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.

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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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.

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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!

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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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The Battle of... Battle? Nearish Hastings!

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

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

The Battle of Hastings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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It Aint Alf 'Otford' In Ere!

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

So why did it no longer exist?

Today we set off to find out!

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

Today we were on the hunt for Otford Palace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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RITUAL REVELATIONS IN THE WEST KENT DOWNS - part 2

The next barrow sites were not a great distance as the crow flies, but a vast forest and dangerous highway separated us from the sacred monuments and with our loaded provisions and entourage of varying ability, we would probably not have been able to succeed on foot. First on the list was Addington Long Barrow. We loaded the car and made our way through winding country roads, cute village outposts and blissful scenic spaces until we discovered the sought-after side road, well off the beaten track.

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Addington is another sub rectangular Long Barrow of the Medway Megalith style.  It was probably built during the early Neolithic period and has since been vastly damaged, but is still recognisable as a significant prehistoric monument. The most troubling aspect of the Addington Long Barrow is the road which has been constructed directly through the centre of the mound. Collapsed kerb stones in the northeast of the structure would likely have been the space for deposition of human remains, though none were ever discovered within the tomb. The Long Barrow itself is on private land and is only visible from the roadside, but is still worth seeing, though severe caution is suggested when viewing from the narrow winding road.

The last of the substantial Medway Megaliths on the west side of the river in this incredible landscape is Chestnuts Long Barrow. This prehistoric monument is found very close to Addington, a mere 150 feet away. Chestnuts, though, is further into the aforementioned private land, engulfed by leafy trees and thick shrubbery and utterly impossible to approach without some questionable law-breaking. Keen to avoid invading private land or inviting potential criminal prosecution, we made the disappointing decision not to pursue this objective any further. Having established the monument was definitely not visible from the road and after enduring abuse from some of the roadside plant-life; we hopped back into the car and set a course for the final destination of our adventure.

By this point, Audrey had collected a number of intriguing stones for investigation.  Though not the elusive Rainbow Stone she desired, these were certainly related artefacts and would offer vital information into the whereabouts of her target treasure.

Aylesford is a pretty little riverside village just northwest of Maidstone in Kent, with delightfully crooked old buildings and enticing traditional public houses.  At the peak of the hill which adorns the historic village is a striking Norman church, wonderfully encircled by a charismatic gothic graveyard.

We were here on the hunt for a high-status late Iron Age cemetery located in the area. In 1886 the site was excavated by renowned antiquarian Arthur Evans, famed for his incredible discoveries in Crete at the Palace of Knossos, a ruin he excitedly exclaimed was that of King Minos mythical Labyrinth. The late Iron Age cremation cemetery in Aylesford was richly furnished with spectacular grave goods including bronze buckets, pans and jugs, as well as wheel-thrown Belgic wares from the 1st century BC.  Discovery of this unique burial illustrated a high level of continental connectivity prior to the Roman invasion. The find was deemed so important that an entire culture, the Aylesford-Swarling culture, was named after it. There has been speculation that Aylesford was also the location of the Battle of Medway, a recorded clash between native Britain’s and invading Romans during their occupation of Britain, though there is no evidence to back up this claim.

We parked the car in an easily accessible, fee-free car park close to the village centre and set off on foot through the narrow rustic streets.  The glorious sunshine had enticed throngs of leisure seekers into the communal village spaces, parks and bridges were swarming with families and friends enjoying all manner of refreshments.

We wandered along the river, onto the high street, past the historical buildings lining the narrow roads and we climbed towards the church.  The views from the top of the hill were splendid, but we found our path restricted by the ‘no dog’ policy of the churchyard and had to skirt the most scenic areas and stick to alternative pathways.  Despite our best efforts, and many dead-end streets and alleys, we were unable to locate the area of the cemetery.  Our phone batteries had long since expired so we were wandering blindly through the village, which had its advantages but eventually proved frustrating. We gave up on the quest, satisfied with our explorations of the ancient village itself. Audrey collected some further stony specimens for her study and it was time to go.

Since we had been enjoying a period of detox, we celebrated with ice cold non-alcoholic beers and light snacks when we finally made it home.  I made the mistake of checking precisely where the Iron Age cemetery was located... we had been just meters from a decent vantage point, if only we had followed the unpromising road at the peak of the hill a little further, perhaps we would have witnessed our goal. Ah well, something to try for next time!