The Thames on the Eve of Londinium - exploring a late Iron Age landscape in London

There has been a recent stir of interest and a flurry of newsworthy London discoveries from the Iron Age period. I haven’t been all that proactive in the promotion of my PhD research, nor discussed the topic in any great detail here or on my social media, but I made a promise to myself, to make my work in progress a little more visible in this brand new year of ours. So here goes with an introduction.

There has long been an attitude that London was mostly devoid of Iron Age activity, save that of a few scattered farmsteads and a possible ritual area on the river, nestled between the territories of opposing communities with differing leaders and strongholds.

London is said to have emerged following the arrival of the Romans in AD 43 and quickly grown into one of the most important towns in the province of Brittania.

The problem with challenging these age-old opinions is that evidence of Iron Age London is hidden amongst hundreds of scattered reports, grey literature, chance finds, and datasets old and new. It would take a lot of digging to gather this material, to go through the crumbs of evidence with a fine-tooth comb, and then attempt to reconstruct the truth from the tapestry of fragmentary findings.

This is precisely the challenge I have set myself, and I love it.

It is far from easy, the material is complex and there are many varied opinions on what is represented, but with a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, I hope to comprehensively map the environments of the London region before the arrival of the Romans in AD43.

As a way of introduction, I have recorded a 20-minute presentation on my initial foundational studies as I attempt to understand the character of the region during the late Iron Age. This initial offering introduces the issues and challenges faced when attempting this particular topic as well as some initial findings and the direction of the study going forward.

I hope you find it of interest, it is fascinating to me, but I am a total geek when it comes to this topic!

Reliving the past - family adventures through time. Part 2 - The Battle of Hastings

Britain is a funny little island, isn’t it? Perched on the edge of the world, mostly rainy and cold, a bit broken and bruised, cut off, and forever open to the elements. Yet for some reason, it has remained the focus of countless aspiring Empires and Kingdoms. Elites have squabbled over this little island for eternities.

Some of these squabbles are better known than others. There was an invasion of Romans, and another soon after of Germanic populations such as the Angles, Jutes, and the Saxons. The Vikings famously raided and pillaged and even settled, and eventually, in 1066 so too did the Normans.

This particular invasion seems to have had a profound and recognisable effect on the island’s identity. The memory and mark of William the Conqueror and his Norman army can be witnessed across Britain. It remains large in the legend of this little rock at the end of the earth.

And as a nation obsessed by history and ancestors, legends and landscapes, we have formed a tradition of celebrating certain moments such as that fateful day in 1066. Whilst these moments probably involved horrific hardships, brutal conflict, death, and destruction on a large scale, we are now able to enjoy them as safe fun family events and even buy an arsenal of curious merchandise to cheer on the ancient warriors.

Perhaps that may seem a less than complimentary summary of what is essentially an accessible, interactive educational opportunity and an enthralling, high adrenaline hobby. The juxtaposition of the realities of history and the retelling of it are for a longer, larger debate than is available here. I will say that I believe, if it is conducted respectfully, as accurately as possible for the audience and is something that may open the door to further more involved study and understanding, these re-enactments are probably a good thing.

So, with all that out of the way, please join us as we step into the 11th century, on a sunny morning in October on the south coast of England, not quite in Hastings, for the Battle of Battle!

Every year, the incredible English Heritage site of Battle Abbey hosts an epic event. Thousands of people flock from all corners of the country to relive the Battle of Hastings. Amongst the throngs are hundreds of trained re-enactors, skilled in ancient combat techniques, decked out in historic garments, and fuelled by the intricacies of a centuries-old way of living. Two opposing camps straddle the battlefield, one the Anglo Saxon armies who have arrived fresh (or maybe not so fresh) from battle in the north, opposing Viking incursions and inter-family civil skirmishes. The other is William Duke of Normandy and his invading army from across the channel.

Despite the popularity of the event, and the narrow country roads leading to the car parking facilities, the arrival at the site was fairly painless. A little congested through Battle itself but mostly clear. It must be interesting for the residents of the quaint town when their numbers swell each October. No doubt the local businesses enjoy the economic boost it brings but perhaps the residents are not so keen on the struggle through town.

After a queue through the ticket tents, it was a wondrous wander along an avenue of trees, flanked on both sides by traditional medieval stalls and markets selling all manner of luxury and martial commodities. Here you can purchase everything from authentic animal skin rugs and cloaks to swords, shields, ornate carvings, masks and helmets of all varieties, feasting equipment, and even funny shoes. The smell of campfires hung in the air as we wandered wistfully through the busy bustling markets. Groups of 11th-century characters moved amongst us, elevating the experience, enhancing the authentic escape. Audrey adored all of it, running from one curiosity to the next, clambering over statues of Norman knights and Saxon soldiers, and dreaming of her own medieval garb.

Bramble also swelled with excitement at the array of sights and smells in the lively open fields. There was so much going on, it was impossible to take it all in. With the chaos and noise, the warmth, and the excitement in every direction, we were relishing the softer side of medieval life on the eve of battle.

As we rounded a copse of trees, the battlefield came fully into view. A wide sloping plain, crowned with the famous Abbey at the peak of the hill. The Abbey was only erected following the battle, of course, a monument to the spot that William fought for his famous victory. No spoilers of course...

We sauntered around the camps. Wonderfully jolly medieval folk offered detailed explanations into their unique way of living, on how weapons were forged and maintained, how food was prepared, how camps were built, and much more. The air had an atmosphere of anticipation. We left the warm smoky bustle of the camps to explore some of the more modern amenities. A cafe, a bar, and most importantly for Audrey, the English Heritage shop where she could purchase full warrior gear and take her place in the ranks about to do battle.

As a brief and potentially inaccurate little summary of the conflict at Battle, tensions had boiled following a dispute for the crown of England. Harold Godwinson had taken up the honour following the death of King Edward the Confessor. William Duke of Normandy believed that Edward had promised the crown to him, and therefore, enraged at Harold, embarked with his army to England to seize the throne.

Harold had recently been victorious in the Battle of Stamford Bridge against his own brother, Tostig, and the Norwegian King Harold Hardrada, who were also vying for the crown. Whilst his forces were still in recovery, William landed at Pevensey with a vast host on the 28th of September 1066. Harold was forced to march quickly across the island to meet the invading forces.

