Dungeness and Dragons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gruesome Glow emerged from its formidable fortress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We discovered our clue...

The smoking gun...

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

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

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

What else could it have been?

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

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

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

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

Tonbridge... A Tale of Two Castles

All lockdown and no adventure makes Archaeofam awfully sad

All Lockdown and no Adventure makes Archaeofam aWfully sad

All lockdown and NO adventuremakes Archaeofam AWfullY sad

aLl LOckDown and No Adventure mAkes Archaeofam 4wfu11y SAD

AlL L^*KdowN aNd N£ A&venture M@kes #rchAeofaM ^W£ullY $ad

It seems to have been terrorising us forever, this awful, heartbreaking pandemic. It is a truly foul and frightening situation and our family are fully committed to doing our part, staying in isolation and away from others to help stem any spread of infection.

Of course, that doesn’t mean we don’t utterly miss being free to explore the sublime world around us. It seems strange to think back on adventurous days almost a year ago when we could make thrilling plans and travel to new unseen parts of this wonderful island, to witness fresh and fascinating feasts for our eyes and to revel in the awe-inspiring histories littering every inch of Albion.

Yet despite the current lamentable situation of the virus stricken planet, we are not completely caged, for as long as we are vigilant, it is safe to venture out on short isolated walks for exercise purposes. We cannot stress enough how important we believe it is to remain socially distanced from all who are not part of a bubble, but this has been a unique opportunity for us to explore some of the curious wonders closer to home.

In a recent poll, Tonbridge was named the happiest place to live in the whole of south-east England! (as long as you don’t count Richmond Upon Thames, which came out above Tonbridge and is in fact in the south-east of England, but let’s just ignore that, for now, shall we?!)

We are fortunate enough to currently call this cosy little corner of the world home. On a couple of former journal entries, we explored certain parts of the historic town, but the lockdown has been a wonderful chance to really get to know this quirky little community and its remarkable landmarks.

For us, Tonbridge is a tale of two castles.

The earliest of these is the incredible, though lesser-known, Iron Age hill fort upon Castle Hill.

There are actually two hillforts upon Castle Hill, both of which were excavated during summers between 1969 and 1971. The late S E Winbolt, who was under the impression there was only a single hillfort, had conducted earlier work in 1929. It was not until aerial photography was utilised that this mistake was understood and early plans of this ancient monument were revised. The fortifications on the arable segment of land have been largely ploughed out, but evidence remains intact in the forested areas.

This particular position in the landscape was an important aspect of high ground, 400 feet above sea level, controlling a northwest to southeast route to the river at Tonbridge, a frequent crossing point of the magnificent Medway.  British Museum radiocarbon dates of charcoal at the site indicate the forts were in use between 315 – 228BC. The earlier of the two forts appear to have suffered fiery destruction, though it is unclear whether this was an accidental or deliberate action. The volume of burnt timbers suggests a dramatic and sudden event. This first fort was subsequently abandoned and a second soon occupied.

Archaeologists argued the residents of these fortifications were probably farmers or peasants, protecting themselves from unclear outside threats, perhaps Belgic invaders, early Roman influence or rival neighbouring tribes, or something altogether more ghastly. They utilised the forested landscape and built oak palisades and revetting fences along the ramparts. The main outer rampart of the first fort was 30 feet wide and 12 feet deep, the inner rampart 15-18 feet wide.  Inside the rampart from an entrance to the east, the surface was cobbled with ironstone.

Our meanderings have often concluded in strolling by this magnificent hidden gem. The surrounding countryside is so peaceful and stunning. It is one of the things that drew us to Tonbridge, to begin with. A town with all the amenities we could possibly require, yet a short walk in any direction and we could be wandering through green pastures and witnessing stunning hilltop landscapes and a scattering of historic villages and buildings.

The other, more famous of Tonbridge’s Castles is... Tonbridge Castle!

The castle sits at the heart of the town, majestically crowing a small rise by the river. It bravely commands the main river crossing, now part of the high street and is an easy point of reference for residents and visitors alike.

The castle came to be shortly after the Norman Conquest of England in 1066. It was a simple fort of earth and timber, a Motte-and-Bailey castle which guarded the crossing of the River Medway. The castle was built by Richard Fitz Gilbert who was granted the land by William the Conqueror. It is thought that between 30,000 and 50,000 tonnes of earth were shifted to create the moat and erect the Motte.

