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

Hunt for the wreck of the Esperance - Part 3

Salty surf washes coolly across my face as rays of sunlight bounce and mix. Bubbles obscure my vision temporarily, and suddenly we’ve crossed the precipice to find ourselves awash in sunlight filtered through the wings of angels.  Our world extends into a vast, unrelenting blue. The slow descent to the deep hazy bottom begins. Normally murky green and grey Scottish diving conditions blossom into memories of the Pacific, as Azure, Cerulean and Ultramarines unfold before our eyes, finally revealing pink and green kelp. The kelp sways in rhythm to the endless surf and tide. It feels natural, this sway and pitch, as Jacques Cousteau once astutely observed, “the tides are in our veins.”

As the bubbles rise in a steady stream up to the surface, we check our dials. 5m… 8m… 12m… We can see the ground rising to meet us and we check in at a final 27m, the pressure now noticeable. Careful fin flicks ensure we don’t slick the bottom. To do so would fill our entire field of vision with murk and sediment, harming the flora and fauna of this alien world in which we are merely tolerated guests. We set our compasses and navigate in the formation we’d practised for months, checking our bearings, always keeping an eye on the time and our air.

My dive buddy takes the lead, whilst I content myself searching for signs of shipwreck debris; a strange and out of place timber, a misshapen metal item, a rounded surface, a jagged or flat edge. The flash of my camera blazes the eyes of the fish that pass, curious and most blissfully unaware. Of the Esperance? Nothing reveals itself. I look about, maintaining our agreed-upon search pattern, moving ever westward when a motion catches the corner of my eye. A crab drifts on the current 20 cm from me and though I slow my kicks to avoid it, the current lifts it against my mask where the crab now attaches itself. Its small eyes scan my face. With this close encounter, I manage to muffle a scream, knowing full well that nobody – neither the crab nor my dive buddy – can hear me. It releases a claw from the side of my mask, threatening with a little snap, snap, snap, beady eyes still on me. Before I can make another move, it releases its other claw and drifts off on another adventure. I take a heavy inhale from my regulator before catching up the few meters of distance that have grown between me and my dive partner.

The kelp that envelops us in its embrace suddenly thins out, becoming a desert of sand stretching out ahead. To think this desert is unoccupied would be premature. Sand crabs scuttle about as we pass over, some threatening us with fighting claws, some preferring the safety and solitude of their underground homes. My right eye twitches slightly, hoping they don’t make any acrobatic attempts at my mask. Sanddabs flit past, visible to the untrained eye when swimming, before suddenly disappearing to the bottom. My dive buddy rubs his tummy, suggesting he would very much like to eat these dabs. I roll my eyes, a vegetarian with no choice but to humour my friend.

Still no Esperance. We look at each other, acknowledging that the search so far has been fruitless. A few more fin kicks and we see the outline of the Kartli. We know we’ve come to the end of the search zone. Air and time running low, we must navigate back to our buoy line and head to the surface.

Our return to the buoy is simple: Paul is a capable underwater navigator. We gently swim our way back across the sandy seafloor before coming back into the kelp forest. There’s a calm enjoyment in visiting this magical place where life abounds in 4D all around you; a wonderful number of little creatures, drifting, swimming and crawling about, blissfully unaware of your worries. Their serenity is contagious and by the time we make it back to the buoy, I breathe easily and forget that our hunt for the Esperance has been fruitless. We take a brief look at the kelp around us and with a nod, carefully begin our ascent to the surface: kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Kick, kick, wait… Breathe… Holding fast at our safety stop, I snap a picture of my fins for fun. These split fins have seen me through interesting waters, and today’s adventure will be another story for them to tell.

Hours later, safely back in our host’s home, I’m checking over my records and photographs, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Esperance that may have been missed during the dive, but no… A second dive hadn’t been possible with the surface interval required. I tinker with my camera, ensuring the casing hasn’t been cracked or compromised on the cow poo trailer ride back. We hadn’t the luxury of the massive body of cleansing water waiting for us on our return journey. The water troughs at the farmhouse were a real blessing, even if it did see three piratey divers in their skivvies, cold and muddied at the ankles, wrists and necks.

