Wild and Wicked Whitby Wonders...

There is a destination whispered continuously through the curious circles of horror literature. This is a place steeped in history and legend, famed throughout the known world. We had to see for ourselves. Despite being less than an hour away, we had yet to explore the infamous seaside town of Whitby.

Famed for its Abbey and its associations with blood-sucking demons of darkness, Whitby has become a Mecca for those who enjoy the delights of gothic imagination.  Twice a year Whitby hosts a Goth Festival. Heroes of the macabre, mechanical music and monochrome fashion descend on the town to share an appreciation of a subculture much evolved from its primitive beginnings.

The festival, however, would not be for another few months. We chose to venture into the town on an altogether more horrifying weekend… the Bank Holiday.

During the beautiful scenic drive, we mused with wide eyes and electrified minds. Approaching from the stunning North York Moors, we crossed the horizon and peered down upon Whitby.  The town is sprawled across steep slopes falling to the mouth of the River Esk, where it empties into the North Sea.

The first evidence of settlement at Whitby appears in the 7th century AD when the Abbey was founded by the Christian King of Northumbria, Oswiu.  It saw Viking raids and the rebuilding of monasteries as the town grew and grew.  The name Whitby comes from the Old Norse meaning White Settlement. In later history, it became an important maritime centre, where famed figures such as Captain Cook would learn their seamanship. The architecture is delightfully quirky and traditional; the streets are narrow and windy, the views are to die for.

The gem of this great literary centre is, of course, Whitby Abbey.  The Abbey ruin sits atop the East cliff as the town’s oldest monument.  It was built as an act of thanks following the defeat of Penda, the pagan Anglo-Saxon King of Mercia. Its first Abbess was the royal princess Hild, who was later venerated as a saint.  The Abbey was home to Caedmon, the earliest English poet, who cared for animals and was unaware of the gift of words until he miraculously dreamt the art of song. It would be destroyed and rebuilt over the centuries until Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries finally left it to ruin.

We had made the journey along with ArchaeoNana, to enjoy the seaside resort and see what all the fuss was about.  As I mentioned, however, we chose the wrong day for a visit.  The bank Holiday seemed to be an excuse for mass pandemonium in this little town. As with most coastal hotspots, the usual popular vendors of souvenir shops, ice cream parlours, fast food joints, penny arcades and public houses are prominent.  On this day, all were utterly bursting at the seams.

Families crowded the narrow streets, gangs of adults filled the pubs, cars and busses clogged up the chaotic roads.  Noise and smog suffocated the air. The searing summer heat did little to alleviate the claustrophobia of it all.  Merely seeking suitable parking was beyond stressful. So far, not the incredible adventure we had anticipated.

Fortunately, as we made our way up the 199 steps leading to the Abbey, the enclosed chaos began to evaporate and an open and relaxed atmosphere befell our party. Up here in the heavens, amongst the ancient ruins of the Abbey, it was a different world.  The air was fresh, a serene quiet hung over the stone relics.  We explored the historic building blocks perched upon the cliff edge. The views over the ocean were sublime, even the busy shuffle of life from the town below appeared as a quaint visual curiosity.

Throughout the ancient world, people have been drawn to this area for the luxury gemstone, Jet. Derived from wood of the Monkey Puzzle Tree, changed under extreme pressure. Jet has been used for jewellery and prized objects since at least the neolithic period.

Thanks to the timing of our visit, we witnessed an incredible immersive performance of Bram Stoker’s mesmerising literary success, Dracula. From within the walls of its inspiration, we followed the characters and tussled on that most epic of journeys. We cowered as Dracula pursued his blood lust. We cheered as Jonathon Harker escaped his clutches and Abraham Van Helsing assisted in defeating the demon.

Our final adventure of the evening came with a choppy boat ride out into the deep blue of the North Sea. The brief maritime excursion offered a viewpoint from which Dracula himself might have first appreciated the gothic splendour of this special site.  The waters were particularly rough, it was a nervy journey for us, but one that Audrey found immensely enjoyable!

We squeezed into a small pub on the hill for a farewell drink, the place was rammed and not the most comfortable, but the beer was good and to my delight, we even caught a little of the bank holiday football.

