Devil’s Den: The Raised Stone in the Hidden Valley: Archaeology, landscape and encounter at a Neolithic long barrow east of Avebury
- Jul 25
- 21 min read
Welcome to Stone Temple Gardening, where we explore ancient landscapes and the monuments that inhabit them.
Today’s subject is Devil’s Den, a neglected and comparatively difficult-to-reach Neolithic long barrow east of Avebury in Wiltshire. It squats in the bottom of a small valley, its seventeen-ton capstone turned towards the edge of the surrounding bowl of ridges and hills. Beneath it, two strangely angled stone supports resemble bent legs, giving the monument the faint but unmistakable appearance of a giant grasshopper poised to spring.
Picturesque, improbable and apparently isolated, Devil’s Den is usually treated as little more than a curious Wiltshire dolmen.
Its real story is far larger.
Approaching the Hidden Monument
My wife and I first approached Devil’s Den from the north. We parked at the Gravel Hill car park on the Marlborough Downs. The views were immediately spectacular. From the higher ground the site could be picked out below, a small arrangement of stones on the valley floor. Then, as we descended, it vanished. The folds of the land closed over it. For a time there was no monument at all.
We had another problem. A sign at the entrance warned of a bull in the field and fresh cow pats suggested cattle had recently been there. We were on the alert and, looking down into the valley, thought we could see some gathered below. We expected cows so thats what we saw. But sheep was also a possibility.
As we descended, the cattle failed to move.
They were sarsens.
It was a small mistake, but one that became increasingly difficult to forget. From a distance, natural stones had become animals. Only movement through the landscape corrected the perception. We were not the first to notice this property of place.
When we finally decended to the bottom Devil’s Den was hidden, but returned when close at hand, it was no longer a distant object but an enormous stone held above the earth. Landscape dramaturgy.
That sequence, animal, stone, disappearance, revelation, lies at the heart of what makes this neglected Neolithic monument so interesting.
Why did Neolithic builders raise an enormous stone here, where the landscape first hides it?
And why this particular stone?
The answer may lie in three things usually considered separately: the lost sarsen landscape from which the monument was made, the older geography of movement through the Downs, and the transformation achieved by raising one selected stone above the rest.
Devil’s Den may have been monumental not because it dominated its landscape, but because it emerged from it.
The Devil’s Den Long Barrow: More Than a Dolmen
Devil’s Den lies in Clatford Bottom, a few miles east of Avebury. Today it appears as a freestanding dolmen: two great uprights supporting a massive capstone, with two fallen stones between them and smaller sarsens scattered nearby.
That appearance is deceptive.
The exposed structure is only the surviving chamber of what was once a substantial long barrow. Devil’s Den is generally assigned to the Early Neolithic, probably the fourth millennium BC, through comparison with other chambered long barrows. There is no direct radiocarbon date from the monument itself.
Archaeologically, the site remains remarkably under-investigated.
A. D. Passmore’s detailed 1922 account of the work undertaken to save the monument from collapse remains the best physical record. He traced the remains of a mound running broadly north-west to south-east for about 230 feet, roughly seventy metres. It was broader and higher towards the south-east, with the surviving chamber standing about seventy feet, or twenty-one metres, inside that end.
Passmore thought the south-eastern end may originally have possessed a bayed or horned entrance comparable with other chambered long barrows.
The work of 1921 was engineering rather than archaeological excavation. Passmore observed the trenches opened around the endangered supports and recorded that no pottery, bone or flint was found, but these limited interventions tell us very little about the archaeology of the monument as a whole.
Leslie Grinsell was already treating Devil’s Den as the surviving stone architecture of a long barrow in 1936, although he remained uncertain whether the exposed structure represented its entrance or burial chamber. By 1979 he had tentatively gone further, comparing it with the Tinkinswood-Randwick type of Severn-Cotswold monument, in which a single chamber lay behind a portal.
The classification remained cautious, but it reinforces what the modern dolmen-like appearance disguises: the surviving stones were only part of a considerably larger architectural arrangement.
William Stukeley gives us an earlier glimpse of how much had already been lost. He recorded Devil’s Den from three different viewpoints in June and July 1723. Taken together, the drawings show much more than the five principal stones that survive today. Passmore compared the plates and identified ten stones in all: the five associated with the surviving chamber and five additional recumbent stones, some of which may have belonged to an entrance or façade. The two stones still lying within the chamber may once have closed its north-western end.
