Hello Old Friends

It has been almost a year since our last post. Things have been rather chaotic. It is astonishing just how much can happen in a year. There have been highs and lows, and some immense changes but one in particular has been the most overwhelmingly beautiful we could have imagined, the birth of our son, Felix William Joseph Campbell.

He is a smiley, noisy bundle of dynamite who looks almost identical to his sister at the same age, and we could not be happier to welcome him to the world.

Of course, we have already been on a number of history focused family adventures, more to come on this very soon!

I just wanted to add this quick post to say we are still here, still smiling and there will be more Archaefam Adventures coming soon. In the meantime, here’s the new member of the clan!

We look forward to sharing our family travels and epic adventures this holiday season!

Stay tuned x

Birthday PandeBodiam

I was keen to avoid too much celebration this year when it came to my birthday. I have just about lost count of the years anyway, and these days I prefer to focus on family adventures and the many exciting and enjoyable activities on my ‘to-do list’, than to celebrate another spin around the sun.

My family had other ideas however. Whilst respecting my choice to avoid wild celebrations, they were keen to do something, so after a mini celebration with gifts and cake, the Archaeograndfolks suggested we take a little trip out and explore some of the local history on our doorstep.

Armed with National Trust Autumn gift passes, we hopped in the car and pointed ourselves south. There are plenty of fascinating National Trust properties in the south east. We had recently visited Rudyard Kipling’s house, Batemans. A wonderful Jacobean house with Kipling’s original furnishings and collections, and a fantastic used book shop and café. Definitely worth a visit!

We aimed for the same general area again, with a trip to what can only be described as the ultimate in fairy-tale castles.

The landscape around Bodiam Castle in East Sussex has been considered an ideal location for settlement and industry since prehistory, and has many unique traces of activity dating to at least the Iron Age. The River Rother influenced the location of these settlements, particularly during the Roman period, when a small port town with active industry seems to have flanked the river.

The castle itself sits within the Rother valley and was not constructed until the 14th century. It has a spectacular history closely linked to the 100 Year War and a particular English Knight. Built in 1385, the castle was the home of Sir Edward Dalyngrigge, a Knight of Edward III and husband of Elizabeth, the heiress of the Wardeux family, who held the manor of Bodiam since before 1330. The couple lived in the Manor House until work on the castle was completed. Sir Edward had gained prestige and wealth as an English soldier in north-western France.

Sir Edward was given permission to “strengthen with a wall of stone and lime, and crenellate and may construct and make into a Castle his manor house of Bodyham, near the sea, in the county of Sussex, for the defence of the adjacent country, and the resistance of our enemies.” This permission was given as part of a defensive strategy against France during the 100 Year War.

Bodiam has many chambers and a number of inner courts built within its outer defensive walls. In each corner of the quadrangular castle is an imposing fortified crenelated tower. The entire castle is surrounded by a formidable moat, only accessible by a narrow wooden bridge leading to the well protected entrance gateway.

Following the death of Sir Edward Dalyngrigge, the castle passed through several generations of his family until the line became extinct. During the Wars of the Roses, the house was owned by Sir Thomas Lewknor. Sir Thomas supported the House of Lancaster who were on the losing side when Richard III of the House of York became King. Bodiam is believed to have surrendered without much resistance during the Wars, but it was returned to the Lewknor family when Henry VII of the House of Lancaster regained the Kingdom.

The castle was on the wrong side of history again during the English Civil War, as its owner, Lord Thanet, was a Royalist. Thanet was forced to sell the castle to pay for fines levied against him by Parliament. From this period onwards the castle fell out of use and became little more than a picturesque ruin.

The castle saw a number of restoration projects attempted by various owners before Lord Curzon,  1st Marquess of Kedleston and former Viceroy of India, fell in love with Bodiam upon a visit and purchased the castle and land. Curzon, a leading figure in the development of conservation policy,  continued to restore and renovate the castle until his death in 1925, when it was gifted to the National Trust for protection on behalf of the nation.

We skirted the immense murky watered moat of the castle and Audrey delighted in spotting huge fish and snoozing ducks as we crossed the bridge to the castle gate. Once under the ominous entrance tower and into the castle, we were pleasantly greeted by a very knowledgeable guide, directing our adventure and offering little bites of historical intrigue related to the imposing fortress.

There are some very peculiar marks to be found in the stone of the castle entrances and windows. These marks are thought to have been designed to ward off evil. Ritual protection marks of this type are suggestive of a fear from attack and a desire for additional supernatural protection to compliment the huge walls and strong towers of the castle.

We all clambered up narrow spiral stone staircases, leading to the towers and the chambers above. Frequent signs warned not to pick up or touch any of the bats! We would never have considered it, but it was not in fact bat season, so sadly we didn’t see any of the amazing creatures hanging out in the castle rafters.

From the towers of the castle, we soaked up the incredible landscape views. The River Rother had burst its banks and flooded much of the green valley below, blue skies dazzled in the mirror pools of flooded fields. We enjoyed these stunning sites until the wind chill forced us back down into the courtyard.

Exploring the last hidden corners of the castle, Audrey requested a loan of my wellies to dance through some epic puddles in the courtyard. I obliged and watched on as her little welly covered legs splashed through the puddles, she was bursting with laughter and delight. I however, got rather wet socks!

Finally, we bid farewell to the fairy-tale fortress and wandered across into the village where a warm fire and kind hospitality greeted us at the local pub. The pub had quite an extensive choice of vegan dinner options, so we remained for tasty food and chilled beer (hot chocolate for Audrey) before finally heading for home, exhausted, educated and another year older.

Calkenstein, Or the modern Frankensomething

The low soupy mists were slow to shift on this early Autumn morning. I awoke to the angry vibrations of a mobile phone from some dark corner of our bedroom. Not expecting any such wake up call, and struggling to see through bleary morning vision, I strained to see the culprit… Unknown Caller!

I do not often answer calls from unknown numbers. I have retained the same phone number for many years, and as such, it appears to have found its way onto endless lists of call centre criminals. Yet something about the timing of the call was curious, and before I could consider the potential dangers ahead, I had clicked the green symbol to accept the call.

To my surprise, the caller did not confront me with an awkward quizzing about some imaginary accident for which I could be due compensation, but was a low, learned voice who offered a direct introduction and some intriguing instructions. She was sharp and to the point.

