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!

A message of hope from Isolation

We are in a strange, scary time. It all feels like the pages of some dystopian novel, an unprecedented invisible danger… everywhere.

Although it is terrifying and deeply saddening, it is important to search for hope and celebrate the good things that come from such terrible times.

The world is suddenly united, the playing field even. No-one is safer than anyone else from this threat, we are all in this together. For most of the human population, the spirit has proven to be one drenched in love, compassion and care.

Those in the essential roles, not only the incredible emergency services but in education and childcare, food and necessary goods services, public services, health and hygiene workers and more have all stepped up with immense bravery.

People are helping their friends and neighbours, offering assistance where it can be used. People are giving free concerts and performances, organising tutorials or entertainment, safe places, people to talk to in these potentially lonely moments. On social media, we see communities joining in song, doing all they can to raise spirits. The list goes on and on. The modern world has come together in a way that has not been seen for many years.

These are indeed terrifying times, but there is a flame in the human spirit that has been reignited by our shared struggle.

We wanted to offer a little message of hope in any way we could, it’s not much, but I hope it helps in these difficult days ahead. If you need to talk, we are always happy to listen.

Stay safe, be strong, we will get through this together as one.

…and when it is safe to go out again and the world throws the biggest party ever seen! We will see you there!

Archaeology and Us: A tale in two parts

Part 1

The aim of this website and its link to archaeology is perhaps a little unclear.  True, the stories told here would not fit on a group dedicated to archaeological discoveries, just as the relation of locations visited could not be described as a pure travel blog. I hope to give some explanation here, via a kind of Biography/Curriculum Vitae folktale… let’s see how it goes, shall we?

There was a time, long ago, during which I considered myself to be a rock star.  I donned eyeliner and wore shabby but stylised clothes, busked for beer money, drank to excess, woke up on people’s floors and in spare beds with little or no memory of how I got there.  I played gigs whenever and wherever I could and at various points, truly believed this to be my calling.  The trouble was, despite playing the part almost convincingly… I wasn’t a very good musician.

Whilst some people can make this work, I didn’t have that natural cool factor to pull off the talent limited genius thing.

At another stage, I was certain my calling was in comedy.  I wrote stories and sketches, made short films and even had a radio show in which my co-comedic partner and I would do everything we could to make each other thunder with laughter.  Sadly, more often than not, we laughed alone. Our… unique brand of comic artistry was lost on, well just about everyone. Comedy was not my forte either.

As a child, I dreamed of being a footballer, a ghost hunter, a spacecraft pilot, Prince of an Alien landscape, a Knight, even a superhero! (I still kind of do) Since leaving school I have studied art, design, technology, multimedia, music, IT, history, creative writing and archaeology. The list of employers I have had is more varied than Hey Duggee’s badge collection!

Throughout my life, I have been wildly confused by just what it is I was good at, and what I wanted to do forever.  Because that is often what you are expected to decide, at quite an early age.  Hey kid, you’re out of school now, pick a subject and just repeat that until you die!

I’m now what my younger self would have considered very old.  I still don’t know exactly what it is I want to be when I grow up. One thing that always dominated though, in every career aspiration I had, was the desire to be a storyteller.

In History and Archaeology, I found a world in which I could combine this love of storytelling with employment.  I could learn about the world around me through unbelievable tales of what had been.  Characters, landscapes, drama, romance, action, horror… and it all happened, well most of it probably happened, or some of it might have happened… the uncertainty of it made it even more exciting.  Gaps could be filled, anything was possible.  I was hooked.

I took History and Creative Writing at undergraduate level, mainly 19th-Century British History. My dissertation studied the emerging pauper lunatic asylums, focusing on the shifting attitudes of medical practitioners towards the mentally ill, clawing back from a dark history of torture, confinement and corruption.

I spent some time travelling, seeing Europe, the United States, Peru, even a bit of North Africa. I drank it in, revelling in the culture shifts and alien landscapes.  It was never enough, I still thirst for more, as do most who see the jewels of the Earth first hand.

