The Wincklemann Odyssey - pt4

Dearest Emily and Darling Audrey (as I am aware you are now returned to each other)

As the early morning twilight crested the arc of earth once more, our weary troupe arose and went about dismantling camp. We had a few final important missions to accomplish en route our final destination.  The first of these, an intriguing jaunt through the Belgic town of Tournai.

In an attempt to survey our position, I began the excursion with a venture to the summit of the Belfry of Tournai, witnessing spectacular views from its peak. The Belfry is the oldest in Northern Europe, erected in 1188. It towers over the city at 72m high and served historically as a watchtower for the town. Its peak is majestically crowned with a symbol of power and vigilance, the golden Dragon.  Descending the spiral staircases to ground level, I continued to wander the astonishingly clean streets. I joyfully noted a delightful folklore museum before conducting a more thorough study of the 800-year-old Our Lady’s Cathedral with its five towers, Romanesque style nave and transept built in the 12th century and Gothic choir built in the 13th century and even included a detailed archaeological display within.

The only slight disappointment of this terrific town was a visit to the parc Henry VIII to visit the defensive tower built by the English monarch after conquering the city.  Being the only Belgic town ever occupied by Britain, Henry built a fortress to retain power. The castle once had 60 towers and 18 gates, but very little remains. The tower is in utter disrepair, scaffolding covers every crumbling curve and walls are choked with wicked weeds and rotting relics.  The surrounding park seemed inhabited by groups of troublesome teens enjoying inebriants and the explorations of curious youth. There is little else to do in the area, so following a brief circumnavigation of the park; I traipsed from whence I had come. After some overpriced and underwhelming souvenir treasure hunting, I made myself comfortable in Au Dragon, a little corner bar by the Belfry, with a cold Belgian beer to watch the world go by.  Tournai was another in a long line of impressive Belgic towns. I had severely underestimated the quaint quality of this incredible country.  I never expected it to be bad, I just had no idea it would be so good!

As the team regrouped beneath the towering turrets of the Belfry of Tournai, it was time to move along on our epic adventure.  We boarded our sturdy vessels and prepared for the long trip across Belgium towards our homelands.

Continuing the voyage, we soon discovered one of the many perils of modern migration. A carefree container careened towards our vessel without warning.  It was only by the heroic reactions of our courageous captain and the swift swerves of surrounding excursionists that we narrowly avoided becoming the next day’s mournful headlines. Fortunately, we escaped unscathed and after some deep breaths and fraught nervous systems, we continued on to our next destination.

Later than hoped, the penultimate expedition saw us arrive at Waterloo, to witness the incredible monument erected to one of the most famous and ferocious battles on European soil. The battle of Waterloo was fought in 1815 between Napoleon Bonaparte and a coalition army fronted by the Duke of Wellington and Field Marshal Blucher.  The decisive battle took place on the Mont-Saint-Jean escarpment.  Napoleon committed his last reserves but this final attack was beaten back.  The Allied armies counter attacked and routed the French army. The defeat marked the end of Napoleons rule as emperor, the French Empire and the end of the Napoleonic wars.

We found ourselves thrust amongst nervous soldiers on the brink of war, dressed in full military garb, cavalry horses being unloaded ready for battle. The mists of war were preparing to engulf the bloody battlefields. Unfortunately we arrived too late to take full advantage of the moment, the doors shut as we approached, this battle would be fought tomorrow, by then, we would be far away.

Arriving at our final camp, Camping Mont des Bruyeres, we settled down with a hope to enjoy decadent comfort on the final evening of our epic odyssey.  A fairy tale forest location in the middle of stunning countryside disguised a rather less than average quality campsite. Areas for tents were uneven and riddled with roots, showers were cold and weak, at one point becoming a feeble dribble before disappearing completely.  The bar accepted only cash and refused our requests to witness the women’s world cup semi-final matches, despite having an enormous TV gathering dust on the bar room wall, perpetually turned off. It was a lamentable end to the adventure, having enjoyed such compassionate hospitality throughout the voyage, but we made the most of it with a communal feast and several beers, we concluded our nomadic community with a friendly reminisce.

The next morning, our caravan across the vast desert of twisting tarmac had only three remaining ports to call.  The first was our final excursion, at the monumental town of Ypres. Poignant for its place in the history of the great wars, Ypres is a living memorial to those who lost their lives defending and protecting the position.  During WW1, it stood firmly in the proposed path of Germany’s ambition to conquer Europe.  The invasion of Belgium would bring the British Empire into the war. Ypres was surrounded by the German army and bombarded throughout. British, French and Allied forces captured the town from the Germans and despite facing the first poison gas attacks and the almost complete obliteration of the entire town, managed to hold the strategic position. There was an unbelievable loss of life on both sides, with well over one million casualties.

