Gallivanting in Grantham

It has been a busy old summer, and a hot one of course! So sitting at a computer most days has not been the most desirable hang out. Thankfully, we have managed to sneak in some archaeological and historical adventures despite our heavy workloads and looming deadlines.

By far the biggest event of the summer was Emily’s archaeological field school in Harlaxton, Lincolnshire, just outside of Grantham. Digging Harlaxton was a joint community venture which involved Harlaxton College, The Enabled Archaeology Foundation, Operation Nightingale, Network Archaeology, University of Lincoln, Grantham and Harlaxton community members and many more. The primary goal of the excavations was to offer an accessible program of archaeology to the local community, a number of charitable groups and an educational program to students of Harlaxton College and local schools.

The archaeology itself was formed of two specific sites. The first was located in the walled garden complex of Harlaxton Manor. The walled garden is set to be redeveloped and made accessible to the public, so a number of test trenches were strategically placed in the garden to explore the original Victorian glass houses which are no longer extant. The second site explored an unusual cropmark within a prehistoric landscape nearby. The area had experienced some field walking but no excavation had been previously conducted.

The excavations for this season are now completed and the reports are being written for publication as soon as specialist reports and investigations are conducted on the finds and environmental sampling. The results will be forthcoming when the report is released, but suffice to say there were some incredible discoveries made, some puzzling archaeology discovered, and the field school was a huge success with everyone involved. Community members expressed their joy at feeling involved and were excited to learn the various histories of their locality. The students benefitted greatly from a well-executed project and educational program, and many people who may not have considered archaeology accessible or even interesting, were fully immersed and enjoyed the experience immensely.

Whilst Emily was busy making sure the project sailed smoothly, Audrey and I took the opportunity to help where we could. This sometimes involved assisting in the dig, occasionally meant playing in the mountains of sand produced from the Lincolnshire countryside, and at other times meant heading away on adventures of our own.

We made our way into the town of Grantham to have a look around. Grantham appears in the Domesday book of 1086, though its earliest origin is not entirely clear. The name may refer to a personal name of Granta, or the old English Grand for gravel, therefore Granta/Grand (Granta’s or by gravel) Ham (homestead). The town is well positioned along the River Witham valley where it joins with the Mow Beck river. There are hints at a well utilised prehistoric landscape, with a Palaeolithic axe, Mesolithic flints and a possible Neolithic settlement all discovered in the area. There have also been Beaker pottery finds, and a Bronze Age cemetery located in Grantham. The majority of potential for prehistoric evidence lies just outside the town, between Grantham and Harlaxton, where crop marks display a rich and curious collection of features. Evidence for a number of Romano-British farmsteads have also been found in the form of coins, pottery and the footings of structures.

The town itself is thought to have largely grown during the early medieval period, perhaps during the 7th century. In the Domesday book, Grantham is mentioned as a town and Royal residence, with St Wulfram’s church serving the Parish. It has been argued that Grantham started out as an important Saxon centre and then became a minor local capitol during the Danelaw following Viking incursions.

We wandered into town, and after buying some sparkly rainbow shoes and a princess dress, we made our way to the main historical feature at the centre of Grantham, St Wulfram’s church.

Being an important market town with a strong wool trade, Grantham flourished during the 11th century and the riches brought in, went towards funding St Wulfram’s church. St Wulfram’s has the sixth largest spire of English churches and hosts the first ever public library in England, dating to 1598. The church recently won an award as the finest non-cathedral English church. Only a few stones remain of the original Saxon church but the building was completely restructured during the Norman Conquest. The church saw repeated development through the centuries and was fully restored in 1866-67 by Sir George Gilbert Scott.

Audrey took immense delight in exploring the church. Inside, amongst historical monuments, ancient tombs and epic windows, Audrey quickly discovered a play area full of toys to investigate! Carefully descending some worn stone steps, we ventured into one of the original oldest parts of the building. A door and a number of chests here are original medieval artefacts. Fascinatingly, it is said that this crypt was once used to house a relic of St Wulfram. It also held church valuables and apparently even human remains as a charnel house when the graveyard was full.

After exploring the church, we made our way through the narrow winding streets of Grantham, and back to Harlaxton, but not before sneaking in a quick visit to a traditional local pub. Audrey enjoyed a blackcurrant juice and some crisps, whilst I sampled the local beer before we continued on our journey, fully refreshed.

Back in Harlaxton, we decided to wander the village streets and pine over the dreamy old houses and stunning gardens. It is a delightfully cute little village, once voted English village of the year. We wound our way through the streets and up the hill towards the church, again the main feature at the centre of the locality. Audrey found delight at collecting wild flowers as we wandered, and a variety of rare rainbow leaves. The church is dedicated to St Mary and St Peter and likely originated in the 12th century. It has an early 14th century buttressed tower and a font dating to 1400.

Harlaxton is mentioned in the 1086 Domesday Book as Herlavestune, or Herelaf-Tun meaning the estate or farm of Herelaf. The village grew around Harlaxton Manor. This Moated Manor house, which was situated close 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 friend of Geoffrey Chaucer, John of Gaunt.

After long days of adventuring, we joined back with Emily and the archaeology team at the local pub, the Gregory, so named after the founder of the current Harlaxton Manor House, which you can read all about in our earlier blog “The Harlaxton Shuffle” below. This little region at the heart of England retains a peaceful, rural atmosphere, picturesque and full of charm.

The excavations at Harlaxton are guaranteed to make a significant contribution to the understanding of Harlaxton’s prehistory and the development of Harlaxton Manor during the Victorian period. More importantly, the dig was a milestone in highlighting accessible archaeology. The hope was to create a project in which all participants could feel an equal part of the experience, no matter what restrictions they may have faced for a variety of reasons. Not only was this successfully accomplished, but the reports of techniques implemented will offer an important guidance on such measures for all future projects nationwide.

And there has never been a spoil heap more utilised for its activity centre capabilities than the epic sandy mound of Digging Harlaxton. I am fairly sure some of that sand is still to be found in Audrey’s socks and shoes.