The Castle continued in the family and was handed down to the De Clare family, descendants of Fitz Gilbert. This family continued the development of the castle, replacing the wooden structures with stronger stone-built fortifications. They were to make a big mistake however as they rebelled against King William II, whose army besieged the castle and burnt Tonbridge to the ground.

The De Clares were allowed to retain the castle and continued to improve its defences. In the thirteenth century, a stone curtain wall connecting great towers at each corner was built around the whole town for protection and a twin-towered gatehouse was erected.

During the reign of Henry III, the castle was said to be one of the strongest fortresses in England. His niece, as well as Edward I daughter, was a mistress of the castle.

The castle ceased to be a residence after the 16th century, apart from a brief period when it was occupied during the Civil War, though it saw little action, with the warring parties clashing elsewhere nearby.

On days when a lengthy adventure seems too much of a trial, a wander to the Castle is a perfect tonic. We often stroll across the green, Audrey loving the opportunity to hunt for treasure or run through the grassy fields. If the weather isn’t the greatest, this whole area can become inundated with water. It was perhaps added security in days gone by, now, however, it is a convenient messy playground for our little explorer.

Whilst the original structure that adorned the Motte-and-Bailey is long gone, it is still possible to climb the imposing mound and view the ruins at its peak. This is a great opportunity to witness the spectacular strategic landscape which made the area perfect for such a defensive powerbase.

One of the most wonderful things about our little town is the abundance of worthy public house options! There are watering holes for all tastes. Rustic old pubs like the Vauxhall Tavern or the Tudor built Rose and Crown, both old coaching inns, or the Chequers Inn, itself dating back to the 15th century but on a site where an Inn has likely stood since 1264.

Nearby the Chequers was the traditional spot for punishments in the town, which included stocks and a whipping post. In July 1555 Margery Polley was burnt here for her religious beliefs and in July 1575 Katherine, the wife of Edmund Brystowe, was burnt for poisoning her husband.

You can also find great Sports Bars like the George and Dragon or the Gatehouse, or homely, artsy wonders like two of our very favourite places, The Foresters Arms and the Beer Seller, both with delightful decor, the best range of beers and even fantastic deals on pizza!

A short drive opens a whole new range of wonderful options including our old local, the first place we ever enjoyed a drink in this part of the world, The Poacher and Partridge, a stunning country pub with an amazing beer garden. There are of course countless more options and we will undoubtedly try to get around them all.

In any of our usual adventures we would sign off by finding one of these local pubs for a refreshing final beverage, but with the current difficult health and safety issues and the unfortunate closing of such establishments, we must refrain. Luckily, as we are in our home town, we can safely enjoy our favourite tipples from the comfort of our own living room.

Home sweet home!

The Pen...shurst is mightier than the sword!

Just along the river, over the hill and through the picturesque flowing meadows, a rather special estate is nestled in a valley not far from the River Medway. Since it was not a great distance to reach this amazing historical fancy, we decided to take a sneaky little adventure in search of rainbow stones, haunting horrors and potential historical intrigues.

We prepared as always by packing our provisions and readying the crew. Charged with employing an experienced navigator, Audrey carefully selected Squishy Bear for the job, a masterful commander of the map. The route to this stunning seat accommodates all manner of ramblers and cyclists alike. Well trodden country footpaths lead almost unbroken, from Tonbridge, through Haysden Country Park, along the vast serene river and all the way up to Penshurst Place. It is a scenic saunter through the Kentish countryside, and a popular one.

Not much is known of the Penshurst Estate before the 13th century, when building work began on a manor house. An easy half days ride from London, Penshurst was ideal for hunting grounds and leisurely accommodation away from the city.

We began our adventure in Penshurst by wandering the church grounds, situated just beside the grand house. The village is brimming with period character, a quaint scatter of old homely architecture with a pub and a collection of shops and homes. According to local legend, a ghostly figure haunts the village, traipsing through the streets on his final journey to see his secret love, the Vicars Daughter! There has been a church on this same spot since at least 1115 AD, but recent Saxon discoveries in the vicinity suggest there may have been some form of religious structure on the site since the 9th century.