The Menin Gate is the doorway to the town and a stark reminder of the immense suffering experienced on this hallowed turf.  The memorial was constructed in remembrance of all those unfortunate souls who lost their lives but whose final resting places are unknown.  Within the city walls, it seems every store, bar and restaurant bears imagery of the town’s traumatic history. Some appear to profit from the connections, selling artefacts from the traumatic ordeals as tourist trinkets or using symbols of the conflict as advertisement opportunities. Is this a mark of respectful memorial to those terrible times or a theme park of human horror and misfortune? Thankfully, memorials that are more tasteful are also common as are the rebuilt monuments of the city. St Martin’s Cathedral is a stunning feat of architectural brilliance, whilst the parks and rivers surrounding the town add to an overarching tranquil calm, creating a serene cemetery ambiance that consumes the entire community. We whispered our conversations out of some unspoken symbol of respect, and made our way solemnly to the awaiting transports.  It was time to move on.

Finally, we set off for the ferry and home to Albion.  At Calais, armed guards patrolled the waves of vehicles arriving at the port, a stark contrast to our own at cheery Dover.  Surviving the questioning glare of security, we boarded the ship and I indulged in a wonderful pint of cool crisp beer, this one to bookend my first, which felt like such a distant memory.  I drank happily, chatted with friends, fondly recollecting the wealth of exciting discoveries made upon this expedition and the battles won along the way.  As the white cliffs came into view, we disembarked the tireless vessel. I said farewells to my brave companions and made for a direct train home to you my darlings, my loving family.

I sit now upon that train, the final furlong of my fantastic voyage and look forward to being in your arms again. Whilst I predict a potential trip to the A&E, I cannot explain my delight at the thought of holding you both close, to English tea, home cooking, a hot shower, climbing into my own bed and sleeping more soundly than I can even imagine.

I shall be with you very soon. Until then my love,

I remain, forever yours

Craig xxx

The Wincklemann Odyssey - pt3

Dearest Emily…

We hit the road once more, aiming for our next camp, close to the sleepy Belgic town of Arlon and the border of Luxemburg.  Luxemburg is a mere dot on the vast cartography of Europe, but being such a significant area of independence, a trip was essential to our ambitions. As we approached Camping Officiel, it became clear this was perhaps a residence for rather affluent individuals of an advanced age. The clientele were of a distinguished nature, so much so in fact that the arrival of our expedition convoy was enough to raise some serious eyebrows. As the sturdy transports circled the site, all eyes were upon us; penetrating gazes and stubborn frowns at every turn. In this Elysium of aged aristocrats, our presence seemed unwelcome. We convinced the owners we were not in fact there to “party” but merely meant to regroup and rest following our recent excursions. We pitched up and head out for some lazy evening beverages by the glamourous poolside bar.  Everybody was exhausted, it was nice to hit pause, relax and enjoy the decadent surroundings of this elite area.

The following day I woke early.  The pain in my shoulder stung viscously, as though I were being pierced with sharp blades of broken glass. I had great difficulty finding comfortable sleeping positions and eventually decided to make the most of the dawn awakening. I took a solo stroll, twisting this way and that through the luscious countryside in an attempt to lose myself and escape the frequently travelled paths.  I ventured along country lanes and winding alleys until I came across a little village by the name of Bonnert.  This completely snoozy suburb had a spectacular commanding position on a hilltop and a striking cemetery, which crowned the hill.  Dark grey angular tombstones in neat orderly rows dominated the enclosure. I walked through respectfully admiring the architecture and studying the inscriptions. Death has such a fascinating effect on the imagination. The way we mourn, how we comprehend and reflect on the end of a life, how we celebrate and commemorate something so certain, so assured.  Whilst the stylistic approaches have always evolved both temporally and spatially, there remains throughout the history of our planet, a common attempt to monumentalise death in some way. It is a musing far too complex for this entry, but something, which caught in my mind during the brief sojourn through this distant domain of the deceased.  Continuing into town, I discovered a delightful 17th century church, its rhythmic bells tolling the early morning hour. I followed occasional signs directing me towards a Scouting museum; sadly, I had absolutely no luck finding the mystery museum. It seemed an odd place for such a thing, in this quiet little corner of the world.  Having walked from one end of the village to the other, I gently made back for camp to re-join the team.