There was an old house nearby, by the name of Calke Abbey. The house had a rather mysterious history and held a treasure trove of antiquarian hoarding, filled with countless trinkets of a spectacular, surreal, macabre and sinister nature. In recent weeks, a strange incident had occurred upon the nearby Staunton Harold Reservoir. The caller recounted a tale of melancholy, terror and woe.

A mournful figure had been rescued from a raft, way out in the most isolated of reservoir waters. After some time assisting the man, it became clear he was of a surprisingly intellectual nature but appeared severely troubled. When pressed, he admitted to being out so far in the wilderness pursuing what he called, a Daemon. The poor soul went on to explain how his story was connected to Calke Abbey, a terrifying and mind expanding episode in the human endeavour for godliness.

Being aware of our family interests, the lady on the phone wished for us to visit the property, hear the tale in full and explore certain objects in the Calke Abbey collections which were, he claimed, connected to the unfortunate stray.

It was an unusual time for investigations. Dark spirits are frequently abound during this season. As far back as traditions reach, All Hallows Eve has been considered a liminal period, a time when the veil between the dead and the living could be lifted. A good time to stay home and stay safe, but the call had piqued our interest and so we gathered supplies, called in reinforcements from the Archaeograndfolk and set off for Calke Abbey.

Calke Abbey is a Baroque mansion which stands on the site of an Augustinian priory, with origins in the 12th century. Following the migration of the priory Canons to Repton, the site became a subordinate cell of Repton Priory. The estate passed through several hands following the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII. The first to buy the lease for the estate was John Prest or Priest, a member of the London Grocers Company.

This is where our unfortunate drifter’s story began. For the ancient origins of the Apothecaries is tied to that of the Grocers. ‘Grossers’ had originally been responsible for the import and dealing of wholesale goods, including medicines, drugs, confectionaries, perfumes, spices and many other unique and exotic items. Since medicines in the 16th century were mostly based on imported herbs, London apothecaries and grocers were extremely familiar and as such, many of the apothecaries were members of the Grocers Company of London.

John Prest had sinister associations with such exotic imports, and it seems, a penchant for the dark arts. Our rescued gentleman spoke of secret laboratories in the deep catacombs of the estate, where Prest had dabbled in various forms of ancient magic in an attempt to reanimate the dead. His attempts had been unsuccessful, but had laid the foundations of scientific curiosity that would plague the heirs to the estate for centuries to come.

In 1585, the house was sold to extreme protestant Robert Bainbridge. Most believed that Bainbridge chosen Calke as a home knowing the parish was not under the control of a Bishop, therefore his puritan worship could remain unnoticed. According to the mysterious, recently rescued gentleman however, there was another more ominous reason for his being drawn to Calke.

Bainbridge was imprisoned in the Tower of London for disagreeing with Queen Elizabeth’s Church settlement. Whilst here, rumours spread that he was visited frequently by that most curious of characters, Dr John Dee. Dee was a mathematician, astronomer and teacher but was perhaps better known for his obsession with the occult. Our fellow claimed that Dee had been intrigued by the ancient alchemy of John Prest and between himself and Bainbridge, a plan was hatched to conduct experiments using ancient potions with modern technologies of the age. Little is known of the results, but there were unusual screams and wails witnessed on the estate over the decades following Bainbridge’s release from the Tower.

Calke Abbey eventually found its way into the hands of Henry Harpur in 1622, for the bargain price of £5350. The estate would remain in this family for twelve generations before the National Trust took over stewardship in 1985. It was Henry, 7th Baronet, who was responsible for beginning the vast collection of natural history which still adorns the house. During this period of 18th century enlightenment, the pursuit of intellectual science was considered of particular refinement and interest to many in high society. He also had a great interest in art, built a library and studied technology and society.

The fellow found adrift explained that during this period, the first glimmer of success had been attained. Henry’s so called interest in natural history combined with a fascination in modern science and technology had a more alarming objective. The gathering of corpses, the selection of anatomical literature, it all led to the same end, reanimation. The goal was gathering pace.

Following the death of Henry, 7th Baronet in a riding accident, the devout Christian, George Crew became the 8th Baronet. George focussed his mind on the community, rebuilding churches and funding new schools, ensuring better conditions for local people. He devoted his life and time to his family. He retained a passion for collecting and added many important artworks to the house. Whilst the unnatural pursuits quietened during this period, it seems they did not altogether cease, personal tragedy and family turmoil ensured the practice continued throughout the coming generations, albeit to a lesser extent. It only regained its fierce thrust in the practice upon the introduction of Sir Vauncey!

The 10th Baronet, Sir Vauncey Harpur-Crew continued the family fetish for natural history, delighting in the house gardens and adding to the already globally significant natural history collection, bringing all manner of specimens from various hunting expeditions.

Our storyteller explained how these respectable pursuits masked a far more insidious desire. To bring back a life from the dark clutches of death! And eventually, or so our drowned desolate castoff claimed, the age old desire had recently become an achievement!

Using the mass of collected artefacts and documents in the house, ancient relics of curative magic, dedicated, thorough studies of science and technology, medicines, herbs, spices, potions, literature, spells and blended with more than a little demonic ritual, a life had been wrenched from the eternal nothingness of death. Our friend on the reservoir had been hunting the demon, a demon that he himself had created. His hunt had been to no avail. The creature he had brought back to the world had taken on a will and strength of its own, and had left the poor creator in a very sorry state.

Hearing this incredible tale upon our arrival at Calke Abbey, we were keen to explore the house and discover the life producing laboratory for ourselves. Audrey led the way beneath the stone doorway and into the waiting room…

We were instantly face to face, with death.

Death was in the air and all around us. It hung on the walls in rows of severed heads and limbs. It stared back from macabre landscapes in curious glass cabinets. It was delicately stacked upon rickety shelves, masking the peeling wall paper and crumbling plaster. It was in the sombre faces of ancient portraits, each long removed from this mortal realm. Death was definitely on display. But what of life?

