Reliving the past – family adventures through time. Part 1 – Butser Ancient Farm

We had heard of Butser Ancient Farm on countless occasions. It is frequently mentioned by a multitude of high-profile historians and archaeologists, it has turned up in countless TV shows and movie scenes, and most importantly, it is perhaps the beating heart of experimental archaeology in Britain.

We were well past due a visit since we now reside on the same side of the island and our interests are all covered by its amazing exhibits, so on a slightly rainy August morning, we jumped in the car and made the one and a half hour journey towards the south coast to experience some fascinating recreations.

For anyone unfamiliar with Butser Ancient Farm, it is a not-for-profit, education, and research centre based in the South Downs National Park where ancient theories and technologies are tested and an array of spectacular experimental buildings represent British architecture through the ages.

Butser Ancient Farm began in 1970 when the Council for British Archaeology hoped to establish a working ‘ancient farm’ where archaeologists could experiment to test theories on how people lived in Iron Age times. Work started on Little Butser in 1972, with the first public Open Day in 1974. The project was run by Dr. Peter J Reynolds, a pioneer in the field of experimental archaeology. The site soon moved and expanded, first to the nearby Valley of Hillhampton Down in 1976, and then to its current location at Bascomb Copse in 1991.

We arrived early in the morning as rain clouds peppered the sky. Deep greys and lagoon blues intertwined above us, an awe-inspiring backdrop to the ancient landscape occupying the emerald green valley. Wisps of smoke rose gently from the earthy buildings scattered across the site as we entered the pleasant gates and were greeted by smiling guides and cheerful staff.

Audrey’s attention was immediately captured by the central pen and its goat population. She was desperate to see and feed the lively residents. We bought a very reasonably priced bag of goat food and entertained the historically accurate goat family who were clearly loving life!

After conversing with furry friends, we made our way around the circuit of Butser Ancient Farm. It is conveniently set out so that you can circumnavigate the features in chronological order, starting in the Mesolithic with some temporary shelters and then on to a large Neolithic house based upon one excavated at the Kingsmead Quarry, Horton, Berkshire. The excavated site was on a floodplain where the River Thames would have had many more tributaries when the house was originally constructed. A reed thatch roof stretched all the way to the floor, so that the roof rafters were ground-fast, providing additional strength.

We sat by an open hearth, with the warmth of the fire proving more than adequate shelter from the autumn chill. The buildings here are completed with accurate tools, accessories, and furnishings. It was fascinating to imagine such a grand structure existing in the Neolithic floodplains of Britain.

We next moved into the Iron Age (the recently constructed Bronze Age roundhouse, built by volunteers and staff for Operation Nightingale had yet to be started). This is probably the most immersive and extensive area of the farm. A fenced enclosure with an additional bank and ditch surrounds six roundhouses and a number of further features including a granary, chicken house, storage pits, herb garden, bread oven, and even a conjectured Iron Age toilet!

The roundhouses were based upon a number of examples that have been excavated around the country including Little Woodbury, Danebury Hillfort, and Glastonbury Lake Village. Each is again furnished with the possessions and technologies of its age, and warmed by an open fire, the smoke seeping through thatch above, containing the warmth whilst also ensuring bugs and unwelcome creatures are kept clear of the organic building materials.

As we explored, we were suddenly surrounded by residents from millennia gone by. Iron Age warriors and workers were going about their business, weaving, cooking, checking tools and weapons, and keeping out intruders, which we were quick to announce we were not!

Having narrowly escaped suspicion, we left the enclosure and wandered into the Romano British age. Here we first found a number of locals feeding the impossibly cute lambs. Most of the animals in the farm are rare-breed animals including Manx Loaghtan Sheep, English Goats, and Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, illustrating different varieties of livestock from prehistory, and as such tend to be miniature versions of what we would recognise today, which of course only makes them appear all the cuter.

