The Murderers, Malevolent Spirits and Dark Magicians of Matfield

Today, we were on the hunt for a cold-blooded killer. Sometimes, the dark murderous stain of a brutal history seeps through time and leaves a subliminal trace in the very atmosphere of its setting. If that was true of this particular legend, we expected a cold, dark, and unhappy place indeed.

Our interest was first drawn to this complicated catastrophe thanks to the proximity of the tragic tale. It involved the sinister story of a triple murder, violently enacted at the nearby Criddenden Cottage on the 9th July 1940. The occupier of the cottage, one Mrs. Dorothy Fisher, was gunned down, allegedly by Mrs. Florence Ransom, a jealous lover of her estranged husband.

It is not often we explore the truly darker side of history. Audrey is not particularly interested in such things. She is not yet able to fathom the depths of which humans have the ability to descend, nor the fragility of the human mind, and we are in no rush to expose her to such miseries. I prefer that she continues to experience the beauty and good in humanity for as long as possible, for there is yet much that is good out there.

Despite such worries, the story in itself was intriguing. It involved a triple murder in a sleepy village, for reasons of jealousy and madness. We were too close to ignore the existence of such a tragedy, and history deserves to be examined in order that we might learn from it. So without burdening our little explorer with too many of the details, we packed up our things and made our way out for a brief investigation of the scene of the crime.

The understood facts of the case are as follows:

Florence Ransom, jealous of the close relationship between her lover and his former wife, was believed to have loaned a poachers gun from her brother, wrapped it in a brown paper bag, and tracked down Mrs. Fisher at her cottage near Matfield in Kent. Here the mystery deepens as there was evidence of a shared tea, apparent from the cottage crime scene. This suggested that the victims and the killer were on friendly terms before the awful attack occurred. The cottage had been ransacked after the event, though nothing was stolen. The judge stated that a very careful deception had been attempted, a plot to suggest a burglary had taken place and the deaths had resulted from this action.

At some point, Ransom had cold-bloodedly killed the unsuspecting Mrs. Fisher, shooting her at close range in the back. Ransom continued the brutal spree by gunning down Mrs. Fisher’s nineteen-year-old daughter, Freda, again with a shot to the back. Still unsatisfied, the killing continued as an innocent housemaid, Charlotte Saunders, had witnessed the scene and attempted to flee. She was pursued by Ransom and either cruelly beaten to death with the butt of the borrowed rifle, or “had her head half blown off”, depending on the report consulted.

Some reports indicated that the murder occurred outside, in the garden or the orchard, whilst others suggested it happened within the cottage itself. Some have questioned how Ransom, an absolutely inexperienced marksman, could have reloaded and easily shot dead three separate targets with such brutal efficiency.

Ransom seemingly fled the scene and her involvement was only discovered when a single white hogskin glove, apparently belonging to the lady, had been found between the bodies of Dorothy and Freda Fisher. Ransom was forced to try on the glove for size during the trial, to which she claimed it did not fit particularly well. During the court case she pleaded her innocence, and claimed when charged:

"I didn't do it, I didn't do it, how could I?"

When charged with the murder of Freda Fisher she said:

"No, No".

She made no reply when charged with the murder of housemaid Charlotte Saunders. A railway porter had made an unsatisfactory identification of Mrs. Ransom leaving Tonbridge Station from which a bus could be taken to Matfield, and a taxi driver thought he saw her taking the London train late in the afternoon. Ransom was found guilty of the murder of Mrs. Dorothy Fisher but did not receive any verdict on the other two victims. She was sentenced to death.

It was reported that the suspect, dressed in a grey hat and costume, face twitching and swaying in the dock, collapsed into the arms of her jailer when the sentence was passed, before screaming of her innocence.  After a failed appeal which left Ransom muttering incoherently and waving her arms in the air, she would eventually be certified insane and had her death sentence waived in favour of committal at Broadmoor Asylum.

After a short drive, we arrived at the scene of this horrific event. The surroundings could not have been more in contrast with its gruesome past. The cottages and buildings now occupying the area, undoubtedly the very same in which the Fisher family had so cruelly met their end, are stunning traditional countryside residences, set amidst spectacular lightly wooded rolling hills and glorious fields of bright greens and yellows, a dream-like paradise. It seemed improper and intrusive to venture too close to the buildings themselves, but in the short wander along the adjoining roads, there was certainly no sense of the horrors which had once haunted this place.

The beautiful little village of Matfield is not a great distance from our home. We had in fact visited the area on several occasions before we became aware of the nightmares that occurred on that fateful July afternoon. It is a delightful picturesque place, with a traditional well maintained grassy green at its centre (the largest village green in Kent) complete with a cricket pitch, duck pond, and a stunning country mansion. You could easily be mistaken in thinking you were on a Hollywood movie set, such is the stereotypical image of quaint English country living.

The village name apparently emerged from the Anglo Saxon, Feld, for farm, and Matta, being understood as the owner of said farmland. Mattafeld, later Matfield remained as a small farmstead following the Norman Conquest, when William the Conqueror gifted the lands to his cousin, Richard FitzGilbert. The farm blossomed into a small village throughout the later medieval period.

During the reign of Queen Elizabeth, a particular farm dwelling was built in the village. This farm was purchased in 1750 and became an inn with a white Kentish weatherboard exterior. During the 19th century, it was given the name the Wheelwright Arms. This ancient Inn remained a public house until fairly recently but unfortunately, now it appears to be permanently shut, having closed its doors to the public in September 2017.

