Kits Coty Escapade

We were heading deep into uncharted territory on the hunt for a prehistoric wonder with a wild and mysterious origin.

The maps were vague and uncertain; the terrain was tricky and testing.  Our family unit was prepared for the worst of conditions and potential dangers, but even so, we knew this would be a true test of our adventurous resolve.

We had heard whispers of Kits Coty House and Little Kits Coty House, two megalithic ‘dolmen’ burial chambers hidden in the Kent hills. These were ancient and magnificent structures adorning the hilltops, standing proud against the test of time.

Armed with only vague references on a map and suspicious rumours from our colleagues, we packed our provisions and set out on the road. Nearing the location of this ancient wonder, we found the way to be well disguised. Our guidance restricted, maps and signposts rendered useless, we had to rely on intuition to guide us.

A few wrong turns later and we had discovered a suitable place to stow the vehicle and trek on foot.  It hadn’t been easy to find a safe space to stop, but discovering a suitable lay-by; we unpacked and ventured into the unknown.

Immediately faced with some fairly treacherous obstacles, we carefully navigated dangerous highways and made it to an ancient earthen path, descending the hillside towards the open fields beyond. This was far safer terrain but we were still going in blind, there were no obvious directions available, it was a case of seek and adventure.

Kits Coty House and little Kits Coty House are megalithic long barrows which have managed to partially survive in the modern landscape. Their remains reside in open fields overlooking the North Downs and Medway Valley. Thought to have been constructed between 4000 and 3000 BC, these monuments could represent burial chambers of some of the earliest settled communities in the area. The prehistoric structures were likely to have been the focus of burial rituals, powerful, impressive symbols to celebrate the dead.

Kits Coty House is made up of three enormous Sarsen Stones, capped by a further Sarsen. These form the burial chamber of the barrow.  The long earthen mound has mostly disappeared from view, a probable victim of the plough, but the Sarsen Stones remain elevated and impressive.

Kits Coty is rumoured to have gained its name from a Dark Age prince named Catigern, the son of Vortigern.  According to legend, Catigern died nearby in a battle against the Saxons around 455AD.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, several esteemed antiquarians visited and studied the site including John Aubrey, William Stukeley and Edward Hasted. Each published documents and drawings of the ancient monuments, and in the 19th century, famed archaeologist Augustus Pitt Rivers and colleagues strived to have to site protected under the Ancient Monuments Protection Act 1882.

As we ventured through ancient wooded walkways, an opening appeared, and to our delight, cresting the hilltop were the astonishing Sarsen giants which made up Kits Coty House. The monument, though only a fraction of its ancient magnificence, remains awe-inspiring.  The enormity of the stones and their positioning on the hillside is a worthy spectacle.  Imprisoned in iron gratings for protection against overzealous potential vandals, the stones cut a lonely figure in the landscape.  Ancient graffiti is testament to its age and effects through the years.

We wandered around the monument for a while, basking in its majesty, before exploring further and seeking Little Kits Coty House.

Little Kits Coty House is an intriguing collection of collapsed stones, once making up a chambered tomb. Both monuments represent a localised regional variant of the barrow style common to the River Medway. Sadly, Little Kits Coty has been long destroyed. 

A curious myth surrounds Little Kits Coty House.  The remains are commonly known as the Countless Stones due to a legend suggesting it is impossible to count the exact number of stones that lie on the ground.  Whoever might try, would never reach the same number twice.

Sadly, we failed to discover its whereabouts.  Despite our best efforts, the stones remained elusive.  Upon our return, we discovered that entry to the countless stones required a dangerous dice with death walking along the highway, before a well hidden and overgrown pathway emerged, leading to the caged remains. It was not a journey I would have been comfortable to demand of my family.

Defeated by the final quest, but not deflated, we made the steady climb back to our car and began the journey home. It was time for a quick beer, snacks and refreshments in our local pub before heading back to the house for a comforting cup of tea and some careful planning. Next time we will surely have to find an alternative route to witness the Countless Stones, and the many other prehistoric monuments littering this fascinating landscape.

The Treasures of King Thibaw of Burma - A British Library Investigation

My dearest Emily,

I find my attention drawn to the fascinating histories of Myanmar. This magical and mysterious landscape has seen millennia of intrigue and evolution, conflict and Kingdoms. The later histories of this incredible land are so littered with stimulating stories, they could be straight from the pages of some fiction novel. My latest curiosity regarded a dethroned King and a stolen treasure hoard.

In 1885, British forces sailed up the River Irrawaddy in Burma to force the abdication of King Thibaw.  On 28 November, General Sir Harry Prendergast and Colonel Edward Sladen entered Mandalay Palace and accepted the King’s surrender.

Thibaw’s palace in Mandalay was a magnificent carved and gilded structure with a great seven- roofed spire.  Whilst the government reported a largely peaceful and mutual transfer of power, other accounts suggested an unruly takeover.  The palace was brimming with priceless treasures, and there was a scramble for its riches as British soldiers took control.

