THEY ARE PLANNING to drive a road straight through the middle of Stonehenge, scattering the famous stones and devastating for ever that ancient site of mystery and wonder.

Actually, that is not entirely true. What they are planning to do is to build a road around Stonehenge: and it will cause the same kind of spiritual and cultural devastation. Picture an expanse of chalk grassland: an ancient and lovely place. This week, 400 golden plover were still roosting there. Linnets and starlings flock there. Short-eared owls cross on ultra-floppy wings.

Last spring, 29 pairs of skylarks made the place ring with song, 14 pairs of lapwing performed the butterfly dance above the grass, a pair of barn owls raised four chicks. Grey partridge, corn bunting, quail, red kite and Montagu’s harrier come to the place: and it is also home for a sunburst of butterflies, including the grizzled skipper and the inaptly named common blue.

I almost forgot to mention the stone curlews: mad pop-eyed, long-legged birds that potter about the grass, walking like old ladies with handbags. The Government is committed to support stone curlews under the Biodiversity Action Plan.

Various routes have been discussed: some will destroy Normanton Down, an RSPB reserve, others will destroy equally glorious bits of downland. A public inquiry, held earlier this year, plumped for a tunnel. This was later rejected by the Government (what then is the point of a public inquiry?) on the ground of cost.

Cost! Who is the poorer for the loss of a place like Normanton Down? Stone curlews, golden plovers, grizzled skippers, yes — but also the much troubled species of human being. We are the richer for such places, even if we never visit them. Grand programmes of destruction impoverish not just local people, not just naturalists, but every single one of us: just as if it were Stonehenge itself that were smashed to bits. Normanton Down is also a national treasure; also a place of beauty and mystery; also a place of incalculable spiritual value. The idea of destroying it so that people can get somewhere ten minutes quicker is more than folly: a kind of blasphemy.

• LAST YEAR this column railed at the Maltese for their annual slaughter of 100,000 migrating turtle doves. The killing is perfectly legal in Malta but in direct contravention of the EU Birds Directive. Malta also tolerates immense persecution of other migrating birds. Malta entered the EU two years ago and has signalled that the Maltese wish to have their cake and eat it: get European benefits while blasting European birds out of the skies.

  The EU was building up, in slow but unstoppable fashion, towards taking procedures against Malta: but — quite literally overnight — the Maltese Government changed its laws and has taken a hefty step towards conformity with the EU. Enforcement is another matter: we’ll have to wait and see. Organisations such as Birdlife International are on the case.

  There are still problems. Malta still claims the right to massacre turtle doves in spring, saying it’s the only chance they get. This is not even true: the doves pass back through Malta in autumn. The laws don’t come into effect this year, either. So give one and half cheers. Because a start is always a start.

• THIS has been the week when spring gathers pace and becomes unstoppable. A week ago we were seeking and savouring each individual sign of spring: a blackbird singing, a primrose flowering, an overexcited rabbit. And suddenly, almost overnight, there are too many things to notice individually: a great explosion of sound and colour and movement. It is as if spring has slowly accelerated to 15mph and then, in a moment, it’s doing the ton: full-speed, eye-popping, balls-out spring.

  Across the big field, the blackthorn is blossoming away, impersonating a frost in the manner called blackthorn winter; in the copse a fragment of song from blackcap, then chiffchaff, the first migrants. An unidentified hirundine — swallow or house martin — whizzed across the garden, in sight for half a second, not making a summer but promising that one is not too far behind. Cowslip, a bumble bee buzzing sleepily into the house, a butterfly, unidentified, seen from horseback, a hare, and then two absurdly tiny baby bunnies playing chicken among the horses’ hooves. It’s Easter: the time of renewal: the time of new life. Alleluia!

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