In the spirit of the darker side of this memoir, I should mention that as with any such ancient symbol of hospitality, there is perhaps rather predictably, a resident ghost attached. A former innkeeper's wife, one Mrs. Bertha Faulkner, hung herself at the Inn in 1920. Her spirit is said to have remained within the walls of the ancient Inn, haunting guests and patrons alike throughout the years.

During the Georgian period, arguably the jewel in the crown of Matfield was constructed. Matfield House is a Grade 1 listed manor built by Thomas and Mary Marchant in 1728. The initials of these original creators still adorn the ornamented lead-work around the opulent pile. A Stable Block contemporary with the house has an immense clock turret and cupola rising as high as the building itself. The rear face of the finely ornamented clock is dated 1736 and still retains its original mechanism.

Since we have explored sombre tales of devious murderers and restless haunted spirits, it would be foolish to end our endeavour without mention of the alarming, ever-present terror of Matfield House, the demonic occupation in that place... of a dark wizard.

It is surely the most important, illustrious, and astounding aspect of Matfield history, a horrifying, gut-curdling, cult fashioning figure straight from the depths of despair... or from the planet Walpurgis at any rate. The one of whom I speak is, of course, none other than that most powerful of dark wizards... Mr. Majeika!

His reign of terror over the pupils and community of St Barty’s Primary School (Matfield House to you and I) is legendary. He was no ordinary man, expelled from his home and tortured for his failures, his wrath spilled out into the haven of humanity. Conversing with Warlocks and ghastly pupils, Majeika disguised his true identity to be close to his victims, in his own words...

"People don't believe in wizards nowadays, so naturally they don't often pay them to do some work."

— Mr. Majeika

Or something like that, it has been a while since I watched the wizard in action, I was merely a boy, so perhaps I am a little cloudy on the details...

Unable to visit the famed Wheelwright Arms, we have made good use of the many other endearing public houses in the town. The Poet at Matfield and The Star are both charming traditional country pubs with lovely outdoor areas in which Audrey found the greatest pleasures in exploration and homely interiors with refreshing beers of all varieties. Well worth a visit... just keep your eyes open, for there are dark corners where evil wizards and restless spirits may yet dwell...

Hexham, Hugs and Rock and Roll!

How about a little bit of time travel, a nostalgic glance to adventures past?

It is a strange and scary truth that today, for a trip to witness the historical treasures scattered across our island landscape, you risk jail time or plague. Since the continued pandemic restrictions hold steady, we are yet to venture too far beyond our doorstep (hopefully not for much longer) so here instead is a recollection of an older adventure, when bizarrely, we would come perilously close to both...

This expedition was a particularly dangerous one, traversing frontier lands, tip-toeing across disputed borders steeped in age-old cultural animosities. This was the haunt of raiders and conquerors, of invaders and refugees, of peasants, farmers, merchants and warriors, Queens, priests, soldiers and slaves, prisoners and of course... ghosts. It is a place at the very ends of the known earth, or the very beginning, depending on your point of view, we were spoilt for choice in this unique liminal landscape.

Our expedition arose due to Emily ArchaeoMum being asked to appear on the quirky aquatic television show, River Hunters. Thanks to her underwater exploits, Audrey and I took the opportunity to explore the local historic hot-spots, of which there were many! Little did we realise our investigations would reveal a dark and terrifying past, and require the daring rescue of an imprisoned monk and his brave rodent companion.

We began our ramblings just a short wander from our lovely hotel in the centre of town. Hexham is a delightful little market town in Northumberland. It sits on the south side of the River Tyne and has been an important strategic position in the landscape since at least Roman times. Indeed it lies close to the world famous Hadrian’s Wall, that monumental architectural feat separating the barbarous North folk from the civilised Romans in the South... or maybe the other way round!

The picturesque town itself grew from a Benedictine monastery, founded by Wilfred in 674AD having been granted the land by Queen Etheldreda, making it one of the earliest seats of Christianity in England. The monastery was partially built from reused stone. It was phenomenal to witness material from the Roman ruins of the nearby epic boundary wall and its adjoining forts and Vicus.

We ventured into the ancient Abbey as it stands today. The Anglo Saxon Chronicle records AElfward, King of the Northumbrians being buried here in a Church after being slain by Sicga around the year 788. By the year 875, it is said that Halfdane Ragnarsson (the only child of the famous Ragnor Lodbrok to have been shunned in the Vikings saga by a cruel and ruthless Take 5 Productions) plundered and pillaged much of Tyneside. He burned Hexham monastery to the ground in a vicious raid, yet the religious building continued on after his incursions.

It wouldn’t be the last time Hexham was subjected to a violent onslaught. Scottish raiders regularly attacked the town, burning buildings, destroying shrines and any relics they found. In 1297 that most famous of Scottish superheroes, Mel Gibso... erm William Wallace, AKA Braveheart attacked the town and destroyed what remained of the monastery. Even this could not suppress the establishment, and its continuation illustrates the resilience and importance of the place. It is a building of singular beauty today.

Carefully navigating the spiritual sanctuary, Audrey and I explored some of the treasures hidden within its walls. The relics of a truly historic past were on display, not just glittering gold and precious stones in pristine cases, but also adorning the walls, carved into the furniture and even forged into the building itself. The reuse of ancient inscribed stone gave the Abbey an ancestral character, like a tattooed Druid contemplating a newly imposed religion. One particular block went for many years unnoticed as a floor slab, until it was discovered to be the face-down headstone of a Roman soldier, incredible reuse of elaborate masonry.  The original Saxon crypt still exists, rediscovered during 18th-century building works, and here, in the dwindling amber glow, Audrey and I peered upon the poor unfortunate who had been incarcerated in this place for so long. Audrey decided we had to rescue this desperate spiritual soul.