After graduation, I felt lost, unattached somehow.  I struggled with the choices available in the little town I grew up in.  One morning, after far too many solitary beers, I picked up my guitar, and a small bag, and in a state of melancholy, started walking.  I had no idea where.  Someone pulled up beside me and offered me a lift, I didn’t know them, but I agreed.  I continued like this as far north as I could go, reaching a remote Scottish wilderness. There were so many stories along the way. I turned back and finally, I landed in London.

In a life-affirming move to the big city, I found employment and volunteer roles in libraries and museums, including the Golden Hinde, a living history replica of Sir Francis Drake’s famous circumnavigation flagship.  This role introduced me to TV and radio appearances and I followed Drakes footsteps to the coasts of California, archiving collections of the Drake Navigators Guild.

Returning home, I found my place at the British Library, a beautiful universe of knowledge in which I have held such a variety of roles, the building has become my very own secret garden.

I had begun a path which would ultimately lead to my own Nirvana.  I could find a place on this enormous, impossibly busy rock and make it my own. All I needed to do, was get out of my comfort zone and see… everything!

To be continued…

The Mystery of the Forsaken Mariner PT4 - Horror on the Hill top

Transcript follows:

There were disturbing scenes yesterday evening [6th January 2019] close to the former national village of the decade, St Neot.  Local residents have described their terror as a vicious raid and prolonged gun fight took place on the outskirts of the village.

The explosive assault broke out at approximately 19.35 GMT.  Witness reports indicate that an archaeological expedition had been working around the clock at a protected site to unearth ‘at risk’ prehistoric remains thought to have survived beneath the ground.  The site lies close to known archaeological remains on Berry Down, understood to be an Iron Age hillfort.  Professional investigators were researching linked communities in the area when the gang of masked raiders arrived on quad bikes and attacked.

Despite the isolation of the area, and the surprise of the attack, the archaeology team were able to act swiftly to protect all members of their staff and escape the hill top unharmed, however, it is feared the site may have been significantly damaged during the raid.

The parish of St Neot resides within a dynamic landscape and boasts part of Bodmin Moor on its northern border.  The Moor is famed for its thriving Bronze Age community with over 200 settlements recorded in the landscape, including the remains of a vast quantity of roundhouses.  This style of structure continued into the Iron Age and buildings here are likely to have belonged to the Dumnonii tribe, thought to hold the balance of power in Iron Age Cornwall.

Though there is clear evidence for prehistoric farming communities throughout the area; sites close to St Neot are believed to have gained prevalence due to the thriving tin trade for which Cornwall is famous.  Tin was a valuable commodity and was traded globally from this corner of ancient Britain.  The wealth of the metal, used in the manufacture of bronze, was well known and documented in classical accounts of the age from Pytheas to Herodotus, amongst others.

Mining and metalwork is thought to have been closely associated with ancient perceptions of magic. It is argued that these hidden treasures from deep within the earth and the alchemy of merging liquid metals to create beautiful and possibly sacred objects, were highly regarded mystical aspects of Bronze and Iron Age life.

The excavations in St Neot are funded by local societies and businesses hoping to further understand the communities residing in the area 2500 years ago.  Rumours were sparked amongst local residents earlier in the month when a journalist reported the discovery of an unusual artefact from a structure on one of the several archaeological sites.  These rumours are as yet unconfirmed and the archaeology unit involved have so far been unavailable for comment, leading to further speculation surrounding the nature of last night’s raids.  Enforced legal restrictions mean neither the unit involved nor the object in question can be named at this time, but the archaeology unit are confirmed to be cooperating and working closely with police on the matter.

“I heard they found a new type of metal, 100 times stronger than steel and it’s gonna revolutionise the aerospace industry, so they’re trying to keep it under wraps,” said one resident who preferred to remain anonymous.