William’s scouts spied Harold’s approaching army and marched from Hastings to meet him on the field of Battle. The Saxon army had the better position on the battlefield and had some success during the early skirmishes. However, the Normans employed a tactic of deceit and feigned retreat. Caught in the confusion, parts of the Saxon army pursued the fleeing Normans, who turned on the pursuers and slaughtered them.

According to the Bayeux Tapestry, if it is to be read literally, King Harold received a fatal wound, an arrow through his eye. The Normans increased the attack and on the 14th October, 1066 were victorious. The throne of England would eventually fall to William the Conqueror on Christmas Day.

We found a comfortable spot amongst the crowds, and with full drinks and a colourful picnic of snacks, gazed upon the opposing armies lining up against each other on the hill. The roar of knights, soldiers and common folk preparing for bloodshed filled the afternoon sky. Birds of prey that had circled the battlefield prior to the arriving armies now waited patiently on their perches to devour the remains of battle. The clamour rose and fell as each general addressed their troops, and then, they clashed.

The din of sword on shield, of steel on steel, of the axe on flesh, filled the air. The brutality continued as we gathered around gleefully witnessing the carnage with ice creams and beer. Sure enough, the Saxons had an early advantage, using the slope to propel the invaders. Then the Normans made to retreat. We knew what came next, despite cries from the crowds to attempt a different tactic. Not to rush in, not to be fooled.

Yet the destiny of those soldiers was written in the very earth upon which they fell. They pursued and were cut to pieces.

Harold fell as an arrow pierced his eye.

The Normans drove ahead to victory.

Amidst the cheers and celebrations, the ghosts of those who perished rose from the field and embraced one another, each returning to their ancestral homes. Finally, as the sun began to set behind the wooded hillsides, the crowds slowly drifted away along the avenue of trees and the busy market stalls to the acres of chariots waiting.

Audrey yawned a satisfied, exhausted, and content yawn. Bramble curled up cosily in the back of the car and we made our way back to the 21st century. To electric warmth and modern comforts, but with spectacular memories of an age almost completely lost to us.

De notre archéofam à la vôtre, bonne nuit.

Reliving the past – family adventures through time. Part 1 – Butser Ancient Farm

We had heard of Butser Ancient Farm on countless occasions. It is frequently mentioned by a multitude of high-profile historians and archaeologists, it has turned up in countless TV shows and movie scenes, and most importantly, it is perhaps the beating heart of experimental archaeology in Britain.

We were well past due a visit since we now reside on the same side of the island and our interests are all covered by its amazing exhibits, so on a slightly rainy August morning, we jumped in the car and made the one and a half hour journey towards the south coast to experience some fascinating recreations.

For anyone unfamiliar with Butser Ancient Farm, it is a not-for-profit, education, and research centre based in the South Downs National Park where ancient theories and technologies are tested and an array of spectacular experimental buildings represent British architecture through the ages.

Butser Ancient Farm began in 1970 when the Council for British Archaeology hoped to establish a working ‘ancient farm’ where archaeologists could experiment to test theories on how people lived in Iron Age times. Work started on Little Butser in 1972, with the first public Open Day in 1974. The project was run by Dr. Peter J Reynolds, a pioneer in the field of experimental archaeology. The site soon moved and expanded, first to the nearby Valley of Hillhampton Down in 1976, and then to its current location at Bascomb Copse in 1991.

We arrived early in the morning as rain clouds peppered the sky. Deep greys and lagoon blues intertwined above us, an awe-inspiring backdrop to the ancient landscape occupying the emerald green valley. Wisps of smoke rose gently from the earthy buildings scattered across the site as we entered the pleasant gates and were greeted by smiling guides and cheerful staff.

Audrey’s attention was immediately captured by the central pen and its goat population. She was desperate to see and feed the lively residents. We bought a very reasonably priced bag of goat food and entertained the historically accurate goat family who were clearly loving life!

After conversing with furry friends, we made our way around the circuit of Butser Ancient Farm. It is conveniently set out so that you can circumnavigate the features in chronological order, starting in the Mesolithic with some temporary shelters and then on to a large Neolithic house based upon one excavated at the Kingsmead Quarry, Horton, Berkshire. The excavated site was on a floodplain where the River Thames would have had many more tributaries when the house was originally constructed. A reed thatch roof stretched all the way to the floor, so that the roof rafters were ground-fast, providing additional strength.

We sat by an open hearth, with the warmth of the fire proving more than adequate shelter from the autumn chill. The buildings here are completed with accurate tools, accessories, and furnishings. It was fascinating to imagine such a grand structure existing in the Neolithic floodplains of Britain.

We next moved into the Iron Age (the recently constructed Bronze Age roundhouse, built by volunteers and staff for Operation Nightingale had yet to be started). This is probably the most immersive and extensive area of the farm. A fenced enclosure with an additional bank and ditch surrounds six roundhouses and a number of further features including a granary, chicken house, storage pits, herb garden, bread oven, and even a conjectured Iron Age toilet!

The roundhouses were based upon a number of examples that have been excavated around the country including Little Woodbury, Danebury Hillfort, and Glastonbury Lake Village. Each is again furnished with the possessions and technologies of its age, and warmed by an open fire, the smoke seeping through thatch above, containing the warmth whilst also ensuring bugs and unwelcome creatures are kept clear of the organic building materials.

As we explored, we were suddenly surrounded by residents from millennia gone by. Iron Age warriors and workers were going about their business, weaving, cooking, checking tools and weapons, and keeping out intruders, which we were quick to announce we were not!

Having narrowly escaped suspicion, we left the enclosure and wandered into the Romano British age. Here we first found a number of locals feeding the impossibly cute lambs. Most of the animals in the farm are rare-breed animals including Manx Loaghtan Sheep, English Goats, and Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, illustrating different varieties of livestock from prehistory, and as such tend to be miniature versions of what we would recognise today, which of course only makes them appear all the cuter.

After Audrey had spent a few moments watching the lambs, but more time trying to leap over a series of log stumps which made for a far more interesting playground, we entered into a stunning white-walled Villa complex based on excavations from Sparsholt near Winchester, complete with painted plaster walls and mosaic floors. Smart furnishings and a luxurious new way of living were immediately apparent. A guide introduced us to the emerging currency of coinage, with a dazzling display of Roman wealth (whilst coins existed in Iron Age Britain, their precise utility is arguable). It was slightly whistle-stop whilst inside the villa, due to the difficulties of maintaining safe social distance from other visitors, but we saw enough to indicate a very different way of life.