Stukeley also appears to show considerably more of the mound. It rises around the chamber as a broad, rounded swelling and extends farther than the slight surviving earthwork visible today. We should not try to extract precise measurements from an eighteenth-century perspective drawing, but the general difference is striking.
Several substantial stones he drew around the chamber have also disappeared.
His views therefore preserve a Devil’s Den already ruined, but still far more extensive than the isolated dolmen we now encounter.
What survives is what remains when almost everything else has gone.
The Monument that Moved
Nor is the arrangement of those surviving stones unchanged.
Stukeley’s three views are particularly useful here. Whatever liberties he may have taken with perspective, the capstone repeatedly appears considerably closer to horizontal and the supporting stones more upright than they are today.
Sometime between his visit and the early nineteenth century the structure shifted.
Passmore reconstructed what had happened. The south-west upright slipped outwards at its base while its upper part fell inwards. The capstone dropped by about a foot, moved towards the south-east and twisted upon its supports. The north-east upright was left carrying tremendous pressure through a dangerously restricted point of contact.
A smaller stone trapped within the damaged structure may have helped prevent complete collapse.
By the later nineteenth century the capstone could be rocked. A visitor standing in the right place could actually move this enormous stone.
The trick became popular enough, and dangerous enough, for something eventually to be done.
Agricultural activity had made matters worse. Continual ploughing and levelling around the monument removed support from the stones. In 1921 the Wiltshire Archaeological Society sought help from the Office of Works.
The surviving photographs are remarkable. A great timber framework was constructed around the dolmen to carry the weight of the capstone while the base of the endangered north-east upright was excavated. Reinforced concrete was inserted around and beneath it. The surrounding ground was subsequently raised to conceal much of the engineering, and a small sarsen wedge was cemented into the upper contact to prevent further rocking.
The movement stopped.
The wedge remains.
It is sometimes said that Devil’s Den was reconstructed in 1921. That gives the wrong impression. The monument was not dismantled and arbitrarily rebuilt. It was stabilised in the damaged position inherited from its earlier collapse.
What we see now is therefore Neolithic architecture, historic movement and twentieth-century engineering occupying the same structure.
Stukeley’s drawings allow us to see behind that history. They preserve the chamber before its major structural shift, with a more level capstone, more of the mound and several stones that have since disappeared.
A Valley Full of Stones: Clatford Bottom
The greatest transformation, however, has taken place around the monument.
The modern field is misleading.
Writing in 1936, Grinsell described the Downs between Avebury and Marlborough as “strewn with greywethers or sarsen-stones”. Nearly all the north Wiltshire long barrows, he observed, were chambered because suitable local stone was abundant.
David Field’s study of the Marlborough Downs reconstructs that lost landscape in much greater detail. Stones occurred across the Downs, down slopes and into the valleys. Historical descriptions suggest that Clatford Bottom contained one of the densest concentrations anywhere in the area, supposedly so thick in places that it was possible to move from boulder to boulder.
Field makes an observation about Devil’s Den that fundamentally changes how the monument should be imagined. It was not, he argues, constructed as a prominent feature commanding the surrounding countryside. It was “hidden away on the floor of a valley” and, surrounded by natural stones of exactly the same material, would have been “largely camouflaged”.
That is almost the opposite of the monument we encounter today.
Centuries of clearance transformed Clatford Bottom. Sarsens were broken, dragged aside, incorporated into boundaries, used in buildings and roads and eventually removed commercially. Field records that stone for a new railway bridge at Windsor was being taken from Clatford Bottom itself. By the nineteenth century, one antiquary complained that Devil’s Den stood among “nothing but turnips”.
The isolation of Devil’s Den is therefore largely modern.
Originally it stood inside a world of stones.
Stukeley’s drawings should be treated carefully in this context. They do not attempt to record the enormous natural sarsen scatter Field reconstructs. The stones Stukeley chose to draw are conspicuous individuals around the monument, not a geological survey of Clatford Bottom. Their absence from the surrounding landscape in his drawings cannot therefore be used to argue that the natural stone field had already vanished.
But the drawings preserve something else that is still visible.
The capstone enters the sky.
Grey Wethers and the Marlborough Downs
There is another curious dimension to that lost landscape.
