The Murderers, Malevolent Spirits and Dark Magicians of Matfield

Today, we were on the hunt for a cold-blooded killer. Sometimes, the dark murderous stain of a brutal history seeps through time and leaves a subliminal trace in the very atmosphere of its setting. If that was true of this particular legend, we expected a cold, dark, and unhappy place indeed.

Our interest was first drawn to this complicated catastrophe thanks to the proximity of the tragic tale. It involved the sinister story of a triple murder, violently enacted at the nearby Criddenden Cottage on the 9th July 1940. The occupier of the cottage, one Mrs. Dorothy Fisher, was gunned down, allegedly by Mrs. Florence Ransom, a jealous lover of her estranged husband.

It is not often we explore the truly darker side of history. Audrey is not particularly interested in such things. She is not yet able to fathom the depths of which humans have the ability to descend, nor the fragility of the human mind, and we are in no rush to expose her to such miseries. I prefer that she continues to experience the beauty and good in humanity for as long as possible, for there is yet much that is good out there.

Despite such worries, the story in itself was intriguing. It involved a triple murder in a sleepy village, for reasons of jealousy and madness. We were too close to ignore the existence of such a tragedy, and history deserves to be examined in order that we might learn from it. So without burdening our little explorer with too many of the details, we packed up our things and made our way out for a brief investigation of the scene of the crime.

The understood facts of the case are as follows:

Florence Ransom, jealous of the close relationship between her lover and his former wife, was believed to have loaned a poachers gun from her brother, wrapped it in a brown paper bag, and tracked down Mrs. Fisher at her cottage near Matfield in Kent. Here the mystery deepens as there was evidence of a shared tea, apparent from the cottage crime scene. This suggested that the victims and the killer were on friendly terms before the awful attack occurred. The cottage had been ransacked after the event, though nothing was stolen. The judge stated that a very careful deception had been attempted, a plot to suggest a burglary had taken place and the deaths had resulted from this action.

At some point, Ransom had cold-bloodedly killed the unsuspecting Mrs. Fisher, shooting her at close range in the back. Ransom continued the brutal spree by gunning down Mrs. Fisher’s nineteen-year-old daughter, Freda, again with a shot to the back. Still unsatisfied, the killing continued as an innocent housemaid, Charlotte Saunders, had witnessed the scene and attempted to flee. She was pursued by Ransom and either cruelly beaten to death with the butt of the borrowed rifle, or “had her head half blown off”, depending on the report consulted.

Some reports indicated that the murder occurred outside, in the garden or the orchard, whilst others suggested it happened within the cottage itself. Some have questioned how Ransom, an absolutely inexperienced marksman, could have reloaded and easily shot dead three separate targets with such brutal efficiency.

Ransom seemingly fled the scene and her involvement was only discovered when a single white hogskin glove, apparently belonging to the lady, had been found between the bodies of Dorothy and Freda Fisher. Ransom was forced to try on the glove for size during the trial, to which she claimed it did not fit particularly well. During the court case she pleaded her innocence, and claimed when charged:

"I didn't do it, I didn't do it, how could I?"

When charged with the murder of Freda Fisher she said:

"No, No".

She made no reply when charged with the murder of housemaid Charlotte Saunders. A railway porter had made an unsatisfactory identification of Mrs. Ransom leaving Tonbridge Station from which a bus could be taken to Matfield, and a taxi driver thought he saw her taking the London train late in the afternoon. Ransom was found guilty of the murder of Mrs. Dorothy Fisher but did not receive any verdict on the other two victims. She was sentenced to death.

It was reported that the suspect, dressed in a grey hat and costume, face twitching and swaying in the dock, collapsed into the arms of her jailer when the sentence was passed, before screaming of her innocence.  After a failed appeal which left Ransom muttering incoherently and waving her arms in the air, she would eventually be certified insane and had her death sentence waived in favour of committal at Broadmoor Asylum.

After a short drive, we arrived at the scene of this horrific event. The surroundings could not have been more in contrast with its gruesome past. The cottages and buildings now occupying the area, undoubtedly the very same in which the Fisher family had so cruelly met their end, are stunning traditional countryside residences, set amidst spectacular lightly wooded rolling hills and glorious fields of bright greens and yellows, a dream-like paradise. It seemed improper and intrusive to venture too close to the buildings themselves, but in the short wander along the adjoining roads, there was certainly no sense of the horrors which had once haunted this place.

The beautiful little village of Matfield is not a great distance from our home. We had in fact visited the area on several occasions before we became aware of the nightmares that occurred on that fateful July afternoon. It is a delightful picturesque place, with a traditional well maintained grassy green at its centre (the largest village green in Kent) complete with a cricket pitch, duck pond, and a stunning country mansion. You could easily be mistaken in thinking you were on a Hollywood movie set, such is the stereotypical image of quaint English country living.

The village name apparently emerged from the Anglo Saxon, Feld, for farm, and Matta, being understood as the owner of said farmland. Mattafeld, later Matfield remained as a small farmstead following the Norman Conquest, when William the Conqueror gifted the lands to his cousin, Richard FitzGilbert. The farm blossomed into a small village throughout the later medieval period.

During the reign of Queen Elizabeth, a particular farm dwelling was built in the village. This farm was purchased in 1750 and became an inn with a white Kentish weatherboard exterior. During the 19th century, it was given the name the Wheelwright Arms. This ancient Inn remained a public house until fairly recently but unfortunately, now it appears to be permanently shut, having closed its doors to the public in September 2017.

In the spirit of the darker side of this memoir, I should mention that as with any such ancient symbol of hospitality, there is perhaps rather predictably, a resident ghost attached. A former innkeeper's wife, one Mrs. Bertha Faulkner, hung herself at the Inn in 1920. Her spirit is said to have remained within the walls of the ancient Inn, haunting guests and patrons alike throughout the years.

During the Georgian period, arguably the jewel in the crown of Matfield was constructed. Matfield House is a Grade 1 listed manor built by Thomas and Mary Marchant in 1728. The initials of these original creators still adorn the ornamented lead-work around the opulent pile. A Stable Block contemporary with the house has an immense clock turret and cupola rising as high as the building itself. The rear face of the finely ornamented clock is dated 1736 and still retains its original mechanism.

Since we have explored sombre tales of devious murderers and restless haunted spirits, it would be foolish to end our endeavour without mention of the alarming, ever-present terror of Matfield House, the demonic occupation in that place... of a dark wizard.

It is surely the most important, illustrious, and astounding aspect of Matfield history, a horrifying, gut-curdling, cult fashioning figure straight from the depths of despair... or from the planet Walpurgis at any rate. The one of whom I speak is, of course, none other than that most powerful of dark wizards... Mr. Majeika!

His reign of terror over the pupils and community of St Barty’s Primary School (Matfield House to you and I) is legendary. He was no ordinary man, expelled from his home and tortured for his failures, his wrath spilled out into the haven of humanity. Conversing with Warlocks and ghastly pupils, Majeika disguised his true identity to be close to his victims, in his own words...

"People don't believe in wizards nowadays, so naturally they don't often pay them to do some work."

— Mr. Majeika

Or something like that, it has been a while since I watched the wizard in action, I was merely a boy, so perhaps I am a little cloudy on the details...