We continued our adventure into the Anglo Saxon period, where some of the glamour of Romano Britain fell away, but the homely warmth of earlier periods returned in buildings based upon excavations from the nearby village of Chalton. The structures perhaps showed more solid construction than some earlier eras, but generally had an organic feel.

By this time, Audrey was beginning to tire, all this time travel really takes its toll, so it was time to hit the cafe and fuel up on tea and cakes as we gazed over the whole site and its spectacular constructions.

The farm hosts regular events, from storytelling to Celtic Festivals, concerts, and re-enactments. It is a glorious experience and an important educational tool for those with early interests in ancient lives and for professionals and scholars of British prehistory and early historical periods.

Audrey rounded off her day with a quill pen from the gift shop and we set off again, but not immediately for home, as we were aware of a number of nearby areas of interest. First off, it had felt like an age since we had seen the ocean, and with the coast so close, we couldn’t help ourselves. We found the nearest available, parking friendly, spot and wandered down to the water, which was busy with sailors and swimmers, despite the temperamental weather. From this vantage point, I witnessed my first sight of Hayling Island, an important sacred site during the Iron Age, Romano British and Anglo Saxon period. It was too late in the day to explore the island, but it was fantastic to witness a space so revered through the ages.

We then decided to make one final stop, Fishbourne Palace was close by. Fishbourne is a Roman palace with an astonishingly native character and intriguing evidence of a pre-Roman invasion, Roman occupation. Sadly, upon arrival, we quickly discovered that the site was closed. A shame, but perhaps for the best, as by this time, our brave little explorer had given in to the powerful lure of slumber.

We drove home after an unforgettable adventure through time. If you get a chance, we fully recommend it.

Isle be back!

There were tales of a misty island, full of magic and wonder, lying just across a small stretch of turbulent ocean. It was an island full of folklore, fantasy and infamy. Kings and Queens, witches and warlords, minstrels and magicians all dwelled upon this little emerald gem, and at its heart, a fiery furnace of fantasy had lain dormant for eternities. It was an island so close to the gods, that their touch could be plainly felt in the wild conditions of its extremities. Most importantly, this island was not so far distant from us that the effects of an ongoing pandemic existence could restrict our careful expedition.

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We set out on a voyage of discovery, our furthest in quite some time, an odyssey of intrigue, to explore the spectacular scenic curiosity of the Isle of White.

Audrey was keen to ensure our investigations were a success and so the travel inventory was extensive. Tents, utensils, headquarters, even a toilet, all crammed into the back of the trusty transport, with us humble adventurers squeezed between.

After a substantial drive, we made the port of Portsmouth, our platform to reach the beautiful Island just visible across the rolling ocean, through the hazy morning mist. Portsmouth was a maze of old roads and historic buildings, scattered amongst new builds and modern technological wonders. The port is vast and some of the vessels here are more like seafaring cities, huge floating hulks built for epic long-distance voyages to unimaginable worlds.

Whilst our journey would explore an awe-inspiring isle, it was not one of such intense distance, and our ferry voyage was comfortable and swift. The brisk ocean breeze and dazzling sunlight made the trip exhilarating and a bottle of Isle of White brewed beer only added to the refreshing experience.

As we neared the island, strange and magnificent monuments peered down upon us from the tree peppered hillsides, an ever-casting eye on our approach. Was our character being tested at this early stage? Audrey looked on heroically; she was certainly a well worthy wanderer.

After disembarkation, the drive through the island was pleasant, only stalled as we made our way through the central mini-metropolis of Newport, where a historic townscape is now furnished with all the amenities of modern living. Eventually, we arrived at our base camp, nestled beneath a canopy of trees, hugging the luscious green valley beneath and beautifully isolated from the humdrum of humanity.

Once our temporary home base was all set up, and an invigorating tea was fully consumed, it was time to get to work. We had heard stories of strange happenings on this island, bizarre occurrences at some of the most time-worn monuments, a shiver down the spine of the ancient isle. Could it be connected? Could it be that Ollpheist, the Mother of all Dragons, was stirring from her slumber? Could the nation’s subterranean saviour have been roused into action?

Our first tiptoe into the mystery began at Yarmouth Castle. Building work began at this castle in 1547, to protect against the fear of French invasion. From its brave bastion, the sites of shipwreck and seashores smother the horizon. The Santa Lucia was lost off the coast nearby in 1567, a Spanish merchant vessel that may have foundered before reaching the harbour of Yarmouth. The sturdy stone walls of Yarmouth Castle have withstood centuries of defence, straddled bravely atop the dragon’s tail. Yet now they buckled, the winds whipping over the walls, its guns aimed at invisible foes.

Audrey led us through the castle, fearlessly investigating the surroundings, certain that the clues we required lay hidden nearby. She took notes and tested the battlements before demanding a strategic break for ice cream. One delicious chocolate cone and a stroll around the village later and it was time to continue our examinations.

Our next stop was of vital importance. If the dragon truly stirred, we would need to see it for ourselves.

When sleeping dragons ache, it is their tails that first awake.

The needles lie at the furthest western point of the Island. They jut from the ocean like sharpened knives, slicing the blue waters in stuttered blasts. The trek to this distant treasure involved an ever-increasing climb to the heavens, with stunning views of the choppy channel on one side and the humped spine of the sleeping dragon on the other. Here the extremities of a liminal world are felt most fiercely. We battled the howling winds, violent whispers from the gods themselves. Finally, we reached the summit and stared over the tip of the dragon’s tail. It did not flinch to our eyes, though it felt as though the entire island shook in some great rage, up there on that peninsula peak.

Our investigations of the day complete, we ventured back to camp. Night crept in, a darkness beyond the normality of night. The campfire burned brightly and our spirits were raised by the warmth as we enjoyed a beer, cider, juice, and tea. Then to bed, a cosy tent for our family snuggle, Bramble stretching out over half the space, and the rest of us huddled in our sleeping bags for warmth.

We woke early, as is always the case for Audrey, so much to do, so much to see, so much to explore. Of course, there were the usual difficulties, too many bubbles in her morning milk and not enough rainbows in her breakfast bowl, everything too loud and not loud enough for a bright, brave four-year-old adventure princess.

The morning air was supernatural. As the fog rolled in, the veil between worlds thinned. The island slid beneath invisible realms and spirits swarmed across the hallowed shoals. Audrey knew all too well, the tales of Wihtgar and Stuf, of the sons of Arwald, of Princess Elizabeth, doomed daughter to that most unfortunate of monarchs, Charles I and even of old Jack. She took precautions and armed herself, for the protection of the party, her sturdy sword, and shield to save us all.