The first recorded priest of the church, Wilhhelmus, was appointed by Archbishop Thomas Becket. It would be his final public order before assassination just two days later at Canterbury Cathedral. The church of St John the Baptist at Penshurst has seen continued development through almost every age since the 12th century.

Amongst the throngs buried in its hallowed grounds are Earls, Viscounts, Knights, Leaders of the British Army and a Viceroy of India. Ghosts of the good and great reside here, alongside some of the more sinister deceased residents. The churchyard also houses one of the last remaining Dole Tables to be found in the country, a stone table once used to distribute money and food to those in need.

The church is set amidst the ancient manor house, guild house and rectory, all surviving wonders which have seen a turbulent tour of tragedy and triumph on their doorstep. Our wander took us through the churchyard and out to the spectacular estate beyond, boundless grounds with startling views of the magnificent Penshurst Place.

Construction of Penshurst Place began in the 14th century. Sir John De Pulteney desired a country estate to add to his London properties and so had a Manor House built in 1341, much of the house remains today in its original state. Through the centuries, the house was developed with protective towers, curtain walls and ever larger and more luxurious chambers. King Henry IV’s third son, John Duke of Bedford owned the house for a time and in the mid 15th century he added the hall now known as the Buckingham Building.

Humphrey Stafford, the 1st Duke of Buckingham inherited the estate. He was the first of three successive Buckingham’s to own the property. The 3rd Duke enjoyed displaying his wealth and power. In 1519 he invited Henry VIII to Penshurst. With no male heir, Henry feared Buckingham as a threat to his throne and found an excuse to have him tried and executed, seizing the property for himself.

Henry VIII used Penshurst as a hunting lodge, and an excuse to visit his soon-to-be second wife, Anne Boleyn, since her home of Hever Castle was nearby. Sticking with the wives of Henry association, the house would later be gifted to Anne of Cleves, Henry’s fourth wife, in their divorce settlement before falling back into the hands of the monopolistic monarchs.

King Edward VI, Henry’s sickly son, gifted the house to his tutor and steward, Sir William Sidney. It would remain in this famous family until the present day. One of the most renowned members of this incredible family was the Tudor poet, Sir Philip Sidney. He was known for his works such as The Defence of Poesy, Astrophel and Stella, and The Arcadia. Philip Sidney was also a soldier and died at just 31, from a bullet wound inflicted during fighting for the Protestant cause against the Spanish at the battle of Zutphen. It is said that the apparition of Sir Philip still stalks the halls of Penshurst, perhaps musing a final powerful poem or lamenting his early jaunt to the grave?

The house continued to grow, seeing visitors such as Elizabeth I and the children of Charles I. It would remain a beacon of literary musings throughout the centuries. Penshurst opened to the public in 1947 and now boasts a visitor centre and cafe, as well as some stunning gardens.

We circled the great house, its astonishing architecture dominating the landscape. From various explorations of the estate during my various exercise adventures, I have noticed a great deal of intriguing monuments littering the land. A strange mound caps the hill, labelled on our trusty OS map, but with little further information as to what it may have been? A landscape folly? A natural phenomenon? A tomb? Nearby is a perfect circle of trees, and throughout the grounds are some incredible flora and staggering stumps. The entire area seems steeped in mythical properties, a fairytale panorama with ghostly greatness in every inch.

Audrey collected an engrossing array of magical twigs and enchanting leaves to add to her ever-growing collection of supernatural specimens. Still no sign of the elusive rainbow stone... perhaps they were hidden within the well-fortified walls of Penshurst Place?

We completed our investigations with a visit to the local pub, a perfect way to end the adventure sat beside an open fire, enjoying an ale or two and resting our weary feet. It had been a fascinating forage through the home of many ancient elites... their treasures are undoubtedly scattered in this lush landscape, and possibly their sinister spooky secrets too...

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!

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.

Beam Me Up Scotney!

Sometimes, you just have to find a place that sells Ice Cream.

This was our mantra today.

Sometimes... you just HAVE to find a place that sells Vegan Ice Cream!

That was our challenge.

We had heard whispers of a nearby fortification, ancient and glorious. It was within our reach, it would be a challenge to hammer down the battlements, to storm the towers, to take the castle, but we were prepared for action.