Unable to visit the famed Wheelwright Arms, we have made good use of the many other endearing public houses in the town. The Poet at Matfield and The Star are both charming traditional country pubs with lovely outdoor areas in which Audrey found the greatest pleasures in exploration and homely interiors with refreshing beers of all varieties. Well worth a visit... just keep your eyes open, for there are dark corners where evil wizards and restless spirits may yet dwell...

Hexham, Hugs and Rock and Roll!

How about a little bit of time travel, a nostalgic glance to adventures past?

It is a strange and scary truth that today, for a trip to witness the historical treasures scattered across our island landscape, you risk jail time or plague. Since the continued pandemic restrictions hold steady, we are yet to venture too far beyond our doorstep (hopefully not for much longer) so here instead is a recollection of an older adventure, when bizarrely, we would come perilously close to both...

This expedition was a particularly dangerous one, traversing frontier lands, tip-toeing across disputed borders steeped in age-old cultural animosities. This was the haunt of raiders and conquerors, of invaders and refugees, of peasants, farmers, merchants and warriors, Queens, priests, soldiers and slaves, prisoners and of course... ghosts. It is a place at the very ends of the known earth, or the very beginning, depending on your point of view, we were spoilt for choice in this unique liminal landscape.

Our expedition arose due to Emily ArchaeoMum being asked to appear on the quirky aquatic television show, River Hunters. Thanks to her underwater exploits, Audrey and I took the opportunity to explore the local historic hot-spots, of which there were many! Little did we realise our investigations would reveal a dark and terrifying past, and require the daring rescue of an imprisoned monk and his brave rodent companion.

We began our ramblings just a short wander from our lovely hotel in the centre of town. Hexham is a delightful little market town in Northumberland. It sits on the south side of the River Tyne and has been an important strategic position in the landscape since at least Roman times. Indeed it lies close to the world famous Hadrian’s Wall, that monumental architectural feat separating the barbarous North folk from the civilised Romans in the South... or maybe the other way round!

The picturesque town itself grew from a Benedictine monastery, founded by Wilfred in 674AD having been granted the land by Queen Etheldreda, making it one of the earliest seats of Christianity in England. The monastery was partially built from reused stone. It was phenomenal to witness material from the Roman ruins of the nearby epic boundary wall and its adjoining forts and Vicus.

We ventured into the ancient Abbey as it stands today. The Anglo Saxon Chronicle records AElfward, King of the Northumbrians being buried here in a Church after being slain by Sicga around the year 788. By the year 875, it is said that Halfdane Ragnarsson (the only child of the famous Ragnor Lodbrok to have been shunned in the Vikings saga by a cruel and ruthless Take 5 Productions) plundered and pillaged much of Tyneside. He burned Hexham monastery to the ground in a vicious raid, yet the religious building continued on after his incursions.

It wouldn’t be the last time Hexham was subjected to a violent onslaught. Scottish raiders regularly attacked the town, burning buildings, destroying shrines and any relics they found. In 1297 that most famous of Scottish superheroes, Mel Gibso... erm William Wallace, AKA Braveheart attacked the town and destroyed what remained of the monastery. Even this could not suppress the establishment, and its continuation illustrates the resilience and importance of the place. It is a building of singular beauty today.

Carefully navigating the spiritual sanctuary, Audrey and I explored some of the treasures hidden within its walls. The relics of a truly historic past were on display, not just glittering gold and precious stones in pristine cases, but also adorning the walls, carved into the furniture and even forged into the building itself. The reuse of ancient inscribed stone gave the Abbey an ancestral character, like a tattooed Druid contemplating a newly imposed religion. One particular block went for many years unnoticed as a floor slab, until it was discovered to be the face-down headstone of a Roman soldier, incredible reuse of elaborate masonry.  The original Saxon crypt still exists, rediscovered during 18th-century building works, and here, in the dwindling amber glow, Audrey and I peered upon the poor unfortunate who had been incarcerated in this place for so long. Audrey decided we had to rescue this desperate spiritual soul.

With the grateful monk securely under Audrey’s protection, we made a daring escape from the Abbey. Guards were positioned at the doors and the courtyard was occupied by soldiers and religious leaders going about their business. It was far from easy but we expertly slipped out and made our way through the town, disguising ourselves amongst the locals. Most seemed genuinely unaware of the plight of the prisoner. It was unlikely he was alone in his captivity, but we only had the time to rescue one imprisoned monk on this occasion.

Yet having freed him from the clutches of evil, he begged of us a further favour. A companion of his had also been detained and placed in The Old Gaol. If we could rescue his furry friend, he assured us it would be a sign of freedom and justice and a blow to the oppressing forces at work. We could not ignore his plight.

The Old Gaol gives a unique portrait of Hexham’s troublesome past. It is said to be the oldest Gaol in all of England, built by the order of the Archbishop of York in the year 1330. Prisoners would be placed in chains or even in the stocks and thrown mercilessly into the dungeons of this imposing building, where they would suffer awfully in the darkness amongst the vile monsters that dwelled there... not the fleas or the lice, but the inmates, and worse, the wardens!

Prisoners were charged extortionate prices for their very incarceration and could even end up paying corrupt officials for preferential treatment. With a lack of hygiene, poor conditions and only a little care for the residents, lice spread, quickly spreading infection and serious discomfort. It would of course lead to the spread of plague, a frequent and ruthless horror throughout the history of the Gaol.

There is a curious relic housed in the Gaol, the skull of Colonel Sir John Fenwick. It is said that Fenwick fought in the Royalist army during the Civil War but was hit from behind in the head by an axe during the battle of Marston Moor in 1644, meeting a brutal end. The helmet is rumoured to have once belonged to the Duke of Somerset, who was killed during the Wars of the Roses. Fenwick is said to have removed the helmet from the burial place of the Duke in Hexham Abbey... didn’t do him too much good in the end though. Folklore has it Fenwick’s skull has a favoured room in the Gaol. Whenever it is moved from its preferred position, the skull mysteriously finds its way back, though no one quite knows how it makes the journey!

Audrey and I carefully descended the prison confines, from its comparatively luxurious rooms at the top to the dark and gloomy dungeons deep below the earth. It retains a sinister and sombre atmosphere throughout. If our new friend had a companion in this place, we had to help. At last, we found the poor captive, held against her will in the confines of these depressing prison walls. It was with difficulty that we were able to sneak Bumble (the furry rodent friend of our monk) out of that place. The dangers still torture my thoughts, had we been caught, perhaps we would all be locked up, rotting away in that damp, dark, devastating dungeon still.

With our daring escape completed, and our new companions desperate to enjoy the delights of freedom, fresh air and wide-open space, we loaded our vehicle and set out on a final adventure to see where it all began for urban settlement in this region.

Corbridge Roman town is situated just three miles from Hexham and was a bustling supply town on the Roman frontier from the late first century right through to the fifth. We walked amongst the ancient foundations, the stone footprints of a world long gone by. We wandered along streets two thousand years old and still scarred upon the landscape. It was an awe-inspiring experience, imagining the multitude of feet that we were following. Audrey gave her companions a grand tour and basking in their newfound freedom, the smiles were plentiful.

We perused the treasures of Corbridge, a hoard of weaponry, tools, writing tablets, armour, textiles and papyrus. There were everyday luxuries and essentials, a priceless glimpse into the lives of the ancient inhabitants, so much buried in the landscape for so long.