We continued through the incredible mansion. Dim lamp light illuminated countless stacks of curiosities covered in dust, faded paint and rusty metals, unmoved for centuries. Faces stared back from the dark, all kinds of faces, the waxy dead eyes of ancient portraits, the black hole cavities of dolls and rocking horses, the tentacled and teeth laden terrors of the insect and animal world. Libraries were stacked to the ceiling with ancient manuscripts covering every interest and intrigue of previous owners. Prehistoric weapons, items of ritual, medieval curiosities, worldwide trinkets of the macabre, all clustered together and labelled erratically. The entire house was a true cabinet of curiosities and we were gawp as if at the zoo.

Having scaled the heights of the building, we finally descended into the tombs, tunnels and catacombs. We rushed through pitch black alleys, moved delicately through old kitchens and stores where butchery was rife and the deliveries of all manner of specialist merchandise would arrive. Eventually we reached a tunnel, it was lit by candles alone and stretched hauntingly into the unknown darkness. There was no end in sight but we were informed this was where the demonic creature had been risen from its place in the underworld.

Treading carefully, we made our way through the brick lined passage, darkness engulfed us. Strange noises seemed to escape from the very stone we stood upon, the temperature seemed both blisteringly hot and freezing cold at once. We huddled close for safety and stumbled forwards, not knowing what fortune might await us. Ahead a light flickered menacingly. We picked up pace, hoping that light meant safety, desperate to retreat from the gloom and terror. As we reached the glowing chamber, we discovered the incredible miracle our host had described. The creature had returned to its place of rebirth. From the grasps of agonising death, it had risen, stronger and more wonderful than it had ever been in life. It was a spectacular site, its body and limbs renovated and conserved, the light burning bright. Rescued from the cliff edge of destruction, a survivor of death.

We gasped in unison as we looked upon… the National Trust gift shop, a testament to the heroes responsible for the resurrection of this incredible estate.

With another successful adventure complete, we enjoyed hot chocolates and cake before heading for home. If you are curious to see a corpse brought back to beautiful life, then Calke Abbey is definitely the place for you, but beware… it still seeks a bride!

Society Soirees and Villa Adventures

As the grizzly grey clouds parted over the soft sweeping Kentish hillside, and the sun clawed its way over the gloom, the endless rows of stubbled grass gleamed and swayed before us like a vast ocean of molten gold. We kicked our way through the remnants of the harvest, towards a stunning sanctuary which had been disguised by the earth for centuries. The remote tranquillity of the region betrayed its once industrious functions, a hub of produce and power, a beacon of technical advancement on a new frontier, one in a string of similar centres stretching throughout the Kent countryside.

We must venture back, around 1800 years back, to an age of Imperial control from distant Rome, yet an island driven by agricultural and economic necessity. Within this incredible landscape, cohabited the ruling classes and the general populations. In this part of the island, those with some power and luxury were often to be found in their decadent country residences, the focus of their fortunes, known to us most commonly as the Roman Villa.

It is to one such Villa that we were drawn on this temperately volatile afternoon, and where we would spend a week carefully exploring what remained of a once magnificent country pile. A week of excavations to reveal what shadows and secrets remained below the rolling golden grounds of north Kent.

This region is particularly dense with some of the most incredible Villa sites known in the country. Many have been excavated and some remain as centres for education and tourism today. Lullingstone is perhaps the most spectacular of those which remain. Its incredible mosaic floors and luxurious heating systems celebrate the height of imperial prestige (see our Archaeofam expedition there previously). Further villas have also been uncovered such as Crofton Roman Villa in Orpington, Otford Roman Villa, Eccles, Mereworth and Horton Kirby, illustrating the importance of this productive locality.

Our summers are often busy, between work commitments, external projects, and an ever-growing arsenal of clubs and classes, it seems there is barely a spare moment. Yet somehow, we managed to squeeze in this little leisure time digging this year! The opportunity was too good to miss.

If you have any kind of interest in archaeology, or even history, it always pays to join your local History or Archaeology Society. It is from these groups that you will gain access to talks, excursions, interesting information and any community excavations which may be occurring nearby.

Our local is the Kent Archaeology Society, and this summer they prepared a week long excavation not far from West Malling, in Kent where a dry summer had revealed crop markings and aroused the interest of local archaeologists.

Preliminary fieldwalking and test pitting had established the presence of possible Roman buildings in the fields, and it was agreed that a project of excavation would help to understand what, if anything, remained beneath the ground, to what extent and condition it remained and offer potential dating and interpretation evidence for the curious features. A resistivity survey corresponded with the cropmarks and a projection of the possible building outlines was created.

The area boasts a fascinating past, ancient ritual monuments such as Coldrum Long Barrow are situated nearby, with further cropmarks suggesting a rich prehistoric landscape. Saxon churches and Medieval Manor Houses can also be found in close proximity. The significance of this well connected region had clearly been long lasting.

Audrey was first to dive into the challenge! Armed with a trowel and a shovel, she was a digging machine… for a few seconds before the overwhelming lure to hunt for flint and stones in the spoil heap took hold. Then even more excitement ensued as she began the creation of a Princess Palace from the spoil and a number of coats, mats and blankets which had, until that moment, been relatively clean. The Palace was a stunning success, it gleamed sparkling pink and a soggy, muddy colour and could be ascended in only specifically assigned gateways under the control of Warrior Queen Audrey. A truly magical construction, fit to match the once architectural splendour of the building now lying somewhere beneath our feet.

Emily and I got to digging, maintaining a tidy trench and cleaning the edges before gradually taking off a little at a time to uncover the features below. As the first day drew to a close, the excavation area was looking tidy and full of potential, and our little family were collectively exhausted, having been out of action for quite some time! We made up for it with hot chocolate and beer in a little country pub on the way home, and some hot chips to keep us going.

The rest of the week I would be alone for the excavations, Emily and Audrey being at work and school until the following weekend. I continued to assist as the Villa began to reveal itself, along with a range of fascinating treasures. Painted wall plaster, roof tiles, brick, pottery fragments, the trace of cobbled courtyards, walls cemented in mortar, a number of delightful metal finds discovered by assisting detectorists such as coins, a key, an arrow head and more. The highlight of the feature was its bathhouse, with apsidal archway and a still standing hypocaust system. The Villa was precisely where it ought to have been, and future work could reveal its full extent and any other mysteries it may yet conceal.

This years work on the site will be published as a number of articles in the Society’s Magazine and in the Kent Archaeology Society Journal, Archaeology Cantiana. Keep your eyes peeled for its release next year. The society conducted additional survey work to understand the extent of activity in the surrounding landscape and hope to return in the not too distant future to conduct further excavations.