“It’s a seam of gold they found, worth billions, but they don’t want residents to know anything about it because they know it belongs to the public,” claimed Bryan Berrywinkle, a customer relations officer at a Plymouth based gift store.

“I think they unearthed some bodies, but they were not anatomically correct… not for this planet anyway.  That’s why the government have been stopping people getting through,” said Jilly Perry, a local school teacher.

Whatever has been excavated on the hill top, authorities are keen to keep publicity to a minimum.  This reporter was threatened with severe action should this story go to print.  It is my personal opinion that the importance of such discoveries belongs in the public realm, implications of the discovery are thought to be far reaching and therefore it is a duty to report on such events.  Particularly in light of the incidents yesterday evening.

Police remain at the scene where it is understood excavations will continue once a cleanup operation and an inventory have been completed. A senior officer confirmed the event is not being treated as a terror attack but may involve gang related activity.

The suspects have been described by police as four men in their mid twenties, all above six foot tall with muscular build.  They were dressed in grey body suits and wearing dark gas masks during the raid, and were riding four TGB Blade 1000LT deluxe silver quad bikes.

If you have any information regarding the events of last night’s attack, a police hotline has been set up on 01579 957 9921, alternatively an email account has been created for anyone who wishes to relay information, at hilltopincident.info@devonandcornwall.police.uk.  Police are urging anyone with information to come forward immediately.  The assailants remain on the loose; they are armed and considered a serious threat to public safety.  Police are pleading with the public to remain vigilant and under no circumstances to approach suspected gang members.

This publication also welcomes any information which may lead to the capture or identification of the gang members, and any information regarding the findings of the excavation which may assist the enquiries.  We pay for your stories. See below for contact details.

The mystery of the forsaken Mariner...

Dearest Emily,

I must apologise for the paucity of correspondence of late.  Though insufficient, I do hope that these emails offer some comfort whilst we are so far apart.

Let me get straight to our exhilarating news. Just as we feared that all might be lost, our prior expedition funds depleted and the routine monotony of life’s labours on the horizon, our darling Audrey and I have stumbled upon the most fascinating of characters.

I can’t say too much this soon, but oh my, what a potential opportunity awaits us.

Let me start at that eternal anchor of literary bloom, the beginning.

The gentleman in question is a Mr Roy Pritchard, a most electrifyingly excitable chap, full of dreams and impossible schemes.  Audrey and I were enjoying the comforts of a local watering hole when the aforementioned Mr Pritchard approached.  From my attire, he recognized a man of the archaeological persuasion, and from the gleam in our Audrey’s eyes, he deduced adventure was never far from our thoughts.

Mr Pritchard recounted an intriguing tale of undiscovered wealth, all centring on the life and mysteries of an obscure humble crew member belonging to a most famous voyage.  The captain of this voyage just happened to be none other than that heroic and fearful gentleman pirate, Sir Francis Drake.

Well, my love, I am certain that you of all people will understand my excitement as the puzzle pieces fell into place, revealing an enticing labyrinth of clues yet to be explored and a promise of archaeological riches which may rewrite the antique tomes of historical knowledge.

The good Mr Pritchard has promised to share a sensitive document with us, a manuscript he claims to have unearthed from a contemporary folio; held within none other than that most famous of establishments, the British Library.  How he came to procure this document I cannot guess and dare not ask, but if the importance of such an unknown and extremely rare correspondence is as he claims, then I am certain the library would not willingly allow it to pass through their hallowed doors unnoticed.

The British Library

Should it be an original article, I will, of course, ensure its return to the relative safety of that establishment, but oh my darling, curiosity and intrigue demand that before I send it back to some dusty basement, I must at the very least, verify its validity.

Mr Pritchard appeared justifiably nervy during our brief recourse.  He hinted towards the possibility others may share an interest in the document, though their acquisition desires would appear conflicting to our own honest intentions.  Should it fall into the hands of certain other parties, an important piece of our nation’s history might be forever lost, smuggled to the darkest corners of black market bidding and wasted in the sealed vault of some disinterested tycoon.