We joke that despite finding little, at least it has been a successful dive. A successful dive is one that you return from, I remind myself. And it’s true. We have all come back together for another evening meal on the Isle of Gigha. Tomorrow would involve less diving, with a coastal survey planned for another potential crannog, followed by an evening home visit to a lady who has a strange lintel stone. There’s been no sign of the Esperance, but further research and high-tech equipment will prepare either us or the next wave of researchers that come out to chance their luck at finding her.

McSporren yells to us. He’s made grilled, “vegetarian” sanddabs to celebrate the day. My little team will be thrilled, but I already feel like I’ve ingested enough of the sea today.

I think I’ll opt for the aqua vita instead.

Off with their heads... A day at the Tower

Beneath delightful blue winter skies, seeking ancient historical mysteries, our merry little band entered through the gates of the most notorious building in all of Great Britain, The Tower of London.

It would be impossible to write a brief blog on the history of this incredible site.  Built in the 11th century as a fortress by William the Conqueror, to establish his dominance over the island following invasion, the Tower and its surrounding structures have since been a royal residence, a prison, a mint, a stronghold and even a menagerie. Over 1000 years of turbulent tales are locked within its walls.

Emily organised our amazing visit as a wonderfully thoughtful gift, knowing that despite my years in the capital, I had yet to witness the famous fortress.  My excitement was impossible to disguise from the moment of waking, right through until we consumed a final beer on the way home.  The historian in me danced on clouds of delight, drunk on the abundance of chronicles connected to this Thameside treat.

There are countless blogs and websites dedicated to the intriguing tales connected to this little bit of land.  Home to the Crown Jewells of Great Britain, it has produced stories of Kings and Queens, prisoners, tortures, punishments and executions; dark tales like that of the Princes in the Tower, mere children destined for the throne whose lives were cut short in the name of power; tales of Queens decapitated by ruthless Kings; tales of persecuted religious martyrs. The list is endless.

As we wandered through the various Tower buildings, each with its own unique heritage, it was clear the histories locked in these walls were too numerous to fully explore.  We could have spent a day in each room. Reconstructed bed chambers, chapels, dungeons, throne rooms and armouries appeared with each new step.  Trying to consume it all was difficult.  The tours are highly recommended, and by the sound of it, as hilarious as they are educational!

Characters such as Elizabeth I, Sir Walter Raleigh, Guy Fawkes, even the infamous Kray brothers were prisoners here. Unsurprisingly, tales of haunting are plentiful; the ghost of Anne Boleyn is thought to roam Tower Green and a cousin of Queen Elizabeth who starved to death in the tower is said to remain in the Queen’s House, these are just some of the spectres stalking this ancient pile.

For our part, we were fascinated by stories from before the famous White Tower was erected.  Much of our intrigue emerged from fanciful mythology surrounding this particular hill by the Thames.  As it happens, there is tantalising evidence of life at this location prior to William the Conquerors immense building project, it is perhaps a little less well known, but equally as fascinating.

Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae told of Brutus, a Trojan descendant who having been banished from Italy began a journey across Europe.  Amassing a number of Trojan exiles and winning many battles, Brutus was visited in a dream by the goddess Diana who prophesied he would discover an island occupied by Giants and create a New Troy.

According to Monmouth, the island would take his name, from Brutus to Brittania.  Brutus discovered Albion around 1170BC and ridding it of Giants became the first in a line of great kings.  He searched the island for a suitable home and coming upon the Thames he chose a site, naming it Troia Nova (New Troy). The Welsh name for tower hill was the Bryn Gwyn, roughly translated as the white hill.  It is here in this apparently sacred mound, that Brutus of Troy is said to be buried.

