Archaeology and Us: A tale in two parts

Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

Discovering Eden

The deep southern territories of Britannia contain many a fascinating terrain.  There are bewitching landscapes full of ancient monuments and historical curiosities. Areas bursting with legends, from ancient Kings to ferocious Giants and terrifying monsters.  This south western corner of the island attracts a certain unique sense of mystery. Today we were interested in the natural wonders of this leg of the island.  We would explore rainforests and grasslands, Mediterranean gardens and tropical climates.

Whilst our dearest Emily was busy uncovering prehistoric settlements in the remote hillsides, Audrey and I were joined in action by ArchaeoGranny and ArchaeoGrandad, who had been on their own adventures of the area.  We joined forces to trek through some of the most fascinating wilderness imaginable.  The wonders of the natural world, all contained within a delightful little bubble. Eden is a paradise, a spectacular feat of human ingenuity enhancing the natural environment.  It is nature, created by man, emulating nature.  The incredible biodomes cover vast collections of fauna from every corner of the globe.  Designed to resemble giant bubbles (a design chosen because bubbles can land on any uneven surface and retain their structure) the huge domes appear like a space age delight in the lush green valley.

We made our way into the valley.  In every corner and in every inch of space, was some exotic growth. With a scene reminiscent of the Jurassic Park arrival sequence, we wandered through mouths agape.  Audrey delighted in the vast colourful show, floral artistry interwoven with epic living statues.  Various creatures danced in and out of the unusual habitats, and placed perfectly amongst it all were hand crafted sculptures, created to replicate and enhance the vivacious views. Originally the area had been a vast China Clay pit, in use for over 160 years. In its old appearance, it had even claimed a starring role in the BBC’s 1981 TV series, the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. In 2001, after two and a half years construction, the full Eden Project opened its doors to the public, its two enormous Biomes and planted landscapes dominating the valley.  The Project found further cinematic stardom when it featured in the James Bond movie, Die another Day, and has been the focus of several vibrant concerts including being a part of the Live 8 series in 2005.

We made our way into the domes.  Audrey’s eyes were as wide as the windows as giant tropical rainforest fauna towered above us. The heat and humidity was stifling, a requirement for the survival of such exotic species, and a situation which added to the experience, tackling these alien landscapes. Following in the footsteps of explorers of old, we journeyed through the challenging climate and dense jungle, seeking enlightened understanding and perhaps, the origins of some ancient jungle mythology. Climbing gradually higher, the dome offered platforms for striking areal views. Thick fogs and steaming rains followed, cascading waterfalls and creatures of singular beauty and intrigue zipped this way and that.  Our party were acclimatising well and Audrey and I took notes of the specimens for later study. Banana plants, coffee, rubber and giant bamboo were just some of the delights we experienced.

Finally we decided it was time to move the expedition to more familiar ground, and so we headed for the Mediterranean. Here the warm temperate climate reminded me of quaint holidays as a young boy, in little Spanish or Italian villages by the ocean.  White wash walls, classical sculptures, olives, vineyards and calming folk music made us feel welcome and relaxed as we casually strolled through the winding paths and enjoyed the array of abundant wildlife.  It was a perfect wind-down from the jungle exertions!

Within the Core, Eden’s educational centre, an intriguing artwork caught our attention.  What appeared to our darling Audrey as a giant egg, was a piece named simply, Seed. Peter Randall-Page had designed and built the 70 tonne stone installation as an eye catching representation of the marvels of life. It stood four meters tall, and contained a unique patterning, apparently based upon the Geometric and Mathematical principles that underlie plant growth.  We gazed upon it in awe… before getting hungry and making the joint decision to retire to the canteen for well-deserved refreshments.  Finally, exhausted and having achieved our goals, we made for the transports and thought about getting back to camp.

With a final flourish of bravery, ArchaeoGrandad and I were drawn to the possibility of a terrifying flight of fancy, a zip wire catapulting the passenger over the entirety of this space age settlement, offering unrivalled views of the spectacular scenery and magical kingdom.  Alas, as we approached the boarding bay for this mission, we were swiftly dissuaded by the volume of passengers ahead of us, and the astonishing additional costs of the experience. Having weighed up the options, we wisely decided a nice beer in a warm pub would offer far greater comfort after such a long and educational day… and so that is precisely what we did!

Tonbridge Treasure... An Archaeofam Insta Story

This January, the Archaeobeeb and I embarked on an adventure through treacherous Tonbridge on the hunt of treasures untold… Here’s how we got on…

“Audrey… shall we go on an adventure today?”

