Dungeness and Dragons

The scorched earth gasped in delight as an unexpected downpour threatened to sweep over the land. However, this brief respite was not the relief they had so desperately prayed for, but the radioactive residue of a devilish scout, scouring the land in search of new prey.

For as long as anyone could remember, the burn had dominated these lands. The air was thick and cruel, pumped full of toxins and choking smog. The life giving green had been well and truly scorched from the face of the desolate island, and all that remained was an ever longing thirst, and of course, the Glow.

Temperatures were rising, heating the core and causing vile things that had lain dormant for millennia to reawaken. Flora and fauna were devolving at unnatural rates to cope with the shifting climate. The world was changing and the Glow was taking full advantage. It was building an army to obliterate all of those unfortunates who were unable to adapt as swiftly or as keenly to the old world order.

The Glow, an inhumane illuminous entity, had survived since the earliest moments of creation. It had adapted on this island at the end of the earth into something modern and dangerous. It swamped the soul with unnatural villainy, causing a horrendous inner change in the infected. Its poison had spread across the land, all it touched were snared in a cruel trap. Soon it would be unstoppable, consuming life and hope like a plague.

Despite the precarious state of the island, The Extended Archaeofam, a band of brave warriors and intellects, set out from their fair homeland in the Bridge of Tons on a quest to vanquish the evil Glow and halt its plans of devastation and cruelty. Six battle hardened warriors, their eager entourage of aspiring apprentices and the brazen beast known only as Bramble knew precisely what dangers lay ahead, yet that brief fiery downpour was a warning, a call to arms they knew must be answered.

Setting off in a host of chariots, including one of the mythical silent variety, the warrior band followed a trail of raging storm clouds left in the wake of the Glow’s demonic scouts. The trail led towards the very end of the known earth. They meandered over antique tracks, through serene hamlets, once thriving, inviting and beautiful, now deserted and abandoned since the Glow had taken control of these remote outposts.

A rare sheltered stretch of golden grassland was chosen to make camp, a safe distance from the imposing danger of the Glow. The companions took great pains to create a fortress fit for their quest. The temporary home of the heroes was fully equipped with everything required to tackle their foe, great halls for feasting, shelters for rest, a kitchen and a communal forum, and an additional vast palace, giant and complex, its construction taking up much of the warriors important drinking time…

That evening the warriors consulted the endless ocean of stars above, brightly sparkling upon the blanket of black velvet oblivion called night, and requested guidance in divination for the adventure ahead. The signs were favourable and thus they celebrated with joyous drinking and merriment, singing songs of old into the evening air and toasting to the hope of a successful quest.

The nearest town with any remaining semblance of life was known historically as New Romney. It was here the fearless troupe would need to make initial forages for supplies and information regarding the location of the Glow and its demonic stronghold.

New Romney was one of the original Cinque Ports, five Anglo Saxon ports on the southern coast, until the harbour began to silt up and the land was reclaimed from the sea and utilised for agricultural purposes. As an old harbour town, New Romney stood at the mouth of the river Rother, a challenging estuary with narrow channels and sand banks. In 1287, there was a great flood of south England. Many parishes were completely destroyed, with muds, silts and debris smothering the dwellings. The river Rother completely changed its course during the floods, to run out into the sea at Rye. New Romney survived, and on a lesser scale remained in use as a port until the 14th or 15th century, when the harbour eventually fell out of use. The town retains a sweet port town vibe despite being over a mile from the current coast.

Having gathered supplies and fortified the camp, the band of warriors armed themselves accordingly and prepared for a showdown. The initial plan was to cautiously approach the shore. When at the ocean edge, they would attempt to secure suitable vessels and attack the poisoned peninsular from a sea route. It was hoped that a surprise from beyond the realms of the island would be the safest option. The plan was scuppered however, as soon as they arrived at the proposed embarkation of Dymchurch.

Dymchurch emerged from the gradual build up of the Romney Marshes. A sea wall existed here from Roman times to protect a port at Port Lympne. A Norman church, built around 1150 and dedicated to St Peter and St Paul is still operating today, though it has seen significant extensions and modifications. During the 19th century it became an important element in the coastal defence program, with the construction of Martello Towers and Redoubt Forts. Since the 1930s, Dymchurch has primarily been a tourist destination and boasts a range of holiday and amusement parks.

The toxic tentacles of the Glow had polluted this region long before our heroes could reach its hallowed shores. Neon nastiness had spread like a glowing bacteria over the once quaint smugglers sanctuary. The raging waters of the encroaching ocean were unnaturally warm and terrifyingly tempestuous. Even the food seemed somewhat polluted by the false contagion of the ghastly Glow. The band of Warriors knew only too well the dangers in attempting to approach the stronghold from this position. Desperate to go unnoticed, they retreated to their camp to regroup.

Unfortunately, they had been spied. The great gaze of the Glow had witnessed its enemy and retaliated in a brutal fashion. That night, our brave warriors were surrounded and savagely attacked. The Glow sent forth a horde of blood sucking demons to destroy its foe. These fiends swooped on our heroes, gorging on their flesh. The warriors would not be defeated so easily. They lit the beacons, flooding the air with fresh scents, deadly to the miniscule monsters hovering above. The enemy retreated. Wounded but victorious, the warriors took rest, ready for the epic battle ahead.