With the grateful monk securely under Audrey’s protection, we made a daring escape from the Abbey. Guards were positioned at the doors and the courtyard was occupied by soldiers and religious leaders going about their business. It was far from easy but we expertly slipped out and made our way through the town, disguising ourselves amongst the locals. Most seemed genuinely unaware of the plight of the prisoner. It was unlikely he was alone in his captivity, but we only had the time to rescue one imprisoned monk on this occasion.

Yet having freed him from the clutches of evil, he begged of us a further favour. A companion of his had also been detained and placed in The Old Gaol. If we could rescue his furry friend, he assured us it would be a sign of freedom and justice and a blow to the oppressing forces at work. We could not ignore his plight.

The Old Gaol gives a unique portrait of Hexham’s troublesome past. It is said to be the oldest Gaol in all of England, built by the order of the Archbishop of York in the year 1330. Prisoners would be placed in chains or even in the stocks and thrown mercilessly into the dungeons of this imposing building, where they would suffer awfully in the darkness amongst the vile monsters that dwelled there... not the fleas or the lice, but the inmates, and worse, the wardens!

Prisoners were charged extortionate prices for their very incarceration and could even end up paying corrupt officials for preferential treatment. With a lack of hygiene, poor conditions and only a little care for the residents, lice spread, quickly spreading infection and serious discomfort. It would of course lead to the spread of plague, a frequent and ruthless horror throughout the history of the Gaol.

There is a curious relic housed in the Gaol, the skull of Colonel Sir John Fenwick. It is said that Fenwick fought in the Royalist army during the Civil War but was hit from behind in the head by an axe during the battle of Marston Moor in 1644, meeting a brutal end. The helmet is rumoured to have once belonged to the Duke of Somerset, who was killed during the Wars of the Roses. Fenwick is said to have removed the helmet from the burial place of the Duke in Hexham Abbey... didn’t do him too much good in the end though. Folklore has it Fenwick’s skull has a favoured room in the Gaol. Whenever it is moved from its preferred position, the skull mysteriously finds its way back, though no one quite knows how it makes the journey!

Audrey and I carefully descended the prison confines, from its comparatively luxurious rooms at the top to the dark and gloomy dungeons deep below the earth. It retains a sinister and sombre atmosphere throughout. If our new friend had a companion in this place, we had to help. At last, we found the poor captive, held against her will in the confines of these depressing prison walls. It was with difficulty that we were able to sneak Bumble (the furry rodent friend of our monk) out of that place. The dangers still torture my thoughts, had we been caught, perhaps we would all be locked up, rotting away in that damp, dark, devastating dungeon still.

With our daring escape completed, and our new companions desperate to enjoy the delights of freedom, fresh air and wide-open space, we loaded our vehicle and set out on a final adventure to see where it all began for urban settlement in this region.

Corbridge Roman town is situated just three miles from Hexham and was a bustling supply town on the Roman frontier from the late first century right through to the fifth. We walked amongst the ancient foundations, the stone footprints of a world long gone by. We wandered along streets two thousand years old and still scarred upon the landscape. It was an awe-inspiring experience, imagining the multitude of feet that we were following. Audrey gave her companions a grand tour and basking in their newfound freedom, the smiles were plentiful.

We perused the treasures of Corbridge, a hoard of weaponry, tools, writing tablets, armour, textiles and papyrus. There were everyday luxuries and essentials, a priceless glimpse into the lives of the ancient inhabitants, so much buried in the landscape for so long.

Finally it was time for our journey to end. It had been a whirlwind of action, adventure and exploration. Exhausted but elated we made our way back to the hotel and awaited Emily’s return. The TV crew and celebrity hosts trundled in for a delightful dinner, good music and a few well-deserved beers (milk for Audrey) before we called it a night.

The Beeb, the Underwater Archaeologist, the Archaeodad, the Monk and the Rat, we all slept as soundly as I think it is possible that night.

It was as perfect an adventure as I can remember.

The month of love... (and pancakes, haircuts, football, cakes and snow ducks!)

February is of course, the month of love. Hearts, flowers and cute teddy bears are to be found in all quarters. During a normal year, every restaurant would likely have been full to bursting with cosy tables for two, flowing red wine and sweet music filling the air... and of course, St Valentine, or perhaps Cupid, floating around, firing an arsenal of love into the unsuspecting masses.

Of course, not everybody enjoys the romantic undertones of February quite as frivolously as others. Romance is not equally distributed, some long for it but may never find it, whilst others are more than happy without it. Some have differing ideas of what love entails and all have a unique and individual taste that cannot always be easily explained.

The word may be a human invention, but the sentiment is a universal experience, an emotion that embraces us all at some point in our lives, in one way or another.

So in our little Archaeofam, we like to make the most of a day to celebrate love. It seems silly, because in truth, we celebrate our love for each other every day, in a million different ways, some visible, some not so much but always genuinely and completely. Still, the chance to fill the house full of novelty hearts and flowers is something we quite enjoy, particularly Audrey, who has a mild obsession with drawing hearts and placing heart shaped stickers on everything... EVERYTHING!

St Valentine is thought to have been a Roman priest and physician during the 3rd century. He would become the Patron Saint of lovers, epileptics and beekeepers... obviously! It is unclear whether the life of Valentine is based upon one or multiple characters but according to legend, Valentine defied an Emperor and married couples so that the husbands would not be made to go to war.

