This post is part of the Whispers from the Earth series, where we trace how different cultures listened to the land. Dream sequence: The mist is not an obstacle. It is a veil, and veils are meant to be walked through. I am somewhere on the Marlborough Downs, or perhaps the Preseli Hills, the place hardly matters, because the feeling is the same wherever the old stones stand. The turf is springy underfoot, dense with centuries of sheep-cropped grass, and the air smells of damp wool and chalk. I hold a forked hazel rod in both hands, thumbs upward, the bark still rough where I cut it this morning. My…