The natural sarsens of the Marlborough Downs became known as the Grey Wethers. A wether is a sheep, and the name derives from the way groups of grey stones seen across the Downs resembled flocks grazing on the grass.
Grinsell was unusually responsive to the atmosphere of this landscape. Of the sarsens he wrote:
“At dusk these stones impart a delightfully eerie atmosphere to the downs.”
That observation is more than picturesque. It records another way in which the stones act upon perception. They are not simply raw material lying inertly in the landscape. Their number, shape, light and setting alter how the Downs are experienced.
The sheep comparison matters for the same reason.
It does not tell us that Neolithic people saw sheep in these stones. We cannot project a comparatively recent name backwards five thousand years. But it demonstrates that natural sarsen morphology can encourage animal recognition.
I had unknowingly repeated the process on the way down to Devil’s Den.
Expecting cattle, I saw cattle.
They were stones.
Distance had made them animate. Movement changed them back.
Field himself explores whether prehistoric communities might have differentiated stones by more than practical qualities such as size and weight. Sarsens vary enormously in colour, surface, weathering and form. He also makes the striking observation that raising a recumbent stone can “dramatically change the appearance of a stone”, even speculating that erection might have been understood as “bringing it to life”.
That brings us back to the capstone.
Why This Stone?
Cummings and Richards argue in their excellent Monuments in the Making that one of the extraordinary effects of dolmens such as Devil’s Den is the presentation of an enormous stone held above the ground.
Their emphasis shifts the question away from simply asking how prehistoric people transported large stones.
Before a stone was transported, it had to be noticed.
Before it became a capstone, it was a boulder.
In a landscape containing thousands of sarsens, abundance does not make selection less interesting.
It makes it more so.
Why this stone?
Practical considerations obviously mattered. A capstone had to be large enough, structurally suitable and capable of being raised. Local availability may have reduced the distance it needed to be moved.
But those explanations do not exhaust the question.
Cummings and Richards encourage us to think about recognition, selection and elevation. Field gives us the particular environment in which that process occurred at Devil’s Den: a valley crowded with individual stones varying in size, surface and morphology.
One stone was selected and lifted above the rest.
Devil’s Den was low in the wider landscape but raised within its own place.
And Stukeley’s drawings, unexpectedly, help us see what that raising achieved.
In his views the great capstone rises cleanly above the distant land and is presented against open sky. At first this can look like antiquarian exaggeration. Devil’s Den lies in the bottom of Clatford valley, not upon a summit.
But the effect can still be reproduced.
Standing close to the monument today, a small change in viewpoint allows the distant ridge to fall behind the uprights while the capstone clears it almost completely.
The monument has not climbed onto the horizon.
The viewer has moved.
The builders did not place Devil’s Den on the horizon. They lifted part of it above the horizon.
The uprights therefore did more than carry seventeen tons of stone. From particular viewpoints they separated the capstone visually from the land beneath it and placed it against the sky.
Whether that precise visual effect was deliberately engineered cannot presently be demonstrated.
How much of the capstone remained exposed when the long barrow was complete is unknown. The original height and profile of the mound around the chamber cannot now be reconstructed with certainty.
What can be demonstrated is that raising the capstone created the possibility.
The monument was in the valley.
The capstone was in the sky.
The Morphing Capstone
Terence Meaden was the person who first taught me to look seriously at the forms of Avebury’s stones. He has long argued that some megaliths incorporate profiles suggestive of heads, animals and human figures, and identified possible head forms on more than one side of the Devil’s Den capstone.
From one position, the right-hand end of the capstone presents what to my eye is a remarkably convincing sheep or ram profile. There is a rounded forehead, projecting muzzle and lower jaw, with a feature above that can be read as an ear or short horn. The resemblance survives changes of light and appears in photographs taken from slightly different positions.
Walk around the stone, however, and the image changes.
From another direction the same massive capstone becomes longer and heavier in profile. The rounded mammalian head gives way to something more reptilian, (a feature of capstones I have noted elswhere) with a blunt snout and a long curving line beneath it that can be read as a mouth or jaw. From still another position, features at the opposite end can suggest a human profile.
I do not think we should choose between them.
The interesting quality of the stone may be precisely that its form is unstable. It does not present one fixed image like a carved statue. Different viewpoints release different possibilities from the same natural morphology.
That does not prove prehistoric intention.