“Umm, yes please daddy!”

After kitting ourselves in adventure gear and packing all necessary provisions for recording our adventure, we made haste to the Library to plan our route. Audrey drew up the plans

Time to gather the necessary provisions for our epic adventure, we will need a lot to get us through this difficult… erm, Audrey, are you snoozing?…

Erm, guess I will just have to wait for the explorer team leader to wake up… then the adventure can begin… watch this space…

The boss is awake, time for a quick energy boost then off on our adventure… 

Perhaps not totally awake just yet then…

We made it to the Castle… but ZZZ

And were off!!!! :) <3

The intrepid explorer discovers treasure, destined for the Natural History Museum no doubt!

More interactions with the indigenous wildlife, intrepid explorations in the deepest wilderness!

Argh!! the expedition was ambushed by evil villains from outa space! Only one thing for it… get out of there Easy Rider style! Time to return to the safety of home!

Escaped the bad guys, rescued the treasure, discovered new species and made it home in time for tea! Now that was one hell of an adventure! Time to relax :)

The Ruby Mines Murders - A British Library Investigation

My dearest Emily,

I can only apologise for the lack of correspondence of late, business has been extremely intense and the days have flown by in a haze of exploration, research and investigation.

I know you understand completely my darling, but here is an example of the cases we have been fortunate enough to work on of late. An intriguing murder case buried within the fascinating files of the India Office at the Library. I eagerly await your expert advice.

Amongst the Public and Judicial records of the India Office, there are tantalising glimpses into a darker side of life at the edge of Empire. A sinister file recently caught my eye.

The year was 1888, whilst all of England was gripped by the horrors occurring in London’s notorious Whitechapel, the British Army were busy expanding territories throughout Burma. The file related to a British Soldier stationed in a remote outpost of this colonial acquisition.

John William Grange, a Private in the 2nd Battalion Cheshire Regiment had been sentenced to death for the murder of two Burmese women. The murders had been committed in September 1888 in the Ruby Mines District, the trial had taken place in Rangoon in late November. An administration nightmare followed, leaving Grange imprisoned with the death sentence looming for over 18 months.

British prison registers indicated that Grange was previously tried, age 15 for ‘Breaking and entering a dwelling house and stealing… the monies and property of John Robinson at Lower Withington...’ The convict had lied about his age and criminal record when signing up to the army.

Military service records painted a vivid image of Grange. From Cheshire, he was 5’3” with dark hair, grey eyes and two scars above his right eye. Illiterate, he joined the 3rd Battalion Manchester Regiment Militia aged 17. At 18 he progressed to the Cheshire Regiment, serving two years in Europe and two years in India before arriving in Burma, November 1887.

English newspapers were published for British subjects in Burma. From our microfilm collections, the November 30th 1888 edition of the Rangoon Gazette contained a full disclosure of particulars related to…

‘The Ruby Mines Murders’

On September 15th 1888, a mother, daughter and son travelled along a road in a remote area near Bernadmyo when they encountered a British Soldier. The Soldier approached the young girl, grabbed her by the arm and offered her money. Terrified, the girl tried to run to her mother, who swung a large stick at the Soldier. The Soldier shot the mother in the chest. The young girl cried for her Brother to run, he fled into the forest. Another witness heard two gunshots, seven minutes apart. Seven minutes of pure hell for the young girl.

Grange claimed a fit of madness overcame him, he didn’t recall killing just that afterwards they lay dead. He threw the bodies into a ravine and covered them with banana leaves. The truth came out and Grange was arrested for murder.

After almost two years in jail, it was decided to commute the sentence to transportation for life. In 1901 Grange was finally released from Rangoon prison to serve his sentence.

A common location for Penal Servitude was Kālā Pānī on the Andaman Islands, a nightmarish dystopian prison. Escape was not an option, though many took their chances due to the unimaginable cruelty of the confinement. Torture, starvation, medical testing and murder were commonplace. If Grange saw out his days at Kālā Pānī, he probably wished for the original sentence.  I assume that John William Grange died in prison – or does an Archaeofam associate know otherwise?

The story of Private Grange serves as a dark reminder of all too common 19th century atrocities. 1888 will forever be synonymous with the murder and bloodshed of women. John William Grange is another thread in that tapestry of terror… there were undoubtedly many more.