We were in dire need of expedition supplies and so the convoy ventured into the nearest town.  Before the conquest of Gaul, the Celtic tribe, the Treveri, settled Arlon and a vast area to the southeast.  A Roman Vicus thrived until Germanic invasions destroyed much of the hilltop defences in the 3rd century.  Eventually, to fortify the local population, a castle was built upon the hill in the 9th century and the town was able to grow around it.

We made a brief saunter around the cute but quiet town, collecting our supplies and soaking up the strong summer sunshine. We took in the impressive views of the church and citadel surrounded by steep narrow streets and alleys. With vehicles loaded, we hit the road once more, finally crossing the border into the prized destination so coveted throughout this Odyssey, our El Dorado, Atlantis and Avalon; we arrived in Luxemburg.

The surrounding countryside remained of a similar aspect but the city of Luxemburg itself was a world away from what we had experienced thus far.  Whilst the locations encountered up until now had all been quaint, rustic examples of ancient architecture and peaceful living, Luxemburg resembled a major centre such as Paris or London. It was crammed with vast tower blocks stretching up into the skies, full of designer shops and glamourous restaurants, residents in suits going about their business, seemingly unaffected by the startling heat.  There was a brief moment of panic as, under pressure in tight surroundings, our vessel captain steered the ship into a destructive obstacle, an iceberg of the carpark, the near invisible bollard.  We might have been sunk if not for her sturdy hull. Shaken but undefeated, we disembarked and made our way on foot into the city.

Evidence suggests the country has been home to human activity for at least 35,000 years.  Decorated bones discovered at Oetrange indicate an early human presence. 5th millennium BC settlement features suggest a significant Neolithic community resided in these lands and artefacts such as pottery, knives and jewellery have illustrated continued occupation between the 13th and 8th century BC.  A Celtic population known as the Treveri inhabited the lands throughout the Iron Age until Julius Caesar completed Roman occupation of the region in 53BC, when it became a part of Gallia Celtica, later Gallia Belgica. The spectacular city of Luxemburg is set in a deep landscape gorge.   The Germanic Franks claimed the lands during the 4th century and it continued to be tussled over by continuing conquerors until Siegfried I of the Ardennes built a defensive castle during the 10th century, marking the beginning of the town’s growth as a powerful medieval strategic position.

We trundled through the modern cityscape towards the ancient centre of the famous town.  The city of Luxemburg lies within a defendable valley complex and many of the ancient buildings remain visible.  Climbing down the hill to a fortified ridge, the views of the sprawling city came into focus, the river valley twisted through the hills, directing the human flow of construction. It was a spectacular sight, in stark contrast to the recurring flat landscapes, which had come before.  I delved into the dark depths of Luxemburg’s ancient archaeological crypts, Bock Casemates. The labyrinth of subterranean tunnels carved into the rock were defensive structures maintained since the 9th century.  War and terror had trodden these chilling passageways in all the ages leading up to this one.  A stark reminder that in our modern world of unconscious entitlement, so often todays tourist treasures are yesterdays bloody battlefields. Emerging from the gloomy depths into the brilliant sunlight once more, a group of us skirted the outer wall of the city to view it from all angles. Luxemburg is far more affected by our modern age than other areas we had visited thus far, but enough of its ancient character remained to witness the importance of this stronghold in days gone by. We drank in the last of the vibrant city, with ice cream and alcohol and as much ice water as we could muster, until it was time to return to camp.

Our final evening in the luxury Camping Officiel was another tranquil affair, quiet poolside beers and lazy comfortable chatter continued until the stream of slumber took us all, clasping the crew in its comforting arms, rejuvenating our beaten bones and readying us for the long voyage homewards.

To be concluded…

The Wincklemann Odyssey - pt2

Dearest Emily…

The following morning, with the moist dew of a million blades of grass silently evaporating into the early rays of sparkling sunlight, we were up early to hit the road again.  Today we would reach the zenith of our odyssey, the very lure behind this entire venture. Today, we would reach the tournament.

However, we still had some extensive travel to get through. We would wander into new and unfamiliar historical surroundings.  The location of our first port of call was the medieval Flemish city of Ghent. I did not know an awful lot about the town before my visit, but what a place!