The Society of the Double Cross. A Pirate Mystery! - A British Library Investigation

Dearest Emily,

I apologise for the paucity of correspondence of late, the overwhelming magnitude of material from which I have had the pleasure to examine has kept me incredibly busy. You will no doubt be delighted to learn that during my time at the British Library, I have been positively rewarded with untold treasures from within the dusty tomes of that opulent labyrinth.

Here I shall recount an alluring discovery and intriguing trail. I am certain you are eager to learn of my latest expedition through these folios of fascination, therefore I shall not hinder your curiosity any further.

Some time ago, whilst trawling the meticulous and compelling archives of the Hakluyt Society, and preparing documents for public consumption, I came across a unique package of seemingly unanswered correspondence.

One letter in particular, addressed to the president of the Society, had been sent from a certain Phillip Swann who had undertaken an adventurous sojourn through South America during the 1930’s. On his travels, he and an accompanying Scottish mining engineer were introduced to a humble local family who produced a bundle of documents, apparently the private papers of a secret society known as La Socied de la Doble Cruz.

The Society of the Double Cross!

Now as you are surely aware, I am justifiably dubious when it comes to secret societies and treasure maps, often the work of fiction and fantasy. Yet I was intrigued by the curiously out of place document and made a decision to delve further.

Mr Swann proceeded to describe a number of translated documents referring to various hordes of stolen booty hidden across a multitude of Caribbean hideaways.  It name dropped such legendary figures as Montezuma and Sir Henry Morgan and promised, should the strange hieroglyphs appearing throughout the document be understood, potential lost fortunes might be recovered.

“The papers were found in the shape of a ball, covered with (bitumen) and fastened with two gold pins.  There was also ten small bars of gold, one semi-precious stone, four minted coins very poorly done, a very big key, four or five weights (presumably for weighing gold) a bundle of papers wrapped in a sort of wax and a skeleton with a nail in the head.”

Why you may ask, did Phillip Swann not go on to discover these wondrous treasures?  He may well have?  I could find nothing further on the gentleman from the scant information at my disposal.  He did however give reason for the apparent pause in his research.

“Over a period of two years, my introducer and self, did what we could to investigate the matter, but were hampered by the fact that they did not really trust us, as a considerable number of the documents had already been filched by people they had consulted. I left South America; the war came along, and it is only now, in my retirement, that the interest has become aroused again”

Swann provided a list of potential targets mentioned in the papers, which he hoped to explore further. These included the Booty of Mexico 1635, activities on the Lake of Maracaibo, The Secrets of the Vulgate, The Oath of Istanbul, Buried treasure on the Island of Cuanacoco and an Irish built warship, the K.H-erye, amongst others.

Swann suggested the then President of Venezuela, Vincente Gomez, had financed an expedition in search of the related treasures, but believed the lack of media coverage indicated little if anything had come of these expeditions.

Armed with this letter and little more I decided to do some investigation of my own.  Whilst the Society of the Double Cross failed to secure any hits on our catalogues or produce any contemporary references, the vast ocean of information that is the World Wide Web provided some tantalising leads.

The first involved the famed ship wreck salvager and American treasure hunter Arthur McKee. Art had a history of success finding relics of ancient vessels and the plundered riches of bygone eras.  His notoriety in such expeditions led to advice and accompaniment being sought on all manner of similar adventures.  In his journals, Art documented an experience whereby:

“I was contacted by two men from Venezuela who stated that they wished to discuss with me some strange markings which they had found on some old documents.  These documents were discovered at an old house in Venezuela which had been torn down.”

The journal goes on to describe papers “inscribed on a skin-like material and leather and dated as early as 1557” many of which referred to The organisation of the Doble Cruz. It described the same marks and Hieroglyphs mentioned in Swann’s letter, but Art also found “…a faded but identifiable document which contained one of the coded alphabets”.

Art McKee’s translations mirrored the writing of Swann in a fashion well beyond mere coincidence, dates and names being repeated, but there were just enough slight translation discrepancies to suggest this wasn’t a copy of earlier research. He appeared to be witnessing the very same original documents.

McKee would take the challenge a step further, selecting one of the potential targets to conduct an expedition.  He chose the Forte La Tortuga, a Pirate Fortress located about 110 miles off the coast of Venezuela. He was joined on the expedition by Professor Alberto Cribeiro Valiente and his son, who were all dropped on the deserted island by helicopter with a promise to be picked up 7 days later.  I shan’t go into the details here, the full story can be found online, but the expedition was a disaster. Injury and disorientation from day one led to a very real fight for life, McKee was stranded alone in the searing heat of day and freezing cold of night, with little shelter he survived on nothing more than cactus juice and his fast fraying wits. Eventually, the Army led a rescue 10 days later. The original quest was abandoned and never again attempted.

So another dead end perhaps, but a final trawl of the internet brought my research right up to the present day.  Of all the bizarre places you might imagine discovering an ancient secret society of Pirates, Facebook would not seem the most likely, but there it was, a page dedicated to La Orden de la Doble Cruz.

Once again the page described similar aspects, names and places as the previous sources, but in a new, even more inconceivable twist, the Society were now linked to the Illuminati Templar Order!  The page offered welcome to the fraternal Brotherhood around the globe via their Gmail account, pleading their legitimacy… “evidenced by authentic ancient documents that rest in this city of Maracaibo of the Zulia State, in our beloved country Venezuela.”

So… do the documents exist? Who knows? The archives and libraries of Maracaibo could be scoured, perhaps the documents lay waiting to be fully understood, their tantalizing treasures begging to be finally uncovered?

If you find these swashbuckling tales have tickled your fancy, and should time permit, you might be enticed to dig deeper, for as our curious and compelling mystery provider begged of the Hakluyt Society all those years ago,

“Even now, I still feel there is a glimmer of truth in it all, and it is worth your investigation.”