Valentine was martyred during the persecution of Christians by the Emperor Claudius II Gothicus on February 14th sometime around the year 270. Claudius the Cruel believed that the comfort of family life was restraining Roman men from becoming soldiers in his army. He therefore banned all marriages in Rome. Valentine resented the cruel Emperor and behind his back, continued to marry young lovers, but his deeds were discovered, and he was sentenced to death.

Another account of Valentinus saw him imprisoned for preaching the gospel and spreading the word of Jesus. He attempted to convince the Emperor Claudius to embrace Christianity, but failed to do so and was sentenced to death.

Whilst imprisoned, Valentine sent a farewell letter to his jailer’s (or judge’s in some accounts) daughter. He had healed the girl from blindness and befriended her. He signed the letter, from your Valentine, a symbol that remains in universal use today.

Having been sentenced to death, Valentine was beaten by clubs and then had his head cut off. Not quite as romantic huh?!

There is a suggestion that the feast day of St Valentine, February 14th, gained its connection to romance thanks to a link with the pagan festival of Lupercalia. This festival saw young women’s names placed into a box and drawn out by hopeful men, a little bit like the car keys in the fruit bowl of modern swinger’s parties... apparently. In 496 AD, Pope Gelasius dedicated the day to St Valentine and banned the celebration of Lupercalia. From here its popularity as a day of love grew into our modern exchange of romantic gestures and gifts.

Cupid has a deeper classical mythology as the god of desire, erotic love, attraction and affection. He is believed to have been the son of the love goddess, Venus, and the God of War, Mars. Cupid, from Cupio (to desire) is often visualised as a chubby baby, complete with wings and a bow to fire his arrows of love, infecting whomsoever should be struck with instant desire and passion. In early representations of Cupid, he does not appear so young, nor so plump. Cupid is seen as a slender attractive youth, but the other attributes remain. The wings of Cupid are said to represent the fickle flightiness of love, his youth relates to the irrationality of the emotion and his arrows indicate the wounds of the heart. Once you are struck of course, the lure of love is an uncontrollable tsunami, so you had better be sure to be looking towards your heart’s desire...

In our locked down world, we accepted a quiet but cosy celebration this year, with a mildly extravagant dinner and just above affordable champagne, sparkling grape juice for Audrey and some tasty water and treats for Bramble. The unique aspect of the experience this year was that I took over the kitchen! Usually, as Emily Archaeomum is by far the more accomplished chef of the family and finds a bizarre pleasure in creating incredible meals, I am more than happy to accept permanent dish washing duty. However, since it was a special occasion, I took the reins.

I attempted a spice-crusted tofu with kumquat radish salad. It was a Japanese inspired vegan salad I found online, and I must admit, I didn’t manage to find all the ingredients, so some may have been substituted... but overall it came out pretty nicely, I think! Of course, it took me about three hours longer than the guide suggested, I think if I were to be in charge of more meals, we would most likely starve!

I also made vegan steak and chips for a main meal, and everything was eaten, which must be a good sign, right? We lounged about afterwards, enjoying a glass of bubbly and some sweet family snuggles before bed.

The rest of our February has been occupied by a heavy work schedule. I myself have been immersed in the pre-Roman Iron Age of the south-east, and Emily has been focusing on Victorian England! Audrey Archaeobeeb has taken a shine to astronomy and space exploration, whilst Bramble Archaeopup is mostly content with long walks in the countryside and her basket of chewable treasures.

So, to all the lovers, and all the dreamers in the house, this one is for you. Happy belated Valentines. We wish you all the love in the world as you traverse 2021. Soon we will be able to embrace once more, to meet loved ones and hopefully enjoy the expanse of a relatively Covid-free country.

Until then, from isolated safety, we send you all our love,

From your Valentine x

Nae man can tether time or tide

Time, it is fleeting, and it is flying by. The first restrictions and closures due to Covid19 began almost a year ago. It may have been a difficult, terrifying and isolated year, but boy does it seem to have flown by when I look back. So whilst we remain housebound, our Archaeofam have tried to make the most of every opportunity to have some fun, and for us, no celebration is more glorious, than January 25th

It is not all that often we get a chance to relish in our Scottish roots. Despite being born in Perth and spending my earliest years in the quaint historic village of Abernethy, I have since lived in England for almost all of my life and sadly I have few memories of my formative Scottish infancy.

I often argue that as a minority Scotland fan, isolated in competitive schools packed full of rival England supporters, I have earned a Scottish national hero status following years of jibes, ridicule and abuse. Yet throughout the decades of sporting heartache and struggle, I stood firm and still wear the dark blue of my home nation with pride!

Even as an American, Emily Archaeomum has probably spent more time in Scotland than I have. Moving from the States to Edinburgh to study archaeology, Emily enjoyed almost a decade in the spectacular Scottish capital, travelling extensively during that time and enjoying many of the scenic delights and stunning wonders Scotland is so rightfully famous for.

In the future, we hope to make a permanent return north of the border, to embrace the near fairytale nation and be closer to family and friends there, but for now, at least once a year we get to bask in the delights of all things Caledonian as we celebrate the spectacular genius of that globally admired Scottish bard, Robert Burns.

January 25th is Burns night, a chance to recite the unmistakeable lyrics of the Ploughman Poet, to eat (vegetarian in our case) Haggis, neeps and tatties, and enjoy a wee dram or five of our favourite Scotch whisky (Laphroaig is still king in this household). It is a tradition we have maintained throughout our romance, and now one that Audrey is entirely delighting in also! (Not the whisky drinking of course) Even Bramble loves the chance for a little Haggis in her dinner and I’m sure she enjoys the poetry, however poorly the accents may be attempted!

