Cornish Crusade

Whilst our darling Emily was engaged in archaeological explorations of sleepy St Neot, Audrey and I explored a trail of unique features spread across the Cornish landscape, from princely prehistoric monuments to raging waterfalls where ancient Kings met with their doom.

Venturing over the rolling hills and luscious meadows, we made our way to Trethevy Quoit.  This impressive monument dates back to the Neolithic period and was once a chambered tomb, holding the remains of unknown powerful individuals.  It was originally made up of six granite slabs, which supported a capstone above. Whilst the tomb has never been excavated, similar structures are known to contain multiple burials.  Rituals were likely to have been performed here throughout the Neolithic until at least the Iron Age.

Trethevy Quoit is known locally as the Giants House, or ‘Chi An Kowr’.  Quoits is a traditional game in which rings are thrown onto a spike. It is believed that in ancient times, Giants threw the enormous stones here during a similar game.

Audrey was awestruck by the vast looming tomb, until she noticed the daisies, marvellous summer summoning yellows and whites peppered across the carpet of green grass in all directions.  Her attention adjusted and we enjoyed some time exploring the natural delights of this sacred site.

Eventually we pushed onwards towards our next haunt. In open fields, at one of the highest points of the moors are a unique arrangement of stone circles known as the Hurlers or ‘An Hurlysi’.  There are three separate circles in a row and two further standing stones only 120 meters to the southwest known as the Pipers. The Hurlers are believed to be part of a ceremonial route between the Neolithic settlement on Stowe’s Hill to the north and a Barrow cemetery at Caradon Hill to the south.

Local legends suggest the Hurlers were once men turned into stone for playing hurling on the Lords day.  This legend also extends to the Pipers, accused of playing music on the same forbidden day. It is interesting that the stones predate the specific deity argued as their creator. In a universe of grey areas, legends so often arise based on nothing more than contemporary understanding.

It was something of a challenge, navigating the various native beasts occupying the area of moorland the stones stood upon.  Cattle and horses grazed without a care in the world, wandering through the mystical stone circles so deeply rooted in ancient activity and unknown wonder, in search of nothing more than the tastiest snacks.  Audrey and I watched with pleasure as they grazed, free to roam in the fresh Cornish air.

We made our way onwards.  Our attempt to enjoy a beverage in the highest public house in Cornwall, the Cheesewring Hotel, was thwarted by the early arrival of our little adventure.  We therefore continued to drive through the village of Minions and on to seek out Stowe’s Hill and any settlement evidence there.  Sadly, there did not appear to be a safe point to leave the road and explore.  Quarrying is still big business here; china clay pits carve cavernous craters into the lofty hilltops, and leave mountains of manmade spoil.  Communications towers crown the high points, which meant a good deal of private property, seemingly inaccessible to Audrey and me.

We made the decision to fast forward from prehistoric curiosities to later lives.  King Doniert was recognised as the last King of Cornwall.  Ruling in the late 9th century, Doniert, or King Dumgarth as he is referred in the Annales Cambriae, is said to have drowned locally in 875AD.  On a vital crossroads between important seats of local power are two ancient carved stones, decorated pedestals that would have one time been bases of large medieval crosses.  One of these is Doniert’s Stone. A Latin inscription reads Doniert Rogavit pro anima. This translates to Doniert begs prayers for the sake of his soul. The monument is a memorial to the last King of Cornwall.

The satellite navigation system first directed us to a random farm with no obvious indication of historic importance or ancient King celebration to be seen. Harking back to those heady days of road signs and blind hope, we continued in our quest… but to no avail.  Signs appeared, but the stones did not.  It was only when we rather dejectedly turned around, almost giving up, that the unassuming roadside pile became plainly visible.  Finding a suitable place to park, I planned to investigate the stones, particularly the Doniert Stone, its granite base carved with interlacing oval ring patterns of a Celtic fashion.  However, on arrival, Audrey had decided rather awkwardly, to take her afternoon nap.  It was too dangerous to leave the vehicle and far too dangerous to wake her.  A tantrum this far from home would have been disastrous to say the very least, so after photographs from the vehicle, we drove on to our final location.

Following in the scant story of King Doniert, we made a final expedition to Golitha Falls, the very spot where our illusive King met his untimely demise beneath those rapid raging waters.  Audrey and I opted to drop our chariot at camp and hike on foot over endless moors to witness the spectacular cascading natural feature, the place the ancient King was murdered.

As we made our way through the wilderness, I drew blood thanks to the roughness of terrain.  The route became so treacherous we had to seek a local guide to assist, hacking our way through dangerous undergrowth with a sharp machete. We drove on into the unknown.  Danger intensified as we were chased across the moors by vile monstrous beasts inhabiting the land. We escaped to relative safety and picked up an ancient trail. At this point, my dear Audrey was so frightened; she fell asleep… mid song. We entered a dense haunting forest. As the trails disappeared, we were forced to follow an ancient dried up stream, its meandering path opening the narrowest of gaps through the encroaching undergrowth. We ploughed through the mysterious wood, often offering eerie visual echoes of Jurassic Park. It felt as though an eternity had passed in the gloomy forest, but eventually we emerged at the famous spot King Doniert had met his grizzly end.  Our labours were rewarded.  Audrey awoke and we enjoyed the incredible majesty of Golitha falls.  Audrey splashed in the shallows joyously, as the ghosts of ancient royalty watched on unseen.

After thoroughly enjoying the spectacular sight of the falls, we made our way back through the wilderness, careful to avoid the previous perils of our outgoing journey.  We reached camp before the sun set behind the surrounding hilltops, and made our way swiftly to the social gathering place to regale friends with our adventurous exploits. Exhausted but happy, we finally relaxed with cold beer, (milk for Audrey of course) warm clothes and lovely company.

5000 years of history, miles of countryside, countless lifetimes of pure enjoyment.  This part of the world truly has it all.

The Evil Eye of Castle Hill

Dearest Emily,

It is with the utmost urgency that I write to you now my love; for I fear we must practice the greatest of caution if we are to emerge unscathed from our most recent expedition.

Even in those unfortunate weather conditions, we knew as we crossed the magnificent apple green rolling hills and carefully climbed the towering forest trails, pristine pines pointing tirelessly towards the dreary grey expanse above, we were headed on no ordinary adventure.  It appears that recent exploration of ours has drawn the attention of an undesirable influence. A villainous entity so ancient and despicable I fear we may all be in grave danger.

Do you recall the adventure of which I speak my darling? I am sure you must. The day had begun so delightfully.  As with many of our spontaneous exploits, we found ourselves plotting a course through the wilds of Kentish countryside, all on a hunch and a vague clue upon a curious map.

Venturing along the A21, we came off the chaotic carriageway and descended onto a subtle swerving side road towards our destined starting point. It took a little while to find the specific pathway required, well disguised amongst the gated greenery of the great outdoors. We mused lovingly about abandoning the vehicle and trapesing out into the unknown, losing ourselves in those immaculate open voids of natural magnificence. Little did we know our adventure would soon follow in the footsteps of nomads from millennia past, each on their own unique journey, each stalked by the same fearsome foe?

Parking possibilities were not immediately obvious, but eventually we found a suitable space for our chariot of choice and unloaded the expedition gear. With a final survey of the scenery, we were ready. Bramble was quick to sniff out our surroundings, only a little distracted by the occasional deer visible through the trees and the brave road roving rabbits.  With backpacks loaded, provisions purchased and boots firmly buckled, we made our way along the winding path towards the gloomy looking forest beyond.