On a mission of reconnaissance, the tenacious team of mini apprentices had discovered a secret route into the heart of the Glow’s evil stronghold. It was an ancient engine, powerful enough to traverse the radioactive wastes and desolate landscape, yet small enough to evade the monstrous guards and the gazing eye of the Glow. It was the perfect plan. The warriors and their entourage armed themselves and set out immediately.

The Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway is a 15 in light gauge railway which clings to the coast of Kent between Hythe and Dungeness. The railway had been the dream of racing drivers Captain John Edwards Presgrave Howey and Count Louis Zborowski. It was officially opened in 1927, though King George VI (then Duke of York) had visited and driven the railway during construction in 1926. During the 2nd World War, a miniature armoured train was built for use on the railway by the British Military to patrol the coast in case of invasion. A fleet of locomotives now operate on the line taking approximately 150,000 passengers a year to destinations along the coast.

Sneaking onto the engine via a series of challenging hurdles and trials, the band of warriors sped towards their unsuspecting enemy. The surrounding landscape shifted and opened up, vast and alien, a sparse and haunting desert, dry and desolate at the end of the earth. The unparalleled barren wilderness almost revealed their approach. Fortunately the swift and stealthy engine made it through the soaring black towers and searching lights of the ghoulish guard stations, and to the very gates of the grim loathsome Glow.

Dungeness, or the headland at Denge Marsh, was first mentioned in AD 774 as Dengemersc. It remains one of the largest expanses of shingle in Europe. Dungeness is a designated National Nature Reserve due to its amazing bird and plant life communities. A host of lighthouses remain on the headland, constructed to warn approaching ships of the shallow headland waters. These lighthouses were constantly rebuilt or moved as the coastline altered over the centuries. The most prominent landmarks of Dungeness are its two formidable power stations. These Nuclear Power Stations, built in 1965 and 1984 respectively have both now been decommissioned, though the newer station continues in a defueling state.

Standing at the gates of the enemy, staring up at the gaunt grey towers and phallic funnels beyond, our fearless band of warriors lined up in battle array. The Glow, only realising the danger too late, attempted to organise its odious armies. Toxic plumes of neon waste intertwined and fused into a flurry of foul beasts, zombie sharks and skeletal crabs, blood sucking buzzards, gut-churning gulls and rabid dogs forged forwards. Humanesque creatures consumed by the pestilence of the abominable beastly Glow also emerged from the taverns to guard the vile gates. It would be an epic finale.

The ferocious battle raged on through the stifling merciless heat of the arid afternoon. It took every ounce of strength from our fearless heroes to fight through the throngs of ghastly glowing adversaries. The battle remained on a knifes edge, until the ingenuity of the apprentices produced an opportunity. It was a risky plan, but it had a chance…

The gruesome Glow emerged from its formidable fortress.

Its lethal light and noxious noise filled the air in an all consuming burst of rage and terror. Our heroes stood firm. Producing a collection of rare crystal tubes, the young heroes braced themselves, and in choral perfection, sang an ancient spell which reverberated through the desolate desert. The Glow wailed in agony as the crystal tubes burst open and sucked at its devilish lifeform, draining its dark power and containing it within the tubes forevermore.

The heroes held on tight as the tubes sealed and each shone brightly with the essence of the captured demon. They had done it. The island was rid of an ancient beast which had terrorized the tides so very long.

Weary but jubilant, the band of warriors made a final pilgrimage to the eternal ocean, now free of the vile grip of the Glow. It was a reborn experience, relaxed and wonderful. They cheerfully paddled in the expanse of ocean and mudflats, feasted on the rocky outcrops and bathed in the golden glow of an untainted sun. Soon they would return to the Bridge of Tons and prepare for future adventures and quests, but for now, our victorious heroes basked in the comfort of great company and glories won as the sumptuous sun sunk gently over the horizon.

And no one even thought about the impending horror of repacking the temporary palace… that, as they say, was a story for another time!

Happy Mothers Day

In the infinite expressions of which we may consider it, there is nothing more important in this world than the mother. Mother gives life to the young, protects her children, is fertile and powerful, tender and kind. Mother comes in many forms but all of us are influenced by her presence. In almost all cultures and all ages, Mother is the parent of all things, the origin of everything.

The pantheons of godlike figures in which Mother is represented are endless and complex, but a common understanding that the mother represents the beginning and nurturing of life, prevails.

Prehistoric figurines representing mother goddesses have been discovered across the globe. She is often personified as full of life, plentiful and powerful. Carefully placed during important spiritual events, it is believed that many of these offerings were deposited in hope of pleasing mother earth and bringing good health or harvest.

In Egyptian mythology the mother goddess is considered to be of the sky rather than the earth. As Nut, she bore the stars and the god of the sun. The spirits of the dead travel to her to feast and be refreshed.