The life and works of Robert Burns are both fascinating and spellbinding, and deserve far more space than I can offer it here or even profess to understand. Indeed he is regarded of such national importance that Glasgow University have an entire centre dedicated to detailed study of the man. I will therefore only attempt a brief life history here and follow up, as I feel is more fitting, with a wonderful piece of his work that I admire, and that I badly recited to my horrified and embarrassed family before the centrepiece vegetarian haggis was enjoyably consumed!

Rabbie Burns was born on the 25th of January 1759 in Ayrshire, the eldest of seven children. Burns was mostly homeschooled and assisted in farm labour whilst growing up in and around the village of Alloway. His rise from relative poverty and hardship seems to have only inspired his art, and as Burns moved around Scotland and experienced love, lust and a range of employments, his poetry blossomed. Eventually, he settled in Dumfries with his long time love, wife and muse Jean Armour. He rests there still, in a grand mausoleum built posthumously for the famous bard, his original gravestone deemed unworthy of the great man by the romantic generation of artists he inspired.

Here is a melancholy little piece of his that literally oozes dark and atmospheric charisma and delight…

To the Owl

Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,

To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?

Is it some blast that gathers in the north,

Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower?

Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade,

And leaves thee here, unshelter’d and forlorn?

Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?

Or friendless Melancholy bids thee mourn?

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather’d train,

To tell thy sorrows to th’ unheeding gloom;

No friend to pity when thou dost complain,

Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.

Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,

And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song:

Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain,

While the long echo wafts thy notes along.

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek

Sad, piteous tears, in native sorrows fall?

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?

Less happy he who lists to Pity’s call?

Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,

That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there;

That Spring’s gay notes, unskill’d, thou canst repeat;

That Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.

Nor that the treble songsters of the day

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night! from thee;

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,

When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.

From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,

While the grey walls, and desert solitudes,

Return each note, responsive to the gloom

Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods;

There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee

Than ever lover to the nightingale;

Or drooping wretch, opress’d with misery,

Lending his ear to some condoling tale.

Whilst this post is a little late, we hope you all had a happy Burns night, wherever you happened to be. We also hope that you were able to enjoy a whisky or two and some good food with great company. I wholeheartedly recommend browsing some of Robert Burns’s incredible works if you have not already done so.

We are fiercely proud of our Scottish heritage and we embrace its history with utter delight, even if we sometimes leap into various stereotypes with an over-eager abandon.

How swiftly have we reached the end of this wintry January? Time is accelerating at a frightening pace these days and we have barely had a chance to reflect before the next adventures are upon us. Even in a world of lockdown, we try to enjoy every moment we can with loved ones, near and far. Reach out, connect, and drink in every moment, if you blink, you may miss it all. As the great bard said himself;

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

So from our Archaeofam to yours,

Slàinte Mhath

Happy New YYYEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! (or the relief of a planet)

Well...

That was a bit weird wasn’t it?

2020, who could have predicted that? I mean, aside from medical professionals and scientists of course, who might have mentioned once or twice the dangers humanity faced from rapid spreading pandemics and the grossly underfunded health service that would struggle to cope with such catastrophic events...

But we won’t mention that.

This has been a difficult, lonely, isolated and heartbreaking year for many. It has required new ways of living, working, socialising, coping and surviving on an unprecedented scale. The whole world was affected. Some have struggled far more than others, but all have had to adapt.

Today, I sit at my computer, fatigued from a full year of relentless tragedy, soul destroying news and doom and gloom projected through media and social outlets. It is hard to wake every day and be bombarded with death tolls, disasters, poor management of difficult situations, economic collapse and more. It is worse for those directly affected by the traumas of 2020, but let’s face it, there are few people left who have not come into direct contact with one of the many nightmares this surreal year has brought with it.

So today we say goodbye to this crazy year that will certainly never be forgotten and we move on to the next, 2021!

The earliest evidence of New Year’s celebrations seems to come from Mesopotamia around 2000 BC. The celebrations took place in March when the first full moon following the Vernal Equinox symbolised the beginning of a new year and was celebrated with days of festivities.

In Egypt the year began with the flooding of the Nile and the rising of the star Sirius. The second new moon after the Winter Solstice marked the New Year in the Chinese calendar. March had been widely accepted as the first month of the year, but as calendars and agricultural importance improved, dates for the New Year altered.

January and February were apparently added to the calendar by Numa Pompilius, the second king of Rome, in the 8th century BC and in 46BC Julius Caesar consulted with astronomers and mathematicians to align the whole system in a structured workable timeline for the year.

The god Janus, whose name is honoured by the month of January, is the god of new beginnings. Janus had two faces, allowing him to look back to the past and forwards to the future. Caesar initiated January 1st as the start of a new year and the Roman public would celebrate with sacrifices and wild parties. The goalposts have shifted now and again since then, but as it stands, January 1st remains the beginning of a new year for many of us, particularly here in Europe... and we still sacrifice our vices and have wild parties... well comfortable parties maybe in our case.

As someone born in the 1970’s (just), 2021 seemed like a Sci-Fi future that would see flying cars and mixed communities from outer space mingling on Stations in galaxies far, far away. We’re not quite there yet I guess, but I have seen some crazy dancing robots that would have been pure fantasy in my childhood!

This year has been a difficult one, but I do not want to dwell on the bad times. I thought to use this opportunity to highlight some positives from our 2020 in the hope it might lift a tiny part of the veil of unhappiness and cheer the spirit. It may not be a lot, but if I can help end the year with even the hint of a smile, then I will consider it a win. And if we go into the next year smiling, then anything can happen!

A few unexpected side effects of a mass pandemic...

This year, our little family were gifted with the one thing we have been begging for since at least when Audrey was born. Time to spend together!