Thibaw was exiled to Ratnagiri in India and saw out the remainder of his life in some degree of comfort.  He wrote to King George V, claiming Colonel Sladen had promised to secure his crown jewels for safe custody and return them when it was safe to do so - a pledge he did not keep.

Many of the regalia were shipped to Britain, but some royal treasures simply disappeared.  Rumours began to circulate of rogue British soldiers securing a portion of it.  They were said to have buried loot in bags within the palace compound, being unable to sneak it past the guards at the gates. Amongst the missing treasures was a gold calf weighing several hundredweight, a crown studded in rubies and diamonds surmounted by a peacock, quantities of precious stones, and an enormous and valuable ruby formerly on the forehead of a giant golden statue of Gautama Buddha.

On 9 January 1893, John Mobbs, an estate agent in Southampton, wrote to the Earl of Kimberley at the India Office regarding a rumour he had heard from a Charles Berry.  William White, alias Jack Marshall, was a private in the 2nd Queen’s Royal West Surrey Regiment.  He spent two years in Burma on the signalling staff, spoke the language, and left a wife and son there.   White lodged for some time with Berry’s mother-in-law at Wandsworth, and disclosed that he and another soldier had hidden away King Thibaw’s crown jewels and regalia.  The second soldier had given a death bed confession, admitting the theft and burial.

White was working in Kent and Surrey as a labourer and dock worker.  Mobbs sought him out to ascertain details of his story.  White agreed to cooperate so long as the government indemnified him from punishment for the theft.  The government, unsure of the situation and unwilling to participate in a treasure hunt, offered Mobbs a percentage of the treasure’s worth should he retrieve it.

The situation was complicated when White decided to retrieve the jewels alone.  He deemed the government reward insufficient and intended to move permanently to Burma.  Having received his indemnity, he took his last pension payment and disappeared.

Reports stated White left England for Rangoon in May 1894.  The India Office did not believe he could recover the hidden treasure without their knowledge, though Mobbs feared some could be accessed with ease.

Information on the hunt is as elusive as the jewels themselves.  Where did White go?  Did Mobbs make the journey to Mandalay?

The missing treasure also remains shrouded in mystery.  Did the Government hide it?  Did soldiers retrieve the buried loot?  Maybe palace staff discovered it?  Perhaps it is buried there still?

Craig Campbell
Curatorial Support Officer, India Office Records

Further reading:
British Newspaper Archive also available through Findmypast -
Illustrated London News 7 April & 14 April 1894
Englishman's Overland Mail 9 May 1894
The Lincolnshire Echo 21 May 1894
The Glasgow Herald 3 April 1894, p.7 and 6 April 1894, p.8
The Sphere 28 March 1959
Southern Reporter 7 June 1894
Photo 312 : 1885-1886 - Burma - One hundred photographs, illustrating incidents connected with the British Expeditionary Force
Photo 472 : 1870s-1940s - Sir Geoffrey Ramsden Collection: Photographs relating to the life and career in India of Sir Geoffrey Ramsden
Photo 1237 : 1885-1886 - Lantern slides relating to the 3rd Anglo-Burmese War
IOR/L/PS/20/MEMO38/14 : 4 Dec 1885 - Memorandum by His Excellency the Governor [on Upper Burma, following occupation of Mandalay by British forces] M E Grant Duff, 4 Dec 1885
IOR/L/MIL/7/9167 : 1885-1888 - Collection 205/7 Reports by General Prendergast and his officers on operations up to fall of Mandalay.
IOR/L/MIL/7/9162 : 1885 - Collection 205/2 Telegraphic reports of operations until fall of Mandalay, November 1885.
IOR/L/PS/20/MEMO38/14 : 4 Dec 1885 - Memorandum by His Excellency the Governor [on Upper Burma, following occupation of Mandalay by British forces] M E Grant Duff, 4 Dec 1885
Mss Eur E290 : 1845-1891 - Papers of Col Sir Edward Sladen

Midsummer Meandering at Ightham Mote

Seeking solace in the summer sunshine, our little band of misfit adventurers desired open countryside and ancient homesteads for exploration. It was an opportunity to enjoy fresh air and exercise, not too far from home.

Flicking through the annals of local historic intrigue, we came across the delightfully picturesque Ightham Mote, a 14th century moated house in the Kentish countryside near Sevenoaks. Blessed with 546 acres of ancient landscape, patchworks of forest and luscious farmland, Ightham Mote is a gem, run by the National Trust and open to families throughout the year.

There is a charge for none members using the car park and a separate charge to enter the house and gardens, but most of the estates are free to wander and enjoy. We planned an adventure around the estates, as we knew Bramble was not permitted inside the house or gardens, and Audrey was very keen to take her new bike out for a spin.

The house is a beautiful romantic caricature of medieval splendour. Its wooden beams, impressive chimneys and grand turreted entrance are a tapestry of continuous additions throughout its ever evolving lifespan.