Oh my love, do you remember how we enjoyed that early momentum, our minds high on the delectable spirit of fresh air and gentle exercise. The prospect of unknown treasures at journeys end spurring us on?  We skirted the outer limits of the mysterious woods, occasionally swooping into areas not yet consumed by the canopy of deciduous darkness; it was as if we had stepped into some fairy tale.  A late blanket of orange and red leaves covered the floor like a seamless carpet of flames.  Small ponds and mirror like pools collected in intriguing hollows, rippled only by the occasional voyage of foraging fowl.  Spectacular flora and fauna thrived, magic hung in the air promising to dispense further gifts to the endless ecosystems in play.  We could not help but smile as the trail led us this way and that through the tangled trees and luscious fields, babbling streams and earthy hollow ways.

It remained this way until we reached the first of two dwellings along our desired route.  At first, the farm appeared to be a tricky hurdle, an integral modern machine of human endeavour, plonked in the middle of this pristine landscape vision.  Our eyes, so elated by the wonders of natural beauty fell slightly scorn to this human habitation, but had a working farm not been attached to this environment, we realised such a landscape may now be buried beneath the ruinous rows of cramped concrete clone housing, so rife throughout our ever shrinking island.

The trail faded as we passed through the farm, and despite the best efforts of landowners, the poor weather conditions of late created an ever-threatening sinking swamp. Layers of earth became precarious mountains and bottomless lakes as we battled to plough through the troublesome barricade and retrace our path.  Fortunately, there were enough clear landmarks available to reconnect with our mysterious map, and with a little effort, we avoided the worst of the swamp-like situation, were able to circumnavigate a significant body of water and begin winding our way upwards into the forested hills beyond.

Before the triumphant trees arose on either side of our snaking pathway, we found the earth littered with the remnants of battle. Shot and clay in fragments on the forest floor harked to the entertaining battles of leisurely pursuit fought in these very fields.  Caution is recommended for those who may pass this way after us.  Keep a keen eye on proposed clay pigeon events and an ear to the skies if like us, your actions were of a spontaneous nature.

My love, as you gazed into my eyes and reminded me whilst on our adventurous ramble, despite the foreboding cloud cover the forest trails were every bit as wondrous as we had hoped, twisting their way through the labyrinth of woodland, darting off in all attainable directions. The palette of luscious greens and browns, reds and yellows were a perfect contrast to the deep dull grey gloom of the heavens above. At each encountered crossroads, every potential avenue appeared as enticing as the next.  We made our way according to the map, our hopeful target drawing nearer.  Climbing to the summit of the hill, the woodland encircled its peak like a natural crown, its residents rejoicing in an amphitheatre of gleeful birdsong.

Now the sky rumbled menacingly above.  My mind was drawn to certain ancient horrors I had read of the area.  A 13th century manuscript contained a tale from Ralph of Coggeshall, relating a night in June 1205 AD when thunder and lightning roared across all of England.  A strange monster was struck by lightning that evening, in the Kent countryside not far from here.  The mysterious creature was said to have the head of an ass, body of a man and the limbs of some other grotesque beast.  Did they ever find this foul fiend, my love, or does it roam the Kent countryside still?

We powered through the final furlong of forested furrows and crested the hill. How we enjoyed our dear Audrey giggling joyously as we reached that intriguing position on the map, the source of which had brought us out on this stormy afternoon adventure. Through the mist and increasing drizzle, we spied our ultimate goal, Castle Hill Fort.

We emerged in open fields, fresh barley shoots spiked the ground, a million tiny green soldiers silently lining up for some unspoken war.  It became immediately obvious that not all of the earth upon this hill was natural in form.  Deep scars encircled the areas not yet fully affected by centuries under the plough.  This hilltop, a challenge to conquer, wore its history as a warrior wore paint upon their face. Millennia of mortals had left the mark of their labour and here it remained, buried and hidden but survived.

In strange contrast to these ancient earthworks, two modern spires rose above the trees and into the angry grey skies.  Masts for telecommunication perhaps, certainly a modern manifestation of our connection obsessions.  The very tip of each metal monster glowed bright red.  You described them that day as two evil red eyes staring down from the endless domed ceiling of drab darkness above.  Here again my mind was transported.  Do you recall I mentioned the recent fanciful stories connected with the Beast of Tunbridge Wells, spotted during the Second World War by an elderly couple and frequently witnessed since?  A beastly, hairy giant of a creature stalking the Tunbridge Wells wilds, with eyes as red as blood.  With my wild imaginations spurred by our sensational situation I asked, could all these monsters be somehow connected?

I am eternally grateful for the invaluable information you sent my love, the excavation report of this fascinating site was incredibly enlightening.  It seems the two hillforts upon Castle Hill were excavated during the summers between 1969 and 1971.  The late S E Winbolt, who was under the impression there was only a single hillfort, had conducted earlier work in 1929. It was not until aerial photography was utilised that this mistake was understood and early plans of this ancient monument were revised.  The fortifications on the arable segment of land have been largely ploughed out, but evidence remains intact in the forested areas.

This particular position in the landscape was an important aspect of high ground, 400 feet above sea level, controlling a northwest to southeast route to the river at Tonbridge, a frequent crossing point of the magnificent Medway.  British Museum radiocarbon dates of charcoal at the site indicate the forts were in use between 315 – 228BC.  The earlier of the two forts appears to have suffered a fiery destruction, though it is unclear whether this was an accidental or deliberate action. The volume of burnt timbers suggest a dramatic and sudden event. This first fort was subsequently abandoned and a second soon occupied.

Archaeologists argued the residents of these fortifications were probably farmers or peasants, protecting themselves from unclear outside threats, perhaps Belgic invaders, early Roman influence or rival neighbouring tribes, or something altogether more ghastly. They utilised the forested landscape and built oak palisades and revetting fences along the ramparts.  The main outer rampart of the first fort was 30 feet wide and 12 feet deep, the inner rampart 15-18 feet wide.  Inside the rampart from an entrance to the east, the surface was cobbled with ironstone.

The excavation reports being nearly half a century old, lacked some of our modern scientific advances and academic understandings, but most of all, lacked detail on the alluded finds of earlier excavations.  I had learned of ancient artefacts discovered during the exciting antiquarian excavations, but try as I might, I could not locate the whereabouts of these enchanting trinkets. My darling, I decided to follow up on these intriguing discoveries. I asked around at local establishments for information, expecting to be regaled with tales of history and legend from an area brimming with both. I was met only with caution and suspicion. 

An article from several years back claimed the items were held at a local Library, but upon further investigation I was told with stubborn seriousness, the items had never been in that place.  Other reports claimed the items resided in a museum, but I was met with the same curious denial in this establishment. Whilst more recent discoveries from the site are held here, the original treasures remained aloof. Even in the local watering hole, as I offered casual conversation searching for accidental answers, I found nothing but hushed whispers and angry glances.  I began to fear there may be more to this than we could have possibly imagined.

The only new thread in this tapestry of intrigue came from a boozy conversation with a quaint old Kentish fellow.  He narrated an ancient legend passed faithfully from local family to family.  Usually a bewitching bedtime story or tale to keep troublesome children under control, it appears an archaic Celtic legend was connected to the Iron Age anomalies of the area.  The legend refers to that famed God of the Formors, ruler of chaos and old night, Balor. 

Balor was cursed with an evil eye, a weapon so powerful that anything within its gaze would wither and burn. Legend claimed it required seven covers to control the eye.  During war, brave men would lift the covers with hooks so Balor could annihilate his enemies with merely a glance. It seems that following Balor’s demise, the evil eye was forcibly removed from his skull, so it could never again be used as a weapon.  It was destined to be guarded at Castle Hill. Upon arrival, the still scorching eye reduced the first fort to flame and ash, forcing the construction of a secondary structure to imprison this terrible charm.