For years, we have been busy. Busy with work, busy with commutes and busy with meetings, busy with fixing things and moving and when we do get to spend time at home we find ourselves busy cooking and cleaning and tidying things. We have been busy with writing and illustration and music projects, making videos and lesson plans or homework. Now, don’t get me wrong, many of these things can be enjoyable, and who doesn’t like a tidy house? But when you are busy with so many things, other things get neglected. The simple things that you take for granted.

This year as the world ground to a halt, our eyes were opened, and we realised just how much we had missed. How much more rewarding it was to go for long walks outdoors as a family, to have movie nights and to read at bedtime, to play games and enjoy each other’s company without the panic of impending commitments and deadlines. We made time in the past for such things, but it always felt limited to a set time or space. This year we were a family without so many constraints, and it was glorious.

We also got to know our neighbours! It sounds silly, but we didn’t really talk to very many of the people on our street or in our community, there just wasn’t time. Everyone was pleasant enough. They said hello when we passed them in the street, but it was just good manners, never any real connection. Then everyone had to stay at home, everyone became visible, approachable, friendly. Conversations began, the applauding of our medical professionals brought everybody out together, and then the pleasant hello’s became how are you’s, and so it grew. The community glowed from new found friendships. We are now closer than ever and it is a wonderful feeling, particularly for our three year old tornado of a child who loves her neighbourhood!

I have done more exercise this year than almost any other time I can remember. I must have been in my teens the last time I ran so much. A combination of being able to claim back the hours usually stuck on a bus or a train, or otherwise engaged in some taxing pursuit, and the allowance of time outdoors strictly for exercise purpose during the various lockdowns, led to a desire to retain a level of health and fitness that I hadn’t considered possible in recent years. I feel great for it. I don’t miss the sluggish foggy feeling of years gone by. My mind and body are feeling kind of good. It is perhaps a shame I left it until I was an old man, had I started earlier, I might have been competing for a place in the Olympics.... or maybe not.

Finally, we have had a number of small successes this year of which we are very proud. Emily Archaeomum followed her passions and acquired an amazing role teaching history, whilst also continuing her own education with a PGCE. I was delighted to be awarded a full scholarship to study a PhD in Archaeology, a long time dream of mine. We have both been heavily involved in various creative pursuits including novel writing, illustrated children’s books, music projects and TV work.

Audrey is growing up remarkably fast, her current passions lay somewhere between being an astronaut, a veterinarian, a fairy princess, a chef and a scientist. Her counting is coming along, her writing seems incredible for a three year old, she is a swimming sensation and her sense of humour utterly kills me. I have never laughed so much at anyone’s deliberate comical moments as I do Audrey’s, she is hilarious.

As for Bramble, she is in dream world! For a year, the whole family has been together at home almost all of the time. It is a golden age for the puppies of the world. Family walks are now far more frequent, she has a whole repertoire of new tricks under her belt, and she was spoilt at Christmas so has an overflowing basket of new toys to play with.

We have tried to help and support people as much as possible during this difficult year. Emily Archaeomum signed up to the volunteer NHS support army, as well as offering her medical expertise in other areas. We have offered help and support to people in our network and try to keep an eye on the community for any who might be struggling. We are always here to help if we can, to anyone who needs to reach out.

It hasn’t been an easy year for anyone, but we feel incredibly fortunate that we have been able to spend this time together. We realise many have not been so lucky and our hearts go out to those who have struggled. Reach out, talk to friends and family as much as you can, and with a little bit of luck and a lot of science, the world will return to something a little more familiar in 2021. Tonight will undoubtedly be less frivolous than years gone by, no crowds along the Thames for epic fireworks displays, but the clock will tick past midnight and a new year will be born. We will be looking forward to a brighter year, but also continuing some of our new found family pleasures into the next. Here is to new beginnings and bright horizons.

For the final time this year,

from our Archaeofam to yours,

Happy New Year Everyone xx

Seasons Greetings from the Top of the Tiers!

I had an idea to offer something a little bit festive for this strangely isolated end of 2020. We had, like many, hoped to see family over Christmas, but alas the continued restrictions mean we are in Tier 78 or something and will be spending this Christmas just the four of us.

It got me to thinking about the Xmas holiday in its modern guise, and what it means to our little family. It also got me thinking about the many histories behind our current ceremonious displays and colourful traditions at this time of the year.

Now, I admit to being an absolute Christmas nut! I love the festive period, I get completely carried away in it. It is the contemporary character of the holiday that really brings me cheer. I love the incredible lights and decorative displays across the globe, I adore the utterly ridiculous movies and music that accompany the final manic month of the year and I have a Christmas jumper collection that could be the envy of anyone.

In years gone by, I have always found this time of the year to be filled with happiness and warm feelings. Families and friends make that extra bit of effort to reconnect, to meet and enjoy the winter evenings and weekends in cosy pubs and cafes, travelling long distances to see loved ones, the mass exchange of thoughtful gifts, consumption of spectacular food and drink combinations, good company and a surreal sense of celebration which has evolved from a complex history of fascinating spiritual events, far too intricate to unpick in any family blog offering.

As the chilly darkness of the year reaches its dramatic climax and finally retracts, bringing with it the hope of warmth and wonders to come, our little family finds itself wide eyed and excited about the imminent approach of that most famous of festive figures....