Heaving at Hever

We often opt for the lesser travelled path, for a little-known historical monument or an underappreciated ancient landscape. It is satisfying to explore the unknown, to venture beyond the obvious. There is a certain element of intriguing peril to it, the exhilarating anticipation of never quite knowing what to expect. It pounds the heart a little faster, fizzes the senses, accelerates the mind as we immerse ourselves, entering the brave world of the adventure action hero.

Then, some days we do not do that.

Some days we go all out, tacky tourist, history fanfam!

This was one of those days.

For years now we have known of the hugely popular, world famous, epic historical mega centres on our doorstep. There are loads of them. Kent is packed with historic houses. The proximity to the continent and to London have ensured a continued importance in this region. We constantly see the road signs as we drive around the county and always promise ourselves to “visit one day”, but schedules and distractions had always interfered, until now.

Finally, we ventured to that famous old family home, Hever Castle.

Of course, having had such a long time to plan a visit, we chose completely the wrong day! It was a special Mother’s Day adventure treat that we decided upon, which at first seemed like a lovely idea. But of course, we weren’t the only people to have that particular thought, and so from the very beginning, it was busy!

There were queues at the gates, masses of people streaming through the gardens, waiting for the facilities, packed into the cafes and shops. Thankfully, the grounds are extensive enough to accommodate such throngs, so wandering through the various elaborate gardens, mazes, water features and beautifully crafted landscapes was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Audrey adored racing across the luscious lawns, up and down the rolling hills and through the plant peppered forests. The water maze added some slightly soggy excitement, whilst watching the archery was delightful fun, if sometimes slightly comical. Of course the promise of ice cream under the glorious spring sunshine led to smiles all around.

The house was a slightly different story. It was a little smaller than I had thought, having seen it in period dramas, documentary series and countless photographs. This is not a criticism, bigger certainly does not mean better in such architectural wonders and for a Tudor household it was still on a grand scale, I only mention it as it was my first impression, beautiful, stylish but smaller than I had imagined.

Then it became even more apparent as hundreds of us attempted to explore the narrow halls, compact rooms, and cosy corridors of the house. It is a truly stunning place, both inside and out. The décor is an astonishing mix of original Tudor and a stylish array of later additions. The walls are adorned with spectacular portraits, royalty and family staring down upon the countless crowds of visitors to the manor. The furniture is delightfully crafted and ornately decorated. Even despite the crowds, it was easy to feel the function of the place, and even to imagine living in such a building, with its politicised spaces and obvious impressions of power and importance.

Sadly though, with so many crammed inside, there was also a serious sense of claustrophobia. Impatience and frustration swelled as some moved slowly, some whizzed by, and others stood completely still, causing long queues and awkward shuffles. It is not quite so easy to imagine a sixteenth century saunter through the historic house when surrounded by protruding limbs extending smart phones, cameras flashing in all directions and the ambient audio of hundreds of voices chatting about their latest employment woes, dinner plans, drunken exploits and fashion faux pas… although to be fair, these may have been precisely the same conversations being conducted within these very walls five hundred years previous. Aisi sera groigne qui groigne!

Hever Castle began life following the Norman Invasion of England, as a Motte and Bailey castle, surrounded by kitchens, barns, stables and outbuildings. Around 1270 the castle was strengthened with a medieval gatehouse and walled bailey, owned by the 1st Baron Saye and Sele, James Fiennes. During the fourteenth century a moat, further defensive walls, towers, and the great hall were added to the property. A curtain wall surrounded a number of timber buildings, and the castle took on its familiar shape, though its image would have been rather different, as a bright, whitewashed fortress. The house continued to grow throughout the fifteenth century when it was purchased by its most famous family inhabitants, the Boleyn’s.

The Boleyn family seem to have their origins in Boulogne in France and moved to England in the years following the Norman invasion, setting up home in Norfolk, but they are best known for their association with Hever Castle. The property was converted into a manor in 1462 by Geoffrey Boleyn, adding a prominent Tudor building within the imposing castle walls.

Of all the eras of Boleyn residence, it is of course the sixteenth century occupants who attract the most attention in the pages of history. Thomas Boleyn inherited the house in 1505 and went on to live in Hever Castle with his wife, Lady Elizabeth Howard (of the very powerful, Tudor era, Howard family and herself lady in waiting to Catherine of Aragon) and their children, George, Mary and of course, Anne Boleyn.

Recent studies have highlighted modern parallels with life at Hever. During 1528, the country was gripped by the sweating sickness, a deadly disease sweeping through the population of the island, fatal to commoner and aristocrat alike. Hever was used as a quarantine for the Boleyn’s. Anne and several family members suffered with the sickness but were fortunate to survive it. Henry VIII even sent his second-best physician to aid Anne in her hour of need, his first choice being unavailable. We have always been at risk of fast spreading disease, something that all ages will likely experience and sadly, lockdown isolation is nothing new.

The story of Anne has been replayed in endless history books, novels, theatre, television programs, movies and more. The impressive rise from maid of honour to queen, and the dramatic plummet from favour to decapitation are engrained in the well documented narrative of British royal legend. It seems everyone has their opinion on whether Anne was a scheming control freak desperately climbing the social ladder of elite power, a cunning, stylish, ambitious image of sixteenth century power politics, a victim of petty and fleeting male obsessions, a pawn in a family playbook, a scapegoat in a wild and mentally unstable court, an innocent young girl who fell in love with the wrong man, or a little bit of it all?

It has been so widely discussed that I shall not venture into the lives of Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII here, but merely direct any readers curious for more information on this most famous of tragic love affairs, to the multitude of reference materials available.

In all honesty, the volume of argument and discussion, media and mentions of Anne Boleyn has often put me off exploring the subject. Diving into to the minefield of opinion on every over analysed moment of her life seemed a little exhausting, but this apprehension was washed away a little upon visiting the incredible home of the Boleyn’s. Being able to walk in the spaces they frequented, see the rooms they lived within, the space not dissimilar from how it would have been half a Millenia ago, brought a human element to the story we had not encountered in Hollywood blockbusters and glamorous historical fiction.