In Greek and Roman literature, we find Cybele, Ops, Demeter, Tellus, Mater Deum Magna Idaea, Agdistis and Rhea, variants of the same ideals, the mother of the Gods or worship of the great mother. A beginning to the intricate web of existence, for both the divine and the human worlds.

Celtic mother goddess Brighid presided over hearth and home, watching over women in childbirth whilst Danu was the earth mother goddess who suckled the gods and represented fertility, wisdom and the wind. Mother was symbolised in the mountains, in the forests and the wilds of the earth, her life force flowed with the seasons as she interacted with the gods of sky and ocean.

She is found too in Freya, Isis, Durga, Gaia, Mary, Izanami no Mikoto, Mut, Pachamama and so many more. Mother encompasses all life, all existence, all imagination and inspiration. As mother earth, she controls our worldly fortunes. As mother of the sky, she watches us from the endless eternities above.

For every mother out there, in whatever form that motherhood takes, thank you, you have our hearts. There should certainly be more than one day to celebrate motherhood.

So, from our Archaeofam to yours, Happy Mother’s Day X

PS – yes mum, I folded my clothes, got all my work done, made sure that Audrey was wearing the best fitting shoes for school and had eaten all her vegetables before writing this! Love you.

The Harlaxton Shuffle

You might ask yourself what John of Gaunt, the Jesuits, a mysterious international businessman with more family aliases than a Superhero franchise, the first brushless shaving cream, the Sherriff of Nottingham and the very first American University campus in Britain have in common.

Well, I can tell you, the answer is Harlaxton Manor.

I must admit, until Emily Archaeomum applied for a position at the University of Evansville, I had never heard of their study abroad campus at Harlaxton Manor, nor indeed Harlaxton Village. Emily was successful in her application, and so off we went to explore an estate steeped in intrigue, majesty and some rather confused chronologies.

Harlaxton sits on the outskirts of Grantham in Lincolnshire, a grand manor house surrounded by acres of gorgeous green countryside. As we arrived along winding country lanes, the splendour of the house rose into view, indeed an entire hillside had to be excavated in order for the impressive palace to be built. It is a remarkable architectural wonder, a traditional statement of elite residence, but not all was as it seemed.

The house has hints of Elizabethan architecture, but there is also Jacobean and Baroque in there, traces of continental influence are everywhere, a blend of stylistic treasures seamlessly forging a fashionable masterpiece. Yet the house is not as old as it first appears. I mean, it is pretty old, almost 200 years old in fact, but perhaps not as ancient as its image implies.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Audrey was here on business, the business of mystery solving, and this place was bursting with them.

We parked in the estate and walked up the grand driveway to the front entrance, all the while in awe of the enormity and splendour of this mansion. Stunning sculptures stared back at us from every precipice, lions, birds of prey, cherubs and I’m pretty sure we even spied a dragon.

Inside, things only got more decadent. The halls, corridors, state rooms and staircases are like something from a fairy-tale. Gold glittering fittings, shiny marble features, ornately carved wooden decorations, grand stone fireplaces and stunning antique furniture including some astonishing musical instruments. It was a little bizarre to see so many students dashing around such a place. Areas which are often only witnessed from behind rope barriers are simply the regular furnishings of this functional facility.

Of course, any building of this grandeur is guaranteed to contain a wealth of history and some fascinating stories. At Harlaxton though, the tales do not simply involve kings and knights, aristocrats and lavish elite living.

So, let’s start from the beginning. Harlaxton, as a place, is mentioned in the 1086 Domesday Book as Herlavestune, or Herelaf-Tun meaning the estate or farm of Herelaf. Before the current centrepiece was erected, another Harlaxton Manor existed. This Moated Manor house, which was situated closer to the current village, was built in the 14th century and is said to have been used as a hunting lodge by the infamous son of King Edward III and buddy of Geoffrey Chaucer, John of Gaunt.

The property and estate went through several hands before being purchased by the De Ligne family in the 17th century with whom it remained for some time. Things now begin to get interesting as our first curious rogues enter the fray. When Daniel De Ligne, High Sherriff of Lincolnshire and Knight of King James I, passed the estate to his son and then on to his grandchildren, the natural direct lineage of this family ceased. With no further children it seemed uncertain who would inherit the property.

Enter one George Gregory.

George Gregory was the De Ligne family lawyer. It appears Gregory somehow discovered the closest heir apparent, a descendant of Daniel De Ligne’s sister by the name of Anne Orton. Having made such an important discovery, Gregory conveniently married Anne and became the Lord of Harlaxton Manor and later even the Sherriff of Nottingham. Smooth.

Now, here is where the names begin to get a little ridiculous, try to stay with me. The estate passed to George Gregory’s son, George De Ligne Gregory. He had a brother called William Gregory, who changed his name after inheriting a family estate from his grandmother, Susanna Williams. So, William Gregory Williams (right??).

With no children himself, George De Ligne Gregory left Harlaxton to his nephew, the son of William Gregory Williams. This son, Gregory Williams (seriously?) also inherited his own father’s estate but took his uncles title with the inheritance and became, wait for it, Gregory Gregory (???).