In a collection of Welsh folk tales called Mabinogion, is the story of the Giant Bendigeidfran, or Bran the Blessed, King of England.  Bran led an invasion of Ireland, wading across the sea and laying over the islands as a bridge so his men could cross.  He was fatally injured by a poisoned spear during the battle.  On his death bed, he ordered his followers to decapitate him, and take my head and carry it to the Gwynfryn (White Hill) in London and bury it with its face towards France.  Gwnfryn has been identified by some commentators with Tower Hill.  The buried head is believed to have kept the island safe from invasion until none other than King Arthur himself ordered it to be exhumed, claiming no other force than himself was required to defend the island.

The custom of keeping severed heads has been recognised in Celtic cultures. They are thought to have believed the head housed the soul and so they would keep the heads of their enemies.  The word Bran in Welsh means crow, and so the legend has attached itself to the presence of ravens at the Tower of London.  Charles II was informed of a prophecy that if the ravens left the tower, the white tower would collapse and a terrible fate would befall the nation.

Flint flakes and deposits of worn pottery were discovered beneath accumulated layers of sand and gravel during excavations in the south-east corner of the inmost ward in 1955 and 1976.  Towards the end of the prehistoric period, the river level declined, leaving a dry area.  Here excavations revealed flint flakes and Iron Age pottery along with a shallow grave containing a skeleton of a young male, 13 – 16 years old.  Radiocarbon dating of the skeleton revealed that it dates to no earlier than the beginning of the first century AD.  The style and ritual of the burial suggest that the male died just before the Roman invasion of AD43. Pits and pottery of Iron Age date have been uncovered from sites around the Tower.

Much of the archaeology in this area has traditionally been focused on the Roman wall and was the result of refurbishment in buildings in the surrounding area between the 1930s and the present day.  Sites produced a wealth of artefacts such as building material, sword scabbards, flints, Roman pottery sherds and even a sandstone sarcophagus with the skeleton of a child dated to the 4th century. The evidence led to the hypothesis a cemetery was in use during the 3rd and 4th centuries, just outside the city walls. In 1899, part of a structure which included a channelled hypocaust system was found some 16 feet south-west of the White Tower.

As our legs tired and our minds were full of wonders, it was time to escape the Tower and head for home.  Not before a nice drink by the Thames of course, to look out over the river and try to arrange the mass of historical stories we had witnessed. The Tower has a gruesome and terrifying past, but it has remained at the centre of importance on our little island at the edge of the earth for as long as there has been a London.  It was a true pleasure to experience it in an age where the majority get to walk out alive!

ARCHAEOLOGY AND US: A TALE IN TWO PARTS

Part 2

I loved history but grew frustrated, learning of new discoveries so late.  Often publications would appear decades after the discovery.  I wanted brand new knowledge, I wanted to be on the front line.  I decided to study Archaeology.

A Masters introduced me to another world of astonishing stories.  Ancient civilizations, too many to consume. Like a bee at a flower show, I was drunk on the abundance of new information.  So much so, it took me forever to settle on a Thesis topic.  Eventually, I combined my passion for London with curiosity for the late Iron Age, that hazy cusp of time between history and prehistory on a misty land at the edge of the earth.

It was during my Masters, on a field archaeology experience, that I met Emily.  We were helping veterans study archaeology for a project called Operation Nightingale. Emily was already a Doctor of Archaeology when we met.  She was a diver, an archaeologist, an educator and a lover of all things Goth. I was intoxicated.  We had so many connections and yet so many differences, I could not loosen the threads from my mind.  Like an addiction, I yearned for more.

We met, connected unimaginably, fell in love and within a month were engaged to be married.  Whirlwind you say? Destined, say I.

After graduation, I made a choice to follow this new life and become an archaeologist.  I knew I had to be in the field, be out in the elements, trowel in hand, centuries of history between me and the natural deposits. Both Emily and I acquired employment with Trent and Peak Archaeology, it was a wonderful baptism of commercial experience amongst a ramshackle bunch of delightful misfits. We learnt a lot.  We also moved in together!

Emily and I married on the beautiful banks of Loch Lomond, surrounded by our loved ones and not long after, we would be expecting an addition to our little family.  I moved on to MOLA, University of Leicester Archaeological Services and Northern Archaeological Associates. Years of fieldwork I truly loved, but ultimately realised my employment ambitions lay elsewhere, in research, archives, libraries and storytelling.