Above photographs courtesy of Kent Archaeological Society.

On the final day of the dig, the whole family piled into the car and ventured out to witness the results of our wonderful community excavation. The setting could not have been more serene. The late summer sun blazed down upon us as we explored the traces of ancient avenues, carefully crafted corridors, technologically terrific underfloor heating systems of a Roman bathhouse and all the ghostly remains of a once thriving Roman household and livelihood. We shall certainly be back for more when the opportunity comes knocking again.

And of course, any excuse for those quaint country pubs afterwards!

Dungeness and Dragons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The gruesome Glow emerged from its formidable fortress.

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

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

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

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

Gallivanting in Grantham

It has been a busy old summer, and a hot one of course! So sitting at a computer most days has not been the most desirable hang out. Thankfully, we have managed to sneak in some archaeological and historical adventures despite our heavy workloads and looming deadlines.

By far the biggest event of the summer was Emily’s archaeological field school in Harlaxton, Lincolnshire, just outside of Grantham. Digging Harlaxton was a joint community venture which involved Harlaxton College, The Enabled Archaeology Foundation, Operation Nightingale, Network Archaeology, University of Lincoln, Grantham and Harlaxton community members and many more. The primary goal of the excavations was to offer an accessible program of archaeology to the local community, a number of charitable groups and an educational program to students of Harlaxton College and local schools.

The archaeology itself was formed of two specific sites. The first was located in the walled garden complex of Harlaxton Manor. The walled garden is set to be redeveloped and made accessible to the public, so a number of test trenches were strategically placed in the garden to explore the original Victorian glass houses which are no longer extant. The second site explored an unusual cropmark within a prehistoric landscape nearby. The area had experienced some field walking but no excavation had been previously conducted.

The excavations for this season are now completed and the reports are being written for publication as soon as specialist reports and investigations are conducted on the finds and environmental sampling. The results will be forthcoming when the report is released, but suffice to say there were some incredible discoveries made, some puzzling archaeology discovered, and the field school was a huge success with everyone involved. Community members expressed their joy at feeling involved and were excited to learn the various histories of their locality. The students benefitted greatly from a well-executed project and educational program, and many people who may not have considered archaeology accessible or even interesting, were fully immersed and enjoyed the experience immensely.

Whilst Emily was busy making sure the project sailed smoothly, Audrey and I took the opportunity to help where we could. This sometimes involved assisting in the dig, occasionally meant playing in the mountains of sand produced from the Lincolnshire countryside, and at other times meant heading away on adventures of our own.

We made our way into the town of Grantham to have a look around. Grantham appears in the Domesday book of 1086, though its earliest origin is not entirely clear. The name may refer to a personal name of Granta, or the old English Grand for gravel, therefore Granta/Grand (Granta’s or by gravel) Ham (homestead). The town is well positioned along the River Witham valley where it joins with the Mow Beck river. There are hints at a well utilised prehistoric landscape, with a Palaeolithic axe, Mesolithic flints and a possible Neolithic settlement all discovered in the area. There have also been Beaker pottery finds, and a Bronze Age cemetery located in Grantham. The majority of potential for prehistoric evidence lies just outside the town, between Grantham and Harlaxton, where crop marks display a rich and curious collection of features. Evidence for a number of Romano-British farmsteads have also been found in the form of coins, pottery and the footings of structures.

The town itself is thought to have largely grown during the early medieval period, perhaps during the 7th century. In the Domesday book, Grantham is mentioned as a town and Royal residence, with St Wulfram’s church serving the Parish. It has been argued that Grantham started out as an important Saxon centre and then became a minor local capitol during the Danelaw following Viking incursions.

We wandered into town, and after buying some sparkly rainbow shoes and a princess dress, we made our way to the main historical feature at the centre of Grantham, St Wulfram’s church.

Being an important market town with a strong wool trade, Grantham flourished during the 11th century and the riches brought in, went towards funding St Wulfram’s church. St Wulfram’s has the sixth largest spire of English churches and hosts the first ever public library in England, dating to 1598. The church recently won an award as the finest non-cathedral English church. Only a few stones remain of the original Saxon church but the building was completely restructured during the Norman Conquest. The church saw repeated development through the centuries and was fully restored in 1866-67 by Sir George Gilbert Scott.

Audrey took immense delight in exploring the church. Inside, amongst historical monuments, ancient tombs and epic windows, Audrey quickly discovered a play area full of toys to investigate! Carefully descending some worn stone steps, we ventured into one of the original oldest parts of the building. A door and a number of chests here are original medieval artefacts. Fascinatingly, it is said that this crypt was once used to house a relic of St Wulfram. It also held church valuables and apparently even human remains as a charnel house when the graveyard was full.

After exploring the church, we made our way through the narrow winding streets of Grantham, and back to Harlaxton, but not before sneaking in a quick visit to a traditional local pub. Audrey enjoyed a blackcurrant juice and some crisps, whilst I sampled the local beer before we continued on our journey, fully refreshed.

Back in Harlaxton, we decided to wander the village streets and pine over the dreamy old houses and stunning gardens. It is a delightfully cute little village, once voted English village of the year. We wound our way through the streets and up the hill towards the church, again the main feature at the centre of the locality. Audrey found delight at collecting wild flowers as we wandered, and a variety of rare rainbow leaves. The church is dedicated to St Mary and St Peter and likely originated in the 12th century. It has an early 14th century buttressed tower and a font dating to 1400.

Harlaxton is mentioned in the 1086 Domesday Book as Herlavestune, or Herelaf-Tun meaning the estate or farm of Herelaf. The village grew around Harlaxton Manor. This Moated Manor house, which was situated close to the current village, was built in the 14th century and is said to have been used as a hunting lodge by the infamous son of King Edward III and friend of Geoffrey Chaucer, John of Gaunt.

After long days of adventuring, we joined back with Emily and the archaeology team at the local pub, the Gregory, so named after the founder of the current Harlaxton Manor House, which you can read all about in our earlier blog “The Harlaxton Shuffle” below. This little region at the heart of England retains a peaceful, rural atmosphere, picturesque and full of charm.