Now I admit, I may have got that wrong, I got dizzy just typing it, but we can now move on to the next curious character in Harlaxton history, and the founder of the modern manor house, Gregory Gregory.

Only a little is known of this elusive figure. He appears to have attended Christ Church College, Oxford at age 19 where he studied Classics, Greek philosophy and Mathematics. He joined the local militia and became a Lieutenant Colonel in 1813. Interestingly, he may well have been involved in the Napoleonic Wars, mirroring the battles fought in France by John of Gaunt centuries earlier. He became a fellow of the Royal Horticultural Society in 1825 and of the Zoological Society of London in 1831.

Gregory Gregory seems to have had an appetite for foreign art and in the aftermath of the wars in France he, like many other English aristocrats, amassed quite a collection of French furniture and artworks from Paris. His next move following three years in France and Italy attached to certain embassies, was to build a home for his vast array of new acquisitions.

Harlaxton Old Manor had been sitting vacant and dilapidated for almost a century by the time Gregory Gregory inherited the estate, along with coal mines, canal and rail companies, considerable property across the midlands and a small fortune. Gregory had the Old Manor house pulled down, only the Balustrade’s, an Iron Gate and some curious Griffin statues were reused in the new build, though there are rumours that some marble interior floors are relics of the ancient dwelling. The architect hired to design the new look Harlaxton, Anthony Salvin, was commissioned to sketch the old Manor before it was pulled down. Had he not, there may have been no visual record of this incredible ancient residence.

A hillside was excavated, and Harlaxton Manor rose majestically onto the landscape. What a creation it was. Though Salvin is credited as architect, Gregory was probably responsible for the mix of architectural styles and perhaps even some of the layout. He would not live to see Harlaxton completed though. Despite overseeing the construction and being instrumental in many of its quirky curiosities, Gregory Gregory died of gout complications in 1854. He left a substantial gift in his will to his “confidential servant” Samuel Baguley. Samuel was named prior to anyone else, indicating an unusual level of importance for a butler. What I wonder, did Samuel have intimate knowledge of?

The intrigues of Gregory Gregory continue. The only known portrait of the secretive international businessman, disappeared under mysterious circumstances. His only remaining contemporary likeness is a profile carved into the ceiling. Secrets and curiosities seem to surround this unusual figure.

Following his death, the estate bounced around a number of not-quite family members. It was used as military barracks and training facilities during the first world war and continued as a home until eventually it was put up for sale in 1937. Had it not been purchased, the Manor was set to be demolished, but it was rescued by arguably Harlaxton’s most fascinating resident, Violet Van Der Elst.

Violet deserves a book of her own, in fact I believe there have been books written about this astonishing character. An eccentric self-made millionaire, entrepreneur, social campaigner and claimed descendant of Sir Guy Gundry, an Elizabethan Sea Dog, Van Der Elst was instrumental in the abolition of the death penalty in Britain. She also invented the first brushless shaving cream. One of the most unusual aspects of her life though, was her obsession with the world of the occult.

Violet had been interested in the supernatural long before her purchase of Harlaxton Manor, but now she had a perfect platform for her experimental attempts to explore the realms beyond our own. Harlaxton was rumoured to house several disturbed spirits. A spectral grey lady was often seen walking along the blue corridor during the night, and there had been a well engrained story of a De Linge baby, prophesised to die before a month old. A nanny had been ordered to keep constant watch and care of the child. She had been so overworked that she fell asleep from exhaustion. As she slept, the baby fell from her arms and into a fire. Baby’s screams and muffled cries have frequently been heard throughout the vast corridors of the eerie mansion.

Despite the abundance of ghostly occupants, it was her own husband with whom Violet wished to connect. John Van Der Elst, a Belgian artist, had died years earlier from a ruptured ulcer and Violet had been devastated by the loss. Apparently, his ashes can be found still, in an urn in the entrance hall where Violet placed him decades ago. Mourning him would not be enough. Violet converted the old library at Harlaxton into a room in which to conduct seances. With the windows draped in dark curtains, the space adorned with pitch black furnishings and herself dressed head to toe in midnight black garments, she tried every means possible to contact the spirit of her dearly departed love. It is not clear whether she managed to reach John, but the intensity of unexplainable occurrences at the Manor seems to have wildly increased following her exploits.

Violet Van Der Elst gave up on Harlaxton after the Second World War and sold the property to the Jesuits, who converted the house into a Noviate. She died in 1966 but perhaps her legacy remained with the house she once occupied.

Multiple occurrences of a woman in black robes or a black dress have been seen around the house, footsteps are frequently heard in the halls, yet no one can be seen. Loud bangs and screams are regularly witnessed from empty rooms and corridors. The scent of cigar smoke has been witnessed in the old servant quarters, doors and furnishings are said to open and close of their own accord, vases have been seen levitating, objects moving by themselves. Many residents have mentioned a feeling of being followed through the manor despite knowing they were alone, and glimpsing strange forms of figures where there were none. A number of occupants in a particular room at differing times admitted to suffering terrible nightmares and waking up to see a subhuman face close to their own, or a creepy dark robed figure hovering in the room.