Finally it was time for our journey to end. It had been a whirlwind of action, adventure and exploration. Exhausted but elated we made our way back to the hotel and awaited Emily’s return. The TV crew and celebrity hosts trundled in for a delightful dinner, good music and a few well-deserved beers (milk for Audrey) before we called it a night.

The Beeb, the Underwater Archaeologist, the Archaeodad, the Monk and the Rat, we all slept as soundly as I think it is possible that night.

It was as perfect an adventure as I can remember.

The month of love... (and pancakes, haircuts, football, cakes and snow ducks!)

February is of course, the month of love. Hearts, flowers and cute teddy bears are to be found in all quarters. During a normal year, every restaurant would likely have been full to bursting with cosy tables for two, flowing red wine and sweet music filling the air... and of course, St Valentine, or perhaps Cupid, floating around, firing an arsenal of love into the unsuspecting masses.

Of course, not everybody enjoys the romantic undertones of February quite as frivolously as others. Romance is not equally distributed, some long for it but may never find it, whilst others are more than happy without it. Some have differing ideas of what love entails and all have a unique and individual taste that cannot always be easily explained.

The word may be a human invention, but the sentiment is a universal experience, an emotion that embraces us all at some point in our lives, in one way or another.

So in our little Archaeofam, we like to make the most of a day to celebrate love. It seems silly, because in truth, we celebrate our love for each other every day, in a million different ways, some visible, some not so much but always genuinely and completely. Still, the chance to fill the house full of novelty hearts and flowers is something we quite enjoy, particularly Audrey, who has a mild obsession with drawing hearts and placing heart shaped stickers on everything... EVERYTHING!

St Valentine is thought to have been a Roman priest and physician during the 3rd century. He would become the Patron Saint of lovers, epileptics and beekeepers... obviously! It is unclear whether the life of Valentine is based upon one or multiple characters but according to legend, Valentine defied an Emperor and married couples so that the husbands would not be made to go to war.

Valentine was martyred during the persecution of Christians by the Emperor Claudius II Gothicus on February 14th sometime around the year 270. Claudius the Cruel believed that the comfort of family life was restraining Roman men from becoming soldiers in his army. He therefore banned all marriages in Rome. Valentine resented the cruel Emperor and behind his back, continued to marry young lovers, but his deeds were discovered, and he was sentenced to death.

Another account of Valentinus saw him imprisoned for preaching the gospel and spreading the word of Jesus. He attempted to convince the Emperor Claudius to embrace Christianity, but failed to do so and was sentenced to death.

Whilst imprisoned, Valentine sent a farewell letter to his jailer’s (or judge’s in some accounts) daughter. He had healed the girl from blindness and befriended her. He signed the letter, from your Valentine, a symbol that remains in universal use today.

Having been sentenced to death, Valentine was beaten by clubs and then had his head cut off. Not quite as romantic huh?!

There is a suggestion that the feast day of St Valentine, February 14th, gained its connection to romance thanks to a link with the pagan festival of Lupercalia. This festival saw young women’s names placed into a box and drawn out by hopeful men, a little bit like the car keys in the fruit bowl of modern swinger’s parties... apparently. In 496 AD, Pope Gelasius dedicated the day to St Valentine and banned the celebration of Lupercalia. From here its popularity as a day of love grew into our modern exchange of romantic gestures and gifts.

Cupid has a deeper classical mythology as the god of desire, erotic love, attraction and affection. He is believed to have been the son of the love goddess, Venus, and the God of War, Mars. Cupid, from Cupio (to desire) is often visualised as a chubby baby, complete with wings and a bow to fire his arrows of love, infecting whomsoever should be struck with instant desire and passion. In early representations of Cupid, he does not appear so young, nor so plump. Cupid is seen as a slender attractive youth, but the other attributes remain. The wings of Cupid are said to represent the fickle flightiness of love, his youth relates to the irrationality of the emotion and his arrows indicate the wounds of the heart. Once you are struck of course, the lure of love is an uncontrollable tsunami, so you had better be sure to be looking towards your heart’s desire...

In our locked down world, we accepted a quiet but cosy celebration this year, with a mildly extravagant dinner and just above affordable champagne, sparkling grape juice for Audrey and some tasty water and treats for Bramble. The unique aspect of the experience this year was that I took over the kitchen! Usually, as Emily Archaeomum is by far the more accomplished chef of the family and finds a bizarre pleasure in creating incredible meals, I am more than happy to accept permanent dish washing duty. However, since it was a special occasion, I took the reins.

I attempted a spice-crusted tofu with kumquat radish salad. It was a Japanese inspired vegan salad I found online, and I must admit, I didn’t manage to find all the ingredients, so some may have been substituted... but overall it came out pretty nicely, I think! Of course, it took me about three hours longer than the guide suggested, I think if I were to be in charge of more meals, we would most likely starve!

I also made vegan steak and chips for a main meal, and everything was eaten, which must be a good sign, right? We lounged about afterwards, enjoying a glass of bubbly and some sweet family snuggles before bed.

The rest of our February has been occupied by a heavy work schedule. I myself have been immersed in the pre-Roman Iron Age of the south-east, and Emily has been focusing on Victorian England! Audrey Archaeobeeb has taken a shine to astronomy and space exploration, whilst Bramble Archaeopup is mostly content with long walks in the countryside and her basket of chewable treasures.

So, to all the lovers, and all the dreamers in the house, this one is for you. Happy belated Valentines. We wish you all the love in the world as you traverse 2021. Soon we will be able to embrace once more, to meet loved ones and hopefully enjoy the expanse of a relatively Covid-free country.

Until then, from isolated safety, we send you all our love,

From your Valentine x

Seasons Greetings from the Top of the Tiers!

I had an idea to offer something a little bit festive for this strangely isolated end of 2020. We had, like many, hoped to see family over Christmas, but alas the continued restrictions mean we are in Tier 78 or something and will be spending this Christmas just the four of us.

It got me to thinking about the Xmas holiday in its modern guise, and what it means to our little family. It also got me thinking about the many histories behind our current ceremonious displays and colourful traditions at this time of the year.

Now, I admit to being an absolute Christmas nut! I love the festive period, I get completely carried away in it. It is the contemporary character of the holiday that really brings me cheer. I love the incredible lights and decorative displays across the globe, I adore the utterly ridiculous movies and music that accompany the final manic month of the year and I have a Christmas jumper collection that could be the envy of anyone.

In years gone by, I have always found this time of the year to be filled with happiness and warm feelings. Families and friends make that extra bit of effort to reconnect, to meet and enjoy the winter evenings and weekends in cosy pubs and cafes, travelling long distances to see loved ones, the mass exchange of thoughtful gifts, consumption of spectacular food and drink combinations, good company and a surreal sense of celebration which has evolved from a complex history of fascinating spiritual events, far too intricate to unpick in any family blog offering.

As the chilly darkness of the year reaches its dramatic climax and finally retracts, bringing with it the hope of warmth and wonders to come, our little family finds itself wide eyed and excited about the imminent approach of that most famous of festive figures....

Santa Claus

Santa has gone by many names over the centuries, St Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Sinter Klaas and many more. These are merely the multitudinous segments of our jolly modern hero. We know him as a large, rosy faced, joyous old gentleman with a fluffy white beard and stylish red suit who once a year, delivers gifts to the good children all across the planet on Christmas Eve. The North Pole is both his home and the location of his workshop, where every year, he is assisted in the creation of fabulous toys by a relentlessly hardworking Elfish labour pool. He flies a fantastic sleigh through the midnight skies; fearlessly led by his nine trusty reindeer... can you name them all?