Audrey was everything we ever dreamed of and a million times more.  She brought new life to the world with each little bit of it she learnt.  I was fondly reminded of those days in my own childhood, those dreams of being a pilot and a knight and of course, a superhero.  I hope, in some ways, to my daughter, I may still become that hero.

We found Bramble and she instantly became a part of the family, back then nothing more than a ball of fluff with massive ears.  These days she is a wolf beast… and the softest, gentlest creature that ever lived.  Audrey and Bramble combined, however, become a destructive force far greater than any puny death star or precious ring forged in flame.

We moved south and I found my place at the British Library once more, where I now get to explore the most spectacular collection of stories ever written, factual and fictional, piled in every corner of every room. A universe of characters and tales waiting to be told. I get to be a humble part of telling those stories to the world.

Archaeology remains our passion, storytelling remains my dream.  We created Archaeofam so that as she grows, Audrey can look back on memories which may have slipped from her youthful mind.  She can relive the adventures and revisit those places etched in historical legend.

I truly hope it is enjoyable to many, to all those interested in archaeology, history, fantasy, travel and adventure, or even just those who enjoy cute pictures of a toddler and a German shepherd puppy causing mayhem.

It is not always factually accurate, but then this is not a place for absolute science. These are stories with history and archaeology entwined. In its way, the ancient practice of both history and storytelling was always exactly this, we are simply finding our place within it.

Castlerigg Stone Circle

In the remote wilds of Cumbria we found ourselves in the midst of a prehistoric marvel.  The Castlerigg Stone Circle is a thing of true wonder.  Ancient stones set in an otherworldly surrounding, it echoes with the memories of two hundred generations or more.  Dubbed the Druid circle, the carefully positioned stones are enclosed by the epic majesty of the fells, languishing stylishly at the centre of an impossibly enormous natural amphitheatre.

The circle is thought to be Late Neolithic or Early Bronze Age in date and its function has been argued for centuries, the debate still rages.  From meeting place to astronomical device, trading post to ritual centre, its mysteries continue to draw fascinated fandom from all over the planet.  Here we were the next in line.

We made our way up a steep hill by car and found a suitable place to alight. Only a little gate and a lot of sheep remained between us and the ancient stone circle. There is no price to pay, witnessing the archaic architecture costs only the will to make the journey and to brave the cold. From within the stones, which you can approach and explore up close, the views are simply ecstatic. The intimate experience of this mystical construction whilst the wind, frost, rain and fog whips around you like a dancing demon is indescribable.  You become a part of its endless mystery by merely standing within its hallowed centre.

The stones are composed of volcanic rock from the Borrowdale Volcanic group, some are over 2 meters high and weigh up to 16 tons.  The process of monument creation would have been both a feat of utter genius and extreme exhaustion.  Archaeo-astronomers have suggested the stones line up with the midwinter sunrise and certain other significant positions of the moon.

The earliest written record of the circle comes from that antiquarian intrigue and prehistory scholar, William Stukeley.  His account, published after his death in 1776, recalls the monument as a Celtic work with a mysterious grave at its east end.  Whilst there is no evidence of human remains being uncovered at the monument, little recorded archaeological work has actually been conducted. However, nearby at White Raise Cairn, human remains were discovered in a stone lined grave within.

Though the incredible structure is constantly linked to Druidical practice, there seems to be no genuine evidence of its function during the Iron Age.  3 Neolithic stone axes were discovered within the circle giving rise to a belief it may have been a trade and exchange post of these valuable items.  Polished axes such as these were quarried high in the fells thanks to the qualities of the local volcanic rock.

Legend has it that the stones move when not being watched, mischievously switching places or even hiding so that it is said you will never count the same number of stones twice.  Glowing orbs have been persistently reported at the site, giving rise to a belief the stones may be the haunt of faeries and ghosts.

