A gray, miserable dawn. A huddle of Beaker Folk face east through the rain.
The Little Pebbles (in unison): Are we nearly there yet? Are we nearly there yet?
Archdruid Eileen: Behold the wonder of the Solstice Dawn!
Young Keith: It's too early and it's pouring down.
Archdruid: It's better than Stonehenge, though.
Young Keith: In what way?
Archdruid: If we were at Stonehenge, we'd have driven 120 miles, we'd be surrounded by hippies, and it would still be pouring down.
All: Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I said it's all right....
Martston mucks up the tricky bit on the guitar
The Piper at the gates of dawn turns up, late as usual. Unusually for the decayed folk-memory of a nature god, he carries an umbrella.