I found my wild fantasies stirred once more, what had they discovered in those early excavations?  I enquired into the elusive artefacts but found only a solidarity of silence in reply. Did Balor still stalk these placid parts, ever searching for that demonic stolen eye of his?  Yet I found no answers, the people of this place are protective of their beast it seems, or fearful?

Well my darling, you must recall the final phase of our turbulent trek, as we made our way from the fantastic fortresses with the early evening sunlight diminishing rapidly, we hoped to acquire a simpler route to our lonely carriage home.  We took an alternate track as indicated on our map and reached the second dwelling encountered on this adventure.  It soon became apparent this direction held no favour for our final flight.  The expected trail was overgrown and impassable, barbed wire brambles and suffocated stinging pathways blocked our only exit away from the farm.  We cautiously continued towards the road via the supposed safety of the side street but to our immense horror, none other than the beast barred our way!  Its roar terrifying, its speed intense and its face ferocious, we did not hang around!  Bramble did her best to face off the fearsome creature but our only true option was retreat, which we applied at great speed.  Thankfully, it seemed to be enough. The echoes of horrifying howls trailed off behind us and we finally breathed freely. Retracing our steps, we found the footprints of our previous path.  Had we just encountered the spectre of Balor in all his terrible fury? Who could say, but it was enough to facilitate the folds of fear in our little family.

Now my dearest Emily, I am afraid the beast may have discovered something more on that hilltop, for sightings of this creature have been frequent of late, drawing ever closer to our regular haunts. Dark have been my thoughts, always ending upon that evil eye.

Though we found our way safely through the stunning landscape on that weather beaten weekend, I beg of you now to practice extreme caution in the coming months.  The eye of Balor is said to be most deadly and defensive at this time of year, as the Kingdom of Spring defeats the Winter warriors to reclaim the earth in the name of life.

Perhaps we will uncover the whereabouts of those compelling curios discovered deep beneath the Castle Hill earth.  However, if the legends are to be believed, it may be safer for the island if they remain hidden. Beyond the mystery and magic, the history and horror, this corner of Kentish countryside is a gem tucked away from the throngs of tourism and the monstrous consumption of modern urbanism.  I hope one day we might return my love, and learn more about the mysteries of Castle Hill, but whilst the beast still roams, I pray we study from afar.

Take care my love; I count the days until I am returned to your loving arms.

With all my undying love

Craig xx

An evening with a Vampyre...

It was drawing near the darkest hour in the dead of night. Though the city still hummed with vibrant activity, people going about their various Friday evening frolics, this particular corner of London Town was still and silent.  Nothing stirred in St Pancras but those creatures of the darkness, dwelling in the shadows, waiting for their prey.  Tonight we briskly cut through the hidden dangers of the narrow lamp lit streets in the crisp evening air to attend a fascinating lecture by some of the foremost experts in their field.

The topic of tonight’s tantalising discussion, Vampires!

The lecture was being conducted at that bastion of enlightened academia and fortress of knowledge, The British Library, and the main topic of the bloodthirsty theme was the genre-busting nineteenth century publication, The Vampyre, written by the unfortunate physician, John Polidori.

We alighted the train at Kings Cross Station, its beautiful and instantly recognisable double crescent brick entrance loomed as we exited towards the Library.  Magical platforms and ancient warrior Queen burials are bound in the mythology of this Victorian wonder. The area is thought to have emerged around the crossing point of the Fleet River.  It is whispered that the final battle between Queen Boudicca and the Romans occurred in the valley here between Kings Cross and St Pancras, an area that would become known as Battle Bridge. Built on the site of a smallpox and fever hospital, Kings Cross Station was once the largest in train station in Britain.

Immediately next door is its sibling masterpiece, St Pancras station. One of the most exquisite buildings in London, St Pancras is a masterpiece of Victorian gothic architecture and a wonder of Victorian engineering.  Designed by William Henry Barlow it was constructed over an old slum site called Agar Town, an area of low quality housing for poverty stricken Victorian Londoners.  You could never imagine it as such now, its glamour and decadence stretching into the night sky with spire crested towers, stunning decorative statues and epic haunting architecture.

It was the ultimate backdrop for gothic horror literature, as though we had become a part of the very story we aimed to learn more about.  A low mist hung in the air; these two magnificent buildings dominated the landscape, tight streets of guilty pleasures disappearing into the mist around them, the eerie calm of the evening only added to the anxious dread as we made our way through the connecting streets towards the Library.

Unfortunate victims of the cruel life sucking city litter the avenues of this place, a curious mirror of the decadence and depravity of Vampire lore.  Following some of the ancient alleys on a curious tangent, we explored nearby St Pancras old church.  The church is said to be one of the most ancient sites of Christian worship in Europe, possibly dating as far back as the fourth century. Indeed, it is named after the fourth century Christian boy martyr, Pancras of Rome, whose relics were thought to have been brought to the island to help conversions to the Christian faith. During archaeological survey work, Roman tiles were discovered in the fabric of the medieval tower.  This is reuse of materials rather than contemporary Roman construction, but over the years, the legends have grown and offered significant intriguing foundation myths to the little building.  Updated throughout the medieval, Tudor and Victorian periods, the church has seen countless transformations, yet retains a unique and ancient character.

Its main fascination lies without and not within the hallowed walls.  The graveyard of St Pancras old church is not only the final resting place for the offspring of Johann Sebastian Bach and Benjamin Franklin. The fascinating underworld figure, Jonathon Wild, lies under the earth here, as does the composer Carl Friedrich Abel and a good deal of other aristocratic figures. It was also the burial place of philosophy great and forefather of the anarchist movement William Godwin and feminine philosopher and literary hero, Mary Wollstonecraft, whose daughter Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley frequented the site with husband Percy Bysshe Shelley.  Mary Shelley would go on to write one of the most famous gothic horror stories of all time whilst travelling with the very artist and physician we came to learn about, John Polidori, whose remains coincidentally also reside in this spectacular churchyard.

On such an evening, surrounded by the silence of the dead, eerie imagination is heightened to levels of utter horrifying exaggeration.  In all directions lie the stone symbols of death and decay, ancient guards of spiritual sanctums. Here the building blocks of literary terror are laid out in nerve jangling fashion.  Charles Dickens immortalised the churchyard in a tale of two cities, associating it with creepy tales of body snatching.  The spread of illicit trade in body parts and grotesque upheaval of the dead would become significant contributors to the gothic sensibilities and the Vampire legends, particularly in London where the situation was all too real. All of these ghastly sights and confused collections would paint the perfect backdrop for gothic literature authors of the 19th century, inspiring writers from Shelley to Stoker to create their demonic villains and vile creatures of the night.  It certainly had an effect on John Polidori and we could not wait to learn more about this unlikeliest of authors.

We reached the Library building and made our way to the bar to mingle before heading towards the lecture.  The auditorium was brimming with excited academics and elated enthusiasts, desperately seeking advanced knowledge of this taboo topic.  Not only in the origins of this gothic masterpiece, but of the genuine beginnings of the vampire cult.

The experts in the field were Nick Groom, professor of English Literature at the University of Exeter, author of multiple publications on the history of Vampire belief, including associations with enlightenment era science and Eastern European folklore.  Alex Clark, a journalist and broadcaster, writing for the Guardian, Observer, Spectator and Times.  Emma McEvoy, a senior lecturer at the University of Westminster and author of publications on Gothic tourism and understandings, and Kim Newman, a fiction author, journalist and film critic with many works focusing on the cult of Vampires.