Santa Claus

Santa has gone by many names over the centuries, St Nicholas, Kris Kringle, Sinter Klaas and many more. These are merely the multitudinous segments of our jolly modern hero. We know him as a large, rosy faced, joyous old gentleman with a fluffy white beard and stylish red suit who once a year, delivers gifts to the good children all across the planet on Christmas Eve. The North Pole is both his home and the location of his workshop, where every year, he is assisted in the creation of fabulous toys by a relentlessly hardworking Elfish labour pool. He flies a fantastic sleigh through the midnight skies; fearlessly led by his nine trusty reindeer... can you name them all?

This is the magical character development as it currently stands. If history tells us anything, it is that his evolution is not yet complete. Santa Claus will undoubtedly continue to shift to meet the desires of contemporary audiences worldwide.

So where did it all begin? Well, as you can probably imagine, the threads of historical understanding regarding this phenomenal figure are varied, wide spread and rather difficult to explore without an occasional stretch of the imagination.

Our story seems to begin in the 3rd – 4th century AD, when a Christian monk in modern day Turkey performed a number of fantastic feats which inspired his veneration. Folk tales about St Nicholas of Myra include him giving away all of his wealth to help the poor and destitute and achieving such accolades as halting a violent storm to save stranded sailors, giving money to a father so he would not have to sell his daughters into a life of prostitution, and even the resurrection three brothers who were dismembered by a cruel butcher.

Stories of St Nicholas and his gift giving spread across Europe and his image was taken on by many as an inspirational figure. He became the patron saint of several subjects including sailors, archers and wolves, but most importantly... children.

In the Dutch language, St Nicholas became Sinterklaas. His legend grew to include all manner of fantastic folklore and festive magic. Separate figures emerged across the globe. In England, during the Tudor period, people celebrated the spirit of Father Christmas, focusing on a celebration of the 25th December rather than St Nicholas name day of December 6th. This early Character of Father Christmas was a huge jolly man in scarlet robes with a white beard, contrary to various internet rumours which would have us believe Coca Cola the inventors of our modern vision of Santa! The French Father Christmas was known by the name of Père Noël, who went house to house on his Christmas donkey filling the shoes of good boys and girls with gifts on Christmas Eve.

A happy old elf called Jultomten apparently delivered gifts to the little children of Scandanavia, in a fabulous goat drawn sleigh! Well behaved Swiss and German children were said to be visited at Christmas by Christkind or Kris Kringle, a wondrous angel who often accompanied old St Nicholas. Amongst the ancient northern pagan populations, Santa Claus is sometimes closely associated with Odin, whose white beard, hooded cloak and adventures soaring through the midnight skies on the Yuletide wild hunt, all the time giving gifts to the worthy, can all be closely compared to our modern icon.

As the years went by, countless reimagining’s would eventually conflate the various images into a universal figure of the Christmas Spirit, our modern Santa Claus, a common hero for boys and girls everywhere.

Then of course, there is a darker side to the Christmas legends, the anti-Santa if you will. In many countries around the world, Santa may visit the good girls and boys. However, if there happen to be any naughty children out there, they can expect a visit from an altogether more sinister figure... The Krampus!

The Krampus is a half man half goat figure who probably emerged from pagan traditions. His name and image seem to have evolved within Austrian Alpine folklore. He is one of a number of Christmas villains to have been created from the traditional fears of winter and darkness. Whilst Santa travels the globe rewarding all the good little girls and boys, the Krampus would seek out those naughtier children, and drag them to hell!

So, whatever you do girls and boys... be sure to be good...

Since Emily Archaeomum and I met, we have spent Christmas day in no less than four different cities, as well as visiting family homes for additional Christmas adventures. Throughout, we have managed to keep several personal traditions alive including the wearing of penguin pyjamas, having the same Xmas tree, stockings and Santa sack, and some absolute mammoth marathon movie sessions! (this year we are approaching around thirty Christmas movies viewed, I think our record may have been somewhere in the seventies... back when we had less distractions!)

This year is a wondrous one for us. It is the first Christmas that Audrey has really gotten excited about. She is eagerly awaiting, in her own words, Santa coming on Christmas Day and giving all of my toys back!...

Well, she almost gets it

As we reach the final furlong, with gifts wrapped and stockings filled, advent calendars looking bare and batteries replaced in all the fairy lights, I am pleased to say that despite a difficult year in many respects, we are fortunate to be able to spend it together.

More than this, thanks to the many marvels of Science and Technology, and despite the horrors of a pandemic stricken planet, we find ourselves amongst the most fortunate as we will still have the power and ability to connect remotely with those we love on Christmas day.

Our little Archaeofam could not be more thankful for this. Whilst it will be a very different Christmas to any we have ever experienced before, we will try to make the very best of it. We feel incredibly grateful for such modern marvels and worldly wonders.

So from our Archaeofam to yours, with our greatest festive spirit slightly bruised, but not altogether battered, it only remains for us to wish you all a very Happy Christmas, Happy Holidays or just a wonderful weekend. We hope to see you all in a future adventure, during a brand new year.

Oh, and if you were struggling...

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and of course, Rudolph!

Tonbridge... A Tale of Two Castles

All lockdown and no adventure makes Archaeofam awfully sad

All Lockdown and no Adventure makes Archaeofam aWfully sad

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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!

Arthur... World Away

On a beautiful bright summer’s day, whilst Emily Archaeomum was hard at work, Audrey and I kidnapped the grandparents and made off on a brief but mystical adventure to the very heartlands of British folklore and mythology.

We were hot on the trail of that most iconic hero, the unrelenting pillar of importance in these ancient and magical lands, none other than the legendary King Arthur.

Arthur is the mythical British king of relentless legend. He is said to have pulled the sword from the stone, befriended ladies in lakes and ruled over all England with his round table of fearless and slightly adulterous Knights. Arthur was advised by a powerful wizard buddy and embarked upon all manner of quests and trials in the name of God, country, chivalry and honour!

