I just returned from a wonderful trip—relaxing, fun, and educational. While reflecting on it, an idea crossed my mind: why not share my travel experiences on this blog?
But then I paused. What would I write about? What could I possibly say about these world-famous places that hasn’t already been said by people far more qualified than me?
One point of view did stand out—budget. I’m a middle-class, salaried Indian. Every time I plan a trip abroad, I have to multiply every cost by at least 100 to convert it to rupees, and my heart bleeds a little each time. And honestly, that’s one thing I’ve always disliked about most travel blog posts—either the authors are loaded, belong to countries with stronger currencies, or they’re sponsored.
But then, something funny happened, and I shelved that blog idea for now.
I was hit by the AI fever.
As I’ve already said, I’m a middle-class Indian. Even having a hobby that costs money makes me feel guilty. But I’ve been nurturing a dream for years—to become a published author. Not through self-publishing. Not using my father’s contacts. But getting published purely on merit.
Here’s a little secret—I used to be terrible at English. Just months before my board exams, I couldn’t form a single perfect sentence. Can you believe that?
But persistence is my strength. And today, I actually earn from my love for writing.
To truly sharpen my skills, I need an editor. But hiring one regularly? Not easy on the wallet. So I made a decision—I’m going to subscribe to an AI tool and train it to be my editor.
And here I am, blending my travel memories with a touch of fiction and drama, with ChatGPT as my partner.
Let me know what you think.
The first part of my experiments with AI revolves around Stonehenge. I asked AI to come up with some legends surrounding the monument—and to illustrate them too. For this project, I asked AI to write a series of memoir-style folktales in the voice of my favourite author—Ruskin Bond. His gentle, nostalgic storytelling has always stayed with me, and I was curious to see how closely AI could come to capturing that charm.
I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed with the results. So, without further ado, here’s what we created:
1. Merlin’s Secret
(A Tale from an Old Soldier)
I met him once—an old man with eyes like grey glass and a beard that smelt faintly of woodsmoke. We were sitting by a hedge near Salisbury when he pointed at the distant ring of stones.
“You know Merlin put them there, don’t you?” he said, as if commenting on the weather.
I smiled politely.
“He brought them from Ireland,” he went on. “With magic, yes—but not the flashy kind. Merlin’s magic was quiet. He spoke to the stones, coaxed them across the sea. Like an old friend convincing you to go for a walk.”
He chuckled and patted the earth. “They say he placed each stone for a reason. One for healing, one for memory, one for dreams. No one remembers which is which anymore, but they still work… if you believe in old things.”
2. The Giants Who Danced
(Told by the Shepherd’s Wife)
There was a shepherd’s wife who swore her grandmother had seen giants—real ones—dancing on the moor when the world was young.
“Big as church towers, they were,” she’d say, kneading her bread, “but gentle, with eyes like river stones and laughter like summer thunder.”
The stones, she claimed, were theirs—a gift to the earth. They danced around them each solstice, whispering to the stars.
“Then one day, they were gone. All but the stones. The grass grew up and men forgot. But sometimes, just sometimes, when the sky turns gold and everything goes quiet, you can feel them watching.”
And sure enough, when I walked past Stonehenge that evening, I thought I heard a low chuckle on the wind.
3. The Devil’s Throw
(Told by a Schoolteacher)
“History,” said my schoolteacher, “is only half the story. The rest is what people believe.”
He told us of the Devil, of all creatures, flying over Ireland with a sack of stolen stones. He’d tricked an old woman out of them, laughing at her foolishness.
“But the Devil,” the teacher said, “didn’t count on being seen by a friar. A good man with sharp eyes and a louder voice than sense.”
The Devil got so angry, he flung a stone at the friar and missed—barely. That stone landed near the others and remains there still. It’s the Heel Stone, the one that never quite fits in.
“Even devils,” he said with a wink, “don’t always get the last word.”
4. The Sick Boy and the Summer Stone
(Told by a Grandmother)
When Tom was a boy, he’d always been unwell—thin, pale, with a cough that never left. But one summer, his grandmother took him to Stonehenge.
“Not for medicine,” she said, “but for magic.”
They went at dawn. The stones stood like quiet watchers, and the rising sun slid perfectly through them, lighting one with golden fire.
She told him to place his hand on it, breathe slowly, and listen. And Tom did—eyes wide, heart still.
He never coughed again after that. Not once. He grew strong and became a farmer. But every midsummer morning, he returned quietly to the stones.
5. A Door in the Fog
(From a Walker’s Diary)
I once lost my way on Salisbury Plain, the fog folding around me like old blankets. I wandered, uncertain, until I saw them—those ancient stones, half-hidden, like sleepers in the mist.
I stepped between two uprights, and for a moment, the air felt different—thinner, charged.
There was no sound, no wind. Just a sense that the world had paused.
And then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. The sun broke through. The stones looked ordinary again.
But I kept walking, a little changed. And ever since, I’ve believed that somewhere between the stones, there’s a crack in time—small, shy, and kind enough to open now and then, just to those who walk alone.