The evening began with introductions and explanations of the novel in question, John Polidori’s The Vampyre.  The tale had a curious chronology. During the now infamous year without a summer, 1816, John Polidori, along with a dream team of literary legends including Mary Shelley, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Claire Clairmont and Lord Byron found themselves trapped indoors at the Villa Diodati.  Outside activities were abandoned due to the constant cold and ravenous rain of the volcanic winter. Forced to find alternate entertainment, with melancholic madness in the air, the company decided to unnerve each other with popular ghost stories. It was Byron who apparently instigated a challenge for each to write a horror story of their own.  The most famous product of this creative challenge was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or the modern day Prometheus. A lesser-known classic was created during this haunting house party, almost a century before Bram Stoker published the now world famous Dracula, John Polidori offered up his own spin on the Vampire legend, The Vampyre. 

Lord Byron began the tale, with his manuscript, fragment of a novel, in which he drafted one of the earliest Vampire tales written in the English language.  Polidori would use this plot as his inspiration for The Vampyre.  For a long time, the vampire legend had been associated with peasants, mysterious travellers and lower societal figures slinking in dark corners to conduct their brutal deviant atrocities. Polidori, Byron and others of the age would ultimately alter the image of the Vampire, imagining an aristocratic predator, suave and sophisticated with a lethal lust for blood.  Polidori’s tale is thought to be laced with his own thinly veiled lust and devastating disappointment with Lord Byron and unrequited attentions.

Intriguing discussions followed challenging the very beginnings of Vampirism and the many aspects of Victorian society, which inspired the dark disturbing themes of the evolving gentrified genre.  Industrialism, aristocracy, body snatching and the influence of science.  Indeed, the intriguing discussion turned to the contemporary emergence of blood transfusions. An early exponent of this experimentation had been the successful transfusion of dog’s blood into a human, and further doctors self-experiment with lamb’s blood, which he claimed altered his very humanity.  This must have been absolutely astounding at a time when medical understanding was rapidly expanding. 

When the story was first published, due to character associations and the infamy of the protagonist, authorship was attributed to Lord Byron instead of Polidori.  It seems this was horrifying to both men, but for the publishers, who prioritised in profit, Byron’s famous name was far more enticing a prospect and he continued to be credited for some time afterwards.

Comical musings continued with a look at the modern caricature image of the vampire and the enormous industry now built around this once fearsome fictional fiend.  From its folklore beginnings, with genuine belief attached to the legends, to the Hollywood momentum of sparkling vampires and broody teen icons, the character is, if nothing else, enduring.

The evening complete, and a substantial reading list accrued, we applauded our panel and made our way back to the busy bar for a nightcap before making for home.  The mist had risen slightly but the evening crept closer towards that menacing midnight black of night.  Our thoughts, now so attuned to the creeping creatures of the shadows, we could not help but step a little faster through the city streets to the station.  Hungry eyes appeared to be everywhere, stalking shadows and strange silhouettes in every avenue and alluring alleyway.  Eventually, it was a relief to find the comfort of the night train. It was quiet tonight, curiously quiet, and there was still a long way home.  We sat a little closer in our seats, clasping hands for some surreal sense of protective power.  The train was almost entirely deserted… but who was that suave suited pale looking figure sitting silently at the front of the carriage?... and what was that on its lips, was it… blood?...

Barnard Castle

As we drifted casually from our first fortified fantasyland, the glorious weather continued to cover us in its gratifying glow.  We did not have far to venture before we came upon the second of our County Durham castles.  Just fifteen minutes to the southwest lay the spectacular site of Barnard Castle.

Barnard Castle today describes not only the castle, but the busy market town which has grown up around those ancient ruins perched upon a precarious cliff overlooking the mighty river Tees.  The little town is a bygone delight. Surrounded on all sides by stunning countryside, farmlands and forests, stretched along the Tees Valley, today it echoes every pleasurable aspect of rural living. A Roman road once ran through the town to a ford, a crossing point on the Tees, the road was observed during works on separate occasions in 1839 and 1886.  The market, high street, churches and buildings could be straight from the literary pages of some Dickensian novel; indeed a young Mr Dickens resided in the town for a time and used it as inspiration for his third novel, Nicholas Nickleby. The tough Victorian residential academies in the area were famed for their bitter brutality, it seems Dickens was keen to see the horrors involved for himself and speculate on the reform required.

Tucked away just around the corner, on Newgate, is the beautiful Bowes Museum, a spectacular feat of imitation architecture styled in the fashion of a French Chateaux.  Founded in 1869 by the art loving aristocratic landowners, John and Josephine Bowes, the Bowes Museum contains a magnificent mix of treasures including paintings, sculpture, pottery, interior décor, furniture, fashion and even antique toys. We made a mini detour to witness the wonders within, a brief but beautiful stroll through exquisite corridors full of fancy trinkets and terrific treasures. The centrepiece of the museum is the amazing silver swan, an absolute extravagant vision and clockwork marvel, displayed to the public in all its fully operational glory once every day… which sadly we missed by moments!

Leaving the museum, we wandered joyously along Market Place and Horse Market, dipping into some of the traditional public houses along the way.  Our favourite haunts being the Golden Lion, apparently the oldest pub in the town dating back to 1679.  The pub is associated with several intriguing spectral sightings, some apparently caught on camera.  Suggestions of ancient siege victims and Roman travellers had been delightfully deliberated. We also visited the Old Well Inn, certainly one of the best beer gardens in town, directly joined to the castle walls.  We enjoyed a few local Ales, Bramble bounded around the garden like a possessed pogo stick and Audrey played happily with an entire wall of toys in the most child friendly pub we have ever visited!

You cannot help but to feel transported to an age when horse and cart ruled the road, when industry bellowed in every available corner of England, when schools were harsh and Empire was huge.  The scars of this excitable age are still present on the solid stones of Barnard Castle, and though it is now a picturesque town popular with traveling tourists as a rural retreat, it is clear that this little town once held an important position of power upon the island.

Nowhere is that power demonstrated more precisely than in its spectacular crown jewel, Barnard Castle (…the castle, not the town)

On a commanding peak, dominating the landscape, looking down majestically upon the river Tees, it is easy to see the importance of this formidable landmark. The traumatic life of this land played out like an immature tussle over a child’s favourite toy.  Pulled this way and that, encouraging silly scraps and bickering infants until a new fancy plaything came along. The old was discarded, unwanted and unloved, left to gather dust and decay.  Eventually though it would find fashion once more, dragged from the depths and lovingly restored, but never again to be played with, as its original function had encouraged.  Now just an antique to be carefully admired from afar.

The Earls of Northumberland seized the lands owned by the church in the 11th century.  So began a history of conflict, which would see Barnard Castle change hands many times.  The Earls fought an unsuccessful rebellion against William II who seized the property for the crown and bestowed it upon Guy De Baliol in 1095.  Guy began the construction of a castle, which his son, Bernard, continued. He expanded this fortification and founded a town outside the castle walls, to which he would give his name.  The Bishop of Durham took control of the lands for a short while but in 1212, King John ordered the lands returned to the Baliol family.  Despite being fought over repeatedly, it seems the castle remained in the Baliol family until John Baliol was crowned King of Scotland. He foreswore an oath to Edward I of England, so Edward crushed the Scots and imprisoned John in the Tower of London, taking back the lands and the castle. 