There has been much speculation on the origins of the legend of King Arthur, and fierce historical debate as to whether any such King existed at all. The most popular opinion appears to be that Arthur is an idealistic amalgamation of a number of poignant protagonists of the islands rich history. Popularised by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his History of the Kings of Great Britain, Arthur took a central role in the vision of what a great King of England should be.

Tintagel famously appears in Geoffrey’s incredible tales of Arthur. Legend has it that whilst Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, was at war, he left his wife, Igraine, in the oppidum of Tintagel. The wizard Merlin disguised Uther Pendragon as Gorlois who entered Tintagel and impregnated Igraine. The child she was then said to have conceived was Arthur.

It was here at Tintagel, that we would make our brief pilgrimage, fearlessly following the trail of our infamous hero king.

The scenic drive to Tintagel is incredibly enjoyable, especially during the summer months, though some of the roads in this corner of the island are more than a little hair-raising, narrow winding snake-like stems of concrete flanked by high blinding hedgerows and occasional forested tunnels which twist this way and that through the continuing countryside. Towns and villages appear from nowhere and are gone again just as quickly as they arrived, rustic spectres in a mystic landscape.

We arrived into Tintagel, a kind of bizarre circus-like dream town bustling with tourists and traders. Every shop, bar and cafe is geared towards the legend of Arthur. Imagine if Disneyland bought a quaint English fishing village and shipped in its plastic brand en-masse. Parking wasn’t easy to secure and even trickier to navigate once through the gate, a veritable Battle Royale of vying visitors.

Once parked up, we were able to make our way towards the gem of this incredible outcrop, the cliff edge fortifications that convinced generations of scholars and fantasists that this might be the conception place of the legendary King Arthur. Tintagel is run and maintained by English Heritage. There is a charge to enter for non-members. The fee’s go towards the undoubtedly astonishing costs related to keeping such an important historical landmark safe and sustainable. A worthy cause indeed to keep this spectacular site soaring.

A shuttle bus service was available to ship visitors up and down the long road to the ruins. We decided, however, that as the weather was wonderful and the queues were dreadful, we would walk. This was a good decision, it wasn’t too far and even with Audrey taking full advantage of the daddy packhorse commute, it wasn’t too much of a strain.

Tintagel has a deep and rich history of human activity. An assemblage of Romano British artefacts has been unearthed in the area of the Castle, hinting at the occupation of the peninsula during this period. There could have been a settlement of the British tribe, the Dumnonii, possibly mining and trading tin, which made the area such an important source of wealth and resources.

A later high-status settlement was uncovered on the site, dating to between the 5th and 8th centuries, smack bang in the postulated era of Arthur! Originally hypothesised as the site of a monastery, more recent interpretations have suggested that this was a royal residence. The site was defended by a ditch and the natural barriers of the sea and cliff sides. Evidence from this period included a substantial quantity of imported pottery, suggesting a significant amount of trading activity.

The most fascinating and intriguing archaeological discoveries also came from this period. In 1998, a slate stone, known as the Artognou Stone, was discovered during excavations. The 5th–6thc stone was inscribed in Latin, illustrating the regional use of this language even after the collapse of the Roman Empire. It gained notoriety due to the inscribed name Artognou, argued as a variant of Arthur. Just as incredibly, during 2017 investigations, archaeologists discovered a 7th-century slate window ledge inscribed with a mixture of Latin, Greek and Celtic language and names, indicating a highly connected and literate society on this incredible promontory. A copy of the Artognou Stone, along with a wealth of artefacts uncovered at Tintagel, is on display in the castle museum.

It was later, in the 13th century that the main fortifications and battlements were built by Richard, 3rd Earl of Cornwall. This castle was built after Geoffrey of Monmouth’s fantastic works, which claimed Tintagel to be the conception place of Arthur. Richard, it seems, was keen to keep the connections alive and illuminate his residence as the famous seat of Cornish Kings. It was built in an ancient style and the Arthurian legends were suitably reflected.

Our adventure to Tintagel occurred prior to the creation of an impressive new bridge leading to the castle ruins. Our own experience involved the narrow, slightly death-defying trek up a tiny stairway hugging the cliff edge, terrifying... especially with a toddler on your back! A good exercise to get your heart pumping though and a real sense of grandeur as you look upwards towards the imposing ruins above.

Whilst the experience was one shared in close proximity to a horde of tourists and travellers, Tintagel Castle is definitely worth the visit. I can’t imagine there is ever a quiet moment in this historical corner of the globe so steeped in legend and fantasy. Gallos, the now-famous statue of Arthur, was constantly surrounded by amateur photographers jostling to get the money shot holiday snap. Whichever way you attempt it, you are probably destined to have a strangers family immortalised in your perfect picture! Yet despite the anthill experience of it all, to see the castle ruins, the earlier archaeological traces and most impressively, the spectacular coastal splendour and stunning sea views, was well worth the effort.

We had considered finding a little pub in Tintagel town for a beer and some food, but similar to the castle, the town was swamped in Arthurian revellers. We made our way back to the car and drove through the stunning Cornish countryside again until we found a quieter spot to sit, reflect on our quest, and enjoy some cool refreshing summer lager, wine and juice.

We may not have uncovered the Holy Grail, but we had scaled a fortress and witnessed the wonders of Albion from perhaps its most iconic and ancient point. I’m sure, as Audrey’s first Cornish Castle assault... Arthur would have been most impressed.

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...

The Battle of... Battle? Nearish Hastings!

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

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

The Battle of Hastings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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