Ightham Motes earliest known owner was Thomas Cawne, a young rogue, daring soldier and cruel knight. Thomas settled at Ightham Mote with his wife and two children in around 1360. He had a history of illicit activities and suspicious dealings. His son Robert inherited the house, but Robert was later sent to the Tower of London for attempting to murder his wife.

Influential Kent family, the Haughts, owned the house in the later 14th century after marrying into the Cawne family inheritance. Their family were well connected knights, Sheriffs and even married into the monarchy. The house grew with inner and outer courtyards, reception rooms and guest accommodation added. It quickly became one of the country’s most desirable properties. In the early 16th century, Edward Haught amassed large debts and before he ended up in a debtor’s jail, he sold the house.

Courtier of Henry VII and VIII, Richard Clement purchased Ightham Mote in 1521 for £400. He added stained glass windows to the building and the remarkable painted ceiling in the guest chambers. Clement led a life of influence and illicit intrigue, having 2 wives, at least two mistresses and three illegitimate children. After his death, the estate fell to his wife, Lady Anne Grey.

The Selby’s, a family of law enforcement officers from Northumberland, controlling the borders between England and Scotland during the 16th and 17th centuries, would own Ightham Mote for nearly 300 years until the 19th century. In 1889 Sir Thomas Coyler-Ferguson bought the property and began conservation work, modernising and conducting vital repairs. He returned it to a country residence and even allowed paying visitors to the house, at 2 shillings per person.

After the sale of its contents and only narrowly being saved from destruction in the mid 20th century, it was purchased by Charles Henry Robinson, who spent three decades furnishing the property with appropriate medieval collections.  After his death, he bequeathed Ightham Mote to the National Trust, so that it could be enjoyed by all the ages.

We skirted the impressive building, peering over carefully trimmed hedges at the immaculate structure beyond. The moat glistened sweetly in the glorious sunshine, gently disguising its fearsome protective function.  Our path began to rise, spiriting us away from the stately centrepiece and into the green and dynamic surrounding countryside. It was a gradual climb on uneven gravel paths, not the easiest to navigate with a children’s bicycle, but we continued, higher and higher until our efforts were rewarded with stunning views of the Kent Downs Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

We walked for over an hour along the circular route, through forests, over hills, alongside streams and lagoons, taking in the wonders of nature as we went. Wildflowers sprung in all directions, bluebells, wood anemone, marsh marigold, campion, rosebay and willowherb burst into bloom amidst the oak, sweet chestnut and beech trees. It was a welcome escape from the crowded chaos of city life.

Exhausted and satisfied, we gladly made our way to the busy little cafe for refreshments. Tea and cake was thoroughly appreciated, there were vegan options aplenty and even treats for our daring puppy! Of course, in this heat, a cool refreshing beer was also a welcome sight!

Whilst some of the additional costs and restrictions make it essential to double check before visiting, the fascinating history and wondrous scenic pleasure of Ightham Mote is certainly worth the adventure.

Fantastic Falls

With undisguisable excitement, we undertook an exploration of a natural wonder. It was a chance to witness one of the most beautiful spots in all of England.

Like a postcard from a Caribbean hideaway, High Force Waterfall is transported from another world.  It’s exhilarating waters crash to earth from 21 meters above, gloriously exploding into a perfect pool below. If an image of heaven exists in England, this is surely it.

The waterfall lies along the River Tees and was only a short drive from home. We were joined on our expedition by the daring ArchaeoUncle Rob and ArchaeoAuntie Christina, expert adventurers always ready for action!

We made our way by occasionally treacherous winding roads to a pub at the gateway of this marvel. Aptly named The High Force Hotel, it is a quaint and charming establishment situated at the peak of the adventure.  Here you will find a car park and information points regarding the area of outstanding natural beauty. There is a combined admission price for parking and access to the falls, but it is minimal and the funds go towards the care and upkeep of the area.

The River Tees begins high in the north pennies and picks up strength through the scenic countryside before it reaches this point at Forest-In-Tees. Here it rages in a furious torrent, flowing longingly towards an ocean escape.

This luscious edge of the island was once beneath a shallow tropical sea.  330 million years ago corals, shell fish and crinoids accumulated on the seabed and over time, hardened into limestone.  These layers form the lower part of the falls. Layers of sand and mud periodically washed into the sea and formed layers of sandstone above.

Around 295 million years ago, molten rock rose from within the earth, cooling and forming a layer of hard dark rock called dolerite.  This rock forms the upper layers of High Force Waterfall, protecting the softer limestone and sandstone beneath from a speedier erosion, and carving out the incredible visual spectacle. Over thousands of years, the softer layers beneath gradually erode and lead to the collapse of the harder dolerite above, forcing the waterfall to slowly retreat upstream.

To reach the waterfall, you must descend steep valley slopes; navigate cliff faces, cross streams, hike woodland and green fields before emerging at the raging riverside.  Thankfully a careful path has been forged by the endless pilgrimage of countless souls seeking delight in this magical natural monument.