This is the magical character development as it currently stands. If history tells us anything, it is that his evolution is not yet complete. Santa Claus will undoubtedly continue to shift to meet the desires of contemporary audiences worldwide.

So where did it all begin? Well, as you can probably imagine, the threads of historical understanding regarding this phenomenal figure are varied, wide spread and rather difficult to explore without an occasional stretch of the imagination.

Our story seems to begin in the 3rd – 4th century AD, when a Christian monk in modern day Turkey performed a number of fantastic feats which inspired his veneration. Folk tales about St Nicholas of Myra include him giving away all of his wealth to help the poor and destitute and achieving such accolades as halting a violent storm to save stranded sailors, giving money to a father so he would not have to sell his daughters into a life of prostitution, and even the resurrection three brothers who were dismembered by a cruel butcher.

Stories of St Nicholas and his gift giving spread across Europe and his image was taken on by many as an inspirational figure. He became the patron saint of several subjects including sailors, archers and wolves, but most importantly... children.

In the Dutch language, St Nicholas became Sinterklaas. His legend grew to include all manner of fantastic folklore and festive magic. Separate figures emerged across the globe. In England, during the Tudor period, people celebrated the spirit of Father Christmas, focusing on a celebration of the 25th December rather than St Nicholas name day of December 6th. This early Character of Father Christmas was a huge jolly man in scarlet robes with a white beard, contrary to various internet rumours which would have us believe Coca Cola the inventors of our modern vision of Santa! The French Father Christmas was known by the name of Père Noël, who went house to house on his Christmas donkey filling the shoes of good boys and girls with gifts on Christmas Eve.

A happy old elf called Jultomten apparently delivered gifts to the little children of Scandanavia, in a fabulous goat drawn sleigh! Well behaved Swiss and German children were said to be visited at Christmas by Christkind or Kris Kringle, a wondrous angel who often accompanied old St Nicholas. Amongst the ancient northern pagan populations, Santa Claus is sometimes closely associated with Odin, whose white beard, hooded cloak and adventures soaring through the midnight skies on the Yuletide wild hunt, all the time giving gifts to the worthy, can all be closely compared to our modern icon.

As the years went by, countless reimagining’s would eventually conflate the various images into a universal figure of the Christmas Spirit, our modern Santa Claus, a common hero for boys and girls everywhere.

Then of course, there is a darker side to the Christmas legends, the anti-Santa if you will. In many countries around the world, Santa may visit the good girls and boys. However, if there happen to be any naughty children out there, they can expect a visit from an altogether more sinister figure... The Krampus!

The Krampus is a half man half goat figure who probably emerged from pagan traditions. His name and image seem to have evolved within Austrian Alpine folklore. He is one of a number of Christmas villains to have been created from the traditional fears of winter and darkness. Whilst Santa travels the globe rewarding all the good little girls and boys, the Krampus would seek out those naughtier children, and drag them to hell!

So, whatever you do girls and boys... be sure to be good...

Since Emily Archaeomum and I met, we have spent Christmas day in no less than four different cities, as well as visiting family homes for additional Christmas adventures. Throughout, we have managed to keep several personal traditions alive including the wearing of penguin pyjamas, having the same Xmas tree, stockings and Santa sack, and some absolute mammoth marathon movie sessions! (this year we are approaching around thirty Christmas movies viewed, I think our record may have been somewhere in the seventies... back when we had less distractions!)

This year is a wondrous one for us. It is the first Christmas that Audrey has really gotten excited about. She is eagerly awaiting, in her own words, Santa coming on Christmas Day and giving all of my toys back!...

Well, she almost gets it

As we reach the final furlong, with gifts wrapped and stockings filled, advent calendars looking bare and batteries replaced in all the fairy lights, I am pleased to say that despite a difficult year in many respects, we are fortunate to be able to spend it together.

More than this, thanks to the many marvels of Science and Technology, and despite the horrors of a pandemic stricken planet, we find ourselves amongst the most fortunate as we will still have the power and ability to connect remotely with those we love on Christmas day.

Our little Archaeofam could not be more thankful for this. Whilst it will be a very different Christmas to any we have ever experienced before, we will try to make the very best of it. We feel incredibly grateful for such modern marvels and worldly wonders.

So from our Archaeofam to yours, with our greatest festive spirit slightly bruised, but not altogether battered, it only remains for us to wish you all a very Happy Christmas, Happy Holidays or just a wonderful weekend. We hope to see you all in a future adventure, during a brand new year.

Oh, and if you were struggling...

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and of course, Rudolph!

Arthur... World Away

On a beautiful bright summer’s day, whilst Emily Archaeomum was hard at work, Audrey and I kidnapped the grandparents and made off on a brief but mystical adventure to the very heartlands of British folklore and mythology.

We were hot on the trail of that most iconic hero, the unrelenting pillar of importance in these ancient and magical lands, none other than the legendary King Arthur.

Arthur is the mythical British king of relentless legend. He is said to have pulled the sword from the stone, befriended ladies in lakes and ruled over all England with his round table of fearless and slightly adulterous Knights. Arthur was advised by a powerful wizard buddy and embarked upon all manner of quests and trials in the name of God, country, chivalry and honour!

There has been much speculation on the origins of the legend of King Arthur, and fierce historical debate as to whether any such King existed at all. The most popular opinion appears to be that Arthur is an idealistic amalgamation of a number of poignant protagonists of the islands rich history. Popularised by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his History of the Kings of Great Britain, Arthur took a central role in the vision of what a great King of England should be.

Tintagel famously appears in Geoffrey’s incredible tales of Arthur. Legend has it that whilst Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, was at war, he left his wife, Igraine, in the oppidum of Tintagel. The wizard Merlin disguised Uther Pendragon as Gorlois who entered Tintagel and impregnated Igraine. The child she was then said to have conceived was Arthur.

It was here at Tintagel, that we would make our brief pilgrimage, fearlessly following the trail of our infamous hero king.

The scenic drive to Tintagel is incredibly enjoyable, especially during the summer months, though some of the roads in this corner of the island are more than a little hair-raising, narrow winding snake-like stems of concrete flanked by high blinding hedgerows and occasional forested tunnels which twist this way and that through the continuing countryside. Towns and villages appear from nowhere and are gone again just as quickly as they arrived, rustic spectres in a mystic landscape.

We arrived into Tintagel, a kind of bizarre circus-like dream town bustling with tourists and traders. Every shop, bar and cafe is geared towards the legend of Arthur. Imagine if Disneyland bought a quaint English fishing village and shipped in its plastic brand en-masse. Parking wasn’t easy to secure and even trickier to navigate once through the gate, a veritable Battle Royale of vying visitors.

Once parked up, we were able to make our way towards the gem of this incredible outcrop, the cliff edge fortifications that convinced generations of scholars and fantasists that this might be the conception place of the legendary King Arthur. Tintagel is run and maintained by English Heritage. There is a charge to enter for non-members. The fee’s go towards the undoubtedly astonishing costs related to keeping such an important historical landmark safe and sustainable. A worthy cause indeed to keep this spectacular site soaring.