Despite the spectacular fall from grace suffered by the Boleyn family, Hever continued to be an important residence after Annes death and was owned and occupied by a string of wealthy and important individuals through the centuries. This included another of Henry VIII wives, Anne of Cleves, who of course, managed to keep her head but not her crown. Anne of Cleves almost found herself embroiled in the infamous Wyatt rebellion, which rose nearby in Kent against bloody Queen Mary, but somehow, she seems to have avoided serious accusation.

After this, Hever was mostly the home of tenants who farmed the vast estates and worked the lands. It changed hands on a number of occasions but was rarely extended or renovated, allowing its historic fabric to remain mostly intact to this day. One interesting tale comes from the later history of the house. In 1808, a gruesome murder occurred on the estate. A possible love triangle led to the murder of John Humphrey Jr, shot dead as he walked along the footpath to the castle. His wife later married a certain local farmer who seemed to have more knowledge of the frightful business that he ought to have. It has been said, the ghost of John Humphrey Jr returned to Hever to haunt his wife and her new husband. Things became so bad at the castle that the local clergy were called in to exorcise the house with water from the red sea and wax candles.

We left the impressive house and its masses of happy tourists and made for an even more chaotic castle. The playpark!

Now, Hever Castle on a busy day can be overwhelming, but Tudor Towers… that place is pure bonkers! I mean, it is an incredible play space, as a four-year-old, I imagine I would have been in a medieval fantasy dreamland. As a forty+ year old however, desperately trying not to lose a wildly overexcited four-year-old whirlwind of energy, it is a very different experience! Audrey dashed through inner mazes, under tarpaulins and through tiny narrow tunnels, slides, and chutes, appearing in some random other location I had no idea how to find. Thousands of children raced manically through the dark echoey spaces, screaming and shouting, laughing, and screeching. It was a scene straight from my nightmares, I was losing my head... My child appeared one second, only to disappear completely the next! I am no doubt over cautious, Audrey had everything under control, and I did not see any other parents quite as terrified, but still, I needed a strong cup of tea and a long quiet rest after the ordeal!

Audrey absolutely, bloody loved every minute of it 😊

As we made our way back into the elegant gardens of Hever, enjoying tea and juice and the fresh spring air, a desire to sit, relax and perhaps eat dinner suddenly struck. A local pub was advertised just beyond the outer perimeter of the castle grounds, a rustic old building with an ancient charm. We made our way out of the gardens and to the pub, but alas, just as the house had been full to bursting, so too was the tavern. No space to even sit and enjoy a final drink in the medieval landscape. So, a little dejected and a lot exhausted, we made our way slowly to the car and made for home.

It had been a wonderful day, despite the crowds and the chaos, we had revelled in the famous home of historic legends. Hever is definitely worth a visit, probably more than just a visit! But perhaps hold out for a quiet spot on the calendar and avoid the better-known holiday options, if you can.

From our Archaeofam to yours,

La Plus Heureuse

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!

Reliving the past - family adventures through time. Part 2 - The Battle of Hastings

Britain is a funny little island, isn’t it? Perched on the edge of the world, mostly rainy and cold, a bit broken and bruised, cut off, and forever open to the elements. Yet for some reason, it has remained the focus of countless aspiring Empires and Kingdoms. Elites have squabbled over this little island for eternities.

Some of these squabbles are better known than others. There was an invasion of Romans, and another soon after of Germanic populations such as the Angles, Jutes, and the Saxons. The Vikings famously raided and pillaged and even settled, and eventually, in 1066 so too did the Normans.

This particular invasion seems to have had a profound and recognisable effect on the island’s identity. The memory and mark of William the Conqueror and his Norman army can be witnessed across Britain. It remains large in the legend of this little rock at the end of the earth.

And as a nation obsessed by history and ancestors, legends and landscapes, we have formed a tradition of celebrating certain moments such as that fateful day in 1066. Whilst these moments probably involved horrific hardships, brutal conflict, death, and destruction on a large scale, we are now able to enjoy them as safe fun family events and even buy an arsenal of curious merchandise to cheer on the ancient warriors.

Perhaps that may seem a less than complimentary summary of what is essentially an accessible, interactive educational opportunity and an enthralling, high adrenaline hobby. The juxtaposition of the realities of history and the retelling of it are for a longer, larger debate than is available here. I will say that I believe, if it is conducted respectfully, as accurately as possible for the audience and is something that may open the door to further more involved study and understanding, these re-enactments are probably a good thing.

So, with all that out of the way, please join us as we step into the 11th century, on a sunny morning in October on the south coast of England, not quite in Hastings, for the Battle of Battle!

Every year, the incredible English Heritage site of Battle Abbey hosts an epic event. Thousands of people flock from all corners of the country to relive the Battle of Hastings. Amongst the throngs are hundreds of trained re-enactors, skilled in ancient combat techniques, decked out in historic garments, and fuelled by the intricacies of a centuries-old way of living. Two opposing camps straddle the battlefield, one the Anglo Saxon armies who have arrived fresh (or maybe not so fresh) from battle in the north, opposing Viking incursions and inter-family civil skirmishes. The other is William Duke of Normandy and his invading army from across the channel.

Despite the popularity of the event, and the narrow country roads leading to the car parking facilities, the arrival at the site was fairly painless. A little congested through Battle itself but mostly clear. It must be interesting for the residents of the quaint town when their numbers swell each October. No doubt the local businesses enjoy the economic boost it brings but perhaps the residents are not so keen on the struggle through town.

After a queue through the ticket tents, it was a wondrous wander along an avenue of trees, flanked on both sides by traditional medieval stalls and markets selling all manner of luxury and martial commodities. Here you can purchase everything from authentic animal skin rugs and cloaks to swords, shields, ornate carvings, masks and helmets of all varieties, feasting equipment, and even funny shoes. The smell of campfires hung in the air as we wandered wistfully through the busy bustling markets. Groups of 11th-century characters moved amongst us, elevating the experience, enhancing the authentic escape. Audrey adored all of it, running from one curiosity to the next, clambering over statues of Norman knights and Saxon soldiers, and dreaming of her own medieval garb.