It has no doubt been a centre of ancient spectacle. Mother Nature has illuminated herself with ferocious power, creating a unique splendour unsurpassed on the island.  Perhaps spiritual leaders gathered here to ask the earth for blessings, or made sacrifices in hope of sharing in its majesty. Certainly the modern world of tourism has been widely attracted to this spectacular spot. There is an air of importance about the site, an electric buzz as if in the presence of some supreme might.

Viewing platforms at the foot of the waterfall offer incredible views of the cascading falls. The river roars in a continuous growl, a haze of vapour clouds gather as the water merges with the pristine pool beneath.  It is like something from a dream.

There are intriguing caves at the foot of the falls, our inquisitive minds are drawn to the dark chasms, what treasures do they hold?  What stories could they tell?  Alas, the dangers involved in exploring such openings far outweigh the potential excitement in adventuring towards them.  For now, they must keep their secrets.

We lounged at the foot of the falls for some time, enjoying the hypnotising awe of the forever flowing waters and the melodic ferocity of its roaring voice. Afterwards we ascended the well trodden path back to the homely haven of the High Force Hotel. In the glowing warmth of a rustic wood burner, a welcome beer was enjoyed by Emily and I as Audrey delighted in a glass of milk and Bramble lapped up her water.

This natural wonder has undoubtedly conjured fantastic worlds in many an imaginative mind, perhaps the origin of enchanted beasts and magical universes. Such creatures and worlds surely have a home beyond the fierce cascading walls of water known as High Force Waterfall.

Wild and Wicked Whitby Wonders...

There is a destination whispered continuously through the curious circles of horror literature. This is a place steeped in history and legend, famed throughout the known world. We had to see for ourselves. Despite being less than an hour away, we had yet to explore the infamous seaside town of Whitby.

Famed for its Abbey and its associations with blood-sucking demons of darkness, Whitby has become a Mecca for those who enjoy the delights of gothic imagination.  Twice a year Whitby hosts a Goth Festival. Heroes of the macabre, mechanical music and monochrome fashion descend on the town to share an appreciation of a subculture much evolved from its primitive beginnings.

The festival, however, would not be for another few months. We chose to venture into the town on an altogether more horrifying weekend… the Bank Holiday.

During the beautiful scenic drive, we mused with wide eyes and electrified minds. Approaching from the stunning North York Moors, we crossed the horizon and peered down upon Whitby.  The town is sprawled across steep slopes falling to the mouth of the River Esk, where it empties into the North Sea.

The first evidence of settlement at Whitby appears in the 7th century AD when the Abbey was founded by the Christian King of Northumbria, Oswiu.  It saw Viking raids and the rebuilding of monasteries as the town grew and grew.  The name Whitby comes from the Old Norse meaning White Settlement. In later history, it became an important maritime centre, where famed figures such as Captain Cook would learn their seamanship. The architecture is delightfully quirky and traditional; the streets are narrow and windy, the views are to die for.

The gem of this great literary centre is, of course, Whitby Abbey.  The Abbey ruin sits atop the East cliff as the town’s oldest monument.  It was built as an act of thanks following the defeat of Penda, the pagan Anglo-Saxon King of Mercia. Its first Abbess was the royal princess Hild, who was later venerated as a saint.  The Abbey was home to Caedmon, the earliest English poet, who cared for animals and was unaware of the gift of words until he miraculously dreamt the art of song. It would be destroyed and rebuilt over the centuries until Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries finally left it to ruin.

We had made the journey along with ArchaeoNana, to enjoy the seaside resort and see what all the fuss was about.  As I mentioned, however, we chose the wrong day for a visit.  The bank Holiday seemed to be an excuse for mass pandemonium in this little town. As with most coastal hotspots, the usual popular vendors of souvenir shops, ice cream parlours, fast food joints, penny arcades and public houses are prominent.  On this day, all were utterly bursting at the seams.

Families crowded the narrow streets, gangs of adults filled the pubs, cars and busses clogged up the chaotic roads.  Noise and smog suffocated the air. The searing summer heat did little to alleviate the claustrophobia of it all.  Merely seeking suitable parking was beyond stressful. So far, not the incredible adventure we had anticipated.

Fortunately, as we made our way up the 199 steps leading to the Abbey, the enclosed chaos began to evaporate and an open and relaxed atmosphere befell our party. Up here in the heavens, amongst the ancient ruins of the Abbey, it was a different world.  The air was fresh, a serene quiet hung over the stone relics.  We explored the historic building blocks perched upon the cliff edge. The views over the ocean were sublime, even the busy shuffle of life from the town below appeared as a quaint visual curiosity.

Throughout the ancient world, people have been drawn to this area for the luxury gemstone, Jet. Derived from wood of the Monkey Puzzle Tree, changed under extreme pressure. Jet has been used for jewellery and prized objects since at least the neolithic period.

