What do we call them, these hybrid, liminal places? ‘Parks’, it seems. ‘Park’ being a word that conjures nothing of their reality, their bounty and their dearth. Solstice Park, an outgrowth by the A303, erupting from the earth between the ancient town of Amesbury and the ritual landscape of Stonehenge, is one such place, part warehouse locus, part service station, part tourist stopover.