Making our way back to the car, we joined the throngs of tourists leaving town.  It was a slow and uncomfortable exit, but once out of town, the traffic eased and we enjoyed the glorious greens of the Moors as the sun set over the horizon and day was overtaken by night...

...into the realm of bloodsucking demons!

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 3

Salty surf washes coolly across my face as rays of sunlight bounce and mix. Bubbles obscure my vision temporarily, and suddenly we’ve crossed the precipice to find ourselves awash in sunlight filtered through the wings of angels.  Our world extends into a vast, unrelenting blue. The slow descent to the deep hazy bottom begins. Normally murky green and grey Scottish diving conditions blossom into memories of the Pacific, as Azure, Cerulean and Ultramarines unfold before our eyes, finally revealing pink and green kelp. The kelp sways in rhythm to the endless surf and tide. It feels natural, this sway and pitch, as Jacques Cousteau once astutely observed, “the tides are in our veins.”

As the bubbles rise in a steady stream up to the surface, we check our dials. 5m… 8m… 12m… We can see the ground rising to meet us and we check in at a final 27m, the pressure now noticeable. Careful fin flicks ensure we don’t slick the bottom. To do so would fill our entire field of vision with murk and sediment, harming the flora and fauna of this alien world in which we are merely tolerated guests. We set our compasses and navigate in the formation we’d practised for months, checking our bearings, always keeping an eye on the time and our air.

My dive buddy takes the lead, whilst I content myself searching for signs of shipwreck debris; a strange and out of place timber, a misshapen metal item, a rounded surface, a jagged or flat edge. The flash of my camera blazes the eyes of the fish that pass, curious and most blissfully unaware. Of the Esperance? Nothing reveals itself. I look about, maintaining our agreed-upon search pattern, moving ever westward when a motion catches the corner of my eye. A crab drifts on the current 20 cm from me and though I slow my kicks to avoid it, the current lifts it against my mask where the crab now attaches itself. Its small eyes scan my face. With this close encounter, I manage to muffle a scream, knowing full well that nobody – neither the crab nor my dive buddy – can hear me. It releases a claw from the side of my mask, threatening with a little snap, snap, snap, beady eyes still on me. Before I can make another move, it releases its other claw and drifts off on another adventure. I take a heavy inhale from my regulator before catching up the few meters of distance that have grown between me and my dive partner.

The kelp that envelops us in its embrace suddenly thins out, becoming a desert of sand stretching out ahead. To think this desert is unoccupied would be premature. Sand crabs scuttle about as we pass over, some threatening us with fighting claws, some preferring the safety and solitude of their underground homes. My right eye twitches slightly, hoping they don’t make any acrobatic attempts at my mask. Sanddabs flit past, visible to the untrained eye when swimming, before suddenly disappearing to the bottom. My dive buddy rubs his tummy, suggesting he would very much like to eat these dabs. I roll my eyes, a vegetarian with no choice but to humour my friend.

Still no Esperance. We look at each other, acknowledging that the search so far has been fruitless. A few more fin kicks and we see the outline of the Kartli. We know we’ve come to the end of the search zone. Air and time running low, we must navigate back to our buoy line and head to the surface.

Our return to the buoy is simple: Paul is a capable underwater navigator. We gently swim our way back across the sandy seafloor before coming back into the kelp forest. There’s a calm enjoyment in visiting this magical place where life abounds in 4D all around you; a wonderful number of little creatures, drifting, swimming and crawling about, blissfully unaware of your worries. Their serenity is contagious and by the time we make it back to the buoy, I breathe easily and forget that our hunt for the Esperance has been fruitless. We take a brief look at the kelp around us and with a nod, carefully begin our ascent to the surface: kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Holding fast at our safety stop, I snap a picture of my fins for fun. These split fins have seen me through interesting waters, and today’s adventure will be another story for them to tell.

Hours later, safely back in our host’s home, I’m checking over my records and photographs, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Esperance that may have been missed during the dive, but no… A second dive hadn’t been possible with the surface interval required. I tinker with my camera, ensuring the casing hasn’t been cracked or compromised on the cow poo trailer ride back. We hadn’t the luxury of the massive body of cleansing water waiting for us on our return journey. The water troughs at the farmhouse were a real blessing, even if it did see three piratey divers in their skivvies, cold and muddied at the ankles, wrists and necks.