Thanks to the timing of our visit, we witnessed an incredible immersive performance of Bram Stoker’s mesmerising literary success, Dracula. From within the walls of its inspiration, we followed the characters and tussled on that most epic of journeys. We cowered as Dracula pursued his blood lust. We cheered as Jonathon Harker escaped his clutches and Abraham Van Helsing assisted in defeating the demon.

Our final adventure of the evening came with a choppy boat ride out into the deep blue of the North Sea. The brief maritime excursion offered a viewpoint from which Dracula himself might have first appreciated the gothic splendour of this special site.  The waters were particularly rough, it was a nervy journey for us, but one that Audrey found immensely enjoyable!

We squeezed into a small pub on the hill for a farewell drink, the place was rammed and not the most comfortable, but the beer was good and to my delight, we even caught a little of the bank holiday football.

Making our way back to the car, we joined the throngs of tourists leaving town.  It was a slow and uncomfortable exit, but once out of town, the traffic eased and we enjoyed the glorious greens of the Moors as the sun set over the horizon and day was overtaken by night...

...into the realm of bloodsucking demons!

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 3

Salty surf washes coolly across my face as rays of sunlight bounce and mix. Bubbles obscure my vision temporarily, and suddenly we’ve crossed the precipice to find ourselves awash in sunlight filtered through the wings of angels.  Our world extends into a vast, unrelenting blue. The slow descent to the deep hazy bottom begins. Normally murky green and grey Scottish diving conditions blossom into memories of the Pacific, as Azure, Cerulean and Ultramarines unfold before our eyes, finally revealing pink and green kelp. The kelp sways in rhythm to the endless surf and tide. It feels natural, this sway and pitch, as Jacques Cousteau once astutely observed, “the tides are in our veins.”

As the bubbles rise in a steady stream up to the surface, we check our dials. 5m… 8m… 12m… We can see the ground rising to meet us and we check in at a final 27m, the pressure now noticeable. Careful fin flicks ensure we don’t slick the bottom. To do so would fill our entire field of vision with murk and sediment, harming the flora and fauna of this alien world in which we are merely tolerated guests. We set our compasses and navigate in the formation we’d practised for months, checking our bearings, always keeping an eye on the time and our air.

My dive buddy takes the lead, whilst I content myself searching for signs of shipwreck debris; a strange and out of place timber, a misshapen metal item, a rounded surface, a jagged or flat edge. The flash of my camera blazes the eyes of the fish that pass, curious and most blissfully unaware. Of the Esperance? Nothing reveals itself. I look about, maintaining our agreed-upon search pattern, moving ever westward when a motion catches the corner of my eye. A crab drifts on the current 20 cm from me and though I slow my kicks to avoid it, the current lifts it against my mask where the crab now attaches itself. Its small eyes scan my face. With this close encounter, I manage to muffle a scream, knowing full well that nobody – neither the crab nor my dive buddy – can hear me. It releases a claw from the side of my mask, threatening with a little snap, snap, snap, beady eyes still on me. Before I can make another move, it releases its other claw and drifts off on another adventure. I take a heavy inhale from my regulator before catching up the few meters of distance that have grown between me and my dive partner.

The kelp that envelops us in its embrace suddenly thins out, becoming a desert of sand stretching out ahead. To think this desert is unoccupied would be premature. Sand crabs scuttle about as we pass over, some threatening us with fighting claws, some preferring the safety and solitude of their underground homes. My right eye twitches slightly, hoping they don’t make any acrobatic attempts at my mask. Sanddabs flit past, visible to the untrained eye when swimming, before suddenly disappearing to the bottom. My dive buddy rubs his tummy, suggesting he would very much like to eat these dabs. I roll my eyes, a vegetarian with no choice but to humour my friend.

Still no Esperance. We look at each other, acknowledging that the search so far has been fruitless. A few more fin kicks and we see the outline of the Kartli. We know we’ve come to the end of the search zone. Air and time running low, we must navigate back to our buoy line and head to the surface.

Our return to the buoy is simple: Paul is a capable underwater navigator. We gently swim our way back across the sandy seafloor before coming back into the kelp forest. There’s a calm enjoyment in visiting this magical place where life abounds in 4D all around you; a wonderful number of little creatures, drifting, swimming and crawling about, blissfully unaware of your worries. Their serenity is contagious and by the time we make it back to the buoy, I breathe easily and forget that our hunt for the Esperance has been fruitless. We take a brief look at the kelp around us and with a nod, carefully begin our ascent to the surface: kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Holding fast at our safety stop, I snap a picture of my fins for fun. These split fins have seen me through interesting waters, and today’s adventure will be another story for them to tell.

Hours later, safely back in our host’s home, I’m checking over my records and photographs, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Esperance that may have been missed during the dive, but no… A second dive hadn’t been possible with the surface interval required. I tinker with my camera, ensuring the casing hasn’t been cracked or compromised on the cow poo trailer ride back. We hadn’t the luxury of the massive body of cleansing water waiting for us on our return journey. The water troughs at the farmhouse were a real blessing, even if it did see three piratey divers in their skivvies, cold and muddied at the ankles, wrists and necks.