Close to the Castlerigg Stone Circle, a recent speculative magnetometer survey discovered a substantial possible Roman fort complex beneath the undisturbed earth.  The giant enclosure is believed to have been a temporary camp for troops advancing north to the far unknown reaches of the island. The stories of horror and marvel which must have been spoken within those walls, of the monsters and gods that dwelt in the barren wilds of the north, of the treasures and wonders that were surely to be discovered during those treacherous treks.  If walls could only speak. It remains unexcavated but perhaps one day will add much to the story of this historic area.

Before our fingers and toes became completely numb to the bone, we made our way back through the lustrous landscape towards the nearby idyllic town of Keswick.  A picturesque postcard of a settlement, Keswick offers the outdoor adventurer a welcome retreat from city bustle and daily routine.  Littered with good old fashioned pubs (dogs and children welcome everywhere it seems, with the Twa Dogs and Dog and Gun being our very favourite) and countless cafes and shops, it has become a base and a shrine for all things explorer.

The jewel in this magnificent landscape crown is Derwentwater, a glorious pool of twinkling silver surrounded by a circle of emerald mountain giants, peering down into its mirror-like depths.  Boats glide effortlessly across the choppy waters seeking unforgettable pleasure from otherwise unobtainable scenic views.  It is easy to see why this place has been revered throughout the ages.

After many a locally brewed Jennings ale, we gathered our family entourage and made for the comfort of our lodgings.  Such a place as this seems straight from the pages of classic literature, as though all the words of the great romantic poets, the settings of legend and fantasy authors and the songs of folk troubadours collided and from the dust emerged their imagined Elysian fields.

We will sleep well tonight in this cosy corner of Albion… or dare I whisper, Eden?...

The Mystery of the Forsaken Mariner PT4 - Horror on the Hill top

Transcript follows:

There were disturbing scenes yesterday evening [6th January 2019] close to the former national village of the decade, St Neot.  Local residents have described their terror as a vicious raid and prolonged gun fight took place on the outskirts of the village.

The explosive assault broke out at approximately 19.35 GMT.  Witness reports indicate that an archaeological expedition had been working around the clock at a protected site to unearth ‘at risk’ prehistoric remains thought to have survived beneath the ground.  The site lies close to known archaeological remains on Berry Down, understood to be an Iron Age hillfort.  Professional investigators were researching linked communities in the area when the gang of masked raiders arrived on quad bikes and attacked.

Despite the isolation of the area, and the surprise of the attack, the archaeology team were able to act swiftly to protect all members of their staff and escape the hill top unharmed, however, it is feared the site may have been significantly damaged during the raid.

The parish of St Neot resides within a dynamic landscape and boasts part of Bodmin Moor on its northern border.  The Moor is famed for its thriving Bronze Age community with over 200 settlements recorded in the landscape, including the remains of a vast quantity of roundhouses.  This style of structure continued into the Iron Age and buildings here are likely to have belonged to the Dumnonii tribe, thought to hold the balance of power in Iron Age Cornwall.

Though there is clear evidence for prehistoric farming communities throughout the area; sites close to St Neot are believed to have gained prevalence due to the thriving tin trade for which Cornwall is famous.  Tin was a valuable commodity and was traded globally from this corner of ancient Britain.  The wealth of the metal, used in the manufacture of bronze, was well known and documented in classical accounts of the age from Pytheas to Herodotus, amongst others.

Mining and metalwork is thought to have been closely associated with ancient perceptions of magic. It is argued that these hidden treasures from deep within the earth and the alchemy of merging liquid metals to create beautiful and possibly sacred objects, were highly regarded mystical aspects of Bronze and Iron Age life.

The excavations in St Neot are funded by local societies and businesses hoping to further understand the communities residing in the area 2500 years ago.  Rumours were sparked amongst local residents earlier in the month when a journalist reported the discovery of an unusual artefact from a structure on one of the several archaeological sites.  These rumours are as yet unconfirmed and the archaeology unit involved have so far been unavailable for comment, leading to further speculation surrounding the nature of last night’s raids.  Enforced legal restrictions mean neither the unit involved nor the object in question can be named at this time, but the archaeology unit are confirmed to be cooperating and working closely with police on the matter.