Bramble also swelled with excitement at the array of sights and smells in the lively open fields. There was so much going on, it was impossible to take it all in. With the chaos and noise, the warmth, and the excitement in every direction, we were relishing the softer side of medieval life on the eve of battle.

As we rounded a copse of trees, the battlefield came fully into view. A wide sloping plain, crowned with the famous Abbey at the peak of the hill. The Abbey was only erected following the battle, of course, a monument to the spot that William fought for his famous victory. No spoilers of course...

We sauntered around the camps. Wonderfully jolly medieval folk offered detailed explanations into their unique way of living, on how weapons were forged and maintained, how food was prepared, how camps were built, and much more. The air had an atmosphere of anticipation. We left the warm smoky bustle of the camps to explore some of the more modern amenities. A cafe, a bar, and most importantly for Audrey, the English Heritage shop where she could purchase full warrior gear and take her place in the ranks about to do battle.

As a brief and potentially inaccurate little summary of the conflict at Battle, tensions had boiled following a dispute for the crown of England. Harold Godwinson had taken up the honour following the death of King Edward the Confessor. William Duke of Normandy believed that Edward had promised the crown to him, and therefore, enraged at Harold, embarked with his army to England to seize the throne.

Harold had recently been victorious in the Battle of Stamford Bridge against his own brother, Tostig, and the Norwegian King Harold Hardrada, who were also vying for the crown. Whilst his forces were still in recovery, William landed at Pevensey with a vast host on the 28th of September 1066. Harold was forced to march quickly across the island to meet the invading forces.

William’s scouts spied Harold’s approaching army and marched from Hastings to meet him on the field of Battle. The Saxon army had the better position on the battlefield and had some success during the early skirmishes. However, the Normans employed a tactic of deceit and feigned retreat. Caught in the confusion, parts of the Saxon army pursued the fleeing Normans, who turned on the pursuers and slaughtered them.

According to the Bayeux Tapestry, if it is to be read literally, King Harold received a fatal wound, an arrow through his eye. The Normans increased the attack and on the 14th October, 1066 were victorious. The throne of England would eventually fall to William the Conqueror on Christmas Day.

We found a comfortable spot amongst the crowds, and with full drinks and a colourful picnic of snacks, gazed upon the opposing armies lining up against each other on the hill. The roar of knights, soldiers and common folk preparing for bloodshed filled the afternoon sky. Birds of prey that had circled the battlefield prior to the arriving armies now waited patiently on their perches to devour the remains of battle. The clamour rose and fell as each general addressed their troops, and then, they clashed.

The din of sword on shield, of steel on steel, of the axe on flesh, filled the air. The brutality continued as we gathered around gleefully witnessing the carnage with ice creams and beer. Sure enough, the Saxons had an early advantage, using the slope to propel the invaders. Then the Normans made to retreat. We knew what came next, despite cries from the crowds to attempt a different tactic. Not to rush in, not to be fooled.

Yet the destiny of those soldiers was written in the very earth upon which they fell. They pursued and were cut to pieces.

Harold fell as an arrow pierced his eye.

The Normans drove ahead to victory.

Amidst the cheers and celebrations, the ghosts of those who perished rose from the field and embraced one another, each returning to their ancestral homes. Finally, as the sun began to set behind the wooded hillsides, the crowds slowly drifted away along the avenue of trees and the busy market stalls to the acres of chariots waiting.

Audrey yawned a satisfied, exhausted, and content yawn. Bramble curled up cosily in the back of the car and we made our way back to the 21st century. To electric warmth and modern comforts, but with spectacular memories of an age almost completely lost to us.

De notre archéofam à la vôtre, bonne nuit.

Reliving the past – family adventures through time. Part 1 – Butser Ancient Farm

We had heard of Butser Ancient Farm on countless occasions. It is frequently mentioned by a multitude of high-profile historians and archaeologists, it has turned up in countless TV shows and movie scenes, and most importantly, it is perhaps the beating heart of experimental archaeology in Britain.

We were well past due a visit since we now reside on the same side of the island and our interests are all covered by its amazing exhibits, so on a slightly rainy August morning, we jumped in the car and made the one and a half hour journey towards the south coast to experience some fascinating recreations.

For anyone unfamiliar with Butser Ancient Farm, it is a not-for-profit, education, and research centre based in the South Downs National Park where ancient theories and technologies are tested and an array of spectacular experimental buildings represent British architecture through the ages.

Butser Ancient Farm began in 1970 when the Council for British Archaeology hoped to establish a working ‘ancient farm’ where archaeologists could experiment to test theories on how people lived in Iron Age times. Work started on Little Butser in 1972, with the first public Open Day in 1974. The project was run by Dr. Peter J Reynolds, a pioneer in the field of experimental archaeology. The site soon moved and expanded, first to the nearby Valley of Hillhampton Down in 1976, and then to its current location at Bascomb Copse in 1991.

We arrived early in the morning as rain clouds peppered the sky. Deep greys and lagoon blues intertwined above us, an awe-inspiring backdrop to the ancient landscape occupying the emerald green valley. Wisps of smoke rose gently from the earthy buildings scattered across the site as we entered the pleasant gates and were greeted by smiling guides and cheerful staff.

Audrey’s attention was immediately captured by the central pen and its goat population. She was desperate to see and feed the lively residents. We bought a very reasonably priced bag of goat food and entertained the historically accurate goat family who were clearly loving life!

After conversing with furry friends, we made our way around the circuit of Butser Ancient Farm. It is conveniently set out so that you can circumnavigate the features in chronological order, starting in the Mesolithic with some temporary shelters and then on to a large Neolithic house based upon one excavated at the Kingsmead Quarry, Horton, Berkshire. The excavated site was on a floodplain where the River Thames would have had many more tributaries when the house was originally constructed. A reed thatch roof stretched all the way to the floor, so that the roof rafters were ground-fast, providing additional strength.