The excavations at Harlaxton are guaranteed to make a significant contribution to the understanding of Harlaxton’s prehistory and the development of Harlaxton Manor during the Victorian period. More importantly, the dig was a milestone in highlighting accessible archaeology. The hope was to create a project in which all participants could feel an equal part of the experience, no matter what restrictions they may have faced for a variety of reasons. Not only was this successfully accomplished, but the reports of techniques implemented will offer an important guidance on such measures for all future projects nationwide.

And there has never been a spoil heap more utilised for its activity centre capabilities than the epic sandy mound of Digging Harlaxton. I am fairly sure some of that sand is still to be found in Audrey’s socks and shoes.

A Gift of Art

Our usual adventures are firmly planted in the wonderful world of history and heritage, ancient events, prehistoric landscapes, historic houses and all manner of other old stuff. Today, however, we dipped our toe into unfamiliar waters as we explored the fascinating field of Modern Art.

One of the most hotly tipped and highly anticipated new artists of our era was embarking on her first major exhibition. Nearly five years in the making, this unique and spectacular collection is challenging the face of the art world, and we were fortunate enough to be invited to its grand opening.

Better still, we had direct access to the artist and were allowed intimate exclusive opportunities to be a part of this incredible journey from concept to stunning conclusion. A collection which not only dazzles, but asks important questions about our place in this chaotic and confusing existence we call life.

Firstly, we must offer our apologies to the artist in advance. Whilst we have permission to reproduce a select number of the immense works here, we are aware that this was never how the artist envisaged the works being experienced. It is questionable whether these works were ever meant to be merely ‘looked at’ and certainly not in such a mundane and obvious presentation as this humble blog may offer. We hope that this may act as a conduit to the genuine immersive experience for the reader in the future.

Somewhat opposed to the routine of context free display, hanging from some whitewashed wall in a lofty open plan building, the artist has been known to work in erratic bursts with no thought of revealing her stunning creations beyond the room in which they were crafted. It is clear that she experiences fleeting moments of artistic clarity before her mind is onto the next work and the last is entirely discarded.

And so the exhibition is simply, a box.

A box of works which span almost five years of a shifting, ever quizzical flamboyant mind. Sublime art which cascades from subject specific conceptual creation to thought provoking abstract imagery and weaves the endless stems of drab reality with an exuberant universe which only exists behind her busy eyes.

One of the curiosities of this unique exhibit lies in its temporally teasing, ever evolving display. As we were amongst the first to experience the works, the collection was in a chronological format. Her latest works were the last entered into the collection and therefore at the top of the box. We saw the last paint from the brush in the very first work. As time goes on, and the collection is scrutinised, examined, enjoyed by countless hands and eyes, the order will change. Things will be disorderly returned, out of context. There are no labels, no number system, no way of knowing for sure, what went where. This is all part of the journey. The first and last people to experience the collection will have very different experiences.

Home is where the Mind Bends

These surreal introductions to the home entice a myriad of questions. There is a discernible shift in the concept of a ‘home’ happening before our eyes. Is it the bastion of comfort and security we are trained to believe a home should reflect? Is there something more within the walls, an escape from the harshness of the world beyond. Are there horrors haunting the delicate bricks and fragile windows, scratching at the invisible glass, false smiles and sunshine attempting to infiltrate the defences? Or is home simply a place the mind can wander and elongate, to stretch and feel safe, an oasis in a calamitous desert? Perhaps, it is a little bit of it all.

The World is but a Blur of Colour

There is something altogether mesmerising in this collection of impressionist landscapes. Do they represent specific memorable spaces, were they seen during daring travels and worldwide wanders before being committed to canvas when the memories had perhaps slightly melted into emotions? Or are these, as I suspect they may be, not in fact the landscapes of the physical realm, but those of the mind. Dreamscapes may be a more accurate term. The epic awe inspiring sunset over some mountain range may be the same as the gates of a hellish scorched underworld island, licked by the unforgiving ocean and surrounded by buzzard like monsters, a shock of wing and terror. In another we see a cauldron of grey clouds peppered with the occasional gap revealing a blue sky beyond. Or do we in fact look directly into the confused unsettled moment of anguish, when things didn’t quite add up, didn’t go the way they were meant to? The desired end is there just out of reach, as the constricting darkness envelops the remaining hope. Finally the green and yellow of our English countryside immediately calms the soul, unless perhaps what we are really witnessing is a sea of jealous envy and its slowly decaying swirls of melancholy. These mindscapes illustrate a maturing mind and an experimental moment of technique and ability.

Unlonely Soul

A clear inspiration to the artist are those who surround her daily life. They appear throughout the works in various guises and the impact they have on the artistic output is clear. Figures are given spiritual symbolism, not only in the depictions offered, but in coded messages hidden within the portraits, like an ancient puzzle to be unlocked. The characters are employed not only as interesting subjects, but as guides through the labyrinth of her dreamlike artistic universe. Other pieces suddenly make sense when somehow directed through the eyes of the guides. Some are caught in their own chaos, others are partnered and proud, but all are images of tender temptation.

Love in Other Fabrics

The artist is not simply interested in paint on canvas. This exhibition illustrates a wide range of technique and design improvisation. There are no limits to the materials for expression, yet in these outstanding works the vibrance of colour and sparkle are prominent. The symbolic vision of love and magic are continuous themes. A treasure of untold worth, the sporadic flutter of glittering jewels on a sea of white clouds, and in the foreground the most valuable of all treasures, a single bumble bee hovers, its colour more vibrant than any jewel could ever hope to achieve. A study in marine sinks the viewer into a world beneath the realms of human sight. And what a realm it is under the waves. Sunlight is rare but it dazzles from the tendrils of a beast in the deep green. Ancient patterns on its body perhaps an echo of some obscure deities creation message. Piercing eyes are all knowing, ever questioning. A tiny single star seems so insignificant against the aching heart beneath it, but it offers an ever present energy, the power of the burning sun to sustain the perils of the heart in an unpredictable world. A multitude of messages dance between these fabulous fabrics, each perfectly placed to tell a thousand forgotten stories.