After Audrey had spent a few moments watching the lambs, but more time trying to leap over a series of log stumps which made for a far more interesting playground, we entered into a stunning white-walled Villa complex based on excavations from Sparsholt near Winchester, complete with painted plaster walls and mosaic floors. Smart furnishings and a luxurious new way of living were immediately apparent. A guide introduced us to the emerging currency of coinage, with a dazzling display of Roman wealth (whilst coins existed in Iron Age Britain, their precise utility is arguable). It was slightly whistle-stop whilst inside the villa, due to the difficulties of maintaining safe social distance from other visitors, but we saw enough to indicate a very different way of life.

We continued our adventure into the Anglo Saxon period, where some of the glamour of Romano Britain fell away, but the homely warmth of earlier periods returned in buildings based upon excavations from the nearby village of Chalton. The structures perhaps showed more solid construction than some earlier eras, but generally had an organic feel.

By this time, Audrey was beginning to tire, all this time travel really takes its toll, so it was time to hit the cafe and fuel up on tea and cakes as we gazed over the whole site and its spectacular constructions.

The farm hosts regular events, from storytelling to Celtic Festivals, concerts, and re-enactments. It is a glorious experience and an important educational tool for those with early interests in ancient lives and for professionals and scholars of British prehistory and early historical periods.

Audrey rounded off her day with a quill pen from the gift shop and we set off again, but not immediately for home, as we were aware of a number of nearby areas of interest. First off, it had felt like an age since we had seen the ocean, and with the coast so close, we couldn’t help ourselves. We found the nearest available, parking friendly, spot and wandered down to the water, which was busy with sailors and swimmers, despite the temperamental weather. From this vantage point, I witnessed my first sight of Hayling Island, an important sacred site during the Iron Age, Romano British and Anglo Saxon period. It was too late in the day to explore the island, but it was fantastic to witness a space so revered through the ages.

We then decided to make one final stop, Fishbourne Palace was close by. Fishbourne is a Roman palace with an astonishingly native character and intriguing evidence of a pre-Roman invasion, Roman occupation. Sadly, upon arrival, we quickly discovered that the site was closed. A shame, but perhaps for the best, as by this time, our brave little explorer had given in to the powerful lure of slumber.

We drove home after an unforgettable adventure through time. If you get a chance, we fully recommend it.

Isle be back!

There were tales of a misty island, full of magic and wonder, lying just across a small stretch of turbulent ocean. It was an island full of folklore, fantasy and infamy. Kings and Queens, witches and warlords, minstrels and magicians all dwelled upon this little emerald gem, and at its heart, a fiery furnace of fantasy had lain dormant for eternities. It was an island so close to the gods, that their touch could be plainly felt in the wild conditions of its extremities. Most importantly, this island was not so far distant from us that the effects of an ongoing pandemic existence could restrict our careful expedition.

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We set out on a voyage of discovery, our furthest in quite some time, an odyssey of intrigue, to explore the spectacular scenic curiosity of the Isle of White.

Audrey was keen to ensure our investigations were a success and so the travel inventory was extensive. Tents, utensils, headquarters, even a toilet, all crammed into the back of the trusty transport, with us humble adventurers squeezed between.

After a substantial drive, we made the port of Portsmouth, our platform to reach the beautiful Island just visible across the rolling ocean, through the hazy morning mist. Portsmouth was a maze of old roads and historic buildings, scattered amongst new builds and modern technological wonders. The port is vast and some of the vessels here are more like seafaring cities, huge floating hulks built for epic long-distance voyages to unimaginable worlds.

Whilst our journey would explore an awe-inspiring isle, it was not one of such intense distance, and our ferry voyage was comfortable and swift. The brisk ocean breeze and dazzling sunlight made the trip exhilarating and a bottle of Isle of White brewed beer only added to the refreshing experience.

As we neared the island, strange and magnificent monuments peered down upon us from the tree peppered hillsides, an ever-casting eye on our approach. Was our character being tested at this early stage? Audrey looked on heroically; she was certainly a well worthy wanderer.

After disembarkation, the drive through the island was pleasant, only stalled as we made our way through the central mini-metropolis of Newport, where a historic townscape is now furnished with all the amenities of modern living. Eventually, we arrived at our base camp, nestled beneath a canopy of trees, hugging the luscious green valley beneath and beautifully isolated from the humdrum of humanity.