Common understanding of the place name Ghent suggests it derived from the Celtic word Ganda, which means confluence.  Archaeological evidence indicates occupation in the confluence of the Scheldt and Lys rivers throughout the prehistoric and Roman period, despite no written evidence of the latter.  The Franks invaded the Roman territories in the 4th century and it is believed that in 630AD, St Amandus chose the confluence to construct an impressive Abbey. Ghent became one of the most important cities in Europe, ruled by powerful rich merchant families until 1302 and second only to Paris in size.

To my sadly blinkered and limited understandings of this corner of the globe, it always seemed Ghent was in the shadow of its famous desirable neighbour of Bruges. As far as I could see, in reality it equals Bruges in almost every aspect.  Incredible architecture, stunningly pretty canals, traditional restaurants and busy bars, fabulous museums and a great joyous atmosphere fills the old town and marketplace. Ghent is a bustling ancient town with a fantastic example of a 10th century medieval castle, Gravensteen, at its heart.  We wandered the streets and enjoyed the medieval marvels and decadent delights for a few hours, which breezed past in the blink of an eye. Following a delicious white beer in a little outdoor terrace, t Verschil, overlooking boat trips of the canal, I decided to explore alone for a little while and loose myself in the vibrant streets. Reconvening outside one of the many majestic churches and cathedrals, our team got back on the road.  Next stop, Longliers and the Wincklemann Cup.

Although fairly flat, the Belgic landscape has its own unique beauty.  Whilst perhaps a little cliché in our instant stereotype subconscious, the old wooden windmills and sprawling farmsteads look so rustic it is difficult not to fall in love with their traditional topography. Driving across the country was pleasant and dreamlike, a soft and subtle ramble through warm fuzzy landscapes. My focus remained on the challenges ahead, but I basked in the delightful scenic wonders happily, as we approached our reckoning.

In nearby Neufchateau, a Neolithic megalith from about 2000BC and a Celtic necropolis were discovered, illustrating a rich prehistory along the lush river valley.  The discovery of a Roman Villa indicated continued agricultural and sophisticated settlement activity in the area.

Longliers is a tiny town. The tournament, in which we had journeyed so far to compete, was to be held in a stylish sports complex just outside of the little town, nestled upon a wooded hill amidst the colourful Belgium countryside.  We were surrounded on all sides by rows of straight and sturdy trees, stretching tirelessly into the eternal heavens above.  Fields of golden corn and luscious grass rippled with the light breeze like an ocean swell. It was a perfect tranquil haven… suddenly occupied by a raucous army of European archaeologists!

The fresh summer fields were covered in a tapestry of tents, huge canopies of communal activity and smaller intimate spaces for sleeping quarters covered the majority of the grassy hillside.  Lines of trees bordered the site of the impressive arena.  A ferocious tournament of anticipated action would be battled out on this very spot.  Clashes of tribal brutality and skilful athleticism would be required to lay claim to the ultimate prize.  Excited and inebriated archaeologists from around the globe buzzed around, drinks in hand and smiles on faces.  We settled ourselves into the foray, and enjoyed the music and frolics of the evening, mentally preparing ourselves for the challenges ahead!

The Wincklemann Cup is essentially the Champions League of archaeological football tournaments.  Made up of around 60 teams from every corner of Europe, archaeology units and academic departments fiercely battle it out on the pitch to reign supreme and take home the immortal accolade of European Championship glory.  My old employers had kindly allowed me to return for the action, and I relished the opportunity to keep up my fitness and aim for spectacular glory on the field.

The tournament is not just about football of course, an international community of archaeologists and academics converge on a selected host nation to share in elated celebration of our trade and interests.  It is a festival, a fayre, a spectacle and a kinship, all neatly wrapped up in the pleasing and passionate package of a football tournament… it is a world of fun!

The first evening was a celebration; the sky painted blood red amid Deep Ocean blue and black.  Tribal chants and a community of shared fever. Beer flowed, stories told, games played.   As in every age leading to this one, the tension of warriors on the eve of battle was only eased by the sense of belonging and comradery only this kind of event could induce.  As each individual took to their temporary homes for a final moment of rest, the beast of competition grew in the shadows, ready for an early dawn awakening.