It is said that when the Jesuits purchased Harlaxton Manor, there were such an abundance of unexplainable disturbances that they had to conduct severe exorcisms of the property. Shrieks were heard bellowing from the chimneys, but the hauntings appear to have continued even after the Jesuits eventually sold the property in the 1960’s.

So why do I mention these strange folk tales you ask. Well, curiously, during Emily’s first stay at Harlaxton, she was given a bedroom beside Violet Van Der Elst’s old library. That night, the room was terrifying, it was so bad Emily booked into a nearby Travelodge. Later she would learn that she was not alone in her inability to remain in the room, many had suffered the same issue, but only there in that specific part of the house. In another rather bizarre experience, we visited the library and witnessed the piano play two notes entirely by itself, no one close enough to have touched the keys. An electric bin is also known to be active in the library, without human intervention. Perhaps these occurrences are caused by a surge or electrical fault (it is an electric piano) or perhaps…

The next day I even noticed a number of scratches on my back which I cannot explain, though they may simply have been from an over excited 4-year-old who needs her nails clipping a bit.

Whatever the cause, you have to admit, despite its relative youth, Harlaxton is fascinating. The history of Harlaxton is filled with riddles, secrets and seances. I haven’t even begun to discuss the mysterious interiors, secret passages and doorways, four of the seven deadly sins depicted in marble, multiple images of Hercules, tapestries and art depicting mythical tales, trojan heroes, saintly sorcery, foreign idols, fantasy creatures and more. At the summit of the Cedar staircase, a statue of Father Time is depicted with a genuine scythe and the floor plans of Harlaxton Manor in his hand. What does all this symbology represent, is it the random collections of eccentric owners, or is something hidden amongst these symbols, is there a deeper meaning? Could there be a reason why Gregory Gregory built the Manor in the way he chose, or why Violet Van Der Elst believed she could contact the dead and immerse herself in the occult here? We have not even begun to explore the vast gardens and estates, but a glance at the OS map shows curious features, springs and wells, caverns and forests, hills and streams. Ancient occupied landscapes revered the site long before either Manor House was conceived. It is surely no coincidence that a frequent visitor to the Manor was Mrs Hargreaves, previously known as Alice Liddell, the real-life model for Alice in Wonderland!

This was the reason Audrey was so keen to explore, these were the questions that drove her to run around the rooms, feet clapping against the polished wooden floors, a maniacal possessed grin on her face as she experimented with the varying echoes produced by high ceilings with ornate plaster work. There are many mysteries inside and out of this incredible architectural feat. Fortunately, we have some time to get to the bottom of them. Down the rabbit hole we go.

We will be sure to keep you updated on our progress.

As the sun fell beyond the tree lined hilltops, we bid a temporary farewell to Harlaxton Manor and watched it disappear in the rear-view mirror. We truly were awestruck by its beauty. A stunning, strange architectural masterpiece so inspired and affected by common continental influence yet perfectly nestled in a beautiful English countryside setting.

From our Archaeofam to yours,

Goodnight.

The Thames on the Eve of Londinium - exploring a late Iron Age landscape in London

There has been a recent stir of interest and a flurry of newsworthy London discoveries from the Iron Age period. I haven’t been all that proactive in the promotion of my PhD research, nor discussed the topic in any great detail here or on my social media, but I made a promise to myself, to make my work in progress a little more visible in this brand new year of ours. So here goes with an introduction.

There has long been an attitude that London was mostly devoid of Iron Age activity, save that of a few scattered farmsteads and a possible ritual area on the river, nestled between the territories of opposing communities with differing leaders and strongholds.

London is said to have emerged following the arrival of the Romans in AD 43 and quickly grown into one of the most important towns in the province of Brittania.

The problem with challenging these age-old opinions is that evidence of Iron Age London is hidden amongst hundreds of scattered reports, grey literature, chance finds, and datasets old and new. It would take a lot of digging to gather this material, to go through the crumbs of evidence with a fine-tooth comb, and then attempt to reconstruct the truth from the tapestry of fragmentary findings.

This is precisely the challenge I have set myself, and I love it.

It is far from easy, the material is complex and there are many varied opinions on what is represented, but with a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, I hope to comprehensively map the environments of the London region before the arrival of the Romans in AD43.

As a way of introduction, I have recorded a 20-minute presentation on my initial foundational studies as I attempt to understand the character of the region during the late Iron Age. This initial offering introduces the issues and challenges faced when attempting this particular topic as well as some initial findings and the direction of the study going forward.

I hope you find it of interest, it is fascinating to me, but I am a total geek when it comes to this topic!

Isle be back!

There were tales of a misty island, full of magic and wonder, lying just across a small stretch of turbulent ocean. It was an island full of folklore, fantasy and infamy. Kings and Queens, witches and warlords, minstrels and magicians all dwelled upon this little emerald gem, and at its heart, a fiery furnace of fantasy had lain dormant for eternities. It was an island so close to the gods, that their touch could be plainly felt in the wild conditions of its extremities. Most importantly, this island was not so far distant from us that the effects of an ongoing pandemic existence could restrict our careful expedition.