Once our temporary home base was all set up, and an invigorating tea was fully consumed, it was time to get to work. We had heard stories of strange happenings on this island, bizarre occurrences at some of the most time-worn monuments, a shiver down the spine of the ancient isle. Could it be connected? Could it be that Ollpheist, the Mother of all Dragons, was stirring from her slumber? Could the nation’s subterranean saviour have been roused into action?

Our first tiptoe into the mystery began at Yarmouth Castle. Building work began at this castle in 1547, to protect against the fear of French invasion. From its brave bastion, the sites of shipwreck and seashores smother the horizon. The Santa Lucia was lost off the coast nearby in 1567, a Spanish merchant vessel that may have foundered before reaching the harbour of Yarmouth. The sturdy stone walls of Yarmouth Castle have withstood centuries of defence, straddled bravely atop the dragon’s tail. Yet now they buckled, the winds whipping over the walls, its guns aimed at invisible foes.

Audrey led us through the castle, fearlessly investigating the surroundings, certain that the clues we required lay hidden nearby. She took notes and tested the battlements before demanding a strategic break for ice cream. One delicious chocolate cone and a stroll around the village later and it was time to continue our examinations.

Our next stop was of vital importance. If the dragon truly stirred, we would need to see it for ourselves.

When sleeping dragons ache, it is their tails that first awake.

The needles lie at the furthest western point of the Island. They jut from the ocean like sharpened knives, slicing the blue waters in stuttered blasts. The trek to this distant treasure involved an ever-increasing climb to the heavens, with stunning views of the choppy channel on one side and the humped spine of the sleeping dragon on the other. Here the extremities of a liminal world are felt most fiercely. We battled the howling winds, violent whispers from the gods themselves. Finally, we reached the summit and stared over the tip of the dragon’s tail. It did not flinch to our eyes, though it felt as though the entire island shook in some great rage, up there on that peninsula peak.

Our investigations of the day complete, we ventured back to camp. Night crept in, a darkness beyond the normality of night. The campfire burned brightly and our spirits were raised by the warmth as we enjoyed a beer, cider, juice, and tea. Then to bed, a cosy tent for our family snuggle, Bramble stretching out over half the space, and the rest of us huddled in our sleeping bags for warmth.

We woke early, as is always the case for Audrey, so much to do, so much to see, so much to explore. Of course, there were the usual difficulties, too many bubbles in her morning milk and not enough rainbows in her breakfast bowl, everything too loud and not loud enough for a bright, brave four-year-old adventure princess.

The morning air was supernatural. As the fog rolled in, the veil between worlds thinned. The island slid beneath invisible realms and spirits swarmed across the hallowed shoals. Audrey knew all too well, the tales of Wihtgar and Stuf, of the sons of Arwald, of Princess Elizabeth, doomed daughter to that most unfortunate of monarchs, Charles I and even of old Jack. She took precautions and armed herself, for the protection of the party, her sturdy sword, and shield to save us all.

Our focus today would be Carisbrooke Castle, a fortress as old as the legends of the Island. The earthworks here had perhaps originated as a Roman fort, but certainly, a Saxon burial ground had been here and later a fortified settlement. Carisbrooke dominates a prominent hilltop of the island and was first constructed to protect against those vicious Viking raiders. After the Norman invasion of Britain, the Saxon burh was embellished with a strong stone defended enclosure. The castle remained a crucial stronghold of the island and survived centuries of dynasty and disaster.

During the English Civil War, Carisbrooke fell into Parliamentary control and gained the most famous of prisoners, none other than King Charles I. His children were also imprisoned in the castle and his daughter, Elizabeth died there at the tender age of 14. Despite desperate attempts by Charles to escape his captivity, the prison was unbreakable and Charles would not see freedom.

With so many tortured souls on this tiny rock, it was little wonder the dragon stirred. Not least because these turbulent histories had left a legacy of spilled blood on sacred soil, nor because the unity of humans became so fractured in this ancient land, but worse, the fierce fortunes of the island were in danger because Ollpheist was being forgotten, the only true reason for the Mother of all dragons to stir.

