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Seahenge: a quest for life and death in Bronze Age Britain
Francis Pryor
A lively and authoritative investigation into the lives of our ancestors, based on the revolution in the field of Bronze Age archaeology which has been taking place in Norfolk and the Fenlands over the last twenty years, and in which the author has played a central role.One of the most haunting and enigmatic archaeological discoveries of recent times was the uncovering in 1998 at low tide of the so-called Seahenge off the north coast of Norfolk. This circle of wooden planks set vertically in the sand, with a large inverted tree-trunk in the middle, likened to a ghostly ‘hand reaching up from the underworld’, has now been dated back to around 2020 BC. The timbers are currently (and controversially) in the author’s safekeeping at Flag Fen.Francis Pryor and his wife (an expert in ancient wood-working and analysis) have been at the centre of Bronze Age fieldwork for nearly 30 years, piecing together the way of life of Bronze Age people, their settlement of the landscape, their religion and rituals. The famous wetland sites of the East Anglian Fens have preserved ten times the information of their dryland counterparts like Stonehenge and Avebury, in the form of pollen, leaves, wood, hair, skin and fibre found ‘pickled’ in mud and peat.Seahenge demonstrates how much Western civilisation owes to the prehistoric societies that existed in Europe in the last four millennia BC.



SEAHENGE
New Discoveries in Prehistoric Britain

FRANCIS PRYOR



Copyright (#ud2d6f5d6-55e8-5a71-8473-fc9065e89a8d)
HarperPress
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Copyright © Francis Pryor 2001
Francis Pryor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Maps and diagrams by Leslie Robinson and Rex Nicholls
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Source ISBN: 9780007101924
Ebook Edition © JUNE 2012 ISBN: 9780007380824
Version: 2016-09-15
To the memory
of my father-in-law,
DAVID SMITH

Contents
Cover (#u4d78b7aa-1064-5ac1-8805-027dd5ec21bb)
Title Page (#u82be0bc8-10f7-5cc9-95cb-def4809a168c)
Copyright

PLATES (#u47a428ea-3ad4-5469-bcac-a1cb5f836900)
MAPS AND DIAGRAMS (#u3156d25b-8ab7-5ce5-9b73-17634e3c4c7c)
DATES AND PERIODS (#u75565f70-1e3d-5ee6-834c-b7ee76d07e20)
PREFACE: The Quest (#u9fa57314-475a-5347-94f2-04ac74c588a9)
PROLOGUE: John Lorimer’s Discovery (#u4c825fdc-da1f-5e10-b06b-6494ccf5ca60)
CHAPTER ONE: Setting the Scene (#ue2c93695-a2e7-52a0-bc91-899a41ddee54)
CHAPTER TWO: The Hunt is On (#udbd47cd3-3cf0-522f-8c6f-ce88184b7c05)
CHAPTER THREE: A Trans-Atlantic Commuter (#ufcde3f16-210d-50c0-be92-3235f1364d98)
CHAPTER FOUR: Direction and Disorientation (#u4fe61ba5-5eb4-5abd-a610-b2e9ecbd9446)
CHAPTER FIVE: Gardens of Creation (#u4d1f69e3-03c2-5e6e-b48a-6897f1003111)
PLATES SECTION 1 (#ufeb08114-a807-5358-b6e1-7086780f4869)
CHAPTER SIX: Ritual Landscapes (#uafb10d9d-28d9-52f6-8b50-7eb6f3a1e513)
CHAPTER SEVEN: Etton and the Origins of Ancestral Authority (#u22bece56-f94e-5da3-b1e5-2433bd4f7653)
CHAPTER EIGHT: Rites of Passage in a Private World (#ub97f3c34-63ca-5b68-8a73-2ac89c63bcbc)
CHAPTER NINE: The Living Dead: Ancestral Spirits in the Landscape (#ue9a81415-c482-5c83-b370-d6150be74eea)
PLATES SECTION 2 (#uda243e27-b078-5b5e-828d-d96a164da0f7)
CHAPTER TEN: The Wetland Revolution (#ufc9901f1-3e96-578a-a7ea-61a0da5ceacb)
CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Daily Round (#uda1cca76-d5e0-5331-b241-14b09a5bbe27)
CHAPTER TWELVE: Between the Tides (#uc87b6e0c-ca98-5fb6-907f-267587c986ca)
PLATES SECTION 3 (#uaf67eca0-195c-588e-879a-816c59c4a76e)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The World Turned Upside Down (#u6af1603f-d807-5d5e-8314-82f095905a99)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Passage of Arms (#ud7024014-6e98-5bb5-bf18-ce83d4b06889)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Retrospect and Prospect (#u750daccc-8e82-5388-8713-9b3574fd2bbb)
FURTHER READING (#u582762a8-9f0b-5db9-9f96-02381748bec5)
INDEX (#ua2a367d5-b7cc-522a-bb26-7a3fe008cd94)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (#ud65bc581-f0dc-55d7-a63e-4ea017f15503)
Keep Reading (#u7a270958-facb-5a71-9ec2-1e898b66012c)
About the Publisher (#u9b6d440b-dc33-561f-926d-768e8fcc472b)