We joke that despite finding little, at least it has been a successful dive. A successful dive is one that you return from, I remind myself. And it’s true. We have all come back together for another evening meal on the Isle of Gigha. Tomorrow would involve less diving, with a coastal survey planned for another potential crannog, followed by an evening home visit to a lady who has a strange lintel stone. There’s been no sign of the Esperance, but further research and high-tech equipment will prepare either us or the next wave of researchers that come out to chance their luck at finding her.

McSporren yells to us. He’s made grilled, “vegetarian” sanddabs to celebrate the day. My little team will be thrilled, but I already feel like I’ve ingested enough of the sea today.

I think I’ll opt for the aqua vita instead.

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 2

Suits, masks and boots donned, we board the tractor’s trailer and begin a jaunty journey to the coast which, though visible from almost every point of the island, is blockaded from easy access by the pens of dairy farms. The trailer jolts us back and forth over muddy fields and stony boundaries, seatbelts not included. We grapple with the diesel smoke from the tractor, clanging cylinders, muck (a polite word for wet puddles of cow paddies) coating us as it splashes up from the drenched field tracks. We all laugh, feeling incredibly grateful that we didn’t take the locals’ advice to get changed into our drysuits once on the coastline. Without those drysuits, we would have been utterly coated to the skin in… well, kuh paddy!

The mists begin to clear and the proprietor of the ‘big house’ is waiting for us on the shore, with windbreaker flapping and maritime map in hand. I don’t say anything, but it all feels like a big underwater film production, with the local expert coming to help out the book smart but slightly clueless specialists. It makes me smile, which to everybody else merely seems to suggest a very polite American who is friendly despite being covered in cow poop and having been lurched to the point of nearly seeing those gleaming eyed sprats again. No television crew here… Just a shore-based archaeologist, kitted out in case of an underwater emergency, my dive partner – years more experienced in diving than even my own 15 – and now, the man from the big house. The man greets us warmly after last night’s meal and frivolities. As the west coast breeze whips through, reminding us of the impending autumn, he begins pointing out appropriate places to enter, suggesting the various rock formations that jut from the surf where we would be best placed to search for the Esperance’s remains.

Likely locations for the Esperance had been suggested previously by professionals and amateurs throughout the century of its disappearance, but the actual whereabouts still remain a mystery. If we could find even a trace of it, we would be filling in a large piece of Gigha’s puzzling maritime past, and putting to rest (or to right?) stories about shipwrecked passengers who took refuge on the island. Our task is to make a series of coordinated passes across the kelp beds, out across a swathe of sand and finally to the Kartli (a known shipwreck). We bashfully try to rinse as much of the muck from ourselves as possible while he speaks to us; we want to seem neither concerned nor too comfortable covered in the island’s brown gold, nor do we want to wait until our actual dive to be free of the mess.

With approving final nods, a plan and safety checks, we begin our entry into the lapping waters of the Sound of Jura. We swim out on our backs to an agreed upon point, the sun now beaming across the water creating blinding reflections, and my dive buddy deploys a buoy to mark entry and exit points.

We had reached our dive site.

To be concluded…

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 1

As the darkness of night broke into the dim light of dawn, a mist hung over the landscape like the woollen blanket that had hung over my head only thirty minutes earlier; reluctant to be removed but resigned to the inevitability. An early September morning on the Isle of Gigha and we have five days to search for a legendary Spanish ship, provide a basic survey of a potential crannog (i.e. Scottish lake house built on stilts), and do a general walkover of the island, on the lookout for any oversights to the coastal heritage.

Cylinders clinked into place as buckles and straps tightened, a few boxes of extra supplies tucked into a dirty corner of the open-bed trailer and scuba sets carefully strapped onto the sides where they seemed least likely to get dirty or damaged. Drysuits, rock boots and snorkels carefully stowed at the back of the trailer for a quick change before we set off: a day’s work before 6 am.

Now the team turned to its final morning agenda: breakfast. Willie McSporren – you couldn’t make that name up – had seemingly been awake for hours before everybody else. From the moment of awakening, we were all caught by the thick and heady smell of sprats being fried in butter, bread toasting in an over the fire, wire cage. Buttered sprats: the McSporren household’s answer to a vegetarian diet. He’s our host. What can you do?