The sheep, human and reptilian readings are ours. Nor does a resemblance to the snake-like stone forms I have encountered in Pembrokeshire demonstrate any connection between those monuments and Devil’s Den. Such comparisons can only show that irregular megalithic stones are capable of producing recurrent animate forms.
But the underlying morphology is real. The argument does not require Neolithic people to have seen a sheep, a serpent or a human face. It requires only the more modest possibility that some stones were more perceptually striking than others, and that this could have mattered when people chose among thousands of available sarsens.
Field makes that possibility particularly interesting here. This was a landscape whose natural stones varied enormously in size, colour, weathering and form, and whose Grey Wethers have historically been perceived as animals. My own mistake on the northern approach showed how readily stones in this landscape can cross that perceptual boundary.
Then one exceptionally large stone was selected and raised.
Raising did something important to its appearance. It removed the stone from the visual confusion of the ground, separated it from the surrounding sarsens and, from particular viewpoints, placed its outer contour against open sky. The changing profiles became easier to see.
The archaeological question is therefore not:
What animal does the Devil’s Den capstone represent?
Could an unusually suggestive natural form have contributed to the recognition and selection of this particular stone, and did raising it make those possibilities more powerful?
No carving would have been necessary.
The builders may have worked with what geology had already supplied.
A Monument that Emerged from its Landscape
Field’s reconstruction also changes the experience of approaching Devil’s Den.
Today, a walker sees a relatively distinct monument surrounded by open ground. In the Early Neolithic, the same approach may have taken place through a carpet of now removed dense natural stones.
The monument was made from the same material as its surroundings.
That creates an unusual kind of concealment.
From a distance, a group of uprights and a capstone might initially have looked like another collection of natural boulders. Only as the viewer approached would the relationships between the stones become apparent.
One stone was not lying on the earth at all.
It had been lifted above it.
The possible sequence is therefore:
stone field → ambiguous grouping → emerging structure → suspended stone → sky
This is not something Field explicitly reconstructs as a Neolithic ritual sequence. It is a hypothesis arising from his landscape evidence, the surviving monument, Stukeley’s eighteenth-century views and from walking the site.
But it fits my northern approach remarkably well.
From the ridge I knew where Devil’s Den was.
Then the landscape removed it.
I walked through a valley in which stones became animals.
Finally the monument returned at close range.
And when I moved around it, something else happened. Although the monument remained low in Clatford Bottom, the distant land slipped beneath the great capstone and the stone entered open sky.
Field describes Devil’s Den as “camouflaged”. Cummings and Richards emphasise the display of the raised capstone.
Those ideas are not contradictory.
They may describe successive experiences of the same monument.
Hidden in the valley. Camouflaged among stones. Recognised on approach. Raised into sky.
The importance of that sequence is architectural as well as experiential. Material camouflage gives way to architectural differentiation. A stone that initially belongs to the wider stone field is revealed as something radically different: a selected stone removed from its ordinary relationship with the ground and deliberately held above it.
Devil’s Den may have been inconspicuous at distance and intensely monumental at encounter.
Routes Before Monuments: The Kennet and the Downs
There is another approach I have not yet completed.
From the south, the natural corridor begins close to the River Kennet and runs north into Clatford Bottom. Author Alun Rees has walked this route and observed that the monument appears as the track turns a gentle bend, with the rising ground of Fyfield Down forming the background.
Until now I have treated this cautiously, and rightly so. A modern footpath cannot simply be declared a Neolithic route.
But Stephen Allen’s study of Mesolithic hunter-gatherer activity on the Marlborough Downs makes the wider topographic question much more interesting.
Allen found that Mesolithic artefact distributions frequently followed the Kennet valley and, crucially, the dry valleys, bournes, valley heads and ridges leading away from it into the higher chalk landscape. The river provided an important axis, while these branching topographic features structured movement into and through the Downs.
Allen argues that recognisable landscape features helped people navigate. Findspots often occur at valley heads, along ridges or at high points overlooking lower ground. Some such places may have acted as markers or viewing positions along routes.
He even suggests that some paths determined by topography may have persisted through the Holocene.
That needs treating carefully.
Devil’s Den was built thousands of years after the Mesolithic evidence Allen examines. Nothing in his study proves that hunter-gatherers walked through Clatford Bottom itself, nor that a Mesolithic path subsequently became a Neolithic ceremonial route to the monument.
