of solstice: the age-old monoliths which stand on the hill at Stonehenge.

Last year 700 braved mist and fog for a solstice gathering. It was led by Druid Arthur Uther Pendragon: formerly known as John Rothwell. Phil interviewed him once, as the millennium approached.  Said he was a down-to-earth sort of chap, a mechanic-type in a druid’s outfit.

The media love it:  the event brings out some of our great eccentrics, those who dare to be different and stand out from the crowd.

My childhood is filled with memories of news footage of the Summer solstice at the stones, when tens of thousands would converge on the site and skirmishes would break out between our dreadlocked, tie-dyed, tattooed friends and the local constabulary.

They argued Stonehenge was part of our heritage and they were right. English Heritage fenced the stones off: but access is still provided on these landmark days.

And they come, those most colourful and free-thinking members of society: in their camper vans and travelling garb, singing, dancing, utterly un-self conscious.

Middle England watches with mixed feelings. Some express consternation, because there are many picture book villages who have had more than their fair share of contact with our unfettered earth-people.

It will happen thus: one day, usually without warning, the wandering peoples of our land will arrive in a pretty village, and look around for a place to rest their weary wheels.

One espies the village green. That’s common land, they exclaim, joyfully; and they drive onto it with their big heavy wheels and make it their, albeit temporary, home.

These New Age travellers let it all, so to speak, hang out. They are not always as observant of the local by-laws as one might hope. They enrage landowners, and the villagers develop one powerful voice extremely quickly. Injunctions are sought, police importuned, and it all gets rather heated.

Once upon a time, when I was a cub reporter, I was involved in a rather glorious chase across the home counties to cover a story a little like the hypothetical one above.

I seem to remember it was a rainy Tuesday lunchtime just after deadline, and everyone in the office was in that first flush of success after having completed the front page and put the paper to bed.

When the telephone rang.

We had an extremely talented brash young man in our ranks who later ended up deputy editing one of the big tabloids here. He had his ear to the ground: and he was informed by a contact that some extremely audacious New Age travellers were coming our way.

Hundreds of them were, it seemed, camped at Runnymede. You couldn’t get much freer-thinking than the site of the signing of the Magna Carta, could you? And it had the added plus of being close to the acre of American land which  sits on the hill, overlooking the river, a tribute to Kennedy.

We have a saying here: to cock a snook. It’s when you put your thumb on your nose and wiggle your fingers. Well; consider the snook well and truly cocked. The travellers had picked their venue to show their feelings for authority.

The instant the information hit the news desk, the office was full of electricity. And who better to send out than one of the office’s ace reporters, Phil Shrewsday?

Our editor spoke in a slow East London accent. He sported a large bushy moustache. His surname was Seal. Everyone called him Flipper.

“Philippo,” he pronounced, definitely, “Get down there and see what’s going on.”

Phil shuffled his feet. His clapped-out Datsun had given up the ghost and was sitting, defunct, at the end of my parent’s road. “Um, Flipper, I haven’t got a car…” he mumbled.

Flipper thought quickly; or rather, as quickly as he ever did. Phil needed a taxi driver, some airhead bird who wouldn’t be missed.

“Kate! Get that car of yours and take Philippo to investigate!” he said.

And we were off. My car had recently been serviced by a very good mechanic with his mind on other things. Consequently the engine ran like a tiger, but the gear stick had been refitted backwards. It took lateral thinking even to get to third gear.

We fired across Berkshire at considerably more than the speed limit: but when we arrived, the cupboard was bare. Not a new-age traveller in site. Not one measly flower-power Volkswagen bus.

We looked at each other and regrouped. A quick call to the office revealed that intelligence had them pinpointed, moving towards a choice bit of crown land towards the edge of our patch. We could cut them off at the pass.

Shortly afterwards we screeched to a halt after turning off a forest road, mulch raining on all nearby. We got out in our sharp nineties suits and experienced what it is to be truly, deeply out-of-place.

These guys worked fast; it looked as if they had been living here a week. Buses emblazoned with conceptual art lined a central road. Washing swayed gently on lines already set up. Children played, and alternative residents stared unabashed at these two incongruous interlopers. We considered turning back, but then it occurred to us that retreat might encourage pursuit, and the only way was further up and further in.

We found someone and asked politely to be taken to their leader. We were politely taken to their leader. There he sat, a square-jawed Genghis admirably equipped to lead thousands.

He introduced himself as Rainbow.

We sat down in his camp and had a throughly civilised discussion. The long and short of it was: they were going nowhere, thank.you. And in addition, thousands were set to converge on this place within the next 24 hours.

You must remember: we were after a story. And we had it, there in our palms, courtesy of Genghis Rainbow.

We jotted furiously in our notepads, and shot back to the office. Hold the front page, we panted breathlessly. And they did.

That week’s lead story was the thousands of New Age Travellers who would converge on the Queen’s land.

Of course, they never did. Rainbow wasn’t lying; he was, however, under the influence, and we all know what that can do for our powers of exaggeration.

So today, as we always do, we will pass the stones and nod in their direction. And Phil will say, Do you remember Rainbow?

And I will reply: How could I ever forget.