In his haste to remain unnoticed, Mr Pritchard arranged a second meeting with us this very week, two days from now, in a secure location known only to us three.

So my darling, we have taken these spare moments to refresh our understanding of the good Sir Francis and his most famous of voyages.  I am certain my dear, that you remember the length of our investigations surrounding the queens favourite pirate, our tantalising expectations regarding the discovery of that fabled Nova Albion site, or the final resting place of his daring flagship the Golden Hind, left to publicly rot in a dark Deptford creek.  You will then be equally enthused by this promise of original evidence regarding his legend.  His journals remain missing, his secrets well hidden, his vast wealth unaccounted for.  Perhaps here we may discover a key, a key to unlock the treasures of his life we thought forever lost?

The Golden Hinde living history museum

We began, as did he, in Tavistock, a bustling town once one of four principle Tin trading centres in this region.  The town retains its ancient character, though modern economic necessity has coupled with a celebration of Sir Francis to create a novelty caricature of a once important administrative hub.  The remains of the Abbey now parade as ornamental garments for touristic pleasure, as is the custom of historical monuments in our country; a pleasure to observe but entirely out of original context.  One thing stood out in a brief survey of the historical landscape, an abundance of prehistoric features; stone age tools, bronze and iron age structural features, a long tradition of area reuse, a plentiful setting, and a lasting reliance on the wealth of tin production, globally invaluable materials before even those most civilising conquerors, the Romans, had wearily dreamt of inhabiting this ghostly island at the edge of the world.

Visit Tavistock

From here we made our way to Crowndale farm, the conjectured birthplace of our swashbuckling protagonist.  With electronic cartographic assistance we found the location, but discovered it to be private land, and not wishing to disturb nor upset any potential allies, we observed from distance before progressing on our journey.

Birthplace of Drake at risk article

Our final homage on this Devonian pilgrimage was a visit to the Drakes prized home of Buckland Abbey, a property purchased with opportunistic cruelty from courtier and unfortunate rival Sir Richard Grenville.  Buckland was already a renovated religious monument when Drake acquired the lands. Every successive age appears to have included something of its own aesthetic to the structure, though rumour has it, Drake himself made no changes to the property.  Here in Buckland, my dear Emily, we discovered uncountable personal treasures of the man, safely locked away in secure confinement, yet a perfect portrait of an adventurous individual with a colourful and confusing personality.  Maps, jewels, artwork and tools adorned the corridors, items of singular beauty and interest, usefulness and charm.

Buckland Abbey

We explored intently my love, but I must warn you of the strangest of sensations, wherever we travelled throughout the house, both I and Audrey could not shake the distressing feeling, that we were being observed.  Perhaps it is the unconscious paranoia which comes with years of archaeological investigation, a constant fear of judgemental critique causing a heightened sense of augmentative reflex, or perhaps it is a fear our latest pursuit might have attracted attention from old adversaries, or worse still, new villains with faces unknown, but certainly there is an air of uneasiness to our current predicament.  We remain guarded and vigilant, keeping a watchful eye on any unusual activity.

Well, my darling; that is all I may relate at this time.  We miss you dearly and hope that you will write to us at the earliest opportunity.  Your assistance in this latest antiquarian adventure will most surely improve our chances of the greatest success.

Do not worry for our safety, I have assured all the necessary precautions should we run into any bother, and of course, Audrey is more effective than the most potent dynamite when it comes to opposing villainous treachery.

I shall write again as soon as our meeting with Mr Pritchard has concluded and we have a greater understanding of the direction this plight will eventually lead us.

Until then darling Emily, with all the love, hugs and kisses we have within us, we bid you goodbye for now.  Every ounce of our love goes with you; please take it with the greatest of care, for it is our most precious gift.  We shall see you again soon.

TTFN

Craig and Audrey

xoxoxoxox