Audrey was the keenest amongst us, no doubt a cauldron of ambitions arising from the sweet cool promise of ice cream, and curious rumours of her ever elusive rainbow stone, hidden in the grounds of the famous manorial seat. She spurred the way, corralling Emily Archaeomum, Bramble and I into our trusty transport and en route to Scotney Castle.

As things currently stand during our troubling world situation, access to the National Trust Property is somewhat restricted. A pre-booking system is required to secure a place in the castle car park. This however, is easily achieved online and completely free to National Trust members.

The new Scotney Castle was built in 1837 by Edward Hussey III in the Tudor Revival architectural style. It was crafted from sandstone, quarried from the grounds of the old castle. Within that same quarry, now a spectacular garden, we later discovered that a 100 million-year-old impression of an Iguanodon dinosaur footprint can be found. Audrey has already expressed her desire to return and find this magnificent marvel

It is rumoured the Hussey family were great hoarders. There is little doubt that unlimited treasures are stacked beyond the imposing walls of the grand mansion, fascinating artefacts just waiting to be discovered. Indeed it is said there is even a secret door in the library disguised as a bookcase. Such intriguing mysteries tantalised our imaginations. Sadly, thanks to the continuing pandemic, the doors were firmly closed to us on this occasion. There was, however, still plenty to see.

Edward Hussey III also influenced the design of the estate, hiring architect Anthony Salvin and gardener William Sawrey Gilpin to design the spectacular picturesque garden, cleverly incorporating the original medieval castle.

As we gradually descended from the lavish authoritative mansion, we found ourselves transported into an entirely different world. The atmosphere of serious power and wealth seemed to melt away as we stepped through thick foliage into a secret universe of imaginative wonder. The old medieval castle emerged from the stunningly sculpted gardens of rhododendrons and azaleas, wisteria, hydrangea and English rose. The picturesque landscape was like something from a dream, a secret fairytale world far beyond our own, disguised by great forested hills and spectacular scenic fields.

Scotney Old Castle sits in the valley of the River Bewl at the centre of a small lake, offering a natural moat for defence. A history of occupation in the area of the moated manor house dates back to 1137 when Lambert De Scoteni owned the estate. The castle itself was built later by Roger Ashburnham, between 1378 and 1380 and saw several reconstructions and renovations through the centuries.

Amongst the many intriguing tales of the castle is that of father Richard Blount. Between 1591 and 1598, the castle owner, Thomas Darrell, hid the Jesuit father in the castle whilst he ministered illegal catholic sermons. Authorities raided the castle to arrest the priest, but the holy man fled over a wall, into the moat and escaped persecution. There have been a number of hidden priest holes discovered amongst the ruin, illustrating its continued importance during these tumultuous religious oppositions.

We circumnavigated the mystical ruin, delving inside for a brief glance around its ancient walls before following a quiet path leading to the lush wilderness beyond. As if to amplify our immersion in the dream-like experience of the fantasy landscape, a brave Kestrel considered us from on high, its ancient eyes peering curiously from the bright blue heavens above. It observed our every move from its perch on a spindly limb-like branch of an eerie tree. Crickets chirped from the long flowing grass on all sides. Butterflies danced before our eyes, birds sang sweetly from clusters of brazen trees.

The Kestrel watched.

We made our way back towards the castle, back towards the impressive manor house. From this new aspect it was clearly a commanding seat of power at the crest of the hill. Audrey spied a number of pebbles, some with intriguing colours akin to the rainbow stone, but none with all the particular qualities of that most elusive treasure.

Still the Kestrel followed. Still the Kestrel Watched.

Back in the smart and lavish house grounds, we found a delightful little cafe. In safe socially distanced comfort we enjoyed a locally brewed beer, a cup of tea, and most importantly... a refreshing, sweet, tasty vegan ice cream! Our family weekend mission was complete.

By the time the purring engine of our trusty car was turned on, Audrey had drifted into a pleasant dream filled slumber, no doubt discovering her hidden treasures within the fairytale fantasy world we had just experienced.

Scotney Castle, we will most definitely be back soon.

Sunbathed at Bayham Old Abbey

The golden glow of the sun blazed down from glorious baby blue skies, the day was young and full of promise. Our regular work was done for the week and our roving minds were set firmly on adventure!