Our focus today would be Carisbrooke Castle, a fortress as old as the legends of the Island. The earthworks here had perhaps originated as a Roman fort, but certainly, a Saxon burial ground had been here and later a fortified settlement. Carisbrooke dominates a prominent hilltop of the island and was first constructed to protect against those vicious Viking raiders. After the Norman invasion of Britain, the Saxon burh was embellished with a strong stone defended enclosure. The castle remained a crucial stronghold of the island and survived centuries of dynasty and disaster.

During the English Civil War, Carisbrooke fell into Parliamentary control and gained the most famous of prisoners, none other than King Charles I. His children were also imprisoned in the castle and his daughter, Elizabeth died there at the tender age of 14. Despite desperate attempts by Charles to escape his captivity, the prison was unbreakable and Charles would not see freedom.

With so many tortured souls on this tiny rock, it was little wonder the dragon stirred. Not least because these turbulent histories had left a legacy of spilled blood on sacred soil, nor because the unity of humans became so fractured in this ancient land, but worse, the fierce fortunes of the island were in danger because Ollpheist was being forgotten, the only true reason for the Mother of all dragons to stir.

Not so much forgetting the stories of this ancient creature, for the traditions continue well, but the problem lies in the belief. Our impatient twenty-first-century attentions focus on modern luxuries, grinding the mystical side of our minds thin. Dreams of dragons and magic are buried deep beneath the monotonous mountain of the mundane. She is forgotten, or at least she is no longer real to us, and so she stirs.

It was important that we altered the island’s delicate fate. There was only one hope; we would need to soothe the soul of this sleeping giant. And so we rushed to a place of deep connection and spiritual power of the land, to Quarr Abbey. If any place held the power of hope, belief, and island strength, it was here. Quarr, named for its stone quarries from the earliest of histories, was occupied by Cistercian monks in 1132 who built a significant church here on the coastal reaches of the island. It had clearly always been an area of some importance. A deeper power resided in the earth and a magic emanated from the ocean spray which caressed its banks. An Abbey flourished on the site, particularly thanks to the great trade in wine that passed through from French shores. The Monks were evicted from the Abbey in 1536 following the dissolution of the monasteries and the beautiful building fell into disrepair. It wasn’t until 1907 when the poet of brick, Dom Paul Bellot, built the stunning monastery nearby, a spectre of the ancient Abbey and a monument in use to this day.

It was in this incredible space that Audrey whispered words of unconditional kindness and offered the sort of unfaltering belief only a child may possess in a world so full of rule and regulation. With our hearts in our mouths, we anxiously awaited a sign... or a signal for escape.

Audrey smiled, her words had been true, Ollpheist would sleep soundly again, secure that her memory lived on, so long as Audrey’s adventure would be written on the modern manuscripts of our age. The mother of all Dragons would find her way into the minds of those who perhaps had not heard of her courageous charge and her stealthy slumber could continue unmolested.

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With the day almost done, we made our weary way back to the ferry, for a final voyage over the deep blue sea. The waters gently swayed in the regular breath of the sleeping Draconem. We bid the delightful Isle of Wight a fond farewell, and enjoyed a final island ale to toast our adventure.

To sleeping Dragons, may they forever rest peacefully in our hearts

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Look to the Pevens...ey

5, 4, 3, 2... 1! We have ignition! The space rocket ‘red-tent’ lifts off and brave Captain Audrey prepares her motley crew for an unrivaled exploration beyond the limits of the known universe. To boldly go where no Archaeobeeb has gone before is the mission. Intelligence has indicated an incredible substance in realms unknown, perhaps capable of prolonging life itself! Who knows what dangers await? Who can tell what wonders may be witnessed?

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...and who doesn’t love a good space adventure? Basking in the open expanse of the heavens, living with just a bag or two of necessary possessions, simple food, focused minds and enjoying our wild and wonderful galaxy firsthand?

Whilst it remains difficult to book any kind of travel across planet earth, space travel in our trusty ‘red-tent’ rocket is a perfect opportunity to escape. We have certainly fallen in love with the cosy shuttle over the last year, heading out to some stellar locations that we might have otherwise missed.

Our latest intergalactic adventure was a voyage to the peculiar planet of Pevensey. Nestled between the well-known solar systems of Eastbourne and Hastings, Pevensey is a little treasure, packed with a veritable universe of historical intrigue and impressive architecture.

Before we could fully engage in our objective, we needed to set up a base upon the far moon of Herstmonceux. It was uncharted territory. We were the very first humans to set foot on this unspoiled landscape, testing the untouched terrain on a wonderful patch of cosmic countryside. This was the first opportunity to challenge our understanding of the universe. Captain Audrey checked the atmosphere for safety and gave the order to go forth and explore.

Herstmonceux is a tantalising treat for any budding intergalactic adventurer. During the Neolithic period, the ocean reached much further inland than today. Evidence of activity has been recorded all along this ancient coastline. An abundance of flint tools have been discovered in and around what would have been rich coastal woodland. During the immediate pre-Roman period, the elevated area became an important burial ground and perhaps ritual centre, with a number of cremation burials in Roman-style urns unearthed.

Over time the location became the estate of a prominent Anglo Saxon family, (hyrst being Anglo Saxon for a wooded hill) it was transferred to Drogo De Monceux, a great-grandson of William the Conqueror, following the Norman Invasion of England. Drogo’s son, Ingleram, married Idonea De Herst and so the Herstmonceux line was born.

Herstmonceux Castle was extended from a manor house in 1441 by Sir Roger Fiennes, a descendant of the Herstmonceux’s, who had fought alongside King Henry V at Agincourt and later became treasurer of the household of King Henry VI. The castle passed through the family, along with titles old and new, until Thomas Fiennes, 9th Baron Dacre, inherited the lands in the 1530s. Thomas appears to have been quite the gangster and led a poaching escapade into a rival’s territory which ended in the murder of a gamekeeper. Thomas Fiennes was found guilty of the murder, led from a cell in the Tower of London to a noose at Tyburn, where he was hanged for his crime.