Crusted bread topped in wet sprats, eyes still gleaming, tossed down with regrettably none of the smoky whisky of the previous night, we returned to the day’s main point: surveying the coastline for the Esperance, a legendary vessel wrecked somewhere off the west coast of the island. There had been a mutiny on board, the captain killed, along with his wife and two other crew members. The remaining crew lost control of the ship. Upon finally making it to shore, there was a scuffle over who would take the coin purse, allegedly full of Spanish gold and silver coins. In the chaos, the purse was flung into the sea. Hamish’s great uncle had once found not one, but two, ‘Spanish Doubloons’ on the west coast. They became the pendant of a local woman’s necklace, though of course the necklace had since been lost, and nobody could say exactly where those coins had been found.

The mutineers ran through the dark of night to the Tarbert farm, some making their way to other ports, never to be heard from again, while the others?… Magnus’s older brother swears that they’re the descendants of one of the marooned sailors who took up residence and dairy farming on the island, marrying one of the daughters and accounting for Magnus’s dark hair and olive complexion. His family gave an artefact from the Esperance, a powder horn, to another local woman as a gift many decades earlier. The horn is said to be in her possession, but its exact location within her belongings cannot be established. One of the dairy farmers that we run into on the pathway to the trailer contends that on stormy November evenings, you can see the outline of the ship on the horizon, just off the coast at Port Ban.

Based on the stories surrounding the Esperance, the team had been weeks in preparing for our excursion. We had painstakingly checked the online Canmore records, gone over historic maritime charts, asked around the Edinburgh museums for any information related to the vessel. There was very little information, so this trip to Gigha would be its own recce in the truest sense. A week earlier, we had all sat around the training table at the dive office, discussing logistics and planning our schedule: meet and greet the islanders (all 100?), a day of diving, two days on coastal surveys, one day on a walkover. Finally, the big day had come and we had loaded the dive van full of kit, archaeology supplies, our maps and records, camera equipment and plenty of spares of everything – there were no air fill stations or ScubaPro repair shops on Gigha. After an hour of the gentle ferry ride, we had finally come into port at Ardminish, greeted by ‘the man from the big house’, our host Willie McSporren and the man who invited us to the island in the first place, an acquaintance (now the mayor of Gigha) I’d known from Edinburgh.

As the ferry pulled away and we looked about the island, we had no idea what the next day would bring, but for this night we would enjoy the hospitality of our hosts and draw up a plan for tomorrow’s big dive: our hunt for the Esperance.

To be continued…

Off with their heads... A day at the Tower

Beneath delightful blue winter skies, seeking ancient historical mysteries, our merry little band entered through the gates of the most notorious building in all of Great Britain, The Tower of London.

It would be impossible to write a brief blog on the history of this incredible site.  Built in the 11th century as a fortress by William the Conqueror, to establish his dominance over the island following invasion, the Tower and its surrounding structures have since been a royal residence, a prison, a mint, a stronghold and even a menagerie. Over 1000 years of turbulent tales are locked within its walls.

Emily organised our amazing visit as a wonderfully thoughtful gift, knowing that despite my years in the capital, I had yet to witness the famous fortress.  My excitement was impossible to disguise from the moment of waking, right through until we consumed a final beer on the way home.  The historian in me danced on clouds of delight, drunk on the abundance of chronicles connected to this Thameside treat.

There are countless blogs and websites dedicated to the intriguing tales connected to this little bit of land.  Home to the Crown Jewells of Great Britain, it has produced stories of Kings and Queens, prisoners, tortures, punishments and executions; dark tales like that of the Princes in the Tower, mere children destined for the throne whose lives were cut short in the name of power; tales of Queens decapitated by ruthless Kings; tales of persecuted religious martyrs. The list is endless.

As we wandered through the various Tower buildings, each with its own unique heritage, it was clear the histories locked in these walls were too numerous to fully explore.  We could have spent a day in each room. Reconstructed bed chambers, chapels, dungeons, throne rooms and armouries appeared with each new step.  Trying to consume it all was difficult.  The tours are highly recommended, and by the sound of it, as hilarious as they are educational!

Characters such as Elizabeth I, Sir Walter Raleigh, Guy Fawkes, even the infamous Kray brothers were prisoners here. Unsurprisingly, tales of haunting are plentiful; the ghost of Anne Boleyn is thought to roam Tower Green and a cousin of Queen Elizabeth who starved to death in the tower is said to remain in the Queen’s House, these are just some of the spectres stalking this ancient pile.