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We set out on a voyage of discovery, our furthest in quite some time, an odyssey of intrigue, to explore the spectacular scenic curiosity of the Isle of White.

Audrey was keen to ensure our investigations were a success and so the travel inventory was extensive. Tents, utensils, headquarters, even a toilet, all crammed into the back of the trusty transport, with us humble adventurers squeezed between.

After a substantial drive, we made the port of Portsmouth, our platform to reach the beautiful Island just visible across the rolling ocean, through the hazy morning mist. Portsmouth was a maze of old roads and historic buildings, scattered amongst new builds and modern technological wonders. The port is vast and some of the vessels here are more like seafaring cities, huge floating hulks built for epic long-distance voyages to unimaginable worlds.

Whilst our journey would explore an awe-inspiring isle, it was not one of such intense distance, and our ferry voyage was comfortable and swift. The brisk ocean breeze and dazzling sunlight made the trip exhilarating and a bottle of Isle of White brewed beer only added to the refreshing experience.

As we neared the island, strange and magnificent monuments peered down upon us from the tree peppered hillsides, an ever-casting eye on our approach. Was our character being tested at this early stage? Audrey looked on heroically; she was certainly a well worthy wanderer.

After disembarkation, the drive through the island was pleasant, only stalled as we made our way through the central mini-metropolis of Newport, where a historic townscape is now furnished with all the amenities of modern living. Eventually, we arrived at our base camp, nestled beneath a canopy of trees, hugging the luscious green valley beneath and beautifully isolated from the humdrum of humanity.

Once our temporary home base was all set up, and an invigorating tea was fully consumed, it was time to get to work. We had heard stories of strange happenings on this island, bizarre occurrences at some of the most time-worn monuments, a shiver down the spine of the ancient isle. Could it be connected? Could it be that Ollpheist, the Mother of all Dragons, was stirring from her slumber? Could the nation’s subterranean saviour have been roused into action?

Our first tiptoe into the mystery began at Yarmouth Castle. Building work began at this castle in 1547, to protect against the fear of French invasion. From its brave bastion, the sites of shipwreck and seashores smother the horizon. The Santa Lucia was lost off the coast nearby in 1567, a Spanish merchant vessel that may have foundered before reaching the harbour of Yarmouth. The sturdy stone walls of Yarmouth Castle have withstood centuries of defence, straddled bravely atop the dragon’s tail. Yet now they buckled, the winds whipping over the walls, its guns aimed at invisible foes.

Audrey led us through the castle, fearlessly investigating the surroundings, certain that the clues we required lay hidden nearby. She took notes and tested the battlements before demanding a strategic break for ice cream. One delicious chocolate cone and a stroll around the village later and it was time to continue our examinations.

Our next stop was of vital importance. If the dragon truly stirred, we would need to see it for ourselves.

When sleeping dragons ache, it is their tails that first awake.

The needles lie at the furthest western point of the Island. They jut from the ocean like sharpened knives, slicing the blue waters in stuttered blasts. The trek to this distant treasure involved an ever-increasing climb to the heavens, with stunning views of the choppy channel on one side and the humped spine of the sleeping dragon on the other. Here the extremities of a liminal world are felt most fiercely. We battled the howling winds, violent whispers from the gods themselves. Finally, we reached the summit and stared over the tip of the dragon’s tail. It did not flinch to our eyes, though it felt as though the entire island shook in some great rage, up there on that peninsula peak.

Our investigations of the day complete, we ventured back to camp. Night crept in, a darkness beyond the normality of night. The campfire burned brightly and our spirits were raised by the warmth as we enjoyed a beer, cider, juice, and tea. Then to bed, a cosy tent for our family snuggle, Bramble stretching out over half the space, and the rest of us huddled in our sleeping bags for warmth.

We woke early, as is always the case for Audrey, so much to do, so much to see, so much to explore. Of course, there were the usual difficulties, too many bubbles in her morning milk and not enough rainbows in her breakfast bowl, everything too loud and not loud enough for a bright, brave four-year-old adventure princess.

The morning air was supernatural. As the fog rolled in, the veil between worlds thinned. The island slid beneath invisible realms and spirits swarmed across the hallowed shoals. Audrey knew all too well, the tales of Wihtgar and Stuf, of the sons of Arwald, of Princess Elizabeth, doomed daughter to that most unfortunate of monarchs, Charles I and even of old Jack. She took precautions and armed herself, for the protection of the party, her sturdy sword, and shield to save us all.

Our focus today would be Carisbrooke Castle, a fortress as old as the legends of the Island. The earthworks here had perhaps originated as a Roman fort, but certainly, a Saxon burial ground had been here and later a fortified settlement. Carisbrooke dominates a prominent hilltop of the island and was first constructed to protect against those vicious Viking raiders. After the Norman invasion of Britain, the Saxon burh was embellished with a strong stone defended enclosure. The castle remained a crucial stronghold of the island and survived centuries of dynasty and disaster.