The estates were confiscated by Henry VIII but would later be reinstated by Queen Elizabeth and remained in the family until the early 18th century, when another Thomas, Lord Dacre, blew his family fortune on over extravagant indulgences and gambling and was forced to sell the property. The castle fell into disrepair and was gutted to create a ruinous gothic folly for aesthetic tourism purposes. It wasn’t until the 20th century when the castle was renovated and gradually restored to its current magnificence.

We set out on a mini-expedition to secure the base, forage, and explore. The castle was heavily fortified and well prepared for space invaders, yet we managed to gain access through its imposing gateways and into the alien architecture beyond. The gardens were spectacular and the vast array of stunning extraterrestrial species was a thing to behold, a cacophony of colour exploding in all directions. Captain Audrey took the lead, guiding us past perilous moonstruck mazes, around hostile alien creatures, and through tricky exotic terrain. We made our way into a gloomy wooded area, with strange gravity-less mechanisms and unusual pyramid structures dotted throughout the undergrowth, evidence of intelligent life perhaps, certainly it gave us the confidence we were on the right track.

Then we spied it, a huge intergalactic control centre on the peak of the imposing hill, with futuristic garden green domes penetrating the lush canopy of dense woodland that had disguised it so well until now. Surely this was the great eye in the sky? Surely this was the security required to protect something special?

Carefully hacking into the mainframe computers, we learned the unique history of these enormous space pimples. As the city of London expanded, and false light encroached upon the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, a new location was required for the astronomical scientific equipment. Herstmonceux was chosen thanks to its remote hilltop location and in 1958 the work was completed, with its green, telescope housing domes dominating the skyline. The Royal Greenwich Observatory Herstmonceux no longer functions as it was originally designed. The complex is now a centre for space and science education and the phenomenal telescopes were dismantled and relocated to the Canary Islands. Yet it was once the pinnacle of scientific space exploration.

Being careful not to be discovered by the great eye in the sky, we found supplies, investigated a number of anomalies, some further bizarre constructions, and a wild unusual alien life form. With our reports complete, Captain Audrey directed us onwards to complete our primary mission. It was time to blast off to Planet Pevensey.

The name Pevensey comes from the Anglo Saxon personal name of Pefen, along with ea meaning river, and so River of Pefen. The most dominant architectural feature of this ancient town is its spectacular Shore Fort. Constructed in the 290’s AD, the fort protected the Roman populous from increasing barbarian raids of the Saxons and Jutes. It was at Pevensey that William the Conqueror landed his invasion troops in 1066. The incredible defensive Shore Fort was strengthened following the invasion and a castle was built within the walls. Robert, Count of Mortain, half brother of William, built upon these defenses, and much of that original stonework remains today, despite multiple attempts to demolish the fortress throughout the years. It even became a prison for some time, with James I of Scotland amongst its most famous prisoners, such was the impenetrable nature of its defences.

Captain Audrey cautiously directed us through the ancient battlements. She was certain that such a defensive structure was key to the mystery of this perplexing planet. We followed through the high stone walls, intricately arching above us with an ominous presence, built to inflict an awe-inspiring terror. The blazing sun beat down upon us, such a heat emitted from that spectacular star, we were forced to don our most protective apparel. Having scouted the structure, we were strangely lured towards a wide expanse of gleaming gold and blue in the distance.

Was this it, the substance we had traversed the heavens to discover, the life rejuvenating wonder, hidden in an alien landscape, the treasure our fearless and fantastic Captain had so keenly sought?

Audrey led the way, the golden band spread before us, a billion tiny golden brown bulges from horizon to horizon and beyond it... blue, endless perfect gleaming blue.

We landed our small search craft and set up a makeshift base in a defendable position. Our experiments would require a certain amount of time and careful consideration. Captain Audrey set us to work and immediately made for the beautiful blue. It was all we had dreamed it would be. New life pulsated through our veins as the refreshing liquid consumed our baking bodies. Bramble relished the cool freedom it furnished, despite being somewhat unsure of what lay beneath! Perhaps it was in the name all along, the River of Pefens, emptying its eternal treasures into the oceans beyond. Our mission had been a success. Our exploration had revealed otherworldly wonders. It was time to head back to our moon base of Herstmonceux.

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As we prepared for our final flight through the galaxy, the closest bright blazing star fell beyond the line of gently swaying trees and a billion balls of fire sketched a vast complex pattern on the inky black curtain above. Swirling clusters of light illustrated all manner of heavenly bodies. The flame of our ‘red-tent’ rocket ship warmed our weary bodies, and as we gazed into the eternal endless night, a shower of lights swooped across the sky like the tip of a conductor’s baton, a stunning symphony of wondrous wandering stars.

Tomorrow we would fly for earth, but for tonight, with beer, blankets, the Perseid meteors and loved ones close by, we were truly amongst the gods.

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Chertsey Shore

In that most devilish of years, AD 666, a portion of the ancient Thames was selected for supreme spiritual significance. The awe inflicting island riverscape of the Thames, with gleaming silver mists clinging to dark grey pools of gently whispering waters, a mirror of the ever menacing sky above, must have appeared other-worldly to all who traversed it.

A soon-to-be Saint pondered the potential of this ancient space. It was a landscape straight from a dream, perhaps the exact vision which greeted many early adventurers who took Britain to be the Elysian Fields of ancient mythology.

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Its prime, powerful and poignant position on a marshy island surrounded by the Thames, convinced Erkenwald (a religious man of Royal ancestry) to found a great Benedictine Abbey at which he himself would serve as Abbot. At the same time, he founded another, Barking Abbey further downstream, where his sister, Aethelburg, was to be Abbess.

It is not a stretch to imagine this liminal landscape as a gateway to the ethereal limits of existence, a place where gods and monsters could stalk the mortal realm. The river and wetlands still dominate here and amidst this celestial landscape, Chertsey remains a mysterious little treasure, a town whose character continues to cling to an old-world origin.

We were keen to explore this fulcrum of ancient spiritual reverence. From prehistoric deities bound to the river and islands, marshes and woodland right through to a centre for Christian worship and godly dominance. This area clearly held unrivaled spiritual importance. We decided that a simple day trip would not suffice. With a certain Archaeomum’s birthday celebrations in mind, we set aside a long weekend to camp under the stars and experience life in this sacred landscape firsthand.

After a short while on the road, an eager Audrey and over-excited Bramble could not hide their glee as the tent eventually towered above them and our weekend home emerged from the bulging baggage squashed into the back of our trusty transport. The campsite, right on the banks of the Thames, was perfectly positioned for adventure. We couldn’t wait to explore.