PLATES (#ulink_42129878-4ce3-5221-965f-bc4ee30f0e6a)
(Unless otherwise stated, all photographs are from the author’s collection)
PLATES SECTION 1 (#ufeb08114-a807-5358-b6e1-7086780f4869)
The prehistoric landscape at Fengate, Peterborough. The Bronze Age fields were used by livestock farmers between 2500 and 1000 BC.
Unexcavated Bronze Age droveway ditches at Fengate, showing on the stripped gravel surface as dark marks.
The bank that ran alongside a Bronze Age ditch at Fengate was preserved beneath upcast from a modern drainage dyke.
A minor Bronze Age double-ditched droveway being excavated at Fengate.
Body of a young man buried at Fengate sometime between 3500 and 3000 BC.
Gold objects from Barrow G.8 at Wilsford, Wiltshire (2000–1800 BC). (Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Society)
Gold grave-goods from a barrow at Little Cressingham, Norfolk (2000–1800 BC). (Norfolk Museums and Archaeology Service)
Sheet-gold cape found at Mold, Flintshire, Wales in 1833. It covered a body which lay under a cairn in a gravel pit (2000–1800 BC). (British Museum)
The Carnac alignments, erected near the coast in Brittany during the Late Neolithic period, around 3500 to 2500 BC (The Ancient Art & Architecture Collection)
The aerial photograph which first revealed the faint cropmarks of the Etton causewayed enclosure (3800 BC). (Photo: S.J. Upex)
Corn-grinding stone, or quern, buried on-edge in the Neolithic causewayed enclosure at Etton (3800 BC).
Aerial photograph taken by J.K. St Joseph in July 1951, showing cropmarks south of Maxey church, Cambridgeshire. (© Crown Copyright 1951/MOD. Reproduced with the permission of the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office)
The immediate effects of de-watering on waterlogged Neolithic wood (3800 BC) at Etton.
The base of a Bronze Age notched log ladder (1000 BC) found at the bottom of a large quarry pit at Fengate.
The notched log ladder from the Fengate quarry pit.
A notched log ladder in the courtyard of a disused Tibetan Buddhist temple in the Himalayas north of Kathmandu, Nepal. (Photo: Felix Pryor)
Reconstruction of the first Bronze Age roundhouse (c.1500 BC) to be found at Fengate.
Skeleton of a young woman found at Fengate and radiocarbon dated to 3030–2500 BC.
Bronze Age weapons (1300–900 BC) from Flag Fen.
Bronze Age wheel found at Flag Fen, dating to about 1300 BC.
Middle Bronze Age stone roadway (1200–1300 BC) at Yarnton, Oxfordshire.
Clothes of a young Middle Bronze Age woman (1400–1200 BC) found in a barrow at Egtved Farm in southern Jutland, Denmark. (Danish National Museum)

PLATES SECTION 2 (#uda243e27-b078-5b5e-828d-d96a164da0f7)
John Lorimer holds the bronze axe that started the Seahenge saga.
A view along the Holme-next-the-Sea peat beds at low tide, autumn 1998, showing the timber circle.
The team from the Norfolk Archaeological Unit start working on the ground-plan of the Seahenge timbers.
A close-up of the post circle, showing the eroded and damaged state of the timbers.
The initial exploratory trench within the circle of timbers, autumn 1988.
Part of the inverted oak tree exposed by the excavation.
A post being prepared for removal.
The team’s soil scientist, Dr Fran Green, records the precise position of sample tins placed in the section on either side of a post.
A group of Druids occupy the central tree in an attempt to prevent its removal.