A shuttle bus service was available to ship visitors up and down the long road to the ruins. We decided, however, that as the weather was wonderful and the queues were dreadful, we would walk. This was a good decision, it wasn’t too far and even with Audrey taking full advantage of the daddy packhorse commute, it wasn’t too much of a strain.

Tintagel has a deep and rich history of human activity. An assemblage of Romano British artefacts has been unearthed in the area of the Castle, hinting at the occupation of the peninsula during this period. There could have been a settlement of the British tribe, the Dumnonii, possibly mining and trading tin, which made the area such an important source of wealth and resources.

A later high-status settlement was uncovered on the site, dating to between the 5th and 8th centuries, smack bang in the postulated era of Arthur! Originally hypothesised as the site of a monastery, more recent interpretations have suggested that this was a royal residence. The site was defended by a ditch and the natural barriers of the sea and cliff sides. Evidence from this period included a substantial quantity of imported pottery, suggesting a significant amount of trading activity.

The most fascinating and intriguing archaeological discoveries also came from this period. In 1998, a slate stone, known as the Artognou Stone, was discovered during excavations. The 5th–6thc stone was inscribed in Latin, illustrating the regional use of this language even after the collapse of the Roman Empire. It gained notoriety due to the inscribed name Artognou, argued as a variant of Arthur. Just as incredibly, during 2017 investigations, archaeologists discovered a 7th-century slate window ledge inscribed with a mixture of Latin, Greek and Celtic language and names, indicating a highly connected and literate society on this incredible promontory. A copy of the Artognou Stone, along with a wealth of artefacts uncovered at Tintagel, is on display in the castle museum.

It was later, in the 13th century that the main fortifications and battlements were built by Richard, 3rd Earl of Cornwall. This castle was built after Geoffrey of Monmouth’s fantastic works, which claimed Tintagel to be the conception place of Arthur. Richard, it seems, was keen to keep the connections alive and illuminate his residence as the famous seat of Cornish Kings. It was built in an ancient style and the Arthurian legends were suitably reflected.

Our adventure to Tintagel occurred prior to the creation of an impressive new bridge leading to the castle ruins. Our own experience involved the narrow, slightly death-defying trek up a tiny stairway hugging the cliff edge, terrifying... especially with a toddler on your back! A good exercise to get your heart pumping though and a real sense of grandeur as you look upwards towards the imposing ruins above.

Whilst the experience was one shared in close proximity to a horde of tourists and travellers, Tintagel Castle is definitely worth the visit. I can’t imagine there is ever a quiet moment in this historical corner of the globe so steeped in legend and fantasy. Gallos, the now-famous statue of Arthur, was constantly surrounded by amateur photographers jostling to get the money shot holiday snap. Whichever way you attempt it, you are probably destined to have a strangers family immortalised in your perfect picture! Yet despite the anthill experience of it all, to see the castle ruins, the earlier archaeological traces and most impressively, the spectacular coastal splendour and stunning sea views, was well worth the effort.

We had considered finding a little pub in Tintagel town for a beer and some food, but similar to the castle, the town was swamped in Arthurian revellers. We made our way back to the car and drove through the stunning Cornish countryside again until we found a quieter spot to sit, reflect on our quest, and enjoy some cool refreshing summer lager, wine and juice.

We may not have uncovered the Holy Grail, but we had scaled a fortress and witnessed the wonders of Albion from perhaps its most iconic and ancient point. I’m sure, as Audrey’s first Cornish Castle assault... Arthur would have been most impressed.

The Pen...shurst is mightier than the sword!

Just along the river, over the hill and through the picturesque flowing meadows, a rather special estate is nestled in a valley not far from the River Medway. Since it was not a great distance to reach this amazing historical fancy, we decided to take a sneaky little adventure in search of rainbow stones, haunting horrors and potential historical intrigues.

We prepared as always by packing our provisions and readying the crew. Charged with employing an experienced navigator, Audrey carefully selected Squishy Bear for the job, a masterful commander of the map. The route to this stunning seat accommodates all manner of ramblers and cyclists alike. Well trodden country footpaths lead almost unbroken, from Tonbridge, through Haysden Country Park, along the vast serene river and all the way up to Penshurst Place. It is a scenic saunter through the Kentish countryside, and a popular one.

Not much is known of the Penshurst Estate before the 13th century, when building work began on a manor house. An easy half days ride from London, Penshurst was ideal for hunting grounds and leisurely accommodation away from the city.

We began our adventure in Penshurst by wandering the church grounds, situated just beside the grand house. The village is brimming with period character, a quaint scatter of old homely architecture with a pub and a collection of shops and homes. According to local legend, a ghostly figure haunts the village, traipsing through the streets on his final journey to see his secret love, the Vicars Daughter! There has been a church on this same spot since at least 1115 AD, but recent Saxon discoveries in the vicinity suggest there may have been some form of religious structure on the site since the 9th century.

The first recorded priest of the church, Wilhhelmus, was appointed by Archbishop Thomas Becket. It would be his final public order before assassination just two days later at Canterbury Cathedral. The church of St John the Baptist at Penshurst has seen continued development through almost every age since the 12th century.

Amongst the throngs buried in its hallowed grounds are Earls, Viscounts, Knights, Leaders of the British Army and a Viceroy of India. Ghosts of the good and great reside here, alongside some of the more sinister deceased residents. The churchyard also houses one of the last remaining Dole Tables to be found in the country, a stone table once used to distribute money and food to those in need.

The church is set amidst the ancient manor house, guild house and rectory, all surviving wonders which have seen a turbulent tour of tragedy and triumph on their doorstep. Our wander took us through the churchyard and out to the spectacular estate beyond, boundless grounds with startling views of the magnificent Penshurst Place.

Construction of Penshurst Place began in the 14th century. Sir John De Pulteney desired a country estate to add to his London properties and so had a Manor House built in 1341, much of the house remains today in its original state. Through the centuries, the house was developed with protective towers, curtain walls and ever larger and more luxurious chambers. King Henry IV’s third son, John Duke of Bedford owned the house for a time and in the mid 15th century he added the hall now known as the Buckingham Building.

Humphrey Stafford, the 1st Duke of Buckingham inherited the estate. He was the first of three successive Buckingham’s to own the property. The 3rd Duke enjoyed displaying his wealth and power. In 1519 he invited Henry VIII to Penshurst. With no male heir, Henry feared Buckingham as a threat to his throne and found an excuse to have him tried and executed, seizing the property for himself.

Henry VIII used Penshurst as a hunting lodge, and an excuse to visit his soon-to-be second wife, Anne Boleyn, since her home of Hever Castle was nearby. Sticking with the wives of Henry association, the house would later be gifted to Anne of Cleves, Henry’s fourth wife, in their divorce settlement before falling back into the hands of the monopolistic monarchs.

King Edward VI, Henry’s sickly son, gifted the house to his tutor and steward, Sir William Sidney. It would remain in this famous family until the present day. One of the most renowned members of this incredible family was the Tudor poet, Sir Philip Sidney. He was known for his works such as The Defence of Poesy, Astrophel and Stella, and The Arcadia. Philip Sidney was also a soldier and died at just 31, from a bullet wound inflicted during fighting for the Protestant cause against the Spanish at the battle of Zutphen. It is said that the apparition of Sir Philip still stalks the halls of Penshurst, perhaps musing a final powerful poem or lamenting his early jaunt to the grave?