During the English Civil War, Carisbrooke fell into Parliamentary control and gained the most famous of prisoners, none other than King Charles I. His children were also imprisoned in the castle and his daughter, Elizabeth died there at the tender age of 14. Despite desperate attempts by Charles to escape his captivity, the prison was unbreakable and Charles would not see freedom.

With so many tortured souls on this tiny rock, it was little wonder the dragon stirred. Not least because these turbulent histories had left a legacy of spilled blood on sacred soil, nor because the unity of humans became so fractured in this ancient land, but worse, the fierce fortunes of the island were in danger because Ollpheist was being forgotten, the only true reason for the Mother of all dragons to stir.

Not so much forgetting the stories of this ancient creature, for the traditions continue well, but the problem lies in the belief. Our impatient twenty-first-century attentions focus on modern luxuries, grinding the mystical side of our minds thin. Dreams of dragons and magic are buried deep beneath the monotonous mountain of the mundane. She is forgotten, or at least she is no longer real to us, and so she stirs.

It was important that we altered the island’s delicate fate. There was only one hope; we would need to soothe the soul of this sleeping giant. And so we rushed to a place of deep connection and spiritual power of the land, to Quarr Abbey. If any place held the power of hope, belief, and island strength, it was here. Quarr, named for its stone quarries from the earliest of histories, was occupied by Cistercian monks in 1132 who built a significant church here on the coastal reaches of the island. It had clearly always been an area of some importance. A deeper power resided in the earth and a magic emanated from the ocean spray which caressed its banks. An Abbey flourished on the site, particularly thanks to the great trade in wine that passed through from French shores. The Monks were evicted from the Abbey in 1536 following the dissolution of the monasteries and the beautiful building fell into disrepair. It wasn’t until 1907 when the poet of brick, Dom Paul Bellot, built the stunning monastery nearby, a spectre of the ancient Abbey and a monument in use to this day.

It was in this incredible space that Audrey whispered words of unconditional kindness and offered the sort of unfaltering belief only a child may possess in a world so full of rule and regulation. With our hearts in our mouths, we anxiously awaited a sign... or a signal for escape.

Audrey smiled, her words had been true, Ollpheist would sleep soundly again, secure that her memory lived on, so long as Audrey’s adventure would be written on the modern manuscripts of our age. The mother of all Dragons would find her way into the minds of those who perhaps had not heard of her courageous charge and her stealthy slumber could continue unmolested.

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With the day almost done, we made our weary way back to the ferry, for a final voyage over the deep blue sea. The waters gently swayed in the regular breath of the sleeping Draconem. We bid the delightful Isle of Wight a fond farewell, and enjoyed a final island ale to toast our adventure.

To sleeping Dragons, may they forever rest peacefully in our hearts

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A Chide<<< in Time! [The Chiddingstone mystery]

Don’t panic! A portal to the past is open, a mysterious split in the fabric of the space-time continuum has been revealed. The world beyond this tear in time has the potential to unlock our understandings of an ancient way of life. We had to see for ourselves. We had to go back... to the... well, to the past!

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According to our tip-off, this passageway through time was a fortuitously short drive from our home. It was too good an opportunity to be missed. This would be a test of our investigative team’s greatest resolve; it would require the best of the best to unravel this temporal mystery. We called in the best we knew, ArchaeoGranny and ArchaeoGrandad.

Legend has it that the Druids of the Cantii revered an ancient monument, the Chiding Stone, a sacred place upon which they would pass judgments and maybe even make sacrifices to the ancient gods or the natural wonders of the earth. This monument still dominates the landscape, and perhaps its mystique could offer a clue to unlock our mystery. Was ancient magic guarding the surrounding sacred spot against the perils of age and decay, preserving a historic landscape like a physical photograph. Did these ancient Druids alter the rules of transtemporal quantum mechanics? Our voyage aimed to pinpoint the cause of this perplexing paradigm.

We approached the village of Chiddingstone in the late morning sunshine. Sunlight bounced off Tudor windowpanes like busy bees caressing a hive of honey. A stunning 14th – 15th-century church with traces of an earlier 13th-century origin sat proudly at the centre of the quaint village, epic sepulchral structures peppered across its emerald green gardens. The faint and timeless sound of happy children playing in an adjacent schoolyard competed only with the melodious songs of fleeting birds in an otherwise tranquil rural idyll. It was postcard-pretty, almost too perfect.

Whilst the village is rumoured to have taken its name from the folklore infused Chiding Stone, current scholarship suggests the name actually originated during the Saxon period, from the name of a tribal leader in the area whose community used the stone as a boundary marker. As the homestead of Cidda’s family, the name Chidding Tun would eventually evolve into the Chiddingstone we recognise today.

The greedy and tyrannical Bishop Odo was gifted Chiddingstone after the Norman invasion as part of his Earldom of Kent. The village is mentioned in the Domesday Book. Odo was apparently so unpopular that there has never been another Earl of Kent since. The Father of Anne Boleyn, Sir Thomas Bullen, bought property in the village during the early 1500s, but the major landowners of the area were the Streatfeild’s after they purchased a dwelling in the High Street in 1584 which was later to become Chiddingstone Castle.