The Wrong Impression

An earlier experimental phase of impressionism landscapes are found towards the bottom of the galleria box. These works represent an exploration in colour combination and an interpretation of visual stimulation from the world she inhabits. The first, in acrylics, reflects the cascading explosive power of the wave, or perhaps the unpredictable insanity of water ricocheting across the bathroom sink. The rapid movement almost appears visible, a fast flooding flight to the finish. Another explores the intricate life cycle of the leaf. Its wind battered branches dripping from the rain, ever shifting shades of green until the inevitable yellow of decay. A final work in this period is created in the favoured coloured wax. This inspiring image covers an entire landscape, endless fields of varied crop, sweeping ponds with an entire ecosystem of flora covering the still waters, a sky laced with every shade of afternoon autumnal angst. These works show the continuous courage of an artist unafraid to adventure, and never willing to settle on one single voice.

The Hand of God

Some of the artists early works are tactile treasures. Mindscapes etched with the hand, like the examples of art carefully imprinted onto the everlasting walls of cavernous natural temples at the beginning of human history. The message is clear. Some things are engrained in humanity. No culture or class, age or ideas can alter the undeniable desire to create. To wish to see our image in one way or another is as natural as breathing. Our hands create things beyond the necessary or mundane. We dream of pleasure, and we find joy in art.

The Beginning

As we reach the bottom of this cardboard encased collection, the earliest examples of the artist work emerge. Minimalist interpretations of the human form. This is a fascinating study. We visualise the pieces in reverse and witness the growing influence of humanity on the artist. And I do mean growth, the individuals blossom from simple lines into ballooning creatures with soul searching eyes. We are forced to understand the journey, forced to see and even experience just how far the artist has come. The challenges are beyond measure, from a world of unfathomable lines and circles to the complex intricacies of a global existence. Finishing at the beginning leaves a longing for those simpler thoughts. As the blocks collide, and the image grows, the wider picture continues to confuse and blur. An impossible puzzle which will never be completed, yet we continue to place the pieces together in the hope that the moments of joy will stay ahead of the moments of despair.

This exhibition will not see the walls of any national gallery, because it does not belong in those confined spaces. The works here will tell a different story to each and every visitor. A story of hope and love and a world of wonder and magic. By only contemplating the piece in the moment of its creation, the artist has created something truly honest. A window into the experience of creation.

A billion million stars out of ten.

The Society of the Double Cross. A Pirate Mystery! - A British Library Investigation

Dearest Emily,

I apologise for the paucity of correspondence of late, the overwhelming magnitude of material from which I have had the pleasure to examine has kept me incredibly busy. You will no doubt be delighted to learn that during my time at the British Library, I have been positively rewarded with untold treasures from within the dusty tomes of that opulent labyrinth.

Here I shall recount an alluring discovery and intriguing trail. I am certain you are eager to learn of my latest expedition through these folios of fascination, therefore I shall not hinder your curiosity any further.

Some time ago, whilst trawling the meticulous and compelling archives of the Hakluyt Society, and preparing documents for public consumption, I came across a unique package of seemingly unanswered correspondence.

One letter in particular, addressed to the president of the Society, had been sent from a certain Phillip Swann who had undertaken an adventurous sojourn through South America during the 1930’s. On his travels, he and an accompanying Scottish mining engineer were introduced to a humble local family who produced a bundle of documents, apparently the private papers of a secret society known as La Socied de la Doble Cruz.

The Society of the Double Cross!

Now as you are surely aware, I am justifiably dubious when it comes to secret societies and treasure maps, often the work of fiction and fantasy. Yet I was intrigued by the curiously out of place document and made a decision to delve further.

Mr Swann proceeded to describe a number of translated documents referring to various hordes of stolen booty hidden across a multitude of Caribbean hideaways.  It name dropped such legendary figures as Montezuma and Sir Henry Morgan and promised, should the strange hieroglyphs appearing throughout the document be understood, potential lost fortunes might be recovered.

“The papers were found in the shape of a ball, covered with (bitumen) and fastened with two gold pins.  There was also ten small bars of gold, one semi-precious stone, four minted coins very poorly done, a very big key, four or five weights (presumably for weighing gold) a bundle of papers wrapped in a sort of wax and a skeleton with a nail in the head.”

Why you may ask, did Phillip Swann not go on to discover these wondrous treasures?  He may well have?  I could find nothing further on the gentleman from the scant information at my disposal.  He did however give reason for the apparent pause in his research.

“Over a period of two years, my introducer and self, did what we could to investigate the matter, but were hampered by the fact that they did not really trust us, as a considerable number of the documents had already been filched by people they had consulted. I left South America; the war came along, and it is only now, in my retirement, that the interest has become aroused again”

Swann provided a list of potential targets mentioned in the papers, which he hoped to explore further. These included the Booty of Mexico 1635, activities on the Lake of Maracaibo, The Secrets of the Vulgate, The Oath of Istanbul, Buried treasure on the Island of Cuanacoco and an Irish built warship, the K.H-erye, amongst others.

Swann suggested the then President of Venezuela, Vincente Gomez, had financed an expedition in search of the related treasures, but believed the lack of media coverage indicated little if anything had come of these expeditions.

Armed with this letter and little more I decided to do some investigation of my own.  Whilst the Society of the Double Cross failed to secure any hits on our catalogues or produce any contemporary references, the vast ocean of information that is the World Wide Web provided some tantalising leads.

The first involved the famed ship wreck salvager and American treasure hunter Arthur McKee. Art had a history of success finding relics of ancient vessels and the plundered riches of bygone eras.  His notoriety in such expeditions led to advice and accompaniment being sought on all manner of similar adventures.  In his journals, Art documented an experience whereby:

“I was contacted by two men from Venezuela who stated that they wished to discuss with me some strange markings which they had found on some old documents.  These documents were discovered at an old house in Venezuela which had been torn down.”

The journal goes on to describe papers “inscribed on a skin-like material and leather and dated as early as 1557” many of which referred to The organisation of the Doble Cruz. It described the same marks and Hieroglyphs mentioned in Swann’s letter, but Art also found “…a faded but identifiable document which contained one of the coded alphabets”.

Art McKee’s translations mirrored the writing of Swann in a fashion well beyond mere coincidence, dates and names being repeated, but there were just enough slight translation discrepancies to suggest this wasn’t a copy of earlier research. He appeared to be witnessing the very same original documents.