For our part, we were fascinated by stories from before the famous White Tower was erected.  Much of our intrigue emerged from fanciful mythology surrounding this particular hill by the Thames.  As it happens, there is tantalising evidence of life at this location prior to William the Conquerors immense building project, it is perhaps a little less well known, but equally as fascinating.

Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae told of Brutus, a Trojan descendant who having been banished from Italy began a journey across Europe.  Amassing a number of Trojan exiles and winning many battles, Brutus was visited in a dream by the goddess Diana who prophesied he would discover an island occupied by Giants and create a New Troy.

According to Monmouth, the island would take his name, from Brutus to Brittania.  Brutus discovered Albion around 1170BC and ridding it of Giants became the first in a line of great kings.  He searched the island for a suitable home and coming upon the Thames he chose a site, naming it Troia Nova (New Troy). The Welsh name for tower hill was the Bryn Gwyn, roughly translated as the white hill.  It is here in this apparently sacred mound, that Brutus of Troy is said to be buried.

In a collection of Welsh folk tales called Mabinogion, is the story of the Giant Bendigeidfran, or Bran the Blessed, King of England.  Bran led an invasion of Ireland, wading across the sea and laying over the islands as a bridge so his men could cross.  He was fatally injured by a poisoned spear during the battle.  On his death bed, he ordered his followers to decapitate him, and take my head and carry it to the Gwynfryn (White Hill) in London and bury it with its face towards France.  Gwnfryn has been identified by some commentators with Tower Hill.  The buried head is believed to have kept the island safe from invasion until none other than King Arthur himself ordered it to be exhumed, claiming no other force than himself was required to defend the island.

The custom of keeping severed heads has been recognised in Celtic cultures. They are thought to have believed the head housed the soul and so they would keep the heads of their enemies.  The word Bran in Welsh means crow, and so the legend has attached itself to the presence of ravens at the Tower of London.  Charles II was informed of a prophecy that if the ravens left the tower, the white tower would collapse and a terrible fate would befall the nation.

Flint flakes and deposits of worn pottery were discovered beneath accumulated layers of sand and gravel during excavations in the south-east corner of the inmost ward in 1955 and 1976.  Towards the end of the prehistoric period, the river level declined, leaving a dry area.  Here excavations revealed flint flakes and Iron Age pottery along with a shallow grave containing a skeleton of a young male, 13 – 16 years old.  Radiocarbon dating of the skeleton revealed that it dates to no earlier than the beginning of the first century AD.  The style and ritual of the burial suggest that the male died just before the Roman invasion of AD43. Pits and pottery of Iron Age date have been uncovered from sites around the Tower.

Much of the archaeology in this area has traditionally been focused on the Roman wall and was the result of refurbishment in buildings in the surrounding area between the 1930s and the present day.  Sites produced a wealth of artefacts such as building material, sword scabbards, flints, Roman pottery sherds and even a sandstone sarcophagus with the skeleton of a child dated to the 4th century. The evidence led to the hypothesis a cemetery was in use during the 3rd and 4th centuries, just outside the city walls. In 1899, part of a structure which included a channelled hypocaust system was found some 16 feet south-west of the White Tower.

As our legs tired and our minds were full of wonders, it was time to escape the Tower and head for home.  Not before a nice drink by the Thames of course, to look out over the river and try to arrange the mass of historical stories we had witnessed. The Tower has a gruesome and terrifying past, but it has remained at the centre of importance on our little island at the edge of the earth for as long as there has been a London.  It was a true pleasure to experience it in an age where the majority get to walk out alive!

The Great British Dig - History in your Back Garden

Deep beneath the soil of a quiet Kentish town, a secret history lay hidden for centuries.  Tantalising scraps of evidence had previously suggested a Roman Villa once lay here, clinging to the luscious hillside, now a delightful suburban residential sprawl.

We were here on a specific quest, an attempt to unearth evidence for this long-forgotten Roman Villa. The site in question was exposed several times during the 19th century and had been recorded on early edition Ordnance Survey maps.  If it existed, it lay around 200m north of the river Medway, an area now covered by Victorian terrace houses and gardens.