The very fabric of the village offers a rare glimpse into a traditional Tudor landscape. The buildings with jettied upper floors, jutting eagerly into the narrow street beyond, decorative brick chimneys’, rustic oak timber beams, and crooked paneled diamond pane windows all ooze the kind of charisma impossible to replicate in modern architecture. We strolled through the past on the old-fashioned cobbled footpaths, drinking in all of its antique architecture and bygone brilliance.

But how had this time portal been possible? Apparently, there is no difference between Time and any of the other three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it. So how had the modern world been kept at arm’s length in this place, how had its period perfection been so pristinely preserved? Was the Chiding Stone casting some enchanting armour over the time-warped town?

We continued our investigations by exploring the most prestigious portion of the village, Chiddingstone Castle. Less castle, more stunning stately home, Chiddingstone Castle has Tudor origins with a history of renovation including a remodelling in the 19th century when it was modified to resemble a medieval castle. The grounds and gardens leading to the castle are a rabbit-hole of delights. We followed a golden leafy path under a canopy of looming treetops to an almost Arthurian lake, misty and steeped in shadow with tantalising breaks of golden sunlight penetrating subtle gaps in the flora. A mysterious stone-lined tomb descended into the darkness beneath the roots of a towering tree. Where it led or what resided in that fairytale cavern beneath the earth... we did not gain an opportunity to discover. A mystery for another day perhaps, after all... we’ll be back!

The Castle houses an impressive collection of world treasures, Ancient Egyptian, Japanese, Buddhist, Jacobite, and Stuart collections are scattered throughout the historic corridors. These various acquisitions were collected by the many eclectic residents of Chiddingstone Castle and allegedly preserved for the enjoyment of future generations... though, at a price of admission.

Having still found no clues to the cause of this mystery time bubble, we decided to seek refreshment, for time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so! Sadly the delightful period pub, the Castle Inn, was closed, so we made our way to a quaint tea room further up the high street, the gorgeously named, Tulip Tree Tea Rooms. Here we sat in a glorious garden with creeping vines and floral displays in full bloom. The tea and cakes were delicious and well needed. Audrey devoured a slab of Rocky Road and fresh orange juice and Bramble enjoyed a refreshing bowl of water and her own special biscuits for treats.

We discussed the unusual situation, a perfectly preserved Tudor village, a proud 14th-century religious centre, a faux-medieval Tudor Castle/Mansion, an air of antiquity and ancient appeal. As someone once said, it’s like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff. What was this wormhole of historical harmony? How had such a place come to be, and more importantly, how had it hidden from the ravages of encroaching capitalist development?

Finally, it was time to visit the source. The heart of the village, the beacon of mystery and potentially the root of magical power, the Chiding Stone!

The unique and beguiling stone was formed millions of years ago when the land was underwater. Medieval folklore recounts that nagging wives, trouble makers, and witches were brought to the stone to be chided as punishment. We followed a twisting tunnel of trees and shrubs on a gradual descent into the darkness. Finally, we spied a warm welcoming light as the world opened up and the astonishing Chiding Stone rose on the horizon to greet us!

It was certainly an incredible spectacle, with unique awe and serene majesty.  Its smooth rounded faces bulged like a squashed balloon, and graffiti-covered almost every inch of it, some perhaps ancient, though much of it, not so ancient! We circumnavigated the ancient landmark, searching for clues that may solve the historical riddles of Chiddingstone. Was there an archaic magic emanating from the stone, an age-old curse on the land handed down by the spiritual leaders of bygone millennia?

We discovered our clue...

The smoking gun...

It was even more incredible than we ever could have dreamed...

It turns out in 1939 the National Trust acquired the village, buying it almost in its entirety. The National Trust is famed for its incredible work preserving the historical integrity of national monuments and restoring sublime and important heritage to the public. Chiddingstone is unique, a village under the almost complete management of a charity and membership organisation for heritage conservation. It was instantly obvious what had happened in this tantalising time capsule.

Clearly that ultra-intelligent organisation, the National Trust had secretly discovered the mechanics of the space-time continuum, perhaps with a flux capacitor, a TARDIS or a faulty hot-tub, maybe even a giant extraterrestrial tardigrade? They had ripped a hole in the fabric of time in this precise location and caused a ripple of temporal instability.

What else could it have been?

With another mystery solved, we packed up the car and made our way home, careful not to hit 88 MPH, to enjoy a leisurely family evening with good food and cool drinks. The expedition had taken all of our courage and daring, but we had been triumphant. It had been an incredible experience to witness such perfect surviving examples of historical fascination, but it was also an unusual and occasionally surreal experience...

…but Don’t panic! A portal to the past is open, a mysterious split in the fabric of the space-time continuum has been revealed. The world beyond this tear in time has the potential to unlock our understandings of an ancient way of life. We had to see for ourselves. We had to go back... to the... well, to the past!

Wait... did that happen already? and… did I arrive with that beard?

Until next time, from our Archaeofam to yours, be excellent to each other!

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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...

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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.

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