We joke that despite finding little, at least it has been a successful dive. A successful dive is one that you return from, I remind myself. And it’s true. We have all come back together for another evening meal on the Isle of Gigha. Tomorrow would involve less diving, with a coastal survey planned for another potential crannog, followed by an evening home visit to a lady who has a strange lintel stone. There’s been no sign of the Esperance, but further research and high-tech equipment will prepare either us or the next wave of researchers that come out to chance their luck at finding her.

McSporren yells to us. He’s made grilled, “vegetarian” sanddabs to celebrate the day. My little team will be thrilled, but I already feel like I’ve ingested enough of the sea today.

I think I’ll opt for the aqua vita instead.

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 2

Suits, masks and boots donned, we board the tractor’s trailer and begin a jaunty journey to the coast which, though visible from almost every point of the island, is blockaded from easy access by the pens of dairy farms. The trailer jolts us back and forth over muddy fields and stony boundaries, seatbelts not included. We grapple with the diesel smoke from the tractor, clanging cylinders, muck (a polite word for wet puddles of cow paddies) coating us as it splashes up from the drenched field tracks. We all laugh, feeling incredibly grateful that we didn’t take the locals’ advice to get changed into our drysuits once on the coastline. Without those drysuits, we would have been utterly coated to the skin in… well, kuh paddy!

The mists begin to clear and the proprietor of the ‘big house’ is waiting for us on the shore, with windbreaker flapping and maritime map in hand. I don’t say anything, but it all feels like a big underwater film production, with the local expert coming to help out the book smart but slightly clueless specialists. It makes me smile, which to everybody else merely seems to suggest a very polite American who is friendly despite being covered in cow poop and having been lurched to the point of nearly seeing those gleaming eyed sprats again. No television crew here… Just a shore-based archaeologist, kitted out in case of an underwater emergency, my dive partner – years more experienced in diving than even my own 15 – and now, the man from the big house. The man greets us warmly after last night’s meal and frivolities. As the west coast breeze whips through, reminding us of the impending autumn, he begins pointing out appropriate places to enter, suggesting the various rock formations that jut from the surf where we would be best placed to search for the Esperance’s remains.

Likely locations for the Esperance had been suggested previously by professionals and amateurs throughout the century of its disappearance, but the actual whereabouts still remain a mystery. If we could find even a trace of it, we would be filling in a large piece of Gigha’s puzzling maritime past, and putting to rest (or to right?) stories about shipwrecked passengers who took refuge on the island. Our task is to make a series of coordinated passes across the kelp beds, out across a swathe of sand and finally to the Kartli (a known shipwreck). We bashfully try to rinse as much of the muck from ourselves as possible while he speaks to us; we want to seem neither concerned nor too comfortable covered in the island’s brown gold, nor do we want to wait until our actual dive to be free of the mess.

With approving final nods, a plan and safety checks, we begin our entry into the lapping waters of the Sound of Jura. We swim out on our backs to an agreed upon point, the sun now beaming across the water creating blinding reflections, and my dive buddy deploys a buoy to mark entry and exit points.

We had reached our dive site.

To be concluded…

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 1

As the darkness of night broke into the dim light of dawn, a mist hung over the landscape like the woollen blanket that had hung over my head only thirty minutes earlier; reluctant to be removed but resigned to the inevitability. An early September morning on the Isle of Gigha and we have five days to search for a legendary Spanish ship, provide a basic survey of a potential crannog (i.e. Scottish lake house built on stilts), and do a general walkover of the island, on the lookout for any oversights to the coastal heritage.

Cylinders clinked into place as buckles and straps tightened, a few boxes of extra supplies tucked into a dirty corner of the open-bed trailer and scuba sets carefully strapped onto the sides where they seemed least likely to get dirty or damaged. Drysuits, rock boots and snorkels carefully stowed at the back of the trailer for a quick change before we set off: a day’s work before 6 am.

Now the team turned to its final morning agenda: breakfast. Willie McSporren – you couldn’t make that name up – had seemingly been awake for hours before everybody else. From the moment of awakening, we were all caught by the thick and heady smell of sprats being fried in butter, bread toasting in an over the fire, wire cage. Buttered sprats: the McSporren household’s answer to a vegetarian diet. He’s our host. What can you do?

Crusted bread topped in wet sprats, eyes still gleaming, tossed down with regrettably none of the smoky whisky of the previous night, we returned to the day’s main point: surveying the coastline for the Esperance, a legendary vessel wrecked somewhere off the west coast of the island. There had been a mutiny on board, the captain killed, along with his wife and two other crew members. The remaining crew lost control of the ship. Upon finally making it to shore, there was a scuffle over who would take the coin purse, allegedly full of Spanish gold and silver coins. In the chaos, the purse was flung into the sea. Hamish’s great uncle had once found not one, but two, ‘Spanish Doubloons’ on the west coast. They became the pendant of a local woman’s necklace, though of course the necklace had since been lost, and nobody could say exactly where those coins had been found.