The house continued to grow, seeing visitors such as Elizabeth I and the children of Charles I. It would remain a beacon of literary musings throughout the centuries. Penshurst opened to the public in 1947 and now boasts a visitor centre and cafe, as well as some stunning gardens.

We circled the great house, its astonishing architecture dominating the landscape. From various explorations of the estate during my various exercise adventures, I have noticed a great deal of intriguing monuments littering the land. A strange mound caps the hill, labelled on our trusty OS map, but with little further information as to what it may have been? A landscape folly? A natural phenomenon? A tomb? Nearby is a perfect circle of trees, and throughout the grounds are some incredible flora and staggering stumps. The entire area seems steeped in mythical properties, a fairytale panorama with ghostly greatness in every inch.

Audrey collected an engrossing array of magical twigs and enchanting leaves to add to her ever-growing collection of supernatural specimens. Still no sign of the elusive rainbow stone... perhaps they were hidden within the well-fortified walls of Penshurst Place?

We completed our investigations with a visit to the local pub, a perfect way to end the adventure sat beside an open fire, enjoying an ale or two and resting our weary feet. It had been a fascinating forage through the home of many ancient elites... their treasures are undoubtedly scattered in this lush landscape, and possibly their sinister spooky secrets too...

The Battle of... Battle? Nearish Hastings!

This ancient island of ours has seen many an invasion. From the Beaker people to the Belgae, Romans to the Angles, Saxons to the Vikings, this little rock on the edge of the earth known affectionately as Albion, was already a melting pot of cultures before the pesky Normans arrived on that famous year in British history, 1066.

The Norman invasion is one of the best recognised and most significant periods in our long and turbulent past. William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, later more pleasantly titled William the Conqueror, ventured across the Channel to claim his right to the throne of England following the death of Edward the Confessor. Upon his arrival on the shores of Albion, William was soon to be met by the English Army under the leadership of King Harold. The resulting war for the Kingdom would go down in history as...

The Battle of Hastings

Hastings has long been a favoured escape for our little family, especially since our move to the south east of England. It is our most frequented sea-side spot, offering all the unique perks of a British coastal town. Ice Cream, chips on the pebble strewn beach, astonishing ocean views, delightful little historic pubs, boats aplenty and a variety of play parks for Audrey to conquer!

We have made the journey on several occasions and revelled in exploration of the town and its surrounds. The old town of Hastings is a perfect reminder of an ancient coastal settlement. Narrow winding streets with close buildings, antique stores, pubs and restaurants, a real rustic feel to it all. It is not difficult to imagine these very same streets brimming with sailors and fishermen, pirates and explorers, sharing their bewildering tales of ocean voyage and adventure.

A perfect turquoise sheet stretched infinitely to the southern horizon, billowing and breaking in the blustery wind. We climbed the hills to the charming houses above, old, entrancing buildings with the most spectacular views over the inviting ocean. One of these buildings had even been our lodging on a rather special occasion when Emily Archaeomum and I were still exploring the early stages of our romance. The house was called the Beacon, an old lodging full of delightful art and period character. We found the welcoming accommodation through Air B&B, whether it continues to be used as such, I do not know, but if so, I highly recommend it!

Also on the cliff top are the ruins of Hastings castle. We ventured into the crumbling stone remains of what had once been a formidable fortress. When William arrived in Hastings, he constructed a wooden castle in the motte and bailey style. After William’s victory, he ordered the castle be rebuilt in stone. Today, only a fraction remains, but it commands the cliff edge and would have been a stern reminder of the new power of the island rulers.

One of the things that I was not aware of until spending time in this delightful coastal spot was that the Battle of Hastings was not actually fought in Hastings. The Battle was fought further inland, about 7 miles northwest near the town of Battle. So it would be more apt to be named The Battle of Battle... but the name Battle only emerged after the Battle, named in commemoration of the famous fight.

So to the battle itself, there are many conflicting accounts of the Battle of Hastings, but the general, though very simplified thread seems to be something like this:

As mentioned, the death of the childless Edward the Confessor led to a power struggle between several factions. Harold Godwinson initially took control, having claimed the Confessor named him successor on his death bed. Harold’s brother, Tostig, also had eyes on the throne. He caused a number of uprisings, during the most significant of which he joined forces with the Norwegian King, Hardrada. Hardrada believed he had a claim to the throne thanks to a deal with Harthacnut, one time King of England and the half brother of Edward the Confessor.

Harold defeated the joint forces of Tostig and Hardrada at the Battle of Stamford Bridge, but he wasn’t given much time to enjoy his victory as news soon arrived that William and his forces had landed in Pevensey, just to the west of Hastings.

Harold was forced to march his battle weary army over the island to face this new foe. William of Normandy believed he had been promised the throne by Edward the Confessor. Edward spent time in exile in Normandy and many in his court were from that Kingdom, so it is possible he could have offered the crown to his closest kin. William was furious when he learnt Harold had taken the throne from his grasp and immediately set to work on taking back what he believed was rightfully his.

The English Army marched to the area now known as Battle, and set up their forces at the top of a hill. The Normans drew up in three ranks and attacked with archers. Thanks to the geographical positioning and their shield wall, the archers of the Normans were fairly ineffectual. During some skirmishes, the Normans believed that William had been killed. The English rallied and pursued the fleeing Normans but William, very much alive, rode through his forces and encouraged the soldiers. They turned on the now broken lines of Harold’s army and slaughtered the pursuers.

Seeing the success of this tactic, they feigned retreat again, drawing the English into a chase before turning and massacring the disorderly army. Eventually, whether by an arrow in the eye or being cut down by a knight, Harold was killed in battle and the leaderless army were defeated. There were further smaller battles, but William the Conqueror was crowned the King of England on Christmas Day 1066.

At Battle, in the year 1071, construction of an Abbey began, to commemorate the victory. It is believed that the Abbey was erected on the site of the battle and it has even been speculated that the high altar was placed on the very spot King Harold fell.

The town of Battle is a quaint rural pleasure. It retains an ancient character, with bowing buildings overhanging into the street and a number of delightful pubs and restaurants. Battle Abbey is run by English Heritage and contains the Abbey and ruins as well as the grounds of the battlefield. These days, it is a scenic pleasure, perfect for a sunny stroll and well signposted with regular information boards exploring the various historical intrigues and battle facts. It must be a far cry from the terrifying chaotic bloodbath which occurred in this same space a millennium ago.

We continue to visit Hastings and Battle whenever we get an opportunity. Although, if Audrey continues to collect the stones and shells from the beach at the same rate, we may be able to create a replica Hastings in our front garden in the not so distant future!

One further worthwhile mention... tucked away behind George street, next to a cable car station in a little dead end alley, are a number of unique antique stores and curiosity shops. One of these local shops is an intoxicating musical emporium, selling a fantastic array of instruments and accessories. It was in this fine store I saw the most beautiful machine I ever laid eyes on, a beat up old jazz guitar which played like a dream. I made the awful decision not to buy it... I instantly regretted it!

I went back shortly after but of course, it was gone. I shall never forget that perfect guitar... I mention it now as a word of humble advice, if you ever catch sight of your dreams, don’t let them slip away. These moments are fleeting; grasp those opportunities with every fibre of your being!

It Aint Alf 'Otford' In Ere!

There was a place, an incredulous place, where Medieval Kings fled to escape plague, where Tudor Monarchs arrived to enjoy lavish parties, a place that centuries of spiritual leaders could call home. It was a haven for the affluent and important, the perfect country escape, a renaissance palace said to be the grandest in all of Europe...