The tournament began!  Our first two games were difficult, up against some of the best German opposition in the tournament. We were sadly outrun and out classed, falling to successive 3-0 (v Bembel Barbaren Frankfurt) and 4-0 (v Los Homos Heidelbergensos) defeats. The second game had been close until a poor refereeing decision led to a penalty against us.  Our heads were down. It was demoralising and difficult and in the extreme heat affecting all of Europe on this particular weekend, our weary team were feeling the strain. Our next game was a far closer affair and I was determined to help steer us to some kind of result.  I had fallen out with my newly purchased childhood dream boots. Puma Kings were the footwear of football royalty when I was growing up, I had mused on scoring winning goals in such a divine creation. I found a pair on a vintage site and revelled in the chance of finally living my dream.  As is often the case with such fantasies, the reality fell sadly short. I reverted to my tried and trusted Adidas Samba, and it made a big difference.  We were up against French outfit Spartak La Courneuve and battled hard, but fell behind to a comedy-of-errors goal. It was a devastating blow but we pushed on, determined for more.  A goalkeeper who seemed to be having the game of his life thwarted shot after shot, wave of attack after wave of attack!  I hit the post with a late shot, but it was not to be.  The final whistle went, we had been defeated again but at least there was hope.

We began our following game with a renewed sense of purpose and the confidence seemed to pay off. Facing off against yet another German team, Schwarzer Stern Gottingen, the team began to gel. Putting in a strong performance we went two goals up, dominating the first half.  Perhaps fitness was our downfall, the opposition managed to reduce the deficit and then equalise late in the second half to rob us of a deserved victory. The team were momentarily crestfallen, having come so close to the glory of victory that we could taste it, but it was our first goals on the board and our first point of the tournament. The fear of finishing without a result was gladly gone.  We had come close, but still, we craved victory.

The next game would be our finest moment.  I was full of energy and desire to win. That coupled with the several beers I had cheerfully consumed throughout the day meant this was to be our time to shine. There seemed to be a distinct correlation between the amount of beer I consumed and the increased success of my performance on the field.

Lining up against Swiss warriors DresselBandE, we battled hard. I was in the zone, I sped down the line and attempted a cross which was blocked, but with a last ditch lunge I was able to connect with the loose ball and steer it into the net! We were ahead, and soon we were up by two after another classy move and clinical finish.  We held on, battling for everything, eager for every 50/50 ball, and after the referee had dragged out some unknown injury time, the final whistle blew.  We had been victorious.

Our final game of the day came against a strong Berlin team, Tachymeter Treptow.  We were exhausted from the day of competition and had no strength left to carve out a result.  We fought as hard as we could manage, but fatigue and the excruciating heat left us utterly sapped and we fell to a lamentable defeat, but our spirits remained upbeat, the previous performances had been encouraging.

We were all on a high as the first day of competition came to a close and the inevitable mid tournament celebrations began.  Live music, flowing beer, party games and vivacious singing ensued.  It was a real festival atmosphere.  I enjoyed these festivities with copious amounts of Belgic beer and a variety of hot foods supplied by the industrious catering companies at this carnival of curious culture. As my muscles began to feel the strain of the day, and my head danced in dizzy enjoyment of over indulgence, I retired for the evening.  Despite what I perceived to be the late hour, I did so earlier than the majority of excitable youth enjoying the tournament, as the music and revelry continued long into the night. In fact, as I awoke ready for the next day’s action, there were still some finishing their evening frivolities.

The new day’s battle commenced. I began with a breakfast beer and was eager to retain some of yesterday’s momentum and perform to the peak of my ability on the pitch.  Despite the tournament hosting squads from no less than ten nations across Europe, we seemed to face a distorted selection of German opposition. Today was the knockout and placement rounds, and we were up against La Tene Lovers, a team we had previously met in highly contested competition. Both teams were greatly improved from previous meetings, it would be an even match, anything could happen!

The showdown warmed up with a ritual sharing of liquor… then the action began.  I was feeling good, fresh, ready. I started well, immediately getting a lot of the ball and moving it around confidently. It appeared to frustrate their defence somewhat and I was given a playful warning shove during a corner, it was not to be my last message.

I picked up the ball and took it deftly around one of their players. Just behind, the frustrated defender awaited.  I nipped the ball past him but he had already committed himself and with a purposeful lunge, took me out completely.  Before I could get my arms out to protect myself, the full force of my body came crashing down upon my shoulder.  A lightning bolt of shock and pain shot through me. It instantly felt severely damaged, something was not right, but I tried to battle on.  I took the resulting free kick and played a perfectly weighted through ball between two defenders to our onrushing winger, but as I moved my arm, another crack indicated it was not to be my day. As the adrenaline wore off slightly and the throbbing agony began, with absolute crushing melancholy I had to come off the pitch and was helped straight to the medical staff, my part in the tournament was over.