The Bishop of Durham reasserted the churches claim and it was not until 1307 that Edward II reclaimed the castle for the crown.  The castle was bequeathed to the Beauchamps family who retained the lands until the line died out, when they fell to Anne, wife of the Kingmaker, Richard Nevil, Earl of Warwick.  After the death of the Earl, thanks to his wife Anne Neville, the castle was granted to the Duke of Gloucester, later King Richard III.  Richard made extensive plans to expand the castle and its defences, but these came to nothing, as he was famously defeated in the Battle of Bosworth by Henry Bolingbrook.  The castle remained in the Neville family and they continued to build upon their estates until the 16th century when Charles Neville, 6th Earl of Westmorland was involved in the rising of the North. He instigated the famous plot we had learnt of earlier in the day, to remove Elizabeth I and place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne in her place.  The lands were seized again and in 1626 were sold into the possession of the Vane family.  Sit Henry Vane purchased Barnard Castle and Raby Castle but favoured the latter, so Barnard Castle fell into ruin, its masonry utilised to improve Raby.

The castle was left to brave the weather and wear of centuries before English Heritage took control and maintained what remained of the ancient pile.  Though the years of neglect are regrettable, the ultimate rescue is ideal for the modern history hunter, free to explore the battle grounds of ancients at will. There is of course, the usual entrance fee, essential to the continued upkeep of the princely property, but far from extortionate.

We gently traversed the grounds, the Outer Ward within the walls now embellished with beautiful communal sensory gardens and fresh lawns to relax upon.  We enjoyed the midday sunshine and snacks sitting on the grass.  Audrey appeared utterly enamoured with the sensational yellows and pristine whites of daisies and dandelions.  She giggled and danced through the gorgeous green grass.  Wandering across the grounds, we zigzagged through the various outcrops of worked stone, once marking the boundaries of important castle quarters. We eventually came upon the Inner Ward and Keep. Here the best of the ruins reach for the heavens above.  The circular tower is still accessible; following the spiral stone staircase to the summit offers spectacular views of the surrounding scenery. A particularly picturesque position of the castle is a stunning window overlooking remarkable views of the Tees gorge.  Upon this irresistible aspect is carved a stone boar, the emblem of that once mighty owner, Richard III. We explored every inch of the ancient ruin, treading the floors where Kings and warriors of old would wander, until we were all equally exhausted, elated and ready for home.

A fabulous intrigue of the castle arrives in the tale of the Teesdale hermit. A celebrated local celebrity, Francis Shields lived from 1815 to 1881 and apparently resided within the ruins, offering tours to any interested onlookers.  Frank as he was tenderly referred is possibly one of the earliest known tour guides in the country and is said to have met such famous figures as Lewis Carol at the ancient site.

There are also more sinister stories attached to the town, of a pagan ritual after 18th century illicit wedding ceremonies, where the newlyweds were encouraged to leap over a broomstick.  The mysterious Parson hiding dark secrets and black magic in an attempt to bewitch the little community. Traitor’s tree still stands just outside the castle, where countless hangings and executions of the counties condemned took place.  Here ghosts of Barny must roam in their silent masses. In fact, the vision of an elderly ghost has been spied sitting silently by the Tees close to the castle on multiple occasions.  Audrey and I have been on the trail of this elusive apparition in the past.  Our terrifying ordeal was documented for posterity.  If you feel particularly brave, you can witness the horror unfold…

Raby Castle

It was a day for Regality, for pomp and for opulence on the scale of the highest nobility.  Whilst in reality, as an average working family in Britain we languish in the agonising poverty of the island and scrape the minimum wage deemed survivable, sometimes it is good to see how the other half live, even if the other half in question were looking down from on high from many centuries ago.

We had an undeniable craving to explore castles, and we were fortunate enough to be surrounded by some of the most incredible examples of fortified construction in the country.  This part of the world has been terrorized by rebellions, wars and raiders for as long as people have resided upon its lands.  Building impenetrable fortresses was a medieval necessity.  Many of these castles evolved with the changing political climates and aristocratic trends to become firstly more powerful and protective, and later splendid, stylish and stunning family homes and seats of power.

Our first exploration came in the exquisite shape of Raby Castle, an astounding building close to the little village of Staindrop in County Durham.  Raby was built by the important Neville family during the 14th century, though there may have been a substantial fortified building on the site prior to this.  It became an imposing fortress, with nine towers and a curtain wall protecting an impressive inner keep.  The Neville’s were one of the most powerful families in the north of England.  Their close association to the Earls of Lancaster led to support of Henry Bolingbroke as he successfully challenged King Richard II for the throne.  Ralph Neville was made Earl Marshall of England and a Knight of the Garter by King Henry IV.

The castle remained in the Neville family until the 16th century, when the catholic Charles Neville led a rebellion against Queen Elizabeth, known as the Rising of the North.  The rebellion was crushed by Elizabeth and Charles fled into exile.  His lands were forfeit to the crown and eventually passed into the hands of the Vane family, whose ancestors reside in the castle still.

We chose a glorious day for exploring such a fine residence, the sun beat down upon us with elated vigour as we explored the beautifully tended walled gardens and stunning deer park surrounding Raby Castle. Audrey was hypnotised by the herd of calm looking horned creatures, always fascinated by the wonders of nature.  The castle itself is in such a complete and well maintained form, surrounded by a moat in the traditional fashion, and as such retains that classic image of a British Castle.  You can almost imagine a princess locked in a tower and some fearsome King sat upon a looming throne inside, sword at his hip…

Of course, this was not the case... at least, as we made for the drawbridge entrance, I hoped it was not…

Entry into the castle is not without a fee, however the upkeep of such an estate must take some considerable financial assistance so hopefully the money goes back into the care of the property.  Once through the gate, the experience is remarkable, and the condition of this ancient building is spectacular to say the very least.

First we circumnavigated the area within the curtain walls, a gravel yard surrounding the Castle with cannon and artillery aimed through the crenels of the battlements at the world beyond.  The views across the moat to the deer park were a pure delight!  After a gentle circle of the building, we made our way into the entrance hall.  A quirky aspect of the entrance is the carriageway driven through the medieval building.  In celebration of this destructive renovation, a restored carriage stands proud in the main reception space of the building. 

As we wandered through the timeworn corridors, it was instantly clear that significant time and money had been poured into the family’s spectacular collection of artwork.  Every single room adorned a unique collection of priceless and proud images, peering down from the walls and even the ceilings. Works by legendary artists such as Giordano, Van Dyck and Sir Joshua Reynolds make up just a minute portion of the stunning collection. Whilst Emily and I marvelled at these wonders, Audrey didn’t quite appreciate the subtle calming qualities of these classic creations, and as all young excitable minds do, preferred the idea of playtime!  Had she been allowed, she would certainly have gotten up close to the antique objects neatly exhibited around the house, and joyously brought them back to life, I have no doubt!

The Barons Hall is a spectacular sight and apparently the exact spot where over 700 rebellious Catholics gathered to plot the Rise of the North, hoping to install Mary Queen of Scots to the throne of England.  The Kitchen is one of the oldest sections of the building, still part of the original fabric it dates to around 1360.  The minstrels gallery is also still in its original form.

The castle is supposedly haunted by at least three apparitions.  The rebellious Charles Neville is reported to be seen regularly in the Barons Hall, perhaps still lamenting his failed coup.  The headless ghost of Henry Vale the younger is often spotted in the library, and furious at her son Gilbert for daring to marry without her consent, the ghost of the first Lady Barnard stalks the halls gripping red hot knitting needles and working furiously, muttering her evident despair.  Sadly, we didn’t bump into any of these stirring spectres as we explored the building, though Audrey did offer some of her finest screams along the corridors, perhaps this scared them off?...