Our first ambition had been to complete an archaeological survey of a nearby reservoir. Emily Archaeomum has recently created the reservoir otters, an archaeological survey team with a free downloadable family kit to record erosion and features in reservoirs around the world.

We wistfully imagined a gentle meander around a local body of wondrous water, introducing Audrey to the world of marine-influenced archaeological recording whilst splashing about and hunting for the elusive rainbow stone.

Sadly, the reality was somewhat disappointing. Hordes of revellers with a similar idea had arrived at Bewl Water in their droves to enjoy the beautiful blue lagoon in the bright summer sunshine. The car park required a £5 fee to park and spaces were few. After an unsuccessful circumnavigation of the reservoir by car, pressing for a quieter corner, and an unfortunate tyre brush with a rather high kerb, we eventually abandoned the idea completely.

With public restrictions still in place and social contact not recommended, we opted for a lesser frequented spectacle than the beach or the reservoir, realising that all of these places were certain to be swelling with excitable leisure seekers in the sweet summer warmth.

Fortunately, in our midst, we are surrounded by stunning sights, ancient wonders and the remains of tantalising historic architecture. Our lovely locale is brimming with intrigue and spectacular stories. Glancing over our trusty OS map for inspiration, we came across a potential spot of gothic wonderment, visual majesty and immersive enjoyment; a destination with a spiritual foundation and of course, a good spot for a picnic.

Bayham Abbey is nestled in the heart of the valley of the River Teise, on the Kent Sussex border. The area is naturally blessed with picturesque surroundings and luscious forested countryside in all directions.

The Abbey was founded in 1207 by Premonstratensian ‘White Canons’ who followed a life ascribed to St Augustine. Impressively crafted from local golden sandstone, the remains are quite extensive, including a church, chapterhouse and the stone frameworks of three enormous arched windows of the nave. The Abbey was perfectly placed to benefit from the natural environment, with the river providing a regular water supply.

In its later years, Henry VIII took control of the estate following the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16th century. His daughter, Queen Elizabeth sold the estate and it fell into the hands of Sir John Pratt. The Camden family, descendants of Sir Pratt, built a family mansion, the Dower House, or Bayham Old Abbey House, next to the abbey, a luxurious 18th century Gothic manor which remains on the site today. In the 19th century the grounds were landscaped by Humphrey Repton whose phenomenal works included the gardens at Kenwood House in London. The Abbey ruins were partly modified during this period to offer a more romantic landscape. Bayham Abbey remained in the Camden family until 1961 when it was donated to English Heritage.

The first challenge was the driveway, which requires careful navigation as the narrow roadway has space for only one vehicle at a time and a sharp turn at about the halfway point, making it difficult to spot oncoming traffic. A few reversals later and we parked up to unload our adventure gear.

It is free to enter and wander amongst the Abbey ruins, though there is a very reasonable £2 car parking charge for non-English Heritage members, the proceeds of which appear to go to the upkeep of the amazing monument and surrounding grounds. Dogs on a lead are very welcome and the only time restrictions were it’s opening and closing hours. To our utter delight, just a handful of others had chosen the day to explore the ruins, which meant lots of space for quiet reflection.

We embarked upon our adventure around the ruins, Audrey eager as always to investigate every inch of the mammoth complex. We were well aware the rainbow stone could be effectively disguised amongst the ruinous remains, with a keen eye and her trusty sidekick Bramble; she carefully explored every corner of the potential treasure trove.

The bright beating sun continued to dispense its life-giving gifts as we wandered joyously through stone alleys and cavernous cloisters. We found a quiet spot by the Kentish Gatehouse to unravel the picnic blanket and enjoy our lunch. Emily and Audrey continued their explorations whilst Bramble and I lazed luxuriously on the luscious green grass, enjoying our Hasselback potatoes and spiced shroomdogs... and a cold beer of course.

A shout from across the Abbey indicated we had completely lost track of time and the gates were about to close. Our utter contentment relaxing in the Abbey gardens had made the minutes accelerate at a breakneck pace.

Audrey discovered an incredible specimen of rainbow leaf... surely an indicator her mission for the rainbow stone was gaining momentum. We swiftly shoved our possessions into the cool box, took a final enraptured glance at the enchanting Abbey and dashed for the car. It was time to head for home.