PLATES SECTION 3 (#uaf67eca0-195c-588e-879a-816c59c4a76e)
Sheets of foam being attached to the central tree to cushion the straps which would be used to lift it.
The lifting of the central oak tree.
The tree trunk was carefully checked when clear of the ground, in case any votive offering or other unexpected find might still be adhering to it.
Members of the Norfolk Archaeological Unit preparing to lift the final two timbers of the Seahenge circle.
The central tree in a shallow water bath at Flag Fen.
The flat underside of the central oak tree was found to be covered with axe-marks, believed to be the earliest left by a metal tool yet found in Britain. One of the towing loops, still with honeysuckle rope in place, is also visible. (Photo: F. Pryor. Courtesy of English Heritage)
One of the Seahenge timbers being carried to the washing tanks at Flag Fen.
Wide axe-marks, similar to those on the central oak tree, were also found on the lower, chopped ends of the oak posts of the timber circle. (Photo: F. Pryor. Courtesy of English Heritage)
The freshly de-barked oak-tree stump with one of the two towing loops and a length of twisted honeysuckle rope ready for the reconstruction of a full-size replica of Seahenge by Channel 4’s Time Team.
The Time Team reconstruction reaches a critical stage, with the oak tree poised above the hole dug to receive it.
The roots of the central oak are levered upwards, and the two-ton tree drops into position.
The tree is manhandled upright.
Aerial view taken during the final stages of the reconstruction.
The interior during the reconstruction.
Excavators working on the Bronze Age religious site at Flag Fen.
An archaeologist reveals part of a wooden axle which had been jammed between two large posts at Flag Fen.
The oak axle from Flag Fen (1200–1300 BC), the oldest known axle found in Britain.
Objects thrown into the waters around the Flag Fen posts as offerings to the gods and ancestors.
A later Iron Age village at Cat’s Water, Fengate, dating to the final three centuries BC.

MAPS AND DIAGRAMS (#ulink_0a257b3a-3193-558d-b76c-d36cb4f6d7ad)
The Fens (#ulink_c940275c-ad6f-5963-b63d-e9d8262fc9f1)
The Fengate Bronze Age fields
Excavated ground plan of a Bronze Age roundhouse at Fengate
Ground plan of the Fengate Neolithic ‘house’, or mortuary structure
Ground plan of Fengate Site 11, showing the position of archaeological trenches
Ground plan of the Neolithic mortuary structure at Fengate discovered in 1997 by the Cambridge University archaeological team
The main features of the Avebury ritual landscape
Ground plan of the causewayed ditches at Windmill Hill, Avebury
The main features of the Stonehenge ritual landscape
Simplified plan of Stonehenge, Phases 1–3
The ritual landscape around Carnac, Brittany
Cropmarks revealed by air photography near the village of Maxey, Cambridgeshire
Ground plan of the causewayed enclosure at Etton, near Maxey
Ground plan of the small henge, with two nested ‘mini-henges’, at Fengate
Bronze Age fields revealed by air photography at West Deeping, near Maxey
A group of ‘mini-henges’ excavated by Gavin Simpson at Maxey, 1965–66
Decorated shaman’s baton from the Maxey ‘mini-henges’
A complex Later Neolithic henge (Etton Landscape Site 2), showing a succession of ditches, pits and post-holes, from the Etton/Maxey ritual landscape
The Maxey Great Henge complex
The oval barrow in the entranceway to the Great Henge at Maxey
Schematic cross-section through features of the Maxey Great Henge, showing phases of construction and destruction
Later Bronze Age wheel-ruts at Welland Bank Quarry, south Lincolnshire
Holme-next-the-Sea and the surrounding area
Plan of Holme timber circle (Source: Norfolk Archaeological Unit)
The forked double posts (numbers 35 and 37) that formed the narrow entrance to Seahenge
The enigmatic Street House ‘Wossit’, Yorkshire
Ground plan of a barrow at Whittlesey, near Peterborough (courtesy of Cambridge University Archaeological Unit)
Fengate and Flag Fen basin, showing the course of the Bronze Age post alignment and timber platform

DATES AND PERIODS (#ulink_f925aef1-85d9-5cf2-8b27-961decdd6c17)