It was a devastating moment; I genuinely felt I was getting into a flow. The usually exemplary medical staff on hand at the competition believed that I had suffered only bruising from the collision, however later X rays would reveal a dislocated Acromioclavicular joint, severely displaced. I commiserated myself by propping up the bar and enjoyed the rest of the tournament from the side-lines.  In a hard fought match, we went on to win in that most nerve wracking of fashions, penalties. Sadly, as I continued to observe from the side-lines, beer in hand, we were beaten in the final game of the tournament, again a closely fought match with penalties required to decided things. The result gave us an overall mid table position, not as great as we had perhaps hoped for, but certainly far from disgracing ourselves.

I saw out the rest of the day in a substantial amount of pain, numbed only by frequent delicious Belgian beers, occasional painkillers and enjoyment of the tournament as it approached the ultimate climax and my teammates and I became contented spectators. The atmosphere became an absolute frenzy as the final began. It was a hard fought and suitably skilled game where each team could have clinched it. Again, such a close match had to be decided by penalties. The German outfit, Berliner KarpeiKen/BFK Spatakus came out as final victors, clinching that ultimate prize and immortality through the epilogues of the archaeological football empire.

A cacophonous awards ceremony followed with final choruses and chanting galore. There were continued celebrations of joy for the ultimate victors as they hoisted the spoils of war in riotous fashion. 

Then, as the battle cries of tribal troubadours faded to a low murmur of approving companionship, it was finally time to return to our odyssey. However, not before our old rivals, Oxford Bierbarians bravely stood forward, a band of weary Vates determined to carry the tales of ancestral greatness forward and host next year’s tournament.

With the final throes of our much-spent stamina, we packed up camp and bid a fond farewell to this glorious hillside stadium. It had been the immense spectacle expected, but our adventure was far from over.  There were more tantalising trials to tackle before the eventual voyage homewards.

To be continued…

The Wincklemann Odyssey - pt1

To my dearest Emily

I am finally able to send you this, my fractured recollections of the gruelling odyssey I have been engaged upon these last weeks.  As you are fully aware, I embarked upon this campaign unsure of whether my body could withstand the severe strain required for such a feat.  Let me first reassure you my love, though beaten and broken, I am returned alive and… mostly well.

You will recall my journey began with melancholy farewells. I had hoped beyond hope that you would be able to join the expedition team on this adventure, but alas, work commitments conspired against us. We said our goodbyes with heartfelt hugs and kisses before Audrey and I boarded a train bound for Derby and eventually arrived at my family home, a neutral location from where I could prepare and where I knew Audrey would be safe in the security of loved ones.  I ensured my supplies were complete and equipment in pristine condition before the early hours transit to Leicester the following morning.

It was a rare separation from my troupe, as you know well, I do not entertain lengthy estrangement lightly, and this was to be as long as any we have endured since we met my love.  As the secret whispers of anticipated sunlight began to peer around the curve of earth’s infinity, I ventured out alone on this epic sojourn.

At the University of Leicester, I met with the expedition team. We gathered at that beastly hour in the chilly morning air of the University carpark with a combined sense of anticipation. I was delighted to greet good old friends and excitable new ones as we prepared to embark.  Our first step would be the port town of Dover. The voyage from Leicester to Dover was blessedly calm and trouble free.  Attempts in prior years had met with chaotic traffic conditions close to the capital, but today, the route was clear. With a brief pause in Luton to pick up a final passenger, we arrived at Britain’s ancient port with time enough to enjoy a spot of reasonably priced breakfast in quaint café, The Happy Chef.

Dover is home to Britain’s oldest shipwreck, dating to around 1100 BC during the Bronze Age.  Over 350 bronze tools and weapons littered the seabed.  A number of Bronze Age burial sites have also been found in the vicinity.  The town thrived during the Roman era as an important port, Dubris, after the British Dubras or waters. The port had a large harbour flanked by two lighthouses and a fort. Following Roman annexation of Britain, there was a strong Saxon presence in the area and a wealth of materials and burials have been uncovered locally.

The usual border patrol checks and soul sucking queue systems eventually concluded in the boarding of our vessel. We were ready for the continent. I have always found ferry journeys across the English Channel to be a pleasurable experience. Of course, this was a perfect opportunity to consume my first (of many) beers to celebrate our upcoming expedition. I enjoyed the view as that spectacular symbol of Albion, the white cliffs, gradually faded behind us. As we left that sight, a new, vast unexplored land mass appeared on the horizon.  Despite being fairly well travelled, it is always a shock to witness that when you avoid air travel, you genuinely get a taste of how expansive the planet really is and how much of it you have not, and may never see. Disembarking the ferry, we took to the road, winding through swathes of countryside towards our first camp.  I tried to take in every inch, immersing myself in the surrounding new landscapes and cultural practices as we traversed the French and Belgic scenery.