So why did it no longer exist?

Today we set off to find out!

On specific research purposes, we embarked upon an excursion to a little village near Sevenoaks in Kent. During some of our previous exploits, we had explored a number of stunning sites in the vicinity. Knole, Oldbury Hillfort and Ightham Mote are all within touching distance of the quaint and picturesque town of Sevenoaks; its historical importance was well established.

Today we were on the hunt for Otford Palace.

Emily Archaeomum had been tasked by a television production company to seek out potential sites in which community garden archaeology might unearth interesting results. Fortuitously, we had recently noticed a fascinating article detailing a spectacular monument which once resided in the now sleepy village of Otford.

The site was less than half an hour drive from our little home so we made preparations for a voyage of reconnaissance. Audrey assisted by packing essentials such as her spinny wand, little penguin and a selection of unusual stones collected on earlier voyages, presumably for comparative purposes. We loaded the trusty transport and set out on our adventure.

Located on the river Darent, the village of Otford is straight-off-a postcard pretty. The town square boasts an impressive church with origins in the 11th century, a delightful selection of rustic pubs, a hodgepodge of ancient character brimming architecture and a sweet award-winning pond/roundabout... thing!

The known history of Otford stretches back at least 20,000 years with flint implements discovered in the locale, alongside later Neolithic pottery. A middle Bronze Age cremation Urn was discovered below a round barrow on Otford Mount suggesting a more settled community at this time. The Iron Age produced evidence of farming, occupation and even a possible Hillfort on the mount.

During the Roman period, Otford enjoyed the construction of at least two luxurious villas, one of which was more than twice the size of nearby Lullingstone Roman Villa, which you may recall we had explored on an earlier adventure. This was an interesting and early indication of the fertile and lucrative position of the village.

It was from the Anglo Saxon period, however, that Otford became a seat of great power and importance. King Offa of Mercia is believed to have fought Egbert, King of Kent at the battle of Otford. King Cenulf of Mercia would later present the estate to the Archbishop Wulfred. From this moment until 1537, Otford Palace was one of a chain of houses for the Archbishops of Canterbury. The Manor House became one of the most magnificent buildings in medieval England, where a succession of Archbishops welcomed most of the Kings and Queens of the country.

At another Battle of Otford, this one in 1016, the monk John of Worcester wrote that Edmund Ironside had brought his army to Kent to fight the Danes. Edmund overcame Cnut’s Danish armies here and forced them to flee to the Isle of Sheppey.

One of the most famous residents of Otford was Thomas Becket, the hair shirted Archbishop who would later be canonized following his martyrdom. A nearby well is dedicated to Saint Thomas Becket. A local legend tells of the saint striking the ground with his staff and a miraculous spring emerging from the very spot. The pilgrim’s way, a historic worshipful route from Winchester to the shrine of Becket in Canterbury Cathedral where he met his grizzly end, passes directly through Otford.

During the 14th century, as the Black Death ravaged London, the fearsome medieval monarch, Edward III, escaped the crowded city and resided at Otford over Christmas to avoid infection. It is said he spent his time at Otford decadently despite the pestilence sweeping the globe.

In 1514, Archbishop William Warham replaced the existing ecclesiastical building with the earliest fabulous formations of Otford Palace. In 1519, King Henry VIII stayed at the palace. He hunted in the great deer park of the estate and is said to have enjoyed it so much that he returned just a year later on his route to the famous field of cloth and gold meeting with King Francis in France. The palace, said to rival even Hampton Court, was eventually gifted to Henry in 1537 by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.

As a princess, Bloody Mary spent a year at the palace, avoiding the political and religious turmoil which had arisen due to Henry’s separation from her mother, Catherine of Aragon. When Henry died, the palace fell to ruin. Elizabeth I had no interest in the monumental historic house and it was mostly broken up for the scattered building of surrounding projects.

To begin our investigations, we explored the neighbourhood, witnessing the beautiful cosy homesteads now occupying the ancient site. Parking was fairly easy to find, and the pavements all seemed to lead invitingly to the centre of the phantom palace. Audrey had dozed off en route, so our arrival at the palace was met with some opposition by a slightly grumpy, seriously snoozy little explorer. Her spirits soon soared as we spied the enticing nature trails and splendid palace remains.

The surviving structures include the north-west tower, the lower storey of an adjoining gallery and a fragment of the great gatehouse with further sections of wall appearing in private gardens. The size of the whole complex covers around four acres. As ever, Bramble led the way, carefully sniffing out any potential dangers as we approached. Most of the palace site is now a communal garden area, particularly the old courtyard. It is delightfully maintained, with a sweet scented orchard and grassy fields full of wild flowers to wistfully wander through at your leisure.

The remains of the palace itself were a ghostly delight to explore. Though limited remnants survive, they offer a good indication of what would once have been a spectacular sight, contemporary Tudor architecture at its finest. We casually covered the limits of the public spaces, making our way past countless period homes renovated and renewed to house the modern occupants of Otford. We detoured through the atmospheric cemetery and imposing church back to the village centre. The village was quiet, the air fresh and calm. It was a dreamy little stroll through a world straight from the pages of a fantasy novel.

Our reconnaissance complete, notes and photographs taken and exploration enjoyed, we decided to call it a day. In usual circumstances, we would have dropped into one of the delightful public houses for a celebratory drink. This being the year of pandemic however, we made the sensible decision to settle for a quick stop at the local shop for some cold beers and snacks before heading home.

It was clear this beautiful little picturesque piece of England would have made for spectacular TV. Its vibrant history coupled with stunning scenic splendour was made to fuel the imagination of the world. No doubt, the phantoms and enchantment of Otford will one day captivate countless communities on a similar scale to that which its predecessors entertained, for now, it remains a perfect tranquil escape with a wondrous past.

Beam Me Up Scotney!

Sometimes, you just have to find a place that sells Ice Cream.

This was our mantra today.

Sometimes... you just HAVE to find a place that sells Vegan Ice Cream!

That was our challenge.

We had heard whispers of a nearby fortification, ancient and glorious. It was within our reach, it would be a challenge to hammer down the battlements, to storm the towers, to take the castle, but we were prepared for action.

Audrey was the keenest amongst us, no doubt a cauldron of ambitions arising from the sweet cool promise of ice cream, and curious rumours of her ever elusive rainbow stone, hidden in the grounds of the famous manorial seat. She spurred the way, corralling Emily Archaeomum, Bramble and I into our trusty transport and en route to Scotney Castle.

As things currently stand during our troubling world situation, access to the National Trust Property is somewhat restricted. A pre-booking system is required to secure a place in the castle car park. This however, is easily achieved online and completely free to National Trust members.

The new Scotney Castle was built in 1837 by Edward Hussey III in the Tudor Revival architectural style. It was crafted from sandstone, quarried from the grounds of the old castle. Within that same quarry, now a spectacular garden, we later discovered that a 100 million-year-old impression of an Iguanodon dinosaur footprint can be found. Audrey has already expressed her desire to return and find this magnificent marvel

It is rumoured the Hussey family were great hoarders. There is little doubt that unlimited treasures are stacked beyond the imposing walls of the grand mansion, fascinating artefacts just waiting to be discovered. Indeed it is said there is even a secret door in the library disguised as a bookcase. Such intriguing mysteries tantalised our imaginations. Sadly, thanks to the continuing pandemic, the doors were firmly closed to us on this occasion. There was, however, still plenty to see.