We sat by an open hearth, with the warmth of the fire proving more than adequate shelter from the autumn chill. The buildings here are completed with accurate tools, accessories, and furnishings. It was fascinating to imagine such a grand structure existing in the Neolithic floodplains of Britain.

We next moved into the Iron Age (the recently constructed Bronze Age roundhouse, built by volunteers and staff for Operation Nightingale had yet to be started). This is probably the most immersive and extensive area of the farm. A fenced enclosure with an additional bank and ditch surrounds six roundhouses and a number of further features including a granary, chicken house, storage pits, herb garden, bread oven, and even a conjectured Iron Age toilet!

The roundhouses were based upon a number of examples that have been excavated around the country including Little Woodbury, Danebury Hillfort, and Glastonbury Lake Village. Each is again furnished with the possessions and technologies of its age, and warmed by an open fire, the smoke seeping through thatch above, containing the warmth whilst also ensuring bugs and unwelcome creatures are kept clear of the organic building materials.

As we explored, we were suddenly surrounded by residents from millennia gone by. Iron Age warriors and workers were going about their business, weaving, cooking, checking tools and weapons, and keeping out intruders, which we were quick to announce we were not!

Having narrowly escaped suspicion, we left the enclosure and wandered into the Romano British age. Here we first found a number of locals feeding the impossibly cute lambs. Most of the animals in the farm are rare-breed animals including Manx Loaghtan Sheep, English Goats, and Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, illustrating different varieties of livestock from prehistory, and as such tend to be miniature versions of what we would recognise today, which of course only makes them appear all the cuter.

After Audrey had spent a few moments watching the lambs, but more time trying to leap over a series of log stumps which made for a far more interesting playground, we entered into a stunning white-walled Villa complex based on excavations from Sparsholt near Winchester, complete with painted plaster walls and mosaic floors. Smart furnishings and a luxurious new way of living were immediately apparent. A guide introduced us to the emerging currency of coinage, with a dazzling display of Roman wealth (whilst coins existed in Iron Age Britain, their precise utility is arguable). It was slightly whistle-stop whilst inside the villa, due to the difficulties of maintaining safe social distance from other visitors, but we saw enough to indicate a very different way of life.

We continued our adventure into the Anglo Saxon period, where some of the glamour of Romano Britain fell away, but the homely warmth of earlier periods returned in buildings based upon excavations from the nearby village of Chalton. The structures perhaps showed more solid construction than some earlier eras, but generally had an organic feel.

By this time, Audrey was beginning to tire, all this time travel really takes its toll, so it was time to hit the cafe and fuel up on tea and cakes as we gazed over the whole site and its spectacular constructions.

The farm hosts regular events, from storytelling to Celtic Festivals, concerts, and re-enactments. It is a glorious experience and an important educational tool for those with early interests in ancient lives and for professionals and scholars of British prehistory and early historical periods.

Audrey rounded off her day with a quill pen from the gift shop and we set off again, but not immediately for home, as we were aware of a number of nearby areas of interest. First off, it had felt like an age since we had seen the ocean, and with the coast so close, we couldn’t help ourselves. We found the nearest available, parking friendly, spot and wandered down to the water, which was busy with sailors and swimmers, despite the temperamental weather. From this vantage point, I witnessed my first sight of Hayling Island, an important sacred site during the Iron Age, Romano British and Anglo Saxon period. It was too late in the day to explore the island, but it was fantastic to witness a space so revered through the ages.

We then decided to make one final stop, Fishbourne Palace was close by. Fishbourne is a Roman palace with an astonishingly native character and intriguing evidence of a pre-Roman invasion, Roman occupation. Sadly, upon arrival, we quickly discovered that the site was closed. A shame, but perhaps for the best, as by this time, our brave little explorer had given in to the powerful lure of slumber.

We drove home after an unforgettable adventure through time. If you get a chance, we fully recommend it.

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.

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.

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

There and YAC again

In a hole in a Bridge, there lived an Audrey. Not a nasty, dirty, wet Bridge, filled with cobwebs and bird poo, nor a dry bare Bridge with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat. It was a TonBridge, and that means comfort.

By some curious chance, just the other day in the quiet of Tonbridge, where there was less noise and more green, Audrey was standing at the door after breakfast eating an enormous chocolate ice cream, when a wizard came by!

The Wizard Neil, if you only knew a quarter of what I know about him, and I only know very little of all there is to know, you would be prepared for any sort of remarkable tale. Tales of adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever he went, in the most extraordinary fashion.

This particular Wizard had a very important place on our little island. It was his sworn duty and his life’s work to protect all the castles and the treasures, the fortresses and the fountains, the tombs and the tunnels, the sites steeped in magic and myth, and the places that made us who we are today. 

In his spare time, the Wizard Neil also doubled as the executive director of the Council for British Archaeology. He had not been down this way for ages and ages, but on this particular morning, he was looking for someone to share in an adventure he was arranging.

Though apprehensive at first, Audrey’s undeniable thirst for adventure could not be quelled, and along with some short-hairy companions (Myself and Bramble) and a beautiful elfish princess (Emily Archaeomum) we set out on a quest that would be remembered for... days at least!

The quest was plunged into peril almost immediately. Not too far from home, as we wandered into the mysterious wild, the expedition was ambushed by a gang of greedy trolls. These creatures, we learned, were keen to gobble up the funds of archaeological academia. Several victims had already suffered the fatal consequences of these gluttonous ghouls. Thankfully, the wise Wizard Neil knew of a cunning plan to confuse the foolish trolls. An intrepid band of warriors from the north, led by Courageous Chloe and Dashing David had drawn up a troll-busting manifesto. Neil set the plan in motion and as the trolls argued amongst themselves, the sun rose on the brutish beasts and their greedy schemes turned to stone and crumbled to dust.

