Dearest Emily,
I must apologise for the paucity of correspondence of late. Though insufficient, I do hope that these emails offer some comfort whilst we are so far apart.
Let me get straight to our exhilarating news. Just as we feared that all might be lost, our prior expedition funds depleted and the routine monotony of life’s labours on the horizon, our darling Audrey and I have stumbled upon the most fascinating of characters.
I can’t say too much this soon, but oh my, what a potential opportunity awaits us.
Let me start at that eternal anchor of literary bloom, the beginning.
The gentleman in question is a Mr Roy Pritchard, a most electrifyingly excitable chap, full of dreams and impossible schemes. Audrey and I were enjoying the comforts of a local watering hole when the aforementioned Mr Pritchard approached. From my attire, he recognized a man of the archaeological persuasion, and from the gleam in our Audrey’s eyes, he deduced adventure was never far from our thoughts.
Mr Pritchard recounted an intriguing tale of undiscovered wealth, all centring on the life and mysteries of an obscure humble crew member belonging to a most famous voyage. The captain of this voyage just happened to be none other than that heroic and fearful gentleman pirate, Sir Francis Drake.
Well, my love, I am certain that you of all people will understand my excitement as the puzzle pieces fell into place, revealing an enticing labyrinth of clues yet to be explored and a promise of archaeological riches which may rewrite the antique tomes of historical knowledge.
The good Mr Pritchard has promised to share a sensitive document with us, a manuscript he claims to have unearthed from a contemporary folio; held within none other than that most famous of establishments, the British Library. How he came to procure this document I cannot guess and dare not ask, but if the importance of such an unknown and extremely rare correspondence is as he claims, then I am certain the library would not willingly allow it to pass through their hallowed doors unnoticed.
Should it be an original article, I will, of course, ensure its return to the relative safety of that establishment, but oh my darling, curiosity and intrigue demand that before I send it back to some dusty basement, I must at the very least, verify its validity.
Mr Pritchard appeared justifiably nervy during our brief recourse. He hinted towards the possibility others may share an interest in the document, though their acquisition desires would appear conflicting to our own honest intentions. Should it fall into the hands of certain other parties, an important piece of our nation’s history might be forever lost, smuggled to the darkest corners of black market bidding and wasted in the sealed vault of some disinterested tycoon.
In his haste to remain unnoticed, Mr Pritchard arranged a second meeting with us this very week, two days from now, in a secure location known only to us three.
So my darling, we have taken these spare moments to refresh our understanding of the good Sir Francis and his most famous of voyages. I am certain my dear, that you remember the length of our investigations surrounding the queens favourite pirate, our tantalising expectations regarding the discovery of that fabled Nova Albion site, or the final resting place of his daring flagship the Golden Hind, left to publicly rot in a dark Deptford creek. You will then be equally enthused by this promise of original evidence regarding his legend. His journals remain missing, his secrets well hidden, his vast wealth unaccounted for. Perhaps here we may discover a key, a key to unlock the treasures of his life we thought forever lost?
We began, as did he, in Tavistock, a bustling town once one of four principle Tin trading centres in this region. The town retains its ancient character, though modern economic necessity has coupled with a celebration of Sir Francis to create a novelty caricature of a once important administrative hub. The remains of the Abbey now parade as ornamental garments for touristic pleasure, as is the custom of historical monuments in our country; a pleasure to observe but entirely out of original context. One thing stood out in a brief survey of the historical landscape, an abundance of prehistoric features; stone age tools, bronze and iron age structural features, a long tradition of area reuse, a plentiful setting, and a lasting reliance on the wealth of tin production, globally invaluable materials before even those most civilising conquerors, the Romans, had wearily dreamt of inhabiting this ghostly island at the edge of the world.
From here we made our way to Crowndale farm, the conjectured birthplace of our swashbuckling protagonist. With electronic cartographic assistance we found the location, but discovered it to be private land, and not wishing to disturb nor upset any potential allies, we observed from distance before progressing on our journey.
Birthplace of Drake at risk article
Our final homage on this Devonian pilgrimage was a visit to the Drakes prized home of Buckland Abbey, a property purchased with opportunistic cruelty from courtier and unfortunate rival Sir Richard Grenville. Buckland was already a renovated religious monument when Drake acquired the lands. Every successive age appears to have included something of its own aesthetic to the structure, though rumour has it, Drake himself made no changes to the property. Here in Buckland, my dear Emily, we discovered uncountable personal treasures of the man, safely locked away in secure confinement, yet a perfect portrait of an adventurous individual with a colourful and confusing personality. Maps, jewels, artwork and tools adorned the corridors, items of singular beauty and interest, usefulness and charm.
We explored intently my love, but I must warn you of the strangest of sensations, wherever we travelled throughout the house, both I and Audrey could not shake the distressing feeling, that we were being observed. Perhaps it is the unconscious paranoia which comes with years of archaeological investigation, a constant fear of judgemental critique causing a heightened sense of augmentative reflex, or perhaps it is a fear our latest pursuit might have attracted attention from old adversaries, or worse still, new villains with faces unknown, but certainly there is an air of uneasiness to our current predicament. We remain guarded and vigilant, keeping a watchful eye on any unusual activity.
Well, my darling; that is all I may relate at this time. We miss you dearly and hope that you will write to us at the earliest opportunity. Your assistance in this latest antiquarian adventure will most surely improve our chances of the greatest success.
Do not worry for our safety, I have assured all the necessary precautions should we run into any bother, and of course, Audrey is more effective than the most potent dynamite when it comes to opposing villainous treachery.
I shall write again as soon as our meeting with Mr Pritchard has concluded and we have a greater understanding of the direction this plight will eventually lead us.
Until then darling Emily, with all the love, hugs and kisses we have within us, we bid you goodbye for now. Every ounce of our love goes with you; please take it with the greatest of care, for it is our most precious gift. We shall see you again soon.
TTFN
Craig and Audrey
xoxoxoxox