McKee would take the challenge a step further, selecting one of the potential targets to conduct an expedition.  He chose the Forte La Tortuga, a Pirate Fortress located about 110 miles off the coast of Venezuela. He was joined on the expedition by Professor Alberto Cribeiro Valiente and his son, who were all dropped on the deserted island by helicopter with a promise to be picked up 7 days later.  I shan’t go into the details here, the full story can be found online, but the expedition was a disaster. Injury and disorientation from day one led to a very real fight for life, McKee was stranded alone in the searing heat of day and freezing cold of night, with little shelter he survived on nothing more than cactus juice and his fast fraying wits. Eventually, the Army led a rescue 10 days later. The original quest was abandoned and never again attempted.

So another dead end perhaps, but a final trawl of the internet brought my research right up to the present day.  Of all the bizarre places you might imagine discovering an ancient secret society of Pirates, Facebook would not seem the most likely, but there it was, a page dedicated to La Orden de la Doble Cruz.

Once again the page described similar aspects, names and places as the previous sources, but in a new, even more inconceivable twist, the Society were now linked to the Illuminati Templar Order!  The page offered welcome to the fraternal Brotherhood around the globe via their Gmail account, pleading their legitimacy… “evidenced by authentic ancient documents that rest in this city of Maracaibo of the Zulia State, in our beloved country Venezuela.”

So… do the documents exist? Who knows? The archives and libraries of Maracaibo could be scoured, perhaps the documents lay waiting to be fully understood, their tantalizing treasures begging to be finally uncovered?

If you find these swashbuckling tales have tickled your fancy, and should time permit, you might be enticed to dig deeper, for as our curious and compelling mystery provider begged of the Hakluyt Society all those years ago,

“Even now, I still feel there is a glimmer of truth in it all, and it is worth your investigation.”

Heaving at Hever

We often opt for the lesser travelled path, for a little-known historical monument or an underappreciated ancient landscape. It is satisfying to explore the unknown, to venture beyond the obvious. There is a certain element of intriguing peril to it, the exhilarating anticipation of never quite knowing what to expect. It pounds the heart a little faster, fizzes the senses, accelerates the mind as we immerse ourselves, entering the brave world of the adventure action hero.

Then, some days we do not do that.

Some days we go all out, tacky tourist, history fanfam!

This was one of those days.

For years now we have known of the hugely popular, world famous, epic historical mega centres on our doorstep. There are loads of them. Kent is packed with historic houses. The proximity to the continent and to London have ensured a continued importance in this region. We constantly see the road signs as we drive around the county and always promise ourselves to “visit one day”, but schedules and distractions had always interfered, until now.

Finally, we ventured to that famous old family home, Hever Castle.

Of course, having had such a long time to plan a visit, we chose completely the wrong day! It was a special Mother’s Day adventure treat that we decided upon, which at first seemed like a lovely idea. But of course, we weren’t the only people to have that particular thought, and so from the very beginning, it was busy!

There were queues at the gates, masses of people streaming through the gardens, waiting for the facilities, packed into the cafes and shops. Thankfully, the grounds are extensive enough to accommodate such throngs, so wandering through the various elaborate gardens, mazes, water features and beautifully crafted landscapes was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Audrey adored racing across the luscious lawns, up and down the rolling hills and through the plant peppered forests. The water maze added some slightly soggy excitement, whilst watching the archery was delightful fun, if sometimes slightly comical. Of course the promise of ice cream under the glorious spring sunshine led to smiles all around.

The house was a slightly different story. It was a little smaller than I had thought, having seen it in period dramas, documentary series and countless photographs. This is not a criticism, bigger certainly does not mean better in such architectural wonders and for a Tudor household it was still on a grand scale, I only mention it as it was my first impression, beautiful, stylish but smaller than I had imagined.

Then it became even more apparent as hundreds of us attempted to explore the narrow halls, compact rooms, and cosy corridors of the house. It is a truly stunning place, both inside and out. The décor is an astonishing mix of original Tudor and a stylish array of later additions. The walls are adorned with spectacular portraits, royalty and family staring down upon the countless crowds of visitors to the manor. The furniture is delightfully crafted and ornately decorated. Even despite the crowds, it was easy to feel the function of the place, and even to imagine living in such a building, with its politicised spaces and obvious impressions of power and importance.

Sadly though, with so many crammed inside, there was also a serious sense of claustrophobia. Impatience and frustration swelled as some moved slowly, some whizzed by, and others stood completely still, causing long queues and awkward shuffles. It is not quite so easy to imagine a sixteenth century saunter through the historic house when surrounded by protruding limbs extending smart phones, cameras flashing in all directions and the ambient audio of hundreds of voices chatting about their latest employment woes, dinner plans, drunken exploits and fashion faux pas… although to be fair, these may have been precisely the same conversations being conducted within these very walls five hundred years previous. Aisi sera groigne qui groigne!

Hever Castle began life following the Norman Invasion of England, as a Motte and Bailey castle, surrounded by kitchens, barns, stables and outbuildings. Around 1270 the castle was strengthened with a medieval gatehouse and walled bailey, owned by the 1st Baron Saye and Sele, James Fiennes. During the fourteenth century a moat, further defensive walls, towers, and the great hall were added to the property. A curtain wall surrounded a number of timber buildings, and the castle took on its familiar shape, though its image would have been rather different, as a bright, whitewashed fortress. The house continued to grow throughout the fifteenth century when it was purchased by its most famous family inhabitants, the Boleyn’s.

The Boleyn family seem to have their origins in Boulogne in France and moved to England in the years following the Norman invasion, setting up home in Norfolk, but they are best known for their association with Hever Castle. The property was converted into a manor in 1462 by Geoffrey Boleyn, adding a prominent Tudor building within the imposing castle walls.

Of all the eras of Boleyn residence, it is of course the sixteenth century occupants who attract the most attention in the pages of history. Thomas Boleyn inherited the house in 1505 and went on to live in Hever Castle with his wife, Lady Elizabeth Howard (of the very powerful, Tudor era, Howard family and herself lady in waiting to Catherine of Aragon) and their children, George, Mary and of course, Anne Boleyn.

Recent studies have highlighted modern parallels with life at Hever. During 1528, the country was gripped by the sweating sickness, a deadly disease sweeping through the population of the island, fatal to commoner and aristocrat alike. Hever was used as a quarantine for the Boleyn’s. Anne and several family members suffered with the sickness but were fortunate to survive it. Henry VIII even sent his second-best physician to aid Anne in her hour of need, his first choice being unavailable. We have always been at risk of fast spreading disease, something that all ages will likely experience and sadly, lockdown isolation is nothing new.