The Wizard Neil led us to a stunning elfish paradise on a mountain top. Here an elder elf revealed certain secrets to assist us on our adventure. She told us of the magical Cobham Wood Mausoleum. This ancient mausoleum had been forged by great Dwarf architects, to hold the mortal remains of the Earls of Darnley beneath a vast stone pyramid. It was a construction that had cost the riches of a kingdom to create, yet the gods did not approve of the tomb, deeming it too beautiful for the earth and so cursed the mausoleum. It remained empty of humans for all eternity and this is why the Elves had made it their home, safe from interruption.

We continued on our adventure, finding ourselves plunged into the depths of darkness beneath misty mountains. This perilous corrupt underworld was suffocating. Goblins roamed here, governing by fear. These vile creatures had once been just like us, but greed and selfish ambition had corrupted their souls. They had severed ties with the continent during the famed Orxit ordeal, demoralising the heart of the nation and its workforce. The Goblins had us surrounded. It was only with the most powerful of magic that the wise Wizard Neil was able to rescue us from these fiends, blinding the foes with the crystal of common sense; we were just able to flee.

Audrey found herself alone during the melee. In the midnight labyrinth of mountain passageways, she discovered a tiny circular treasure, a gleaming ring with the gift of invisibility. Unsure what to do with the treasure she slipped it into her pocket before continuing through the maze, where she stumbled upon a rare and desperate being. This strange and reclusive creature challenged Audrey to a game of riddles but had treachery in mind.

“How can the past benefit present and future generations?” it asked.

Fortunately, Audrey had a quick mind and clever wit.

“Archaeology unearths new information on our past, improves the ties to our heritage, and provides economic means for our future” she replied.

Having solved the rapscallion’s riddles, she countered with one of her own.

“Why is the wealth of a few worth more than the heritage of so many?”

The creature was stunned. It agonisingly wailed in lament, having no answer. Audrey used the confused breakdown to escape from its cruel clutches and sped from the mountain.

Much to our joy, Audrey appeared safely from the mountains and embraced us ecstatically. We had barely escaped the gruesome goblin horde and their wicked wolf companions but were pursued by them in our flight through the wild. Had it not been for the asylum of a skin-changing Great Beer... Seller, we might have been lost. The refuge was homely and warm, with very welcome refreshments and the safety and security of our mysterious host. We enjoyed a chance to relax and make plans for the future of the expedition. Audrey danced and sang in the welcome warmth. It was precisely what we needed, but our quest called, so after a brief break, we set off again.

We found ourselves in a dense murky wood. The trees were close and claustrophobic, light danced between the branches, causing all kinds of tricks to play out before our eyes. Audrey dashed this way and that, splashing in the haunting mirror-like pools and trampling the swampy squishy mud. Despite Bramble’s close guard, danger approached. A tangle of webs had been spun upon the ancient trunks of archaeological investigation. Together, they formed an illusion that archaeology was a barrier to development. It was a complex fabrication by villainous creatures desperate to ensnare us in their trap and suck away our life.

Fortunately, Audrey was equal to their cunning and had etched incantations into powerful amulet stones, such as Archaeology makes up just 0.13 % of all construction spending, making it a tiny expense and professional archaeological intervention at an early stage prevents delays and saves up to £1.3 billion for construction companies. Slipping on her magic ring, she launched the stones at the spiders. One was a direct hit! It read, fewer than 0.01 % of planning applications are rejected for reasons including archaeology: archaeology is almost never the sole reason that construction does not take place. Audrey bravely led the spiders away and came back to rescue us from the tangle of their deceptive webs.

After a tricky tussle with some wood elves and a brief stop for ice cream in the lake village of the humans, we finally reached the Lonely Mountain of Tonbridge, the Dragon’s lair. The Wizard Neil directed us through the winding passageways to the heart of the lair, where Audrey discovered the dozing demon upon its treasure horde. The dragon, Jaycubri Smaug, was a most specially greedy, strong, and wicked worm. Audrey was not afraid and with the deft and nimble skill of a burglar, she crept into the lair and discovered the weakness of the hideous dragon, its yellow belly!

In fury, Jaycubri Smaug rose into the thunderous skies and threatened destruction on all of archaeology forevermore. From its flared nostrils, it shot scorching plumes of planning permissions and budget cuts. The world cowered in fright at this fearsome beast; heritage teetered on the brink of defeat... until a hero emerged!

The Brave Bard of Backfill and brand new Council for British Archaeology President, Raksha, fired a single direct arrow into the foul yellow belly of the dragon, ending its cruel reign of terror once and for all, practically saving archaeology and heritage in a single stroke!

There was no time for celebration, however, as the evil armies of governing goblins and wicked wolves were fast approaching. Their swelling numbers seemed immeasurable, their threat impossible to withstand.

Only the joint strength of three great armies prevailed. The commercial, community, and academic armies combined their efforts, and together with the Wizard Neil, Heroic Raksha, Courageous Chloe, and Dashing David, we fought hard and won the day. A powerful symbol of a just cause, the battle of these five armies highlighted Commercial archaeology’s contribution of almost £250 million to the economy. With the famous blade of heritage tourism, they supported 386,000 jobs, contributing over £20 billion to the UK's GDP, constantly reinvigorated by fresh archaeological discoveries. It was a famous victory that would be sung by poets and troubadours in tantalising tales for all time.

Exhausted but victorious, it was time for us to head for home. We said fond goodbyes to new friends and old and bid farewell to the wise Wizard Neil, who promised to return and enjoy our next Archaeofam adventures. Audrey looked puzzled.

“You know of our adventures?” she asked

“You don’t really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sole benefit? You are a very fine person, Audrey Archaeobeeb, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!"

"Thank goodness!" said Audrey laughing, and handed him an ice cream.

It had been a most wondrous expedition for a brave little burglar, who slept soundly in her bed, dreaming of the safe and accessible heritage of her little island home.