Prior to the emergence of the Abbey, archaeological excavation and investigation have discovered Roman tiles on the site and a Roman presence in this landscape seems reasonably likely. The wider area is littered with late Prehistoric unenclosed settlements and interestingly, along with a number of deposits in watery contexts, a series of structures have emerged, which have been considered as possible temples.

Chertsey Abbey was founded in AD 666 on marshes known as Cerotaesei and a gravel island called the Isle of Cerot. The original Abbey was a humble affair, with wattle and daub walls and a roof of thatched reeds, but Erkenwald, a Lincolnshire religious man thought to be related to King Offa, dedicated the Abbey to St Peter and it continued to grow. He was Abbot at Chertsey for nine years before becoming the Bishop of London.

Chertsey Abbey would grow to become the fifth largest Abbey in England, with over 50,000 acres of land. In 871, Danish Vikings sacked the Abbey, setting it on fire and pilfering all of its valuable contents. There is a belief that Abbot Beocca, a character well known to telly fans of the Last Kingdom, was murdered during these raids. Yet the Abbey was rebuilt and thrived, absorbing more land and becoming an important religious centre until it was dissolved during the dissolution of the Monasteries in 1537.

Little remains of the Abbey today. Fourteenth-century fishponds are visible as long troughs in a quaint garden. The Kitchens and ovens, also later additions to the Abbey and away from the main building, can be witnessed in reconstructed walls and monuments in the public park. The stone minister was a far more elaborate affair but is now completely absent; any remains buried under private residences and impossible to view without permission. We took a polite wander around the perimeter, but the ‘warning, beware of dog’ signs kept us at a distance!

We ventured into Chertsey to explore a little of the town, it has retained an image of old-fashioned cuteness but functions as most modern towns do, with a busy commercial centre filled with supermarkets and coffee shops. As we returned to the campsite, a decision was made (not a difficult one) to enjoy a beer or two in a delightful pub by Chertsey Bridge, the Bridge Hotel. We sat in the beer garden overlooking the glorious river and were able to rest, breathe and smile. It was a serene and calm space, despite Audrey’s eagerness to adventure and Brambles ever keen eye on other people’s dinner.

A storm was brewing in the distance though, and we raced for the comfort of our camp. The tent was mostly waterproof, and when we were safely zipped inside, the machine-gun patter of heavy raindrops was amplified in the enclosed space, a hypnotic melody of ceaseless hammering waves. We snuggled in, safe from the cold and wet, and let the gods sing us to sleep... with one eye on the encroaching drips around the edges!

The following day, we wandered along the grassy path following the Thames as it meandered through the fields and meadows. Boats cruised happily along the slow-running waters, canoes and paddleboats, barges and yachts all enjoying the splendour of the river route. Swimmers were clustered at easy access points, immersing themselves in the rejuvenating waters. Buzzing happily in the grassy meadow was all manner of wild creatures and insects, a spectacular dance of minuscule life. Audrey found an enchanting pattern, a monumental fairy ring, the haunt of fairytale creatures, and timeless magic. She danced with bramble inside the ring, tempting the mystical inhabitants to reveal themselves.

After a final night of cosy tent togetherness, complete with the distant joyous yells of elated football fans, we drifted to sleep, once again serenaded by the cloudburst sonnets from above. It had been a wet and wonderful escape, a few days to switch off from the world and be present in the moment. It was a landscape brimming with vibrant dynamism and primordial mystique. Reluctantly we packed up our temporary home, toweled off the excess drizzle, said goodbye to our kind and welcoming camp neighbours, and headed for home.

En route, we did attempt a final adventure. We were hoping to discover an Iron Age/Romano British Temple in the countryside. Armed with a vague map, an idea of where it should be in the landscape, and a possible route, along with the Sat Nav if needed, we set out. The impenetrable path was near impossible, confusing signage and disappearing tracks made progress difficult, there was no way to negotiate the track and the horizon offered nothing in the way of evidence regarding our ultimate destination. In the end, stood in the centre of a vast cow field, I gave up and headed back to the car. It was only later that I checked the satellite view and realised I was mere meters away from the site.

Next time!

So I hope you will all enjoy a drink with us to celebrate Emily Archaeomum’s landmark birthday, the big... 21...

With hope you all have a delightful, adventurous month,

From our Archaeofam to yours,

Happy July!

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A Chide<<< in Time! [The Chiddingstone mystery]

Don’t panic! A portal to the past is open, a mysterious split in the fabric of the space-time continuum has been revealed. The world beyond this tear in time has the potential to unlock our understandings of an ancient way of life. We had to see for ourselves. We had to go back... to the... well, to the past!

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According to our tip-off, this passageway through time was a fortuitously short drive from our home. It was too good an opportunity to be missed. This would be a test of our investigative team’s greatest resolve; it would require the best of the best to unravel this temporal mystery. We called in the best we knew, ArchaeoGranny and ArchaeoGrandad.

Legend has it that the Druids of the Cantii revered an ancient monument, the Chiding Stone, a sacred place upon which they would pass judgments and maybe even make sacrifices to the ancient gods or the natural wonders of the earth. This monument still dominates the landscape, and perhaps its mystique could offer a clue to unlock our mystery. Was ancient magic guarding the surrounding sacred spot against the perils of age and decay, preserving a historic landscape like a physical photograph. Did these ancient Druids alter the rules of transtemporal quantum mechanics? Our voyage aimed to pinpoint the cause of this perplexing paradigm.

We approached the village of Chiddingstone in the late morning sunshine. Sunlight bounced off Tudor windowpanes like busy bees caressing a hive of honey. A stunning 14th – 15th-century church with traces of an earlier 13th-century origin sat proudly at the centre of the quaint village, epic sepulchral structures peppered across its emerald green gardens. The faint and timeless sound of happy children playing in an adjacent schoolyard competed only with the melodious songs of fleeting birds in an otherwise tranquil rural idyll. It was postcard-pretty, almost too perfect.

Whilst the village is rumoured to have taken its name from the folklore infused Chiding Stone, current scholarship suggests the name actually originated during the Saxon period, from the name of a tribal leader in the area whose community used the stone as a boundary marker. As the homestead of Cidda’s family, the name Chidding Tun would eventually evolve into the Chiddingstone we recognise today.