Not so much forgetting the stories of this ancient creature, for the traditions continue well, but the problem lies in the belief. Our impatient twenty-first-century attentions focus on modern luxuries, grinding the mystical side of our minds thin. Dreams of dragons and magic are buried deep beneath the monotonous mountain of the mundane. She is forgotten, or at least she is no longer real to us, and so she stirs.

It was important that we altered the island’s delicate fate. There was only one hope; we would need to soothe the soul of this sleeping giant. And so we rushed to a place of deep connection and spiritual power of the land, to Quarr Abbey. If any place held the power of hope, belief, and island strength, it was here. Quarr, named for its stone quarries from the earliest of histories, was occupied by Cistercian monks in 1132 who built a significant church here on the coastal reaches of the island. It had clearly always been an area of some importance. A deeper power resided in the earth and a magic emanated from the ocean spray which caressed its banks. An Abbey flourished on the site, particularly thanks to the great trade in wine that passed through from French shores. The Monks were evicted from the Abbey in 1536 following the dissolution of the monasteries and the beautiful building fell into disrepair. It wasn’t until 1907 when the poet of brick, Dom Paul Bellot, built the stunning monastery nearby, a spectre of the ancient Abbey and a monument in use to this day.

It was in this incredible space that Audrey whispered words of unconditional kindness and offered the sort of unfaltering belief only a child may possess in a world so full of rule and regulation. With our hearts in our mouths, we anxiously awaited a sign... or a signal for escape.

Audrey smiled, her words had been true, Ollpheist would sleep soundly again, secure that her memory lived on, so long as Audrey’s adventure would be written on the modern manuscripts of our age. The mother of all Dragons would find her way into the minds of those who perhaps had not heard of her courageous charge and her stealthy slumber could continue unmolested.

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With the day almost done, we made our weary way back to the ferry, for a final voyage over the deep blue sea. The waters gently swayed in the regular breath of the sleeping Draconem. We bid the delightful Isle of Wight a fond farewell, and enjoyed a final island ale to toast our adventure.

To sleeping Dragons, may they forever rest peacefully in our hearts

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Chertsey Shore

In that most devilish of years, AD 666, a portion of the ancient Thames was selected for supreme spiritual significance. The awe inflicting island riverscape of the Thames, with gleaming silver mists clinging to dark grey pools of gently whispering waters, a mirror of the ever menacing sky above, must have appeared other-worldly to all who traversed it.

A soon-to-be Saint pondered the potential of this ancient space. It was a landscape straight from a dream, perhaps the exact vision which greeted many early adventurers who took Britain to be the Elysian Fields of ancient mythology.

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Its prime, powerful and poignant position on a marshy island surrounded by the Thames, convinced Erkenwald (a religious man of Royal ancestry) to found a great Benedictine Abbey at which he himself would serve as Abbot. At the same time, he founded another, Barking Abbey further downstream, where his sister, Aethelburg, was to be Abbess.

It is not a stretch to imagine this liminal landscape as a gateway to the ethereal limits of existence, a place where gods and monsters could stalk the mortal realm. The river and wetlands still dominate here and amidst this celestial landscape, Chertsey remains a mysterious little treasure, a town whose character continues to cling to an old-world origin.

We were keen to explore this fulcrum of ancient spiritual reverence. From prehistoric deities bound to the river and islands, marshes and woodland right through to a centre for Christian worship and godly dominance. This area clearly held unrivaled spiritual importance. We decided that a simple day trip would not suffice. With a certain Archaeomum’s birthday celebrations in mind, we set aside a long weekend to camp under the stars and experience life in this sacred landscape firsthand.

After a short while on the road, an eager Audrey and over-excited Bramble could not hide their glee as the tent eventually towered above them and our weekend home emerged from the bulging baggage squashed into the back of our trusty transport. The campsite, right on the banks of the Thames, was perfectly positioned for adventure. We couldn’t wait to explore.

Prior to the emergence of the Abbey, archaeological excavation and investigation have discovered Roman tiles on the site and a Roman presence in this landscape seems reasonably likely. The wider area is littered with late Prehistoric unenclosed settlements and interestingly, along with a number of deposits in watery contexts, a series of structures have emerged, which have been considered as possible temples.