Our investigation of the antique interiors of the Castle complete, we made our way slowly back through the yard, over the moat and to a little café outside for a well-deserved cup of tea.  Of course, in this glorious sun-soaked afternoon a cool beer would certainly not have gone amiss, but it had to wait, as our castle adventure wasn’t over yet, this was only one of two legendary fortresses we would visit on this day…

To be continued…

Blackhall Rocks

A rather different experience for our little family team this day, we ventured into a practically modern melee by comparison with our usual historical haunts. We sought an adventure at the beach, but hoped to escape the throngs of excitable sun-seekers at the better known resort locations along the north east coast.

Blackhall Rocks and Blackhall Colliery are predominantly recognised for their associations with the coal mining industry.  For many years the area was heavily industrial and to our pleasance attuned minds, probably devilish. Black coal strewn beaches and thick smog plumes apparently smothered the once pristine landscape, but this particular industry came upon hard times and eventually ceased altogether, now effort and finance has been put forward to clean up the spoilt seaboard and as such, nature has since reclaimed the land as its own.

The original colliery was built and run by Daniel Hall, known locally under the alias ‘black’ due to his coal mining association, and so, Black-Hall became the town’s official label.  It seems to have reached its peak during the 20th century when the railroad and mining masses were in full swing but has since witnessed severe economic decline. The beach itself appeared in the 1971 movie Get Carter, where the sand can be seen strewn with coal and colliery debris.  We were delighted to see that tourism and leisure are now assisting with a gradual rekindling of the areas popularity, and it is very easy to see the current appeal.

The most spectacular thing about this remote edge of our little island, is its stunning coastal nature reserve.  Wildflowers and grassland meadows blanket the clifftops, birds and insects float and frolic, basking in the sunshine breeze.  The walks are plentiful and have a real feel of some heavenly paradise as the wind ripples over the long grass stalks in twirling waves, mimicking the endless ocean beyond.

Apparently, during the mid-19th century a lone hotel used to stand upon the cliff here. The old hotel must have offered quite a reclusive prospect, a single antagonistic figure resolutely squaring up to the might of the North Sea.  Sadly it no longer remains, though we had a lot of fun vocally reanimating the colourful and creepy characters that must have passed through its remote halls and slept under its wind and weather beaten roof.

We wandered through the wonderful wild meadows until we reached some suspect looking steps leading down to the beach and the dark blue ocean.  We continued with caution down the steep track, careful of our footing but enamoured by the wonderful wildlife surrounding us in every direction as we closed in on the sands below.

The beach is a wonder of its own, littered with coastal Magnesian Limestone rocks and pebbles, it appears like a vision of some alien planet, a distant lunar landscape stretching in a thin band, toe to toe with the ocean to infinity.  Millennia of water erosion has left these smooth round rocks with all manner of hollowed patterning, we wanted to fill our pockets for souvenirs, such were the unique enchanting aspects of these gems.

After a good amount of time skimming stones and splashing about in the ocean, enjoyed most especially by our darling Audrey, whose affinity to the waters of the world are already clearly evident, we made our way.  We paused for the unexpected drama of a police helicopter chase along the coast, a completely paradoxical experience to our leisurely sojourn but an interesting inclusion none the less. Finally we arrived back on the road.  The twisting tarmac accepted us gladly and more adventures await, but this was a perfect little escape and a relaxing chance to while away the hours and not feel at all bad about any of it.

Mystery of the Forsaken Mariner - Part 6: Dr Dee and The Elixir of Life

Dearest Emily

Let me immediately delve into our illuminated discoveries following that contentious hero of ours Sir Francis Drake.  Walking in his footsteps led upon an indubitably curious trail.  We have come across some fascinating correspondence between Drake and none other than that most remarkable of fellows, Dr John Dee.

As you are well aware, Dr Dee is utterly infamous in his field.  His field being the realms of science fiction, the occult and the exquisite glamorisation of folklore and legend, cleverly disguised in the respectable mask of history.  He was I hasten to add, one of the foremost genius mathematicians and cartographers of his generation, a truly brilliant mind, albeit one who saw spirits of the dead through magic mirrors and had the odd casual chat with angels about wife swapping.

Though my mind dismisses many of Dee’s beliefs, I cannot deny his trust in the magical possibilities available to a good Christian soul in the Tudor world.  Therefore I do not question his ambition as he sought several treasures of mythological importance.  Dee was a scientist of his era, there was just a wider scope of what might be accepted scientific.

It is within the realms of continued enlightenment that his passions led towards that most desirable of scientific treasures, the elixir of life.  Dee craved the secrets held by the shamans and witch doctors of old, he wished to discover the path to prolonged life, to find the philosophers stone, the nectar of the gods, a liquid to heal the sick and even raise the dead?

If nothing else, Dee was a true scholar, a patron of the library system and a believer in the power of learning. During his research he studied the ancient texts and histories of Britain, longing for secrets hidden in the foundation of our island.  One such legend truly piqued his interest, a Celtic cauldron believed to harbour the power to bring the dead back to life.

Dee’s belief in this legend stemmed from his incredulous library.  He begged the Queen to found a national Library, but she refused, so Dee collected manuscripts from all over the globe and built his own magnificent library to house them.  Here he retained many medieval Welsh and British histories. My darling, through this love of literature Dee claimed to have personally witnessed the famed missing document upon which that embellishing Welsh chronicler Geoffrey of Monmouth based his most famous of works, Historia Regium Brittaniae, the Histories of the Kings of Britain.

This is where things get interesting my love, two important and relevant revelations come from old Dr Dee. 

Number one, he wrote an entire tome, Brytanici Imperil Limites, claiming the rightful ownership of the Americas in the name of Elizabeth.  This inheritance he claimed was due to her familial lineage, and dated back to her apparent ancestor, none other than that literary British monarch and folk hero, King Arthur! (Whom Dee also claimed ancestry with, there’s nothing quite like name dropping a mythical King to get you favoured!) Monmouth, along with several other contemporary scholars, had claimed Arthur sailed to the Americas and conquered those lands, long before the Spanish or Portuguese had ever laid their bogus claims, or the Pope had unjustly divided the spoils between those nations.

Number 2, the Queen was unwell, her Doctors confided in Dee and no lesser persons than Walsingham and Leicester begged Dee’s assistance in her recovery.  Elizabeth was in a state of panic.  The Armada would sail on English shores; the entire nation knew it was only a matter of time.  England was a blight on the Catholic dominions, and the power of Spain was undeniably mighty.  Elizabeth required her health and an advantage over her enemies and was willing to go to any lengths to acquire such necessities. Dee’s cauldron was now more than a folk tale in the Celtic pantheons.  It was a potential weapon.

The cauldron was supposedly property of Celtic god Bran the Blessed, son of the god of the sea Llyr and ruler of Britain.  Bran had bequeathed the cauldron to Matholwch, the King of Ireland in penance for his brother Efnysien’s rash actions following Matholwch’s marriage to their sister Branwen.  The Irish King mistreated Branwen which led to a war during which the Irish would ultimately use the cauldron against Bran, replenishing their war dead by reanimating the corpses.  As the Irish were on the brink of victory, Efnysien, seeking redemption, disguised himself as a mortally wounded Irish soldier until his body was placed in the cauldron, at which point using great force he split the cauldron and halted its power, bursting his own heart in the exertion.  Bran was mortally wounded during the battle and ordered the surviving seven of Bran’s great army to cut off his head and take it, along with the shattered pieces of the cauldron, back to Britain. After 87 joyous years, not perceiving the passing of time and Brans head still alive and conversing happily, a door was opened facing Cornwall causing their sorrow to return and Brans head to finally die.  His followers buried it as promised along with the associated treasures, beneath the White Mound in London, known traditionally today as Tower Hill.  Bran demanded that it be placed there facing the enemies of England, for as long as there it remained, the island would always be safe from invasion.