The greedy and tyrannical Bishop Odo was gifted Chiddingstone after the Norman invasion as part of his Earldom of Kent. The village is mentioned in the Domesday Book. Odo was apparently so unpopular that there has never been another Earl of Kent since. The Father of Anne Boleyn, Sir Thomas Bullen, bought property in the village during the early 1500s, but the major landowners of the area were the Streatfeild’s after they purchased a dwelling in the High Street in 1584 which was later to become Chiddingstone Castle.

The very fabric of the village offers a rare glimpse into a traditional Tudor landscape. The buildings with jettied upper floors, jutting eagerly into the narrow street beyond, decorative brick chimneys’, rustic oak timber beams, and crooked paneled diamond pane windows all ooze the kind of charisma impossible to replicate in modern architecture. We strolled through the past on the old-fashioned cobbled footpaths, drinking in all of its antique architecture and bygone brilliance.

But how had this time portal been possible? Apparently, there is no difference between Time and any of the other three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it. So how had the modern world been kept at arm’s length in this place, how had its period perfection been so pristinely preserved? Was the Chiding Stone casting some enchanting armour over the time-warped town?

We continued our investigations by exploring the most prestigious portion of the village, Chiddingstone Castle. Less castle, more stunning stately home, Chiddingstone Castle has Tudor origins with a history of renovation including a remodelling in the 19th century when it was modified to resemble a medieval castle. The grounds and gardens leading to the castle are a rabbit-hole of delights. We followed a golden leafy path under a canopy of looming treetops to an almost Arthurian lake, misty and steeped in shadow with tantalising breaks of golden sunlight penetrating subtle gaps in the flora. A mysterious stone-lined tomb descended into the darkness beneath the roots of a towering tree. Where it led or what resided in that fairytale cavern beneath the earth... we did not gain an opportunity to discover. A mystery for another day perhaps, after all... we’ll be back!

The Castle houses an impressive collection of world treasures, Ancient Egyptian, Japanese, Buddhist, Jacobite, and Stuart collections are scattered throughout the historic corridors. These various acquisitions were collected by the many eclectic residents of Chiddingstone Castle and allegedly preserved for the enjoyment of future generations... though, at a price of admission.

Having still found no clues to the cause of this mystery time bubble, we decided to seek refreshment, for time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so! Sadly the delightful period pub, the Castle Inn, was closed, so we made our way to a quaint tea room further up the high street, the gorgeously named, Tulip Tree Tea Rooms. Here we sat in a glorious garden with creeping vines and floral displays in full bloom. The tea and cakes were delicious and well needed. Audrey devoured a slab of Rocky Road and fresh orange juice and Bramble enjoyed a refreshing bowl of water and her own special biscuits for treats.

We discussed the unusual situation, a perfectly preserved Tudor village, a proud 14th-century religious centre, a faux-medieval Tudor Castle/Mansion, an air of antiquity and ancient appeal. As someone once said, it’s like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff. What was this wormhole of historical harmony? How had such a place come to be, and more importantly, how had it hidden from the ravages of encroaching capitalist development?

Finally, it was time to visit the source. The heart of the village, the beacon of mystery and potentially the root of magical power, the Chiding Stone!

The unique and beguiling stone was formed millions of years ago when the land was underwater. Medieval folklore recounts that nagging wives, trouble makers, and witches were brought to the stone to be chided as punishment. We followed a twisting tunnel of trees and shrubs on a gradual descent into the darkness. Finally, we spied a warm welcoming light as the world opened up and the astonishing Chiding Stone rose on the horizon to greet us!

It was certainly an incredible spectacle, with unique awe and serene majesty.  Its smooth rounded faces bulged like a squashed balloon, and graffiti-covered almost every inch of it, some perhaps ancient, though much of it, not so ancient! We circumnavigated the ancient landmark, searching for clues that may solve the historical riddles of Chiddingstone. Was there an archaic magic emanating from the stone, an age-old curse on the land handed down by the spiritual leaders of bygone millennia?

We discovered our clue...

The smoking gun...

It was even more incredible than we ever could have dreamed...

It turns out in 1939 the National Trust acquired the village, buying it almost in its entirety. The National Trust is famed for its incredible work preserving the historical integrity of national monuments and restoring sublime and important heritage to the public. Chiddingstone is unique, a village under the almost complete management of a charity and membership organisation for heritage conservation. It was instantly obvious what had happened in this tantalising time capsule.

Clearly that ultra-intelligent organisation, the National Trust had secretly discovered the mechanics of the space-time continuum, perhaps with a flux capacitor, a TARDIS or a faulty hot-tub, maybe even a giant extraterrestrial tardigrade? They had ripped a hole in the fabric of time in this precise location and caused a ripple of temporal instability.

What else could it have been?

With another mystery solved, we packed up the car and made our way home, careful not to hit 88 MPH, to enjoy a leisurely family evening with good food and cool drinks. The expedition had taken all of our courage and daring, but we had been triumphant. It had been an incredible experience to witness such perfect surviving examples of historical fascination, but it was also an unusual and occasionally surreal experience...

…but Don’t panic! A portal to the past is open, a mysterious split in the fabric of the space-time continuum has been revealed. The world beyond this tear in time has the potential to unlock our understandings of an ancient way of life. We had to see for ourselves. We had to go back... to the... well, to the past!

Wait... did that happen already? and… did I arrive with that beard?

Until next time, from our Archaeofam to yours, be excellent to each other!

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Hexham, Hugs and Rock and Roll!

How about a little bit of time travel, a nostalgic glance to adventures past?

It is a strange and scary truth that today, for a trip to witness the historical treasures scattered across our island landscape, you risk jail time or plague. Since the continued pandemic restrictions hold steady, we are yet to venture too far beyond our doorstep (hopefully not for much longer) so here instead is a recollection of an older adventure, when bizarrely, we would come perilously close to both...

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This expedition was a particularly dangerous one, traversing frontier lands, tip-toeing across disputed borders steeped in age-old cultural animosities. This was the haunt of raiders and conquerors, of invaders and refugees, of peasants, farmers, merchants and warriors, Queens, priests, soldiers and slaves, prisoners and of course... ghosts. It is a place at the very ends of the known earth, or the very beginning, depending on your point of view, we were spoilt for choice in this unique liminal landscape.

Our expedition arose due to Emily ArchaeoMum being asked to appear on the quirky aquatic television show, River Hunters. Thanks to her underwater exploits, Audrey and I took the opportunity to explore the local historic hot-spots, of which there were many! Little did we realise our investigations would reveal a dark and terrifying past, and require the daring rescue of an imprisoned monk and his brave rodent companion.