“I heard they found a new type of metal, 100 times stronger than steel and it’s gonna revolutionise the aerospace industry, so they’re trying to keep it under wraps,” said one resident who preferred to remain anonymous.

“It’s a seam of gold they found, worth billions, but they don’t want residents to know anything about it because they know it belongs to the public,” claimed Bryan Berrywinkle, a customer relations officer at a Plymouth based gift store.

“I think they unearthed some bodies, but they were not anatomically correct… not for this planet anyway.  That’s why the government have been stopping people getting through,” said Jilly Perry, a local school teacher.

Whatever has been excavated on the hill top, authorities are keen to keep publicity to a minimum.  This reporter was threatened with severe action should this story go to print.  It is my personal opinion that the importance of such discoveries belongs in the public realm, implications of the discovery are thought to be far reaching and therefore it is a duty to report on such events.  Particularly in light of the incidents yesterday evening.

Police remain at the scene where it is understood excavations will continue once a cleanup operation and an inventory have been completed. A senior officer confirmed the event is not being treated as a terror attack but may involve gang related activity.

The suspects have been described by police as four men in their mid twenties, all above six foot tall with muscular build.  They were dressed in grey body suits and wearing dark gas masks during the raid, and were riding four TGB Blade 1000LT deluxe silver quad bikes.

If you have any information regarding the events of last night’s attack, a police hotline has been set up on 01579 957 9921, alternatively an email account has been created for anyone who wishes to relay information, at hilltopincident.info@devonandcornwall.police.uk.  Police are urging anyone with information to come forward immediately.  The assailants remain on the loose; they are armed and considered a serious threat to public safety.  Police are pleading with the public to remain vigilant and under no circumstances to approach suspected gang members.

This publication also welcomes any information which may lead to the capture or identification of the gang members, and any information regarding the findings of the excavation which may assist the enquiries.  We pay for your stories. See below for contact details.

The Mystery of the forsaken Mariner - update....

Dearest Emily,

Progress had been a slow meander of late, until these last few exhilarating days.

We enjoyed the pleasant luxury of life at a becalmed trot, exploring the beautiful territories of south west England in all its exquisite glory. The weather delayed our initial exploits, occasionally with severe authority, however the sun broke through with its wondrous life galvanizing greatness and made the hilltop rambling bearable again.

So this brief letter to you my love is a quick update on the case, I am certain you are in eager anticipation to hear our news.

The complexities of our recent discovery have yet to be fully revealed. It is clear however, that what our good Sir Drake buried over there in the Americas was no standard trove of treasure. We are not talking gold and silver here, but something more complex, more powerful, powerful enough to change the fortunes of a tiny island on the edge of the civilized world into the greatest power ever to grace the planet.

My first thoughts were of those ancient mines, perhaps in the keen enthusiasm for prosperous trade, the need for tin led to a chance discovery, buried deep within the mines, hacked away with primitive tools in meager light.

Or perhaps it is a more sinister a thing, something of black magic, As a Tolkien movie adaptation once suggested…

“You fear to go into those mines. The dwarves delved too greedily and too deep. You know what they awoke in the darkness of Khazad-dum... shadow and flame”

or maybe something utterly worse, uncomprehending…. a secret?

It is abundantly clear that we are not alone in our desire to discover the truth of this matter. Our interest is being monitored, and I fear our adversaries may be willing to stoop significantly low to achieve their goals.

With that in mind, we have assumed false identities during our travels, I shall not disclose our new personas here for fear of interception, but I think you will get a real kick out of them when you hear! :)

Well my darling, that is all I have time for, I head for the library to continue this delicate research. We will be in touch again soon. I hope your party will reach us in the next few weeks and trial excavation may begin to assist our project.

Keep a keen eye on the Twitter page and Instagram accounts for pictorial updates, I shall do my best to update as often as possible.

With all our eternal love

Craig and Audrey xxx

The mystery of the forsaken Mariner...

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.

The British Library

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?

The Golden Hinde living history museum

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.

Visit Tavistock

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.

Buckland Abbey

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