Craig Campbell (Archaeodad)

Curatorial Support Officer

India Office Records

The British Library

Further reading

IOR/L/PJ/6/274, File 603 Case of a European soldier named Grange tried at Rangoon in November 1888 for murder of two Burmese women. 2 Apr 1890

IOR/L/PJ/6/276, File 744 The case of soldier Grange; convicted of murder by the Recorder of Rangoon; sentence commuted to penal servitude for life. 26 Apr 1890

IOR/L/PJ/6/281, File 1280 Case of John William Grange, a British soldier sentenced to death for the murder of two women in Upper Burma. 8 Jul 1890

Maps 159 Plan of the Ruby Mine Districts of Burma. Surveyed by R. Gordon ... 1887. (Burma, showing the position of the Ruby Mines.) H. Sharbau del. London, May 1888.

Asia, Pacific & Africa IOR/V/24/2240 Criminal justice report of Lower Burma. Rangoon: Judicial Department, 1885-1889.

Microform. MFM.MC1198 Rangoon Gazette Weekly Budget. 1887 to 1940. Burma Rangoon. General Reference Collection 1887-1900, 1906-1928

Microform. MFM.MC1160 The Englishman. 1874 to 1934. India Calcutta. General Reference Collection 1874-1896; 1908-1934

Find My Past https://www.findmypast.co.uk/

(While within British Library you have access to certain records through a partnership with Findmypast)

Expedition Utopia

Journal Entry: 24th August 2019

The simmering morning heat hung mid-air like vast weightless panes of molten glass.  Our trusty vessel coughed and spluttered through the throngs of scantily clad tourists until the serene splendour of Knole House came into view, rising from the horizon like a magnificent morning sun.  It should have been a day for moving as little as possible, with iced drinks and battery-powered fans close to hand, but we were on an investigation, so we braved the unnatural August heat wave to explore an ancient household with a perturbing past.

Knole House has its origins in the 13th century, when the substantial estate likely harboured a luxurious manor house. The estate passed through numerous wealthy landowners including the De Knoles, the Gravehursts and the Ashburnhams and as each left their individual aspect, the volume of the estate expanded and the country seat was continuously improved upon.  In the 15th century, the house fell into the hands of Thomas Langley, Bishop of Durham, seemingly the first in a long line of esteemed religious occupants to dwell here, perhaps seeking spiritual perfection amidst the stunning slopes of the Darenth Valley.

James Fiennes, First Lord Saye acquired the house and began a callous campaign of cruel corruption, the harm of which would scar the very stones of these ancient foundations. Forcing neighbouring estates to sell up upon threat of death, he extended the lands until his vile power mad monopoly enticed the common folk to rebel under Jack Cade.  Fiennes was found guilty in a makeshift trail by the rebels and beheaded in London, his head placed upon a spike and paraded through the streets before adorning London Bridge as was the custom for those deemed traitors to the realm. 

Fiennes heir, William sold the property to Thomas Bourchier, the first of five Archbishops of Canterbury who would reside at Knole. They were John Morton (who died in the house), Henry Deane, William Warham and Henry VIII’s reformation co-conspirator, Thomas Cranmer.  Each of these owners, and those who came after, had their own fascinating stories and added to the illuminating tapestry of intrigue and often terror tied to Knole House, but on this occasion we had come for one in particular, John Morton... or more precisely, his household page, the boy who would eventually become, Saint Thomas More.

Thomas More had grown up under the guidance of Morton. With strong Catholic beliefs he had considered becoming a monk before training in Law, the two trades probably more similar than you might imagine.  His life would be turbulent, with an astonishing rise to power and a dramatic fall from grace under new religious regimes. It would finally end in execution for failing to cooperate in the enforced new world vision.

It is however, his childhood at Knole that brought us out in the almost unbearable late summer sun.  Following a chaotic study of our humble library, darling Audrey in her eager and ever excitable way had discovered a mysterious map, one that appeared to link to the childhood scribbling of the soon to be Saint, Thomas More.  The map, so Audrey explained with a mixture of chalk and double syllable sounds, led to a gateway of some description, the gateway to...  Utopia.

It had been Mores seminal work, his vision of a perfect Island society.  According to the work, Utopia, a play on Greek words meaning no place, or perhaps good place, lay somewhere in Brazil and was discovered by four intrepid explorers left behind during Amerigo Vespucci’s 1507 voyage.  Here though was a map and a message, long before the pen had fallen upon paper to publish Utopia. More had seemingly discovered the perfect paradise right here in England, somewhere near his onetime childhood home of Knole.

This was too intriguing a puzzle to be dismissed, Audrey was keen to follow the lead and Bramble was determined to take control of security, should we encounter any evils on our potentially world changing challenge.  Emily and I had packed up the expedition gear and our trusty vessel sped us safely to the infamous mansion.