The story of Anne has been replayed in endless history books, novels, theatre, television programs, movies and more. The impressive rise from maid of honour to queen, and the dramatic plummet from favour to decapitation are engrained in the well documented narrative of British royal legend. It seems everyone has their opinion on whether Anne was a scheming control freak desperately climbing the social ladder of elite power, a cunning, stylish, ambitious image of sixteenth century power politics, a victim of petty and fleeting male obsessions, a pawn in a family playbook, a scapegoat in a wild and mentally unstable court, an innocent young girl who fell in love with the wrong man, or a little bit of it all?

It has been so widely discussed that I shall not venture into the lives of Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII here, but merely direct any readers curious for more information on this most famous of tragic love affairs, to the multitude of reference materials available.

In all honesty, the volume of argument and discussion, media and mentions of Anne Boleyn has often put me off exploring the subject. Diving into to the minefield of opinion on every over analysed moment of her life seemed a little exhausting, but this apprehension was washed away a little upon visiting the incredible home of the Boleyn’s. Being able to walk in the spaces they frequented, see the rooms they lived within, the space not dissimilar from how it would have been half a Millenia ago, brought a human element to the story we had not encountered in Hollywood blockbusters and glamorous historical fiction.

Despite the spectacular fall from grace suffered by the Boleyn family, Hever continued to be an important residence after Annes death and was owned and occupied by a string of wealthy and important individuals through the centuries. This included another of Henry VIII wives, Anne of Cleves, who of course, managed to keep her head but not her crown. Anne of Cleves almost found herself embroiled in the infamous Wyatt rebellion, which rose nearby in Kent against bloody Queen Mary, but somehow, she seems to have avoided serious accusation.

After this, Hever was mostly the home of tenants who farmed the vast estates and worked the lands. It changed hands on a number of occasions but was rarely extended or renovated, allowing its historic fabric to remain mostly intact to this day. One interesting tale comes from the later history of the house. In 1808, a gruesome murder occurred on the estate. A possible love triangle led to the murder of John Humphrey Jr, shot dead as he walked along the footpath to the castle. His wife later married a certain local farmer who seemed to have more knowledge of the frightful business that he ought to have. It has been said, the ghost of John Humphrey Jr returned to Hever to haunt his wife and her new husband. Things became so bad at the castle that the local clergy were called in to exorcise the house with water from the red sea and wax candles.

We left the impressive house and its masses of happy tourists and made for an even more chaotic castle. The playpark!

Now, Hever Castle on a busy day can be overwhelming, but Tudor Towers… that place is pure bonkers! I mean, it is an incredible play space, as a four-year-old, I imagine I would have been in a medieval fantasy dreamland. As a forty+ year old however, desperately trying not to lose a wildly overexcited four-year-old whirlwind of energy, it is a very different experience! Audrey dashed through inner mazes, under tarpaulins and through tiny narrow tunnels, slides, and chutes, appearing in some random other location I had no idea how to find. Thousands of children raced manically through the dark echoey spaces, screaming and shouting, laughing, and screeching. It was a scene straight from my nightmares, I was losing my head... My child appeared one second, only to disappear completely the next! I am no doubt over cautious, Audrey had everything under control, and I did not see any other parents quite as terrified, but still, I needed a strong cup of tea and a long quiet rest after the ordeal!

Audrey absolutely, bloody loved every minute of it 😊

As we made our way back into the elegant gardens of Hever, enjoying tea and juice and the fresh spring air, a desire to sit, relax and perhaps eat dinner suddenly struck. A local pub was advertised just beyond the outer perimeter of the castle grounds, a rustic old building with an ancient charm. We made our way out of the gardens and to the pub, but alas, just as the house had been full to bursting, so too was the tavern. No space to even sit and enjoy a final drink in the medieval landscape. So, a little dejected and a lot exhausted, we made our way slowly to the car and made for home.

It had been a wonderful day, despite the crowds and the chaos, we had revelled in the famous home of historic legends. Hever is definitely worth a visit, probably more than just a visit! But perhaps hold out for a quiet spot on the calendar and avoid the better-known holiday options, if you can.

From our Archaeofam to yours,

La Plus Heureuse

Happy Mothers Day

In the infinite expressions of which we may consider it, there is nothing more important in this world than the mother. Mother gives life to the young, protects her children, is fertile and powerful, tender and kind. Mother comes in many forms but all of us are influenced by her presence. In almost all cultures and all ages, Mother is the parent of all things, the origin of everything.

The pantheons of godlike figures in which Mother is represented are endless and complex, but a common understanding that the mother represents the beginning and nurturing of life, prevails.

Prehistoric figurines representing mother goddesses have been discovered across the globe. She is often personified as full of life, plentiful and powerful. Carefully placed during important spiritual events, it is believed that many of these offerings were deposited in hope of pleasing mother earth and bringing good health or harvest.

In Egyptian mythology the mother goddess is considered to be of the sky rather than the earth. As Nut, she bore the stars and the god of the sun. The spirits of the dead travel to her to feast and be refreshed.

In Greek and Roman literature, we find Cybele, Ops, Demeter, Tellus, Mater Deum Magna Idaea, Agdistis and Rhea, variants of the same ideals, the mother of the Gods or worship of the great mother. A beginning to the intricate web of existence, for both the divine and the human worlds.

Celtic mother goddess Brighid presided over hearth and home, watching over women in childbirth whilst Danu was the earth mother goddess who suckled the gods and represented fertility, wisdom and the wind. Mother was symbolised in the mountains, in the forests and the wilds of the earth, her life force flowed with the seasons as she interacted with the gods of sky and ocean.

She is found too in Freya, Isis, Durga, Gaia, Mary, Izanami no Mikoto, Mut, Pachamama and so many more. Mother encompasses all life, all existence, all imagination and inspiration. As mother earth, she controls our worldly fortunes. As mother of the sky, she watches us from the endless eternities above.

For every mother out there, in whatever form that motherhood takes, thank you, you have our hearts. There should certainly be more than one day to celebrate motherhood.

So, from our Archaeofam to yours, Happy Mother’s Day X

PS – yes mum, I folded my clothes, got all my work done, made sure that Audrey was wearing the best fitting shoes for school and had eaten all her vegetables before writing this! Love you.