Our first base was Camping Esmerelda, a large, sprawling mass of mobile homes and spacious caravans on the North Sea coast about 25 minutes from the city of Bruges.  The facility was of a reasonable standard, with all the conveniences required for a brief layover and a bar with acceptable prices and a flexible closing time, which is of course, always appreciated.  My canvas home for the forthcoming evenings was, fortunately, a dream to erect.  A pop up device ready to call home in mere minutes, whilst others struggled with shaky poles and rogue waterproof segments flapping in the strong sea breeze. I did my best to assist where I could, helping my friends and fellow expedition colleagues to pitch up. Sadly, my new home was not quite as dreamy when it came to a comfortable nights slumber, but that was a challenge for a future me.  For now, the foundation of our camp was complete and were set to explore.

The first reconnaissance on our list was the Belgic town of Bruges. Famed for being a wonderfully preserved medieval town, Bruges is a postcard pretty fairy tale.  Ancient buildings and narrow lamp lit cobbled streets make up the old town, with a grand central square, the Markt, bordered by luxury cafes, bustling bars and sumptuous restaurants all facing the impressive Belfort Von Bruges.

Bronze and Iron Age prehistoric evidence has been discovered along the coast close to the city. The first fortifications in the area of Bruges arose to protect coastal areas from the threat of pirates after Julius Caesar’s conquest of the Menapii in the first century BC.  Around the 4th century, the Franks took the region, until Viking incursions in the 9th century forced Count Baldwin I of Flanders to reinforce the Roman fortifications.  It is believed the name Bruges emerged from the old-Scandinavian Brygga meaning Harbour or mooring place.  The tidal inlet had a strategic location along the northern and southern trade routes and Bruges would flourish during the medieval period, particularly in the wool, cloth and weaving trades.  The old town today is a stunning flashback to that golden era.

Feeling the deep pangs of fatigue and hunger, we ventured to a little Vegetarian restaurant, De Plaats, for some healthy and very tasty… though rather expensive food. Once we had eaten, the team decided to separate to explore the city.  Two close colleagues and I chose to make careful study of some Belgic bars off the beaten track.  Our mission was to explore the famed delights of Belgian produce, and we were not disappointed. At a little bar, café Cambrinus, I tried a sour raspberry flavoured beer, a tart and terrific taste to get started! We took an extended tour of the city in search of Taphouse de Zanloper, a corner bar with distinctive beers, which our guide promised were unrivalled.  Unfortunately, after the lengthy journey, the establishment proved less impressive than had been suggested. I tried some traditional white beers, which whilst tasty, were not exactly mind blowing.  Finally, we made a mad dash in our remaining minutes to The Monk, a bar that we were promised… for sure this time, the interesting Belgic beer in a horn shaped glass could be consumed.  It was a delightful experience and rounded off brilliant Bruges in style. Making our way back to the vehicles, our last stop was the rather unconventional outdoor urinals, carefully positioned to ensure shop doorways did not become city toilets.

Before the end of the evening, as the last gasps of sunlight stretched over the horizon, a select group of us made an excursion to the campsite bar. After a few local beers, our taste for adventure took hold and acquiring a supply of beers for the trip, we made a dash for the ocean to experience the dusk delight of the expansive coast. The labyrinth-like route to the coastal area became rather more convoluted than it first appeared. Eventually we found the dark orange sands and inky Black Ocean, its soothing roar stretching into the audible distance. We braved the sands to experience a late taste of the evening sea air. It was a wonderful way to end the evening. On the way back, I was under the foolish notion a shortcut was available and, even more foolishly, made off alone to prove my point.Of course, I was incorrect, and wound up walking miles through the endless maze of roads in the darkest depths of the evening, before eventually finding my way back to the safety of the tent. As a seasoned explorer, I love to get lost, to be completely unsure what lies around the next bend. However, there is often a time and place; it might have been a lot more fun had there been any light to see what surrounded me!

Thankfully back in camp, tipsy, tired and toasty warm, I bedded down for the first of many nights under the stars, ready for the challenges which lay ahead.

To Be Continued…

Sutton Valence Castle

A mere stones-throw from our humble abode, on a commanding Kentish hillside, are the crumbling rubble remains of a mysterious castle.  On a windy winter afternoon, our little family decided to make a pilgrimage to the sleepy town of Sutton Valence to witness the once wondrous home of Lords and Earls, now reduced to an eerie outcrop of broken ragstone and mortar amongst the hilltop trees.