The house is an astonishing work of architecture, gradually pieced together from age to age, ever enlarging the already astounding pile.  We marvelled at its lush courtyards and commanding frontage.  Legend suggests the building is a calendar house, its seven courtyards symbolising days of the week, fifty two staircases mirroring the weeks of the year and its 365 rooms designed to match the days of the year.  The purpose of such an alignment remains a mystery, perhaps one linked to our own?  Our map however, did not require us to explore the house in detail; it was leading us into the extensive grounds surrounding it.

We took a moment to enjoy some provisions in the shelter of the house, then fully refreshed, we sauntered along glorious garden paths leading through the vast estate scenery. These days they have mostly been taken over by all manner of modern recreational activities, golf courses, cricket pitches, picnic tables, cafes and predestined walkways where once ancient Monarchs hunted deer and boar in acres of haunting forest.  The deer thankfully live life a little easier these days, casually grazing in the grounds without a care in the world, a far cry from the struggles of their ancestors. 

For us though, the hunt was on, we had to find the truth behind More’s idyllic paradise, his Utopia.  Did the map lead to some enchanted wonderland, wherein the perfect society lived out life in harmony and love, unafraid of the terrors of corrupt government, of criminals and disasters, murderers and thieves, of famine and poverty, pain and suffering, rich and poor?  If it existed, even in some secret realm, surely the path had been laid before us in these tantalising spaghetti like archaic markings.

The footpath we followed led away from the grand house, to the summit of a high hill with stunning views across the luscious green valleys and into a gloomy woodland beyond.

Even in the ecstatic August midday sun, the forest remained a dark, depthless void. The gleam of day lost its safe comforting warmth as it was pushed unceremoniously from existence by the unending canopy of trees which swallowed us whole.  We ventured along previously trodden pathways for as long as we could manage but soon they were slim, vague trails disappearing along with the sunlight.  This was the domain of fairies and goblins, of pixies and witches.  Here in the dark of nature’s most haunting arena, direction and time were quick to disperse into nothingness.

Audrey was the bravest of all of us, fearlessly leading the way through the darkness, navigating difficult trails and carefully examining the surroundings for reasons of both security and curious anticipation.  The map directed us onwards, with Audrey at the helm and Bramble patrolling the rear and flanks for any sign of unwanted evils stalking us through the mysterious terrain.

Just when all seemed lost, when it appeared we had ventured further than was sensible, our persistence was rewarded.  We came upon our Eden.  Utopia rose majestically above us, hidden from existence by nature’s tangled, merciless army of beech, birch and oak, and guarded by deep circling scours upon the earth, gruesomely guzzling incomers and making approach and entry almost impossible.

Here, beyond these defences, was a world of beautiful balance, where once a society had existed in harmonious perfection before the encroaching invaders had taken hold and implemented their cruel capitalist systems to a community who held a deep and powerful connection with the lands upon which they depended and belonged.

Oldbury Hillfort was built in the 1st century BC by British Iron Age tribes and later occupied by the invading Belgic populations. Excavations during the 1930’s and 1980’s suggest the fort was abandoned around 50BC, possibly coinciding with the further invasion of Caesar.

It is the largest hillfort in the south east of England, and commands a strategic location overlooking routes through the weald. A substantial bank and ditch encircle the enormous hilltop, in its day, impressive wooden gates would have stood at its two entrances. These had been burnt down, perhaps in some episode of conflict or unrest, perhaps merely a mistake or abandonment, but with them, and the introduction of new powers and rulers, the Utopia of More’s childhood dreams had been wiped from the earth.

We spent a good deal of time following the map and exploring our Utopia, we sat in enormous twisting trees and ate blackberries from the branch, ventured through the undergrowth to hidden grottos and sacred spaces.  We imagined a world of peace and tranquillity on that hilltop, before the need for deep defensive barriers had been necessary.  It is a peaceful, well hidden wonderland, and Audrey was in her element amongst the chaotic random beauty nature had reclaimed as her own.

Eventually it was time to retreat.  Our weary limbs and enriched minds still swimming in the splendour of the cooling afternoon air, we made our way down the hill and back to civilisation and reality once more.  It wasn’t quite the end of our epic journey, the pub was on the agenda, a well deserved drink for solving another imaginative mystery, a refreshing water for Bramble, a soothing milk for Audrey, and something a little stronger for Emily and I... for a job well done.

Entry ends.

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.