There are five other Villa sites known in the Maidstone area. These include Eccles Villa, Mount Villa, East Farleigh Villa, Teston and East Barming with further important structures in the surrounding Kent countryside. It is believed the abundance of these luxurious economical centres was due to the importance of Kentish Ragstone quarrying, producing essential materials for the creation of Roman buildings, possibly even the stone of Roman London.

At the site we were set to investigate, foundations were uncovered in 1893, along with a nearby Romano-British cemetery. Excavations in 2004 unearthed plunge pools lined with opus signinum floors and tesserae, an apsidal room and multiple drainage systems. In 2008 a metalled surface was also discovered as well as evidence of building materials.  All this suggested a Villa lay somewhere nearby.

These Villas are often found to have a bathhouse attached to the structure.  Hypocaust systems have been discovered during many of the excavations at these local sites.

We were part of a unique team on the excavation, drawn from all corners of the archaeological community, with specialists and excavators working alongside dedicated documentary teams to record the experience.  Most importantly, we worked closely with the wonderful populations of this quiet Kent borough, the families who lived and worked and spent their lives just meters above these ancient treasures.

What an experience this was, beyond the archaeology itself, which proved a huge hit with all the residents of the area, we gained so much meeting these wonderful people whose gardens we systematically destroyed in the name of historical interest!

A close community of friendly and fantastic families kept us smiling throughout the three-day duration of the excavations.  As we pushed for progress, desperately keen to discover the truth beneath the earth, they heroically led the way, excavating alongside us and keeping up our spirits with stories of the locality and characters through the years.

Every evening we gathered at the local pub, to wind down and enjoy reliving the day’s events and discoveries.  More and more of the community connected with us, gleefully narrating their own stories of discovery and local historical knowledge.  It was certainly the most satisfying aspect of the experience.

We reached the end of the project, exhausted but elated.  It would have been wonderful to have spent more time on these excavations, but alas our commitments elsewhere meant for us, this was the end for now.

With fond farewells, we waved goodbye to this corner of Roman Kent and made for home.

Did we find what we set out to discover?.... You will have to see for yourselves...

The 19th century Witch Trials - A British Library Investigation

My dearest Emily,

As we continue in this uncertain situation, I have been focusing my energy on the research of our collections at the Library. I stumbled upon some revealing documents regarding the attempts to quell the trend of witch hunting in India during the 19th century.

Belief in witches is an ancient tradition, as are the processes for discovering witchcraft and the often brutal techniques engaged to determine guilt or innocence.

Many of us are familiar with the infamous 17th-century witch hunts in Britain and America, events which spawned imaginative and gruesome literature and stirred a supernatural phenomenon intriguing worldwide audiences to this day.

Far from the glamour of fiction, the true war against witches was a horrifying affair. We look back with shame at the vile and unnecessary persecution of women during these periods. Cruel tortures all too easily excused through demonic accusation.

Whilst attitudes towards witchcraft in Britain had mostly altered by the 19th century, some of the countries engulfed by its Empire still experienced events with frightening parallels. The theatre of witch-hunting, sham trials, torture and murder, were prevalent throughout India.

A wealth of correspondence and reports in the India Office collections offer a unique insight into attempts by the British Government to stamp out these archaic practices.  There are detailed proceedings of trials, first-hand accounts and correspondence between officers and officials attempting to control the issue.

Usually, villagers would seek advice from a local witch hunter, or Bhopa, who would identify the witch. The most common punishment for witchcraft in India was witch swinging. From the records available, it appears survival was rare. One report offered the following description:

“Without trial or being heard in defence, the supposed witch is seized, her eyes stuffed with red chillies and bandaged and ropes are tied firmly round her legs and waist. She is then taken to a tree and swung violently, with her head downwards, from about 9 O’clock to sunset each day, till she confesses to a falsehood or dies under the barbarous infliction. She is never loosed or unbound day or night.”

Many other indecencies and tortures were conducted, and even if the accused somehow survived these horrendous ordeals, they were exiled from their homes and branded a witch forevermore.

During a case in the Singhbhum district in 1822, an entire family of seven were violently murdered by an individual who claimed the head of that family was “in the habit of destroying people by witchcraft”.  The suspect was soon detained, but in an event which surely did nothing to quell the fears of superstitious witnesses, the murderer suffered “sudden death as a consequence of epilepsy” just before his trial.