But it establishes something more modest and more useful.
Long before Devil’s Den was built, people were already moving between the Kennet catchment and the higher Downs through landscapes structured by rivers, dry valleys, valley heads and ridges.
Clatford Bottom belongs to precisely this kind of topographic system.
The southern approach therefore deserves investigation not because a modern footpath happens to exist there, but because the valley occupies a type of movement corridor with demonstrable prehistoric antiquity.
The question becomes:
Was Devil’s Den eventually placed within a geography of movement that was already old?
This does not require cultural continuity between Mesolithic hunter-gatherers and Neolithic monument builders. The more defensible continuity is topographic. Valleys, ridges and river corridors repeatedly channel movement because the land persists even when the people, practices and meanings attached to it change.
The Clatford Spring
Water remains another possibility, but at present a much less secure one.
Greaney notes a spring at Clatford, apparently the only spring between East Kennett and Marlborough. Its proximity to Devil’s Den is intriguing, particularly within a landscape where movement between the Kennet and higher Downs already deserves attention.
But we should resist making the spring explain the monument.
Allen’s environmental evidence also warns against projecting the modern Kennet backwards. During parts of the early Holocene the headwater landscape included marshy and wooded conditions very different from the narrow, strongly seasonal stream visible today. River, spring and wet ground have changed through time.
The entire Kennet and Clatford spring system therefore needs separate investigation before either can be assigned symbolic significance.
For now, water remains an environmental and topographic question, not an explanation.
The evidence for movement is considerably stronger.
East of Avebury
Devil’s Den also becomes less isolated when the Avebury landscape is viewed from the east rather than from the great henge at its centre.
Other long barrows occupied Manton Down, Temple Bottom, Monkton Down, Avebury Down and Fyfield Down. Field also identifies a broader regional tendency for some stone monuments to occupy lower slopes, gullies and re-entrants rather than obvious summits. At the Shelving Stone, for example, the monument lay at the head of a shallow re-entrant leading towards the Winterbourne rather than occupying the nearby high point.
Allen adds a much deeper chronological perspective.
Long before the great Neolithic monuments existed, people were already traversing the wider Avebury landscape along natural routes. Allen describes Avebury as a possible “persistent place”, where paths converged and the physical structure of the landscape may have accumulated significance through repeated use.
His phrase is particularly suggestive:
“a meeting of paths and a landscape of sarsens”
Allen is speaking about Avebury, not Devil’s Den.
But the principle matters.
Monuments do not necessarily create significant places from nothing.
A place may already have been repeatedly entered, recognised and remembered before monumental architecture transformed it.
That is what I mean by Place First, Monument Second.
It does not imply that Mesolithic beliefs or traditions survived unchanged into the Neolithic. It means that topography provides enduring possibilities for movement and encounter. Later people can recognise, reuse and transform the same places for entirely different reasons.
Later communities continued to mark the eastern Avebury landscape. The Broadstones circle once stood near the Kennet, probably much later than Devil’s Den, while barrows and other monuments accumulated across the Downs.
This was not one planned ceremonial complex constructed at a single moment.
It was a landscape repeatedly returned to.
Devil’s Den only looks isolated when Avebury is viewed from its centre.
Stone, Direction and Sky
The long barrow appears to have run broadly south-east to north-west, with its larger end towards the south-east. That places it within a broad eastern orientation shared by many British long barrows.
It does not establish a precise astronomical alignment.
Terence Meaden included Devil’s Den among the long barrows east of Avebury in his study of long barrows but did not assign it a specific solar or lunar event because the original axis was insufficiently precise for his purposes.
Passmore gives us a plan of the surviving chamber, but not the kind of complete mound-and-horizon survey needed to settle the question.
The distinction is important.
The axis of the long barrow, the direction of its entrance, the route by which somebody approaches it and the hill or sky seen behind it are not necessarily the same thing.
The sky-backed capstone is another phenomenon again.
It requires no astronomical alignment. It is produced by architecture, topography and viewpoint. A monument can occupy low ground while one part of it rises clear of the local horizon.
Stukeley appears to have noticed that effect three centuries ago.
It remains visible today.
Whether particular celestial events interacted with it is a separate question requiring measurement.
That is one of several gaps my own fieldwork is beginning to address, and it is difficult not to wonder why such a remarkable monument has received so little modern archaeological investigation.