Edward Hussey III also influenced the design of the estate, hiring architect Anthony Salvin and gardener William Sawrey Gilpin to design the spectacular picturesque garden, cleverly incorporating the original medieval castle.

As we gradually descended from the lavish authoritative mansion, we found ourselves transported into an entirely different world. The atmosphere of serious power and wealth seemed to melt away as we stepped through thick foliage into a secret universe of imaginative wonder. The old medieval castle emerged from the stunningly sculpted gardens of rhododendrons and azaleas, wisteria, hydrangea and English rose. The picturesque landscape was like something from a dream, a secret fairytale world far beyond our own, disguised by great forested hills and spectacular scenic fields.

Scotney Old Castle sits in the valley of the River Bewl at the centre of a small lake, offering a natural moat for defence. A history of occupation in the area of the moated manor house dates back to 1137 when Lambert De Scoteni owned the estate. The castle itself was built later by Roger Ashburnham, between 1378 and 1380 and saw several reconstructions and renovations through the centuries.

Amongst the many intriguing tales of the castle is that of father Richard Blount. Between 1591 and 1598, the castle owner, Thomas Darrell, hid the Jesuit father in the castle whilst he ministered illegal catholic sermons. Authorities raided the castle to arrest the priest, but the holy man fled over a wall, into the moat and escaped persecution. There have been a number of hidden priest holes discovered amongst the ruin, illustrating its continued importance during these tumultuous religious oppositions.

We circumnavigated the mystical ruin, delving inside for a brief glance around its ancient walls before following a quiet path leading to the lush wilderness beyond. As if to amplify our immersion in the dream-like experience of the fantasy landscape, a brave Kestrel considered us from on high, its ancient eyes peering curiously from the bright blue heavens above. It observed our every move from its perch on a spindly limb-like branch of an eerie tree. Crickets chirped from the long flowing grass on all sides. Butterflies danced before our eyes, birds sang sweetly from clusters of brazen trees.

The Kestrel watched.

We made our way back towards the castle, back towards the impressive manor house. From this new aspect it was clearly a commanding seat of power at the crest of the hill. Audrey spied a number of pebbles, some with intriguing colours akin to the rainbow stone, but none with all the particular qualities of that most elusive treasure.

Still the Kestrel followed. Still the Kestrel Watched.

Back in the smart and lavish house grounds, we found a delightful little cafe. In safe socially distanced comfort we enjoyed a locally brewed beer, a cup of tea, and most importantly... a refreshing, sweet, tasty vegan ice cream! Our family weekend mission was complete.

By the time the purring engine of our trusty car was turned on, Audrey had drifted into a pleasant dream filled slumber, no doubt discovering her hidden treasures within the fairytale fantasy world we had just experienced.

Scotney Castle, we will most definitely be back soon.

Sunbathed at Bayham Old Abbey

The golden glow of the sun blazed down from glorious baby blue skies, the day was young and full of promise. Our regular work was done for the week and our roving minds were set firmly on adventure!

Our first ambition had been to complete an archaeological survey of a nearby reservoir. Emily Archaeomum has recently created the reservoir otters, an archaeological survey team with a free downloadable family kit to record erosion and features in reservoirs around the world.

We wistfully imagined a gentle meander around a local body of wondrous water, introducing Audrey to the world of marine-influenced archaeological recording whilst splashing about and hunting for the elusive rainbow stone.

Sadly, the reality was somewhat disappointing. Hordes of revellers with a similar idea had arrived at Bewl Water in their droves to enjoy the beautiful blue lagoon in the bright summer sunshine. The car park required a £5 fee to park and spaces were few. After an unsuccessful circumnavigation of the reservoir by car, pressing for a quieter corner, and an unfortunate tyre brush with a rather high kerb, we eventually abandoned the idea completely.

With public restrictions still in place and social contact not recommended, we opted for a lesser frequented spectacle than the beach or the reservoir, realising that all of these places were certain to be swelling with excitable leisure seekers in the sweet summer warmth.

Fortunately, in our midst, we are surrounded by stunning sights, ancient wonders and the remains of tantalising historic architecture. Our lovely locale is brimming with intrigue and spectacular stories. Glancing over our trusty OS map for inspiration, we came across a potential spot of gothic wonderment, visual majesty and immersive enjoyment; a destination with a spiritual foundation and of course, a good spot for a picnic.

Bayham Abbey is nestled in the heart of the valley of the River Teise, on the Kent Sussex border. The area is naturally blessed with picturesque surroundings and luscious forested countryside in all directions.

The Abbey was founded in 1207 by Premonstratensian ‘White Canons’ who followed a life ascribed to St Augustine. Impressively crafted from local golden sandstone, the remains are quite extensive, including a church, chapterhouse and the stone frameworks of three enormous arched windows of the nave. The Abbey was perfectly placed to benefit from the natural environment, with the river providing a regular water supply.

In its later years, Henry VIII took control of the estate following the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16th century. His daughter, Queen Elizabeth sold the estate and it fell into the hands of Sir John Pratt. The Camden family, descendants of Sir Pratt, built a family mansion, the Dower House, or Bayham Old Abbey House, next to the abbey, a luxurious 18th century Gothic manor which remains on the site today. In the 19th century the grounds were landscaped by Humphrey Repton whose phenomenal works included the gardens at Kenwood House in London. The Abbey ruins were partly modified during this period to offer a more romantic landscape. Bayham Abbey remained in the Camden family until 1961 when it was donated to English Heritage.

The first challenge was the driveway, which requires careful navigation as the narrow roadway has space for only one vehicle at a time and a sharp turn at about the halfway point, making it difficult to spot oncoming traffic. A few reversals later and we parked up to unload our adventure gear.

It is free to enter and wander amongst the Abbey ruins, though there is a very reasonable £2 car parking charge for non-English Heritage members, the proceeds of which appear to go to the upkeep of the amazing monument and surrounding grounds. Dogs on a lead are very welcome and the only time restrictions were it’s opening and closing hours. To our utter delight, just a handful of others had chosen the day to explore the ruins, which meant lots of space for quiet reflection.

We embarked upon our adventure around the ruins, Audrey eager as always to investigate every inch of the mammoth complex. We were well aware the rainbow stone could be effectively disguised amongst the ruinous remains, with a keen eye and her trusty sidekick Bramble; she carefully explored every corner of the potential treasure trove.

The bright beating sun continued to dispense its life-giving gifts as we wandered joyously through stone alleys and cavernous cloisters. We found a quiet spot by the Kentish Gatehouse to unravel the picnic blanket and enjoy our lunch. Emily and Audrey continued their explorations whilst Bramble and I lazed luxuriously on the luscious green grass, enjoying our Hasselback potatoes and spiced shroomdogs... and a cold beer of course.

A shout from across the Abbey indicated we had completely lost track of time and the gates were about to close. Our utter contentment relaxing in the Abbey gardens had made the minutes accelerate at a breakneck pace.

Audrey discovered an incredible specimen of rainbow leaf... surely an indicator her mission for the rainbow stone was gaining momentum. We swiftly shoved our possessions into the cool box, took a final enraptured glance at the enchanting Abbey and dashed for the car. It was time to head for home.