In 1842, a woman in Palachpoor was found to have been brutally murdered in the jungle close to her village, her head split open by a blow from a large stick. The chief suspect was her step son.  When cross examined, he claimed she had been practicing witchcraft and had “eaten two buffaloes of mine and 10 persons of the village, including his brother’s wife and sister’s daughter”. The woman’s own daughter admitted in court that her mother had always been a witch, announcing “she used to bite people and they died in consequence”. Her younger son went further exclaiming “she had an evil eye.” It emerged that the unfortunate woman had recently reported her step son’s involvement in a robbery.  In his fury, he forced her into the jungle and beat her to death.  Despite this knowledge, the jury felt, because of the witchcraft accusation, a verdict of murder was unfair. A short prison sentence and hard labour was agreed upon.

During 1849, a lady called Eullal, in the village of Chapra, was accused of witchcraft by village leaders. They claimed her eye had fallen upon a villager named Koobla, who had contracted an illness and died 11 days later. A gathering of village officials concluded that Eullal was guilty and, once it had been agreed to distribute her possessions and properties amongst themselves, Eullal was seized and charged. She had chili paste rubbed into her eyes before bandages were applied to stop her evil glare afflicting further victims. Eullal survived this ordeal and was left tied to a tree. The villagers departed at around 6pm. By 9pm, Eullal was dead. It was argued a slave had killed Eullal, under the orders of the Thakere.  A punishment of 25 Rupees was suggested by the Raja.

In 1856 in the Mewar region, Captain John Brooke wrote of “the atrocity of the practice of swinging women” as he reported an eight month pregnant woman who was accused by a Bhopa of being a witch and swung to her death. He sadly lamented “I would remark that there is little hope of the custom ceasing till it becomes dangerous to follow the profession of Bhopa”.

In 1864, the mother of a man was accused of witchcraft when his wound, despite being sewn up, issued blood. It had been a family member who made the accusation. The mother was seized, stabbed with the sword and thrown into the river under the accusations of witchcraft. Somewhat conveniently, the family members involved in the unfortunate woman’s demise received her money and property shortly after her execution.

In 1868, on the advice of a Bhopa named Munna, a woman called Kunkoo was accused of making an Indian Army private’s wife sick by witchcraft. The soldier and his brother encouraged action from villagers, who seized Kunkoo and forced her hands into boiling oil, then swung her for days.  The soldier’s wife died from her ailment and the old lady was released, only to be found murdered in the forest shortly after. During questioning the brothers denied killing Kunkoo, instead blaming another villager, Nugga.  When asked why he would have reason to kill the old lady, Private Bujjeea claimed “Nugga told me that she had eaten his uncle and his mother and a cow, so he killed her”.

These and countless other cases were reported by the British authorities in India, many more undoubtedly went unreported.

Whilst the reports clearly indicate the government were keen to stamp out the practice, there was only so much they could achieve. They were wary of interfering with indigenous beliefs and traditions. Local leaders admitted in some areas 40-50 women a year could be punished as witches.

The response was to target the Bhopa’s. By convicting those “professed sorcerers” accusing individuals of witchcraft, and fining community leaders who allowed the events to occur, they hoped to quell the illegal occurrences of torture and murder.

Whether or not this was successful is debatable.  Whilst reports of convictions must have had some effect, it more than likely only pushed them underground.

Craig Campbell

Curatorial Support Officer, India Office Records

British Library

Further reading:

IOR/L/PS/6/567, Coll 240 Papers regarding a case of 'witch-swinging' and murder which took place at the village of Rohimala, in Panurwa District, Udaipur State, on or about 9 August 1868

IOR/R/2/700/39 File Q/6 6 Witch craft cases from 1850

IOR/F/4/2016/90185 Mahee Caunta [Mahi Kantha]: Political Agent's Court of Criminal Justice, case No 1 of 1842, trial of Narajee Ruggajee charged with putting his stepmother to death on account of her being accused of witchcraft, Sep 1841-Jun 1843

IOR/F/4/830/21967 A Kol Sirdar in Sambalpur murders an entire family because of their alleged witchcraft, Feb 1822-Sep 1823

Images

IOR/F/4/830/21967 A Kol Sirdar in Sambalpur murders an entire family because of their alleged witchcraft, Feb 1822-Sep 1823