The mutineers ran through the dark of night to the Tarbert farm, some making their way to other ports, never to be heard from again, while the others?… Magnus’s older brother swears that they’re the descendants of one of the marooned sailors who took up residence and dairy farming on the island, marrying one of the daughters and accounting for Magnus’s dark hair and olive complexion. His family gave an artefact from the Esperance, a powder horn, to another local woman as a gift many decades earlier. The horn is said to be in her possession, but its exact location within her belongings cannot be established. One of the dairy farmers that we run into on the pathway to the trailer contends that on stormy November evenings, you can see the outline of the ship on the horizon, just off the coast at Port Ban.

Based on the stories surrounding the Esperance, the team had been weeks in preparing for our excursion. We had painstakingly checked the online Canmore records, gone over historic maritime charts, asked around the Edinburgh museums for any information related to the vessel. There was very little information, so this trip to Gigha would be its own recce in the truest sense. A week earlier, we had all sat around the training table at the dive office, discussing logistics and planning our schedule: meet and greet the islanders (all 100?), a day of diving, two days on coastal surveys, one day on a walkover. Finally, the big day had come and we had loaded the dive van full of kit, archaeology supplies, our maps and records, camera equipment and plenty of spares of everything – there were no air fill stations or ScubaPro repair shops on Gigha. After an hour of the gentle ferry ride, we had finally come into port at Ardminish, greeted by ‘the man from the big house’, our host Willie McSporren and the man who invited us to the island in the first place, an acquaintance (now the mayor of Gigha) I’d known from Edinburgh.

As the ferry pulled away and we looked about the island, we had no idea what the next day would bring, but for this night we would enjoy the hospitality of our hosts and draw up a plan for tomorrow’s big dive: our hunt for the Esperance.

To be continued…

Off with their heads... A day at the Tower

Beneath delightful blue winter skies, seeking ancient historical mysteries, our merry little band entered through the gates of the most notorious building in all of Great Britain, The Tower of London.

It would be impossible to write a brief blog on the history of this incredible site.  Built in the 11th century as a fortress by William the Conqueror, to establish his dominance over the island following invasion, the Tower and its surrounding structures have since been a royal residence, a prison, a mint, a stronghold and even a menagerie. Over 1000 years of turbulent tales are locked within its walls.

Emily organised our amazing visit as a wonderfully thoughtful gift, knowing that despite my years in the capital, I had yet to witness the famous fortress.  My excitement was impossible to disguise from the moment of waking, right through until we consumed a final beer on the way home.  The historian in me danced on clouds of delight, drunk on the abundance of chronicles connected to this Thameside treat.

There are countless blogs and websites dedicated to the intriguing tales connected to this little bit of land.  Home to the Crown Jewells of Great Britain, it has produced stories of Kings and Queens, prisoners, tortures, punishments and executions; dark tales like that of the Princes in the Tower, mere children destined for the throne whose lives were cut short in the name of power; tales of Queens decapitated by ruthless Kings; tales of persecuted religious martyrs. The list is endless.

As we wandered through the various Tower buildings, each with its own unique heritage, it was clear the histories locked in these walls were too numerous to fully explore.  We could have spent a day in each room. Reconstructed bed chambers, chapels, dungeons, throne rooms and armouries appeared with each new step.  Trying to consume it all was difficult.  The tours are highly recommended, and by the sound of it, as hilarious as they are educational!

Characters such as Elizabeth I, Sir Walter Raleigh, Guy Fawkes, even the infamous Kray brothers were prisoners here. Unsurprisingly, tales of haunting are plentiful; the ghost of Anne Boleyn is thought to roam Tower Green and a cousin of Queen Elizabeth who starved to death in the tower is said to remain in the Queen’s House, these are just some of the spectres stalking this ancient pile.

For our part, we were fascinated by stories from before the famous White Tower was erected.  Much of our intrigue emerged from fanciful mythology surrounding this particular hill by the Thames.  As it happens, there is tantalising evidence of life at this location prior to William the Conquerors immense building project, it is perhaps a little less well known, but equally as fascinating.

Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae told of Brutus, a Trojan descendant who having been banished from Italy began a journey across Europe.  Amassing a number of Trojan exiles and winning many battles, Brutus was visited in a dream by the goddess Diana who prophesied he would discover an island occupied by Giants and create a New Troy.

According to Monmouth, the island would take his name, from Brutus to Brittania.  Brutus discovered Albion around 1170BC and ridding it of Giants became the first in a line of great kings.  He searched the island for a suitable home and coming upon the Thames he chose a site, naming it Troia Nova (New Troy). The Welsh name for tower hill was the Bryn Gwyn, roughly translated as the white hill.  It is here in this apparently sacred mound, that Brutus of Troy is said to be buried.

