Counting Sheep to Stay Awake
Encounters with a Talaiotic Temple
Several years ago I took a flight from Italy to Ibiza, and must have fallen asleep at some point along the way. I woke up, disorientated - there is always an initial moment on regaining consciousness inside an aeroplane when my mind cannot rationalise the fact that I am not just about to fall out of the sky - and I looked out of the cabin window to ground myself. The plane was flying over turquoise seas, and flying low. I knew this because at that very moment, an island began to pass by beneath us, and I could see everything on its surface in fine detail. The island was pure wilderness - greens of foliage, browns of earth. It appeared to be completely uninhabited. But no, perhaps it wasn’t - on small hilltops there were shapes, mounds, circles of pale stone; prehistoric ghost towns surrounded by endless grassy fields. There seemed to be no traces of life on this island whatsoever, just the remnants of a civilisation that once was… moving slowly, in perfect detail, beneath the bulk of this budget aircraft. I had absolutely no idea where I was, or what was happening - it seemed as though the plane had accidentally strayed off course and passed over an as-yet undiscovered tribal enclave in deep Polynesia. Based on the fact that the plane landed on Eivissa about fifteen minutes later, and with the help of a quick glance at a map of the Mediterranean, I could only conclude that a flight path had randomly brought me, in my dreaming state, over the small, Balearic island of Menorca.
December 2024, or about six years later
Approaching Punta Nati by bicycle, they began appearing on the rocky coastline to the left: conical pyraminds, built of perfectly-stacked, honey-coloured stones. Although they were evidently created from the Menorcan rock upon which they were built, they seemed extraterrestrial. Way too immaculate to be ancient, but too earthily vernacular to be modern, they could easily have been created by some civilisation living separately, but in parallel with our own. The conical temples dotted the land randomly, and as we cycled along the straight camino heading towards the lighthouse, one of the most exquisitely perfect examples came into view in a field not so far away, on one side.
Propping up our rented bikes beneath the sign saying “Prohibido el Paso, Propiedad Privada”, there was no shadow of a doubt that we were about to trespass across a couple of fields, over private land, to gain a brief moment of proximity to this sandstone space station from the ancient future.
There was a distant mechanical whirring in the distance - the farmer, manouvering his tractor not so far away. But once we had hauled ourselves over the thick, drystone perimeter, our movements were hidden inside the high-walled basin of the field.
Three sheep stood, their gaze frozen into ours. We didn’t move for a good while. The wooden gate to enter into the next chamber, and to reach the talaiotic temple, was directly behind them. There was absolutely no question that permission would have to be sought from these creatures. I gazed into their eyes and thought something along the lines of: ‘I have no idea where I am, I have no idea what this is, but whatever offering you require, I will give it to you for allowing me this experience.’ At some point, the sheep trio’s fierce stare loosened, and we slowly skirted around them and untied the string knot fixing a wooden palette across the small gateway.
Now, we stand inside a narrow, rectangular passageway lined on all sides by colossal drystone walls. The conical temple is straight ahead, at the end. Whatever this is, there is no getting out of it now. It is so silent on this day at the end of December, there is no hint of wind, and we are contained inside a stone labyrinth, walking a purposeful path in the only possible direction, without understanding any of it. The field underneath us has become a huge, uneven platform of bare rock. It is a cold midwinter’s day, we are flushed from cycling, the sun beats down in the middle of a blue sky and it is absolutely silent.
This contained, rectangular walkway could be a runway for the space station ahead, or the majestic entrance to sacred site. It is sprinkled with the chocolate brown pellets of animal poo, and to the left is a series of water troughs, carved out of stone in a millennium that surely came before this one. The temple looms ahead, but on the other side of the water troughs is a well with a gaping black mouth. We throw a stone inside… and count a good second of silence before a heavy plunk into deep water.
But now we are at the entrance of this thing, this empty, conical stone thing that is protected from the main road by three sheep and a series of drystone chambers. And I have the strong feeling that we have already overstayed our welcome. But we need to go inside, of course, so we do.
The floor is a circular carpet of the softest, finest, dark brown earth, scattered with thousands of spheres of sheep poo. I am already disconcerted to enter this temple and find that it has a carpet inside. Around and above me is a smooth, curved dome with a peak in its centre, sweeping walls sculpted out of sandwiched blocks of sandstone. There are no windows. It is airless, soundless, purposeless... echoing with sheep souls.
I feel dizzy.
Outside again, in the still sunlight, my feet begin to walk me back along the route we came from. I have taken too much, seen too much, it is time to leave.
As we start to retrace our steps and leave this central, walled enclosure, my fellow trespasser stops and says to me “oh, look.” Ahead of us, at the gateway that we walked through to enter, is the farmer. He has very dark skin, and wears a baseball cap. I look at him directly, there in the distance, in complete surrender, externalising my inner monologue: “I’m so sorry, we just had to make a visit, we entered with such respect and care…. / um, maybe you can say something to him in Catalan??” Right now, my companion seems a little lost for words. We shuffle forwards, not taking our gaze off the farmer. “Actually I think he might be Morrocan.”
Nearing closer, the three of us now face to face, I share my inner monologue with this stranger: “Bon día, perdona, solo queríamos entrar un ratito para acercarnos a esta estructura increíble, lo siento mucho….” The man looks at me and I wait for the anger to come. No anger comes, he just replies with a voice that is strong and soft at the same time, “Pero es propiedad privada.” I am taken by the combination of strength and softness in his voice. I don’t think he is speaking with a local accent.
The farmer also came along this stone passageway with a purpose: he continues walking straight past us. A little while later, continuing onwards, we hear a sound like an unearthly wailing, a coded language repeating itself in hypnotic loops, with assertive urgency and also with love. The man has climbed up onto the rock beside the well. His voice sings out into the field, understood only by the assembling sheep that he is herding.
* * *
Later that day I realise that I have left not one, but two beloved, well-travelled pieces of clothing in that sandstone enclosure that we can never re-enter. The look in the eyes of the three guardian sheep told me that offerings would need to be made, and on reflection I made them willingly. Of course… it makes perfect sense to remove items of clothing in order to access a space governed by the dreaming-state.
That was a little tale from Menorca, the island where you don’t count sheep to fall asleep, you count them to check that you’re still awake.