Chertsey Abbey was founded in AD 666 on marshes known as Cerotaesei and a gravel island called the Isle of Cerot. The original Abbey was a humble affair, with wattle and daub walls and a roof of thatched reeds, but Erkenwald, a Lincolnshire religious man thought to be related to King Offa, dedicated the Abbey to St Peter and it continued to grow. He was Abbot at Chertsey for nine years before becoming the Bishop of London.

Chertsey Abbey would grow to become the fifth largest Abbey in England, with over 50,000 acres of land. In 871, Danish Vikings sacked the Abbey, setting it on fire and pilfering all of its valuable contents. There is a belief that Abbot Beocca, a character well known to telly fans of the Last Kingdom, was murdered during these raids. Yet the Abbey was rebuilt and thrived, absorbing more land and becoming an important religious centre until it was dissolved during the dissolution of the Monasteries in 1537.

Little remains of the Abbey today. Fourteenth-century fishponds are visible as long troughs in a quaint garden. The Kitchens and ovens, also later additions to the Abbey and away from the main building, can be witnessed in reconstructed walls and monuments in the public park. The stone minister was a far more elaborate affair but is now completely absent; any remains buried under private residences and impossible to view without permission. We took a polite wander around the perimeter, but the ‘warning, beware of dog’ signs kept us at a distance!

We ventured into Chertsey to explore a little of the town, it has retained an image of old-fashioned cuteness but functions as most modern towns do, with a busy commercial centre filled with supermarkets and coffee shops. As we returned to the campsite, a decision was made (not a difficult one) to enjoy a beer or two in a delightful pub by Chertsey Bridge, the Bridge Hotel. We sat in the beer garden overlooking the glorious river and were able to rest, breathe and smile. It was a serene and calm space, despite Audrey’s eagerness to adventure and Brambles ever keen eye on other people’s dinner.

A storm was brewing in the distance though, and we raced for the comfort of our camp. The tent was mostly waterproof, and when we were safely zipped inside, the machine-gun patter of heavy raindrops was amplified in the enclosed space, a hypnotic melody of ceaseless hammering waves. We snuggled in, safe from the cold and wet, and let the gods sing us to sleep... with one eye on the encroaching drips around the edges!

The following day, we wandered along the grassy path following the Thames as it meandered through the fields and meadows. Boats cruised happily along the slow-running waters, canoes and paddleboats, barges and yachts all enjoying the splendour of the river route. Swimmers were clustered at easy access points, immersing themselves in the rejuvenating waters. Buzzing happily in the grassy meadow was all manner of wild creatures and insects, a spectacular dance of minuscule life. Audrey found an enchanting pattern, a monumental fairy ring, the haunt of fairytale creatures, and timeless magic. She danced with bramble inside the ring, tempting the mystical inhabitants to reveal themselves.

After a final night of cosy tent togetherness, complete with the distant joyous yells of elated football fans, we drifted to sleep, once again serenaded by the cloudburst sonnets from above. It had been a wet and wonderful escape, a few days to switch off from the world and be present in the moment. It was a landscape brimming with vibrant dynamism and primordial mystique. Reluctantly we packed up our temporary home, toweled off the excess drizzle, said goodbye to our kind and welcoming camp neighbours, and headed for home.

En route, we did attempt a final adventure. We were hoping to discover an Iron Age/Romano British Temple in the countryside. Armed with a vague map, an idea of where it should be in the landscape, and a possible route, along with the Sat Nav if needed, we set out. The impenetrable path was near impossible, confusing signage and disappearing tracks made progress difficult, there was no way to negotiate the track and the horizon offered nothing in the way of evidence regarding our ultimate destination. In the end, stood in the centre of a vast cow field, I gave up and headed back to the car. It was only later that I checked the satellite view and realised I was mere meters away from the site.

Next time!

So I hope you will all enjoy a drink with us to celebrate Emily Archaeomum’s landmark birthday, the big... 21...

With hope you all have a delightful, adventurous month,

From our Archaeofam to yours,

Happy July!

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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!

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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!

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Hexham, Hugs and Rock and Roll!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was as perfect an adventure as I can remember.

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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

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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!

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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.

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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...

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.

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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.

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