In a collection of Welsh folk tales called Mabinogion, is the story of the Giant Bendigeidfran, or Bran the Blessed, King of England.  Bran led an invasion of Ireland, wading across the sea and laying over the islands as a bridge so his men could cross.  He was fatally injured by a poisoned spear during the battle.  On his death bed, he ordered his followers to decapitate him, and take my head and carry it to the Gwynfryn (White Hill) in London and bury it with its face towards France.  Gwnfryn has been identified by some commentators with Tower Hill.  The buried head is believed to have kept the island safe from invasion until none other than King Arthur himself ordered it to be exhumed, claiming no other force than himself was required to defend the island.

The custom of keeping severed heads has been recognised in Celtic cultures. They are thought to have believed the head housed the soul and so they would keep the heads of their enemies.  The word Bran in Welsh means crow, and so the legend has attached itself to the presence of ravens at the Tower of London.  Charles II was informed of a prophecy that if the ravens left the tower, the white tower would collapse and a terrible fate would befall the nation.

Flint flakes and deposits of worn pottery were discovered beneath accumulated layers of sand and gravel during excavations in the south-east corner of the inmost ward in 1955 and 1976.  Towards the end of the prehistoric period, the river level declined, leaving a dry area.  Here excavations revealed flint flakes and Iron Age pottery along with a shallow grave containing a skeleton of a young male, 13 – 16 years old.  Radiocarbon dating of the skeleton revealed that it dates to no earlier than the beginning of the first century AD.  The style and ritual of the burial suggest that the male died just before the Roman invasion of AD43. Pits and pottery of Iron Age date have been uncovered from sites around the Tower.

Much of the archaeology in this area has traditionally been focused on the Roman wall and was the result of refurbishment in buildings in the surrounding area between the 1930s and the present day.  Sites produced a wealth of artefacts such as building material, sword scabbards, flints, Roman pottery sherds and even a sandstone sarcophagus with the skeleton of a child dated to the 4th century. The evidence led to the hypothesis a cemetery was in use during the 3rd and 4th centuries, just outside the city walls. In 1899, part of a structure which included a channelled hypocaust system was found some 16 feet south-west of the White Tower.

As our legs tired and our minds were full of wonders, it was time to escape the Tower and head for home.  Not before a nice drink by the Thames of course, to look out over the river and try to arrange the mass of historical stories we had witnessed. The Tower has a gruesome and terrifying past, but it has remained at the centre of importance on our little island at the edge of the earth for as long as there has been a London.  It was a true pleasure to experience it in an age where the majority get to walk out alive!

The Great British Dig - History in your Back Garden

Deep beneath the soil of a quiet Kentish town, a secret history lay hidden for centuries.  Tantalising scraps of evidence had previously suggested a Roman Villa once lay here, clinging to the luscious hillside, now a delightful suburban residential sprawl.

We were here on a specific quest, an attempt to unearth evidence for this long-forgotten Roman Villa. The site in question was exposed several times during the 19th century and had been recorded on early edition Ordnance Survey maps.  If it existed, it lay around 200m north of the river Medway, an area now covered by Victorian terrace houses and gardens.

There are five other Villa sites known in the Maidstone area. These include Eccles Villa, Mount Villa, East Farleigh Villa, Teston and East Barming with further important structures in the surrounding Kent countryside. It is believed the abundance of these luxurious economical centres was due to the importance of Kentish Ragstone quarrying, producing essential materials for the creation of Roman buildings, possibly even the stone of Roman London.

At the site we were set to investigate, foundations were uncovered in 1893, along with a nearby Romano-British cemetery. Excavations in 2004 unearthed plunge pools lined with opus signinum floors and tesserae, an apsidal room and multiple drainage systems. In 2008 a metalled surface was also discovered as well as evidence of building materials.  All this suggested a Villa lay somewhere nearby.

These Villas are often found to have a bathhouse attached to the structure.  Hypocaust systems have been discovered during many of the excavations at these local sites.

We were part of a unique team on the excavation, drawn from all corners of the archaeological community, with specialists and excavators working alongside dedicated documentary teams to record the experience.  Most importantly, we worked closely with the wonderful populations of this quiet Kent borough, the families who lived and worked and spent their lives just meters above these ancient treasures.

What an experience this was, beyond the archaeology itself, which proved a huge hit with all the residents of the area, we gained so much meeting these wonderful people whose gardens we systematically destroyed in the name of historical interest!

A close community of friendly and fantastic families kept us smiling throughout the three-day duration of the excavations.  As we pushed for progress, desperately keen to discover the truth beneath the earth, they heroically led the way, excavating alongside us and keeping up our spirits with stories of the locality and characters through the years.

Every evening we gathered at the local pub, to wind down and enjoy reliving the day’s events and discoveries.  More and more of the community connected with us, gleefully narrating their own stories of discovery and local historical knowledge.  It was certainly the most satisfying aspect of the experience.

We reached the end of the project, exhausted but elated.  It would have been wonderful to have spent more time on these excavations, but alas our commitments elsewhere meant for us, this was the end for now.

With fond farewells, we waved goodbye to this corner of Roman Kent and made for home.

Did we find what we set out to discover?.... You will have to see for yourselves...