The Hidden Monument
Devil’s Den has been known for centuries. It was recorded repeatedly by Stukeley, protected under the first Ancient Monuments legislation in 1882 and physically saved from collapse in 1921.
Yet it has remained strangely peripheral.
Perhaps that is because most of the monument has disappeared. Perhaps it is because it lies beyond the famous core of Avebury. Perhaps the surviving dolmen is simply too picturesque. Perhaps its requiment of effort to reach it has marginalised it.
Once the mound vanished, the surrounding sarsens were cleared and the additional monumental stones disappeared, it became easy to photograph the surviving chamber and forget the landscape that had produced it.
But restore that landscape, even imperfectly, and Devil’s Den changes.
This was not a lonely stone table in a field.
It was a raised stone within a valley of stones.
Behind it lay two much older dimensions of landscape: a material world of sarsen from which the monument itself was drawn, and a geography of movement through which people had been navigating the Kennet and higher Downs long before the long barrow appeared.
Neither proves why Devil’s Den was built.
Together they change the question.
The monument need not have created significance in an empty place. It may have transformed a place already differentiated by stone, movement and topography.
The natural sarsens around it could invite animate recognition. The Grey Wethers still do. The capstone itself seems unusually capable of sustaining different figurative readings as the viewer moves around it. The architecture may have been partly concealed by material almost indistinguishable from its own, yet raising one selected stone transformed how that stone could be seen.
Movement altered perception.
The monument disappeared, emerged and finally revealed the extraordinary fact at its centre: a massive stone removed from its ordinary relationship with the earth and suspended above it.
Stukeley caught something of that effect before the chamber slipped and the mound diminished.
My own photographs caught it again three centuries later.
Devil’s Den was monumental not because it dominated its landscape from afar, but because architecture transformed a stone drawn from that landscape into something radically different at encounter. Its monumentality may have lain in emergence rather than prominence.
The monument was hidden in the land.
The capstone entered the sky.
Perhaps that was always the point.
Not to dominate the landscape.
To emerge from it.
Alex Peach
Uffcott, July 2026
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References
Allen, S. (2005). “Mesolithic hunter-gatherer exploitation of the Marlborough Downs.” In G. Brown, D. Field and D. McOmish (eds), The Avebury Landscape: Aspects of the Field Archaeology of the Marlborough Downs. Oxford: Oxbow Books, pp. 95–102.
Barker, C. T. (1985). “The Long Mounds of the Avebury Region.” Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 79, 7–38.
Brown, G., Field, D. and McOmish, D. (eds) (2005). The Avebury Landscape: Aspects of the Field Archaeology of the Marlborough Downs. Oxford: Oxbow Books.
Burl, A. (1979). Prehistoric Avebury. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.
Cummings, V. and Richards, C. (2021). Monuments in the Making: Raising the Great Dolmens of Early Neolithic Northern Europe. Oxford: Windgather Press.
Field, D. (2005). “Some observations on perception, consolidation and change in a land of stones.” In G. Brown, D. Field and D. McOmish (eds), The Avebury Landscape, pp. 87–94.
Fowler, P. J. (2000). Landscape Plotted and Pieced: Landscape History and Local Archaeology in Fyfield and Overton, Wiltshire. Society of Antiquaries of London Research Report 64.
Goddard, E. (1922). “The Devil’s Den, Manton, Wilts.” The Antiquaries Journal 2(1), 60.
Greaney, S. E. (2022). The Archaeology of Power: Understanding the Emergence and Development of Neolithic Monument Complexes in Britain and Ireland. PhD thesis, Cardiff University.
Grinsell, L. V. (1936). The Ancient Burial-Mounds of England. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd.
Grinsell, L. V. (1979). Barrows in England and Wales. Aylesbury: Shire Publications.
Historic England. “Devil’s Den, a chambered long barrow on Fyfield Down.” National Heritage List for England, List Entry 1012321.
Meaden, G. T. (1999). The Secrets of the Avebury Stones: Britain’s Greatest Megalithic Temple. Frog Books.
Meaden, G. T. (2025). The Sixty Long Barrows of North and Mid-Wessex. University of Buckingham Press.
Passmore, A. D. (1922). “The Devil’s Den Dolmen, Clatford Bottom.” Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 41, 523–530.
Stukeley, W. (1743). Abury, a Temple of the British Druids, with Some Others, Described. London.
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