The Cerne Abbas giant gets a make-over

US readers may not be familiar with the Giant of Cerne Abbas.




Known to have existed since at least the 17th century, this enigmatic (?!?) figure is viewed as a fertility symbol by many. Apparently couples are known to frolic between its legs on moonlit nights, in the hope of conceiving.

The Giant is now undergoing a restoration and re-chalking. One of the volunteers has written of her experiences.

My arms feel as if they have done ten rounds with a Sumo wrestler, I have a nasty gash on my left thumb, my back is in spasm and I can barely stand, having tripped myself up and rolled like a human doughnut down a precipitous slope.

But this is what happens when you take on a giant, especially when it is Britain's last and most celebrated one. I refer, of course, to the Cerne Abbas giant in verdant Dorset.

. . .

... locals are furious at what they call the 'crass commercialism' of their giant. He has been used for publicity stunts and as an advertisement for everything from condoms and jeans to bicycles.

To publicise the opening of The Simpsons Movie in July last year, a 160ft Homer Simpson was outlined in white paint to the left of the hill's more established occupant.

Enraged local neo-pagans enacted a rain dance in the hope of washing the American imposter away. The following month, a member of Fathers 4 Justice painted the giant's sexual organ bright purple.

Drinkers in the Giant Inn mutter darkly about the giant's revenge. 'You have got to treat him with respect,' says John Hodge, a local farmer. His companions nod sternly.

. . .

National Trust archaeologist Nancy Grace [says], ... 'No one really knows when he first appeared. But it is true that written evidence points to the 17th century when he was created as a rude cartoon of Oliver Cromwell. He must have taken ages to carve.'

'But would anyone really go to all that trouble just to make fun of a politician?' I ask her. (You cannot imagine a chalk figure of our own dear Prime Minister gracing one of England's green and pleasant hillsides, let alone one with an erection.)

'Feelings ran much higher in those days,' says Nancy. 'After all, they were cutting off peoples' heads back then.'

We are standing at the bottom of the hill, admiring the view. I watch the workers on the hill. They look like ants. And then I join them. I am given a series of complicated directions and begin my upward and nigh-on-impossible muddy trudge.

I fall down every second step. Something brown splatters in my face. I glance over at the National Trust workers and hope they haven't noticed me.

'Hello over there!' shouts one of them. 'Are you having difficulties?' I pretend he is speaking to someone else.

Eventually, I find myself on top of the giant's club. There, Mike Clarke, director of the National Trust, explains the makeover.

Once the old chalk and detritus has been removed, 17 tons of sparkling new white chalk will be poured into the outline and then flattened. He hopes everything will be done by Sunday.

To his left a woman heaves a bag of chalk onto her shoulders, panting with exhaustion. 'It's quite a job given his size and the fact his genitalia alone is 10ft long,' he says.




I start back down the hill, buoyed up by the thought that the descent will be considerably easier than the going up.

I am mistaken. I slide down the hill like a human toboggan. Helplessly, I clutch the fence for support and impale my thumb on some barbed wire.

The giant's round, green eyes seem to take on a malevolent glare in the autumn sunshine. This is no Roald Dahl-style BFG.

But when I finally look up and see the giant and his shining new outline, it is a wonderful and mesmerising sight. If magic exists anywhere, it may, indeed, be in this quiet corner of Dorset.

More at the link. Looks like fun and games on a giant scale!

Peter