PREFACE The Quest (#ulink_f6ce7118-288e-55be-801d-2df95340a92c)
I DECIDED to write a book on prehistoric religion about two years before the discovery in spring 1998 of the site which has since become widely known as ‘Seahenge’. My original aim was to demystify the subject, to blow away the fog of romance which so often appears when it is raised. I wanted to show how ancient shrines such as Avebury and Stonehenge were made and used by people who were like ourselves. Although they constructed places of worship that seem remote, alien and strange to us, they themselves were none of those things.
I was fascinated by the outward form – the appearance – of their religion. Why, for example, did circles play such an important role? Why were offerings placed in the ground? And why were many sites placed within the fields and lanes of the working countryside, while others were hidden away in inaccessible and remote places? We can only attempt to answer these questions if we try to understand the social context of these ancient beliefs; and to do that, we must examine the evidence provided by archaeology.
I also wanted to write about the way in which modern archaeologists can study discarded prehistoric rubbish, long-lost objects and the fragmentary remains of ancient places to recreate the way people thought and behaved. Like fictional detectives, we make deductions from the slightest of clues; but today, increasingly, we go further than that: we try to understand the motives that drove people in the past to construct great monuments like Stonehenge, or small shrines like Seahenge. Almost daily, new scientific techniques are removing the ties that once restricted our imaginations. But these new freedoms carry with them new responsibilities. It’s becoming easier to sound authoritative, simply by quoting evidence uncovered by science. To reveal a precise date through some new wonder-technique is one thing, but it is quite another to understand why something happened in the past. In this book I want to make a start at answering some of those why questions.
The practice of religion has always happened in the here and now, and I wanted my book to be set in a real prehistoric world, in which children were born and educated, families farmed the land, and law and order prevailed – a world which has been rapidly revealed by excavation in the 1970s and subsequent decades. I decided to use the discoveries made on my own particular excavations to colour the picture I wanted to paint.
My research into British prehistory has been a long quest. It began in 1971 when I directed an eight-year excavation at Fengate, near Peterborough. Fengate is one of the best-known sites in British prehistory. It was continuously occupied for four thousand years, from Neolithic to Roman times, and possesses an extraordinarily diverse succession of settlements, field systems, barrows and burials. After Fengate I turned my attention to two major religious centres: the Bronze Age henges and other shrines at Maxey in Cambridgeshire and the partially waterlogged Neolithic ritual enclosure at nearby Etton. Etton was one of the earliest sites of its type yet found in Britain, and is certainly the best preserved. Then, in 1982, I discovered the waterlogged timbers of what is probably the largest Bronze Age religious site in Europe, at Flag Fen, on the outskirts of Peterborough. I have been working there ever since.
These are major excavations and they have produced a wealth of material, not to mention eight volumes of scholarly research. It is, however, hard to extract the essential narrative thread from this sea of published detail. Moreover, the story emerged only slowly as the research progressed – and this was necessarily at a measured, academic pace. My intention in this book is to tell that tale in a way which reflects, I hope, some of the excitement of the quest itself.
I had scarcely begun putting pen to paper when I learned about the timber circle which had been discovered on the beach at Holme-next-the-Sea on the Norfolk coast, just over half an hour’s drive from where I live. It was an extraordinary coincidence, and one I couldn’t possibly ignore. The discovery created enormous public interest, excitement and indeed controversy. It was certainly remarkable, but to those of us who have been working in the area, it was not unexpected. Large parts of the coastline of eastern England are constantly being eroded by the waves, and significant prehistoric finds are regularly exposed there.
Although Seahenge’s near-perfect state of preservation made it unique, as a small wooden shrine it was not out of the ordinary. Indeed, I myself have seen and dug several like it. This was one of the things that made it supremely important, as it meant that it could be placed within a known sequence of development. We knew approximately where it fitted both chronologically and in the lives of Early Bronze Age communities. We also knew what it may have signified to them. Or rather, we thought we did. But when we started to excavate and study the timbers, we were wholly unprepared for what we actually encountered.