From our Archaeofam to yours,

Namárië

Chertsey Shore

In that most devilish of years, AD 666, a portion of the ancient Thames was selected for supreme spiritual significance. The awe inflicting island riverscape of the Thames, with gleaming silver mists clinging to dark grey pools of gently whispering waters, a mirror of the ever menacing sky above, must have appeared other-worldly to all who traversed it.

A soon-to-be Saint pondered the potential of this ancient space. It was a landscape straight from a dream, perhaps the exact vision which greeted many early adventurers who took Britain to be the Elysian Fields of ancient mythology.

Its prime, powerful and poignant position on a marshy island surrounded by the Thames, convinced Erkenwald (a religious man of Royal ancestry) to found a great Benedictine Abbey at which he himself would serve as Abbot. At the same time, he founded another, Barking Abbey further downstream, where his sister, Aethelburg, was to be Abbess.

It is not a stretch to imagine this liminal landscape as a gateway to the ethereal limits of existence, a place where gods and monsters could stalk the mortal realm. The river and wetlands still dominate here and amidst this celestial landscape, Chertsey remains a mysterious little treasure, a town whose character continues to cling to an old-world origin.

We were keen to explore this fulcrum of ancient spiritual reverence. From prehistoric deities bound to the river and islands, marshes and woodland right through to a centre for Christian worship and godly dominance. This area clearly held unrivaled spiritual importance. We decided that a simple day trip would not suffice. With a certain Archaeomum’s birthday celebrations in mind, we set aside a long weekend to camp under the stars and experience life in this sacred landscape firsthand.

After a short while on the road, an eager Audrey and over-excited Bramble could not hide their glee as the tent eventually towered above them and our weekend home emerged from the bulging baggage squashed into the back of our trusty transport. The campsite, right on the banks of the Thames, was perfectly positioned for adventure. We couldn’t wait to explore.

Prior to the emergence of the Abbey, archaeological excavation and investigation have discovered Roman tiles on the site and a Roman presence in this landscape seems reasonably likely. The wider area is littered with late Prehistoric unenclosed settlements and interestingly, along with a number of deposits in watery contexts, a series of structures have emerged, which have been considered as possible temples.

Chertsey Abbey was founded in AD 666 on marshes known as Cerotaesei and a gravel island called the Isle of Cerot. The original Abbey was a humble affair, with wattle and daub walls and a roof of thatched reeds, but Erkenwald, a Lincolnshire religious man thought to be related to King Offa, dedicated the Abbey to St Peter and it continued to grow. He was Abbot at Chertsey for nine years before becoming the Bishop of London.

Chertsey Abbey would grow to become the fifth largest Abbey in England, with over 50,000 acres of land. In 871, Danish Vikings sacked the Abbey, setting it on fire and pilfering all of its valuable contents. There is a belief that Abbot Beocca, a character well known to telly fans of the Last Kingdom, was murdered during these raids. Yet the Abbey was rebuilt and thrived, absorbing more land and becoming an important religious centre until it was dissolved during the dissolution of the Monasteries in 1537.

Little remains of the Abbey today. Fourteenth-century fishponds are visible as long troughs in a quaint garden. The Kitchens and ovens, also later additions to the Abbey and away from the main building, can be witnessed in reconstructed walls and monuments in the public park. The stone minister was a far more elaborate affair but is now completely absent; any remains buried under private residences and impossible to view without permission. We took a polite wander around the perimeter, but the ‘warning, beware of dog’ signs kept us at a distance!

We ventured into Chertsey to explore a little of the town, it has retained an image of old-fashioned cuteness but functions as most modern towns do, with a busy commercial centre filled with supermarkets and coffee shops. As we returned to the campsite, a decision was made (not a difficult one) to enjoy a beer or two in a delightful pub by Chertsey Bridge, the Bridge Hotel. We sat in the beer garden overlooking the glorious river and were able to rest, breathe and smile. It was a serene and calm space, despite Audrey’s eagerness to adventure and Brambles ever keen eye on other people’s dinner.

A storm was brewing in the distance though, and we raced for the comfort of our camp. The tent was mostly waterproof, and when we were safely zipped inside, the machine-gun patter of heavy raindrops was amplified in the enclosed space, a hypnotic melody of ceaseless hammering waves. We snuggled in, safe from the cold and wet, and let the gods sing us to sleep... with one eye on the encroaching drips around the edges!

The following day, we wandered along the grassy path following the Thames as it meandered through the fields and meadows. Boats cruised happily along the slow-running waters, canoes and paddleboats, barges and yachts all enjoying the splendour of the river route. Swimmers were clustered at easy access points, immersing themselves in the rejuvenating waters. Buzzing happily in the grassy meadow was all manner of wild creatures and insects, a spectacular dance of minuscule life. Audrey found an enchanting pattern, a monumental fairy ring, the haunt of fairytale creatures, and timeless magic. She danced with bramble inside the ring, tempting the mystical inhabitants to reveal themselves.

After a final night of cosy tent togetherness, complete with the distant joyous yells of elated football fans, we drifted to sleep, once again serenaded by the cloudburst sonnets from above. It had been a wet and wonderful escape, a few days to switch off from the world and be present in the moment. It was a landscape brimming with vibrant dynamism and primordial mystique. Reluctantly we packed up our temporary home, toweled off the excess drizzle, said goodbye to our kind and welcoming camp neighbours, and headed for home.

En route, we did attempt a final adventure. We were hoping to discover an Iron Age/Romano British Temple in the countryside. Armed with a vague map, an idea of where it should be in the landscape, and a possible route, along with the Sat Nav if needed, we set out. The impenetrable path was near impossible, confusing signage and disappearing tracks made progress difficult, there was no way to negotiate the track and the horizon offered nothing in the way of evidence regarding our ultimate destination. In the end, stood in the centre of a vast cow field, I gave up and headed back to the car. It was only later that I checked the satellite view and realised I was mere meters away from the site.

Next time!

So I hope you will all enjoy a drink with us to celebrate Emily Archaeomum’s landmark birthday, the big... 21...

With hope you all have a delightful, adventurous month,

From our Archaeofam to yours,

Happy July!

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!

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!