But that is not where this story ends my love, as you well know, for the legend states that centuries later, Bran’s skull was disinterred from its final resting place beneath the White Mound; the culprit of such a deed, that recurring mythical protector, King Arthur.  Arthur is said to have been dismally hurt by the notion Britain may require any more protection than his own, and as such had gone to lengths to prove his absolute authority by removing the talisman.  Despite having no need for it, you would surely want such an item hidden at the ends of the earth, so that your enemies could not get control of it.

This is where we find the frayed threads of literature evidence split and fade, intertwined but not altogether complete.  Dee had a hunch, an idea of what became of his desired legendary cauldron.  One assumes that if such a thing had ever existed, we might imagine an item of singular beauty such as the Gundestrup Cauldron, a stunning Iron Age creation fused with religious iconography, enough to inspire belief in the occult and the power of the gods for any who laid eyes upon it.  Perhaps a Romano British Knight or leader in possession of an item so wonderful, seeking future conquest or merely escaping the horrors at home as the Saxon raiders took control; would carry such a treasure with them to the far reaches of the known world.

Of course Celtic Gods and fantasy Kings are not worth chasing, as archaeologists we must sift through the fantasy and deal with the evidence in a scientific manner to gain a greater understanding of past events, but I cannot help but wonder.  Drake and Dee corresponded before the circumnavigation.  Elizabeth required a weapon and a medicine.  We know that both individuals placed enough trust and belief in Dee’s recommendations that Drake attended his home for lectures, and Elizabeth consulted the man regularly on all manner of topics, including the ownership of the Americas and her health.  In fact it was Dr John Dee who chose the date of Elizabeth’s coronation, based upon his understanding of astronomy and the perfect alignment for such an occasion.  On Drakes return, Elizabeth travelled with all haste to Dee’s home for consultation.  There are many links, they cannot surely all be coincidence?

And then we have our Mariners message.  I told you of the manuscript, of the understanding Drake hoped to hide something in the far reaches of the world. Perhaps the Mariner was mistaken, perhaps the reference was to something hidden historically in the Americas, a weapon, a treasure, a secret, but now that secret had to be retrieved.  Dee believed he knew the location and assisted in the planning of the expedition. Upon a certain map of the Northern hemisphere, drawn by Dee the year of Drakes return, there is a curious point on the west coast of America marked only as C De ☩, could this cross mark the point of King Arthurs apparent destination as he understood it?  We know Drake spent a good deal of time on the west coast of America, beyond the reach of the Spanish.  And then of course there is our discovery in Cornwall, in the very part of Britain that both the fabled Arthur called home, and the direction blamed for the final destruction of the god Bran. That beautiful bronze curved plate, a mere fragment no more, but all the indications it once belonged to a greater whole, a cauldron.  Not only that, but the story told in its engravings.  It is unmistakeable my darling.  The symbol of the raven, a bird long associated with Arthur and the literal translation of Bran.

I do not wish to get carried away in folklore and legend, in myth and magic, but I cannot help to feel a thrill of wonder at the idea we may have unearthed some part of the origins of these fantastic tales.  A revered object owned by a great leader who fell in battle, buried beneath a sacred mound until discovered by Romano British Knights who hurried it away from enemies.  Then century’s later war on home soil encouraged the recovery of this treasure.  What did Drake really find out there in the Americas?

I shall remain immersed in this study my love, I fear we may need to go further afield to learn more, so keep free your diary, we shall uncover the secrets together anon.

All our love always

Craig and Audrey

Lullingstone Roman Villa

Sometimes, even on the dreariest of weekends, when the ceiling of grey drizzle shuffles so low to the earth you could touch it and the stubborn winter dark seems to drag its heels through the domain of day, there remains a longing desire to escape the confines of walls and windows and taste the fresh crystal countryside air.

It was on one such dismal day that we ventured towards the rumoured remains of a Roman Villa in Lullingstone, near the village of Eynsford in that glorious garden of England, the county of Kent.  The Villa was built in the Darent Valley around 80-90 AD and was likely the lavish home to a wealthy family, possibly even a country retreat for Governors of the Roman province of Britannia.

Before exploring the remarkable remains of this Roman Villa, Bramble and I explored the surrounding landscape in hopes of further understanding the unique qualities which led to such a location choice.  It is indeed remarkably scenic, rolling fields and tree covered hilltops with the Darent River cutting a swirling valley through it all.  It seems the ancient lure of luxury still hangs in the air, a miasma of pure privilege in our modern day, as a well maintained golf course now overlooks the 15th century Lullingstone Castle, a manor house of singular beauty and prime location upon a great body of the river.

These surroundings suitably investigated and our curiosities perfectly piqued, we re-joined our darling family to delve into the well excavated depths of Lullingstone Roman Villa.

Incredible indications of the activities occurring nearly two thousand years ago are littered in every corner of this magnificent ruin.  Leather shoes, hypocaust tiles for under floor heating, bone dice, intricate carved stone, spectacular mosaic floors, lavish pottery, coins, beads and domestic items of every calibre offer a striking glance into the life of a wealthy Roman family in Britannia.

A fascination of this empirical luxury residence lies in its early links to Christian worship, new to our little island at the end of the earth.  It appears that a space already utilised for religious ceremony saw a 4th century conversion to indulge in the worship of Christ.  This makes it one of the earliest known advocates of this contemporarily rare religion, a new arrival to British shores and one which must have appeared entirely alien to many of its inhabitants.  Frescos displaying the Chi-Rho appear to be the only known Christian paintings from the Roman period in Britain. Furthermore, during the Anglo Saxon period, a Christian Chapel was built amidst the ruins of a Romano British Temple-Mausoleum. The chapel stood into Norman times and is one of the earliest examples of its kind in England.

A curious little twist to this tale comes in the form of a rude pagan temple beneath the Christian example.  Perhaps this was an indication of a wealthy elite projecting support of the newly celebrated Christian cult, whilst maintaining their personal preference to worship of the old gods in secret?

We circumnavigated the site, taking in each individual room and the treasures within.  It is true that the centrepiece of this delightfully opulent residence are the incredibly well preserved mosaic floors in the reception room, depicting the abduction of Europa and Bellerophon riding Pegasus and killing the Chimera.  It would have made for a striking sight on entering the building, a proverbial punch in the face letting people know just how important, wealthy and well read the owner truly was.  In our modern madness, a lightshow and audio accompaniment help to colour the story of the Villa for its visitors, since no longer are you able to walk upon the precisely patterned stones of the ancient empire.  Of course I believe this to be a suitable substitute given the important preservation needs of such a palace, but it always seems nice to get a closer look...

It appears that in the 5th century a fire destroyed the majority of the Villa, and aside from occasional reuse, it was all but forgotten to time.  It was first rediscovered in the 18th century when the building of a deer park dug through mosaic floors beneath the ground, but proper excavations were not carried out until the 20th century when the full extent of the Villa was finally uncovered.

Thoughts wandered to the inevitable of course, what of the pre-Roman natives in this story, such a location must have been of importance before our empirical oppressors took hold?  It seems that some Belgic pottery pre-dating the conquest has been discovered here, along with evidence of agricultural activity, but settlement is lost to us due to the nature of the structures and materials utilised.