Our journey took us along twisting tarmac tracks through luscious hump back hills, fertile forests and forgotten villages until we reached the scenic hideaway we desired.  The little town of Sutton Valence, formerly Sudtone or Town Sutton (South Town) is every bit as adorable as we could have imagined.  The cutest period cottages lined up alongside ancient ragstone refuges, a delightful church on the hillside and glorious green fields with remarkable views over the endless valley beyond.  It was postcard perfect.

Sutton Valence lies on the Greensand ridge, overlooking the Vale of Kent and Weald. A Roman road once passed through the village and a significant number of high status Iron Age artefacts have been uncovered in the local area, including gold staters and Belgic pottery.  The position on the hillside overlooked a strategic route to the coast, lying between Maidstone, Rye and Old Winchelsea.  This position proved the catalyst for the construction of an important stronghold, which would dominate the landscape for centuries.

Baldwin of Bethune, the Norman Count of Aumale, most likely built the castle in the middle of the 12th century.  The original building probably comprised of an inner and outer bailey, round tower, keep and a protective barbican.  The castle passed through the Count’s family until it became the property of Simon De Montfort, 6th Earl of Leicester in 1238.  De Montfort famously led a rebellion against King Henry III during the second Baron’s war.  He was defeated, killed in the battle of Evesham in 1265 and his family were stripped of all his lands, including the castle at Sutton. The castle and surrounding lands were conferred to Henry’s half-brother, William de Valence for his assistance in quashing the rebellion. The town of Sutton thereon became Sutton Valence.

Very little of the original fortress remains.  It seems that sometime after the 14th century the castle fell into disrepair, not maintained until the 20th century, when the fragments of remaining fortifications were given to the state for preservation.  Eventually, English Heritage took charge of Sutton Valence Castle and they continue to tend its upkeep.  The castle, or what is left of it, is free to visit, though there is not an awful lot to see and a lengthy stay is probably unnecessary.

We ducked and dived around the relics and ruins for a little while, Audrey fascinated by the unnatural shapes and stunning scenery on show. There was not much in the way of directional options, most of the surrounding land being private property and fenced off from intrigued tourist types such as ourselves. Eventually we made for the country lane, wandering the path back to the town from whence we came.

After our brief excursion, clambering through the towers of the ancient castle, we took a gentle but lengthy stroll through some of the surrounding quaint countryside.  This was an opportunity for Bramble to let loose and sprint until her heart was content, tongue, ears and fur flapping in the breeze, she was in her element.  Clearly, the kind of community centred on family and animals, we were not alone enjoying the open space and fresh countryside air of the tiny town.

The town is home to an impressive 16th century boarding school.  William Lambe, master of the Worshipful Company of Clothworkers, founded Sutton Valence School in 1576. Our interests were piqued when rumours of ghostly goings on were shared. It appeared stories of other worldly beings within these ancient walls were numerous and included a little drummer boy who haunted the prefects lawn, a ghost in the tunnel between the main school and the Lambes building and a woman in white floating through the upper corridors of the same building. The whimpering sounds of a dog were often heard, understood to be owned by a WW2 soldier who killed both the dog and himself shortly after the war in a fit of depression. A servant girl in a white apron is said to haunt the kitchens, along with a darker, more dangerous spirit, perhaps a poltergeist. A cricketer is thought to stalk the halls and dining areas, and even the laundry is believed to house some ancient spirit. Was this the excitable imaginations of generations of eager schoolchildren… or something altogether more terrifying?

We decided to find a quiet spot and enjoy a good old-fashioned beer. Our first attempt at a was thwarted as the building we assumed a public house turned out to be a renovated home, with the old pub sign still hanging over the door.  This was disappointing to say the least, but fortunately, this was not a one-establishment town, and we made our way along the high street until we reached a tavern offering the “best garden terrace views” in town.  It was an offer we could not refuse.  We were not disappointed!  With a local beer in hand, we sat in the garden of the Clothworkers Arms and gazed across the green valley below.  Audrey danced on the decking and Bramble enjoyed some K9 snacks, perfectly happy to snuffle away in her own airy content.

Eventually it was time for us to retire, a snoozy baby and exhausted puppy in tow, we made for the car and took to the road.  With a final glance at the ghostly skeleton of a once mighty fortress, still guarding the little community who grew around it, we said a fond farewell, but certainly not a final one.

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…