SEAHENGE COMES HOME
The Seahenge excavations happened in 1999 and I wrote this book during the following year. While I was writing my wife Maisie Taylor would leave home every morning after breakfast, allowing me to do the washing-up, and would then drive the twenty-two miles to Flag Fen, where she would work away at the Seahenge timbers which were stored in tanks there. By this time, thank Heavens, the protestors and tabloid press had lost interest. After a few months, English heritage decided to have the timbers conserved by freeze-drying and when Maisie had finished with them they were taken to Wales where they were treated at the Mary Rose Trust’s laboratories. This process was completed early in 2007 and the timbers were then sent to King’s Lynn Museum, where money had been found for a permanent display in the main gallery. That display opened in February 2008 and it really is quite exceptionally good. Maisie and other archaeologists have been working with the design team closely and huge efforts have been made to get every possible detail correct. The new display gives a wonderful impression of what the site would have looked like in the Early Bronze Age, not on the beach, but in a damp and rather mysterious back-swamp behind the coastal dunes.
Scientific research has also been pressing ahead and, with admirable promptness, the full academic report appeared in 2003.
(#ulink_9c377b50-dd8c-5d93-be40-63e3068b19e1) This report confirmed that the site was indeed constructed in the spring or early summer of the year 2049 BC. It also showed that Seahenge was far more complex than a simple timber circle. The central inverted tree was inserted first. Shortly afterwards a forked timber was placed to the south-west (towards the mid-winter setting sun). The forks formed a narrow gap or entrance into the planned circle. Next a screen of ten large timbers, all cut from the central tree, was placed directly opposite the fork, to the north-east. The ‘circle’ was then laid out in a series of ten straight or slightly curved panels. Within this arrangement were additional subtleties. Most of the posts had been driven into the ground with their bark facing away from the circle, like the trunk of a vast tree. But a few had been deliberately set the other way around. We don’t know why this was, but it seems to have been something that happened as part of the initial laying-out.
One of the biggest surprises came when Maisie studied the axe-marks on the timbers. She measured every single one and discovered that over fifty axes had been used – and this just a few centuries into the Bronze Age, when all believed that bronze was still scarce. If fifty axes had indeed been used, that probably means an absolute minimum of fifty people. Allow for friends and families, and the number of folk on that dune in north Norfolk would probably have been closer to two hundred and fifty. It would have been quite an occasion!
So last year the timbers came back home to Norfolk. The King’s Lynn Museum staff have finished the long job of preparing them for display. They also managed to raise money from the National Lottery and other donors to have a brand new gallery built to hold them. I’ve seen all the drawings and computer-generated images and it really is a superb recreation. It’s not just about accuracy; it’s also about atmosphere and what it would have felt like to have been just behind those coastal sand dunes in the early summer of 2049 BC. I am convinced that the people who built Seahenge would find its twenty-first century resting place respectful, yet mysterious – and welcoming.
Francis Pryor
July 2008
* (#ulink_d26a24f5-1883-555a-b60b-57264ade27e7) Mark Brennand and Maisie Taylor, ‘The Survey and Excavation of a Bronze Age Timber Circle at Holme-next-the-Sea, Norfolk, 1998-9’ Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, Vol.69, 2003, pp. 1-84

