11. Stonehenge, Bath, Glastonbury

You leave the patchwork fields behind and suddenly the land opens into the wide, rolling sweep of Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge appears almost abruptly on the horizon, a ring of grey shapes that seem smaller than you expect and somehow heavier at the same time. You park, cross by shuttle or on foot, and the wind meets you first – carrying skylark song, the hiss of grass and the distant rumble of the A303.

Walking the path around the stones, you realise how carefully they’ve been placed in this open landscape, aligned with sunrises and sunsets long before there were roads, fences or guidebooks. People have been coming here for thousands of years with questions, offerings and theories; you’re just another in that long line of visitors stopping to stare, circle slowly, and try to feel your way back into a time when dragging stones across the country seemed worth the effort. As you drive away towards Salisbury and the greener folds of Wiltshire, the circle lingers in your rear-view mirror like a half-remembered dream.

Avebury feels like stepping into a stone circle that never quite ends. Instead of sitting alone in a field, the huge sarsens are scattered right through the village – standing in gardens, lining roads, rising out of sheep fields while footpaths snake between them. You park up, cross a small lane, and suddenly you’re weaving between stones older than most of the churches in England, with crows perched on top and sheep scratching themselves lazily against the bases.

There’s something informal and intimate about it. Children clamber, people lean, dog walkers chat as they cut across the ditch and bank of the great henge. You can walk a full loop, the chalk underfoot showing through in white patches, the Marlborough Downs rolling away beyond the last cottage. Where Stonehenge feels separate and framed, Avebury is lived-in and porous – everyday life carrying on between monuments that pre-date almost everything around them. It’s a place that quietly expands your sense of scale before you roll on towards rivers, canals and smaller towns.

Bradford-on-Avon gathers itself around the river like it’s been leaning into the water for centuries. You roll down the hill into a jumble of golden stone roofs, then find the old bridge with its tiny lock-up perched in the middle, watching the River Avon slide gently underneath. Canal boats line the nearby Kennet and Avon, chimneys puffing faintly as fires are stoked, ropes creaking against iron rings on the towpath.

You wander narrow lanes that climb steeply away from the water, terraced cottages stacked above each other like a crowd craning for the view. Old textile mills stand beside converted warehouses, reminders of when this town hummed with weaving and industry. Now the sounds are different: café chatter, bicycle bells, the soft thud of narrowboat doors. It’s an easy place to pause – grab a coffee, amble over the bridge, watch ducks chase scraps, and feel the shift from ancient stones to industrial history and then back again, all within a few streets.

Bath welcomes you back with the same sweep of honey-coloured terraces and calm, curving streets. Dropping into the city’s bowl, you see Georgian crescents stepping up the hillsides, chimneys pricking the skyline and trees softening the edges between stone and sky. You park and slip into its rhythm: Roman Baths steaming quietly behind glass, the Abbey’s fan vaulting drawing your eyes upward, Pulteney Bridge carrying shops across the Avon as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You might follow the curve of the Royal Crescent, shoes scuffing lightly on pale flagstones, or drift through side streets where ivy climbs over old walls and door knockers shine with years of polishing. Bath has long been a place to rest and restore, and it still does that well: hot water in spas if you want it, or just the slower pace of a city made for walking and lingering. On this route, it’s a soft urban interlude between stone circles, river towns and the more rugged edges of Somerset to come.

Chew Magna feels like a village that’s quietly content in its own skin. You leave the main roads behind and wind through hedgerows until you drop into a cluster of cottages, pubs and a handsome church tower rising over the rooftops. The streets are narrow, often edged with old stone walls furry with moss, and there’s a sense of real, everyday life here – school runs, dog walks, people popping into the shop for milk rather than souvenirs.

Just beyond, Chew Valley Lake opens out in a broad sweep of water fringed by fields and trees. On a still day the surface mirrors the sky; on a windy one it chops up into little waves that flash in the light. You can park up, follow paths along the shore and watch birds skimming low over the water. It’s a gentle, green stop on your route, where Bristol feels close enough to sense on the horizon but the mood is firmly rural, with ducks on the pond, church bells, and the faint smell of woodsmoke in the air.

Cheddar Gorge arrives with a sudden change in scale. One minute you’re rolling through farmland and tidy hedges, the next the road dives into a limestone cleft, cliffs rearing up on either side like the walls of some ancient, collapsed cathedral. The car engine echoes off rock faces streaked with grey, green and orange, and goats pick their way along impossible ledges high above you.

You pull into a lay-by or car park, step out, and the air feels cooler, carrying the mineral scent of cave breath and damp stone. You might climb one of the paths up to the cliff tops for a view over the Somerset Levels, or wander into the show caves where stalactites drip and underground rivers have patiently carved their way through for millennia. Down in the village, the story shifts from geology to cheddar itself – cheese ageing in storerooms, shops offering samples that taste of grass and time. It’s a dramatic, sensory jolt on your route, carved deep into the landscape.

Wells may be England’s smallest city, but it holds its status with quiet confidence. You arrive to find a compact centre of narrow streets and mellow stone, all seemingly drawn towards the great west front of Wells Cathedral. Its façade is a tapestry of carved figures, weather-softened and pale, standing above a wide lawn where people sit and chat under the watchful gaze of saints and kings.

Slip round the side and you discover Vicars’ Close, that perfectly preserved medieval street where cobbles, chimneys and lamplights create the feeling of having stepped out of time. The Bishop’s Palace sits behind its moat, willows trailing into the water, swans gliding past as if they own the place. Yet despite all this, Wells never feels like a museum piece – there are markets, schoolchildren, everyday errands unfolding around the history. As an endpoint on your route, it offers a satisfying mix of the gentle and the grand: a final pause where ancient stones, running water and human stories all share the same small, walkable space.