After a long casual stroll around the entirety of the ruins, we decided to make for home, suitably infused and energised by the sight of such historic splendour rediscovered beneath our feet.  The dreary grey afternoon stretched out into an early night, and the lure of hot tea and pyjamas awaited us at home in the cottage, not quite in the same league as the lavish Villas of the ancient elite, but just perfect for our little family.

Castlerigg Stone Circle

In the remote wilds of Cumbria we found ourselves in the midst of a prehistoric marvel.  The Castlerigg Stone Circle is a thing of true wonder.  Ancient stones set in an otherworldly surrounding, it echoes with the memories of two hundred generations or more.  Dubbed the Druid circle, the carefully positioned stones are enclosed by the epic majesty of the fells, languishing stylishly at the centre of an impossibly enormous natural amphitheatre.

The circle is thought to be Late Neolithic or Early Bronze Age in date and its function has been argued for centuries, the debate still rages.  From meeting place to astronomical device, trading post to ritual centre, its mysteries continue to draw fascinated fandom from all over the planet.  Here we were the next in line.

We made our way up a steep hill by car and found a suitable place to alight. Only a little gate and a lot of sheep remained between us and the ancient stone circle. There is no price to pay, witnessing the archaic architecture costs only the will to make the journey and to brave the cold. From within the stones, which you can approach and explore up close, the views are simply ecstatic. The intimate experience of this mystical construction whilst the wind, frost, rain and fog whips around you like a dancing demon is indescribable.  You become a part of its endless mystery by merely standing within its hallowed centre.

The stones are composed of volcanic rock from the Borrowdale Volcanic group, some are over 2 meters high and weigh up to 16 tons.  The process of monument creation would have been both a feat of utter genius and extreme exhaustion.  Archaeo-astronomers have suggested the stones line up with the midwinter sunrise and certain other significant positions of the moon.

The earliest written record of the circle comes from that antiquarian intrigue and prehistory scholar, William Stukeley.  His account, published after his death in 1776, recalls the monument as a Celtic work with a mysterious grave at its east end.  Whilst there is no evidence of human remains being uncovered at the monument, little recorded archaeological work has actually been conducted. However, nearby at White Raise Cairn, human remains were discovered in a stone lined grave within.

Though the incredible structure is constantly linked to Druidical practice, there seems to be no genuine evidence of its function during the Iron Age.  3 Neolithic stone axes were discovered within the circle giving rise to a belief it may have been a trade and exchange post of these valuable items.  Polished axes such as these were quarried high in the fells thanks to the qualities of the local volcanic rock.

Legend has it that the stones move when not being watched, mischievously switching places or even hiding so that it is said you will never count the same number of stones twice.  Glowing orbs have been persistently reported at the site, giving rise to a belief the stones may be the haunt of faeries and ghosts.

Close to the Castlerigg Stone Circle, a recent speculative magnetometer survey discovered a substantial possible Roman fort complex beneath the undisturbed earth.  The giant enclosure is believed to have been a temporary camp for troops advancing north to the far unknown reaches of the island. The stories of horror and marvel which must have been spoken within those walls, of the monsters and gods that dwelt in the barren wilds of the north, of the treasures and wonders that were surely to be discovered during those treacherous treks.  If walls could only speak. It remains unexcavated but perhaps one day will add much to the story of this historic area.

Before our fingers and toes became completely numb to the bone, we made our way back through the lustrous landscape towards the nearby idyllic town of Keswick.  A picturesque postcard of a settlement, Keswick offers the outdoor adventurer a welcome retreat from city bustle and daily routine.  Littered with good old fashioned pubs (dogs and children welcome everywhere it seems, with the Twa Dogs and Dog and Gun being our very favourite) and countless cafes and shops, it has become a base and a shrine for all things explorer.

The jewel in this magnificent landscape crown is Derwentwater, a glorious pool of twinkling silver surrounded by a circle of emerald mountain giants, peering down into its mirror-like depths.  Boats glide effortlessly across the choppy waters seeking unforgettable pleasure from otherwise unobtainable scenic views.  It is easy to see why this place has been revered throughout the ages.

After many a locally brewed Jennings ale, we gathered our family entourage and made for the comfort of our lodgings.  Such a place as this seems straight from the pages of classic literature, as though all the words of the great romantic poets, the settings of legend and fantasy authors and the songs of folk troubadours collided and from the dust emerged their imagined Elysian fields.

We will sleep well tonight in this cosy corner of Albion… or dare I whisper, Eden?...

THE MYSTERY OF THE FORSAKEN MARINER PT 5 - A SECRET OF IRON AND MAGIC

My dearest Emily,

I have hated these past days more than any I can recall.  Being forced to leave your side, following the harrowing experience on the hilltop.  I now fear for all of all of our safety and utterly despise the idea of not being close enough to offer you additional protection.  Not that I think you need my protection of course, nor would ever ask for it, you are far more fierce and skilled than I, anyone who might attempt to cross your path in a negative fashion should certainly be pitied, as they clearly underestimate what a force they are dealing with!  Perhaps it is more my own safety and that of our darling Audrey for which I fear, I wish that you, my dear and Bramble, our ferocious ball of fluff were here with us.

I have been trying exhaustively track down our evil assailants.  I trust you have by now examined the damage they caused to the site?  Thank goodness our excavation had reached completion before they took the opportunity to strike!  One can only imagine the devastation had we lost the data, the archaeological record would have been obliterated.  Thank goodness we had already transferred the artefacts safely to museum storage, could you imagine what might happen had they got their hands on that?

Speaking of which my darling, I remain in a complete fizz of emotion regarding that incredible discovery! You know of which I refer, I still have to pinch myself when I recall it, to think it lay undisturbed in the Devon countryside for millennia.

I have to believe that this is somehow connected to the Mariners message.  To discover such intricate Iron Age artefacts is rare enough, but bound in that overly coined phrase, Celtic iconography, and to find it in a burial context, depicting precisely what it did, is just… well, there are no words.  Imagine if it were accurate, imagine if it’s suggested story is real, now that would be something to hide from enemies, something that had to disappear!

If it should happen to be real, and Captain Drake was charged by Elizabeth with its concealment, then maybe, just maybe it remains in its carefully selected hiding place.  It could be out there somewhere still, on the west coast of America.

There must be some way in which we can gain a clearer understanding of the American locales explored by our good Captain Drake.

Audrey and I shall return to the archives and I shall contact a few Drakeologists we are familiar with.  Perhaps a fresh clue can be ascertained from the new information we have gathered?

In our other affairs, Audrey and I visited the quaint market town of Hexham.  We explored the Abbey, founded by Wilfred in 674.  It is a building of singular beauty today, and we found our way into the original crypts.  It is exciting to witness stone reused from Roman ruins from the nearby epic construction of Hadrians Wall and its adjoining forts and Vicus.  One particular block went for many years unnoticed as a floor slab, until it was discovered to be the facedown headstone of a Roman soldier, incredible reuse of elaborate masonry.  Hexham was a target during William Wallace’s campaigns against the English and has a rich and turbulent history. The Gaol gives a unique portrait of this troublesome past. We were on the hunt for Saxon understandings and learnt that AElfward, King of the Northumbrians had been buried here in the Church after being slain by Sicga.  It is a fascinating and pretty town, well worth the visit.

Visit Hexham

For now, I beg of you my love, stay safe, stay surrounded by those we know and trust completely.  I will send you news of our progress and beg that you do the same should your avenues of investigation prove fruitful.

With all the love and care in the world, we remain as always,

Forever yours,

Craig and Audrey

XOXOXOXOX