We began our ramblings just a short wander from our lovely hotel in the centre of town. Hexham is a delightful little market town in Northumberland. It sits on the south side of the River Tyne and has been an important strategic position in the landscape since at least Roman times. Indeed it lies close to the world famous Hadrian’s Wall, that monumental architectural feat separating the barbarous North folk from the civilised Romans in the South... or maybe the other way round!

The picturesque town itself grew from a Benedictine monastery, founded by Wilfred in 674AD having been granted the land by Queen Etheldreda, making it one of the earliest seats of Christianity in England. The monastery was partially built from reused stone. It was phenomenal to witness material from the Roman ruins of the nearby epic boundary wall and its adjoining forts and Vicus.

We ventured into the ancient Abbey as it stands today. The Anglo Saxon Chronicle records AElfward, King of the Northumbrians being buried here in a Church after being slain by Sicga around the year 788. By the year 875, it is said that Halfdane Ragnarsson (the only child of the famous Ragnor Lodbrok to have been shunned in the Vikings saga by a cruel and ruthless Take 5 Productions) plundered and pillaged much of Tyneside. He burned Hexham monastery to the ground in a vicious raid, yet the religious building continued on after his incursions.

It wouldn’t be the last time Hexham was subjected to a violent onslaught. Scottish raiders regularly attacked the town, burning buildings, destroying shrines and any relics they found. In 1297 that most famous of Scottish superheroes, Mel Gibso... erm William Wallace, AKA Braveheart attacked the town and destroyed what remained of the monastery. Even this could not suppress the establishment, and its continuation illustrates the resilience and importance of the place. It is a building of singular beauty today.

Carefully navigating the spiritual sanctuary, Audrey and I explored some of the treasures hidden within its walls. The relics of a truly historic past were on display, not just glittering gold and precious stones in pristine cases, but also adorning the walls, carved into the furniture and even forged into the building itself. The reuse of ancient inscribed stone gave the Abbey an ancestral character, like a tattooed Druid contemplating a newly imposed religion. One particular block went for many years unnoticed as a floor slab, until it was discovered to be the face-down headstone of a Roman soldier, incredible reuse of elaborate masonry.  The original Saxon crypt still exists, rediscovered during 18th-century building works, and here, in the dwindling amber glow, Audrey and I peered upon the poor unfortunate who had been incarcerated in this place for so long. Audrey decided we had to rescue this desperate spiritual soul.

With the grateful monk securely under Audrey’s protection, we made a daring escape from the Abbey. Guards were positioned at the doors and the courtyard was occupied by soldiers and religious leaders going about their business. It was far from easy but we expertly slipped out and made our way through the town, disguising ourselves amongst the locals. Most seemed genuinely unaware of the plight of the prisoner. It was unlikely he was alone in his captivity, but we only had the time to rescue one imprisoned monk on this occasion.

Yet having freed him from the clutches of evil, he begged of us a further favour. A companion of his had also been detained and placed in The Old Gaol. If we could rescue his furry friend, he assured us it would be a sign of freedom and justice and a blow to the oppressing forces at work. We could not ignore his plight.

The Old Gaol gives a unique portrait of Hexham’s troublesome past. It is said to be the oldest Gaol in all of England, built by the order of the Archbishop of York in the year 1330. Prisoners would be placed in chains or even in the stocks and thrown mercilessly into the dungeons of this imposing building, where they would suffer awfully in the darkness amongst the vile monsters that dwelled there... not the fleas or the lice, but the inmates, and worse, the wardens!

Prisoners were charged extortionate prices for their very incarceration and could even end up paying corrupt officials for preferential treatment. With a lack of hygiene, poor conditions and only a little care for the residents, lice spread, quickly spreading infection and serious discomfort. It would of course lead to the spread of plague, a frequent and ruthless horror throughout the history of the Gaol.

There is a curious relic housed in the Gaol, the skull of Colonel Sir John Fenwick. It is said that Fenwick fought in the Royalist army during the Civil War but was hit from behind in the head by an axe during the battle of Marston Moor in 1644, meeting a brutal end. The helmet is rumoured to have once belonged to the Duke of Somerset, who was killed during the Wars of the Roses. Fenwick is said to have removed the helmet from the burial place of the Duke in Hexham Abbey... didn’t do him too much good in the end though. Folklore has it Fenwick’s skull has a favoured room in the Gaol. Whenever it is moved from its preferred position, the skull mysteriously finds its way back, though no one quite knows how it makes the journey!

Audrey and I carefully descended the prison confines, from its comparatively luxurious rooms at the top to the dark and gloomy dungeons deep below the earth. It retains a sinister and sombre atmosphere throughout. If our new friend had a companion in this place, we had to help. At last, we found the poor captive, held against her will in the confines of these depressing prison walls. It was with difficulty that we were able to sneak Bumble (the furry rodent friend of our monk) out of that place. The dangers still torture my thoughts, had we been caught, perhaps we would all be locked up, rotting away in that damp, dark, devastating dungeon still.

With our daring escape completed, and our new companions desperate to enjoy the delights of freedom, fresh air and wide-open space, we loaded our vehicle and set out on a final adventure to see where it all began for urban settlement in this region.

Corbridge Roman town is situated just three miles from Hexham and was a bustling supply town on the Roman frontier from the late first century right through to the fifth. We walked amongst the ancient foundations, the stone footprints of a world long gone by. We wandered along streets two thousand years old and still scarred upon the landscape. It was an awe-inspiring experience, imagining the multitude of feet that we were following. Audrey gave her companions a grand tour and basking in their newfound freedom, the smiles were plentiful.

We perused the treasures of Corbridge, a hoard of weaponry, tools, writing tablets, armour, textiles and papyrus. There were everyday luxuries and essentials, a priceless glimpse into the lives of the ancient inhabitants, so much buried in the landscape for so long.

Finally it was time for our journey to end. It had been a whirlwind of action, adventure and exploration. Exhausted but elated we made our way back to the hotel and awaited Emily’s return. The TV crew and celebrity hosts trundled in for a delightful dinner, good music and a few well-deserved beers (milk for Audrey) before we called it a night.

The Beeb, the Underwater Archaeologist, the Archaeodad, the Monk and the Rat, we all slept as soundly as I think it is possible that night.

It was as perfect an adventure as I can remember.

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