IOR/L/PS/6/567, Coll 240 Papers regarding a case of 'witch-swinging' and murder which took place at the village of Rohimala, Udaipur State
IOR/L/PS/6/567, Coll 240 Papers regarding a case of 'witch-swinging' and murder which took place at the village of Rohimala, in Panurwa District, Udaipur State, on or about 9 August 1868
IOR/R/2/700/39 File Q/6 6 Witch craft cases from 1850
IOR/F/4/2016/90185 Mahee Caunta [Mahi Kantha]: Political Agent's Court of Criminal Justice, case No 1 of 1842, trial of Narajee Ruggajee charged with putting his stepmother to death on account of her being accused of witchcraft, Sep 1841-Jun 1843
IOR/F/4/830/21967 A Kol Sirdar in Sambalpur murders an entire family because of their alleged witchcraft, Feb 1822-Sep 1823
- all public domain creative commons license

Also Posted by India Office Records at 09:00:00 in Crime , South Asia , Women's histories

A message of hope from Isolation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ARCHAEOLOGY AND US: A TALE IN TWO PARTS

Part 2

I loved history but grew frustrated, learning of new discoveries so late.  Often publications would appear decades after the discovery.  I wanted brand new knowledge, I wanted to be on the front line.  I decided to study Archaeology.

A Masters introduced me to another world of astonishing stories.  Ancient civilizations, too many to consume. Like a bee at a flower show, I was drunk on the abundance of new information.  So much so, it took me forever to settle on a Thesis topic.  Eventually, I combined my passion for London with curiosity for the late Iron Age, that hazy cusp of time between history and prehistory on a misty land at the edge of the earth.

It was during my Masters, on a field archaeology experience, that I met Emily.  We were helping veterans study archaeology for a project called Operation Nightingale. Emily was already a Doctor of Archaeology when we met.  She was a diver, an archaeologist, an educator and a lover of all things Goth. I was intoxicated.  We had so many connections and yet so many differences, I could not loosen the threads from my mind.  Like an addiction, I yearned for more.

We met, connected unimaginably, fell in love and within a month were engaged to be married.  Whirlwind you say? Destined, say I.

After graduation, I made a choice to follow this new life and become an archaeologist.  I knew I had to be in the field, be out in the elements, trowel in hand, centuries of history between me and the natural deposits. Both Emily and I acquired employment with Trent and Peak Archaeology, it was a wonderful baptism of commercial experience amongst a ramshackle bunch of delightful misfits. We learnt a lot.  We also moved in together!

Emily and I married on the beautiful banks of Loch Lomond, surrounded by our loved ones and not long after, we would be expecting an addition to our little family.  I moved on to MOLA, University of Leicester Archaeological Services and Northern Archaeological Associates. Years of fieldwork I truly loved, but ultimately realised my employment ambitions lay elsewhere, in research, archives, libraries and storytelling.

Audrey was everything we ever dreamed of and a million times more.  She brought new life to the world with each little bit of it she learnt.  I was fondly reminded of those days in my own childhood, those dreams of being a pilot and a knight and of course, a superhero.  I hope, in some ways, to my daughter, I may still become that hero.

We found Bramble and she instantly became a part of the family, back then nothing more than a ball of fluff with massive ears.  These days she is a wolf beast… and the softest, gentlest creature that ever lived.  Audrey and Bramble combined, however, become a destructive force far greater than any puny death star or precious ring forged in flame.

We moved south and I found my place at the British Library once more, where I now get to explore the most spectacular collection of stories ever written, factual and fictional, piled in every corner of every room. A universe of characters and tales waiting to be told. I get to be a humble part of telling those stories to the world.

Archaeology remains our passion, storytelling remains my dream.  We created Archaeofam so that as she grows, Audrey can look back on memories which may have slipped from her youthful mind.  She can relive the adventures and revisit those places etched in historical legend.

I truly hope it is enjoyable to many, to all those interested in archaeology, history, fantasy, travel and adventure, or even just those who enjoy cute pictures of a toddler and a German shepherd puppy causing mayhem.

It is not always factually accurate, but then this is not a place for absolute science. These are stories with history and archaeology entwined. In its way, the ancient practice of both history and storytelling was always exactly this, we are simply finding our place within it.

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…