PROLOGUE John Lorimer’s Discovery (#ulink_4d0c0288-c676-511c-9bbe-76ac87bc951b)
IT WAS EARLY SPRING, 1998, on the south side of the Wash in north-west Norfolk. John Lorimer and his brother-in-law Gary took the path through the pine woods, climbed up the dunes and stood at the top to catch their breath. The tide was now well on its way out, and the peat beds, which ran along the beach midway between high and low tide, were just beginning to be exposed. Between them John and Gary held a brand-new shrimping net, and today was to be its first outing. It was home-made, but sturdy and built to last. They knew it would be futile to test the net until the tide had retreated beyond the peat beds, as only then would the seabed be smooth enough to allow them to drag it through the water, so they decided instead to go crabbing and to test the net in an hour or so. At least that way they’d have something to take home for tea.
Just beyond the beach, behind a coastal barrier of dunes, was Holme-next-the-Sea Nature Reserve. It was a land of birds and dunes, of thin wiry grasses, orchids and Scots pines. And then of course there was the wind. It was always with you at Holme. Sometimes you thought it had dropped entirely, and that the air was truly still. Then you looked at the ground and saw that the blades of grass had never stopped nodding. It was as if someone had just left the room and had shut the door firmly behind them. There were little swirling drafts – not wind, not even a light breeze. Other times, when the weather came from off the Wash, the gales tore at the dunes with a destructive force that even a modern army couldn’t match. Coastal defences were ripped up. I have seen the aftermath of a fierce storm, when wire, fencing, young trees and posts had been hurled inland. In just two hours, a whole summer’s patient dunes-conservation programme could be reduced to a useless, tangled mess.
The Nature Reserve Warden, Gary Hibberd, and his wife Alison lived in The Firs, a large, late-Victorian house that had been built as part of a speculative venture which never got off the ground sometime around the turn of the century. One of the ground-floor rooms had been converted into a small shop and Visitor Centre, and Gary would chalk up a list of rare birds that could currently be seen in the reserve.
The pine trees that were presumably planted when The Firs was built covered the dunes between the house and the beach. They were mainly Corsican pines, a more vigorous species than our native Scots pine and better able to cope with the fierce conditions of this coast. They grew particularly well along the Holme dunes.
John and Gary knew that the best crabs were to be found lurking in dark nooks and crannies below the shelves of peat. John was walking in the shallow water along the edge of the peat. Before he’d even bent down to feel for a crab, his eye was suddenly taken by something green and metallic in the mud. Without thinking, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It wasn’t iron, he knew that. Was it brass? Probably. In which case it could have been a fitting – perhaps part of a porthole, or something from off the bridge – from the old wreck behind him, which he could see was just beginning to emerge from the waves. Still, he thought, it doesn’t exactly look brassy. He had seen pieces off wrecks before, and somehow this wasn’t right: it was more coppery, and with a strange, red-gold surface sheen.
Gary saw John standing slightly bent forward, with furrowed brows, turning the thing over and over in his hands, and wandered across to see what he’d found. John was always collecting things from off the beach. He was a regular jackdaw. His house a few miles away at North Creek was stuffed full of treasures: shells, blanched bones, driftwood, weird-shaped stones, pieces from wrecks. If he found anything attractive, John would want to take it home.
Gary looked at the piece of metal, shook his head and agreed it was probably something from the wreck. But they had work to do, so they thought no more about it. True to his jackdaw instincts, John slipped it into his back pocket. By now the tide had retreated well beyond the peat, and the timbers of the wreck were fully visible, surrounded by huge expanses of smooth, damp sand. Together John and Gary carried the net out into the shallow water, just above knee-depth. Then they tested it. It worked. In fact it worked well, and is in regular use to this day.
John and his wife Jacqui are special-needs workers, who look after children with particular problems. John has found that taking his charges out in the mini-bus for a trip to the beach can do wonders for them. But they must have something useful to do when they get there, or they soon get bored, and mischief is never far behind. Towing a shrimping net and then sorting through the catch is ideal. And once the work’s over, the small brown shrimps are delicious for tea.
During the next four weeks, John visited Holme beach regularly, seeking crabs and shrimp. He would often return to the spot where he had found the metal object, which he was becoming increasingly convinced had nothing to do with the wreck. The more he looked at it, the more certain he was that it was an axe. With its crescent-shaped blade, he reasoned, it couldn’t be anything else.
It was a week or two after finding the object that he first noticed a large tree-trunk, with two strange-looking branches, like the stumps of amputated arms. It was close to the spot where he’d made his discovery, and was the same colour as the peat beds around it. But it looked odd. As he told me later, he couldn’t put his finger on why it looked so strange, but it did. Just like the metal object, there was a simple explanation, but it didn’t seem to apply. Holme beach was the site of a prehistoric ‘forest bed’ of tree stumps. And that’s what everybody said: his odd-looking stump was just part of the old forest. But John wasn’t happy with that explanation.
The peat didn’t actually touch or cover the strange stump, but stopped three or four paces short of it. John noticed that as the tide swirled around it, the water wore the sand and mud from around the trunk. Soon a natural trench began to form, and he was able to feel well down into the grey mud that lay directly below the beach sand into which the tree was embedded. He knew that not even the deepest roots of the forest trees went down this far.
The weeks passed, and John couldn’t stop thinking about that peculiar metal object that now sat on the mantelpiece at home. The more he looked at it, the more he became convinced that it had nothing to do with the wreck, which was less than a century old – the remains of a freighter that used to ply a regular route from Norway to King’s Lynn, carrying ice. Besides, he knew what a ship’s fire-fighting axes looked like, and this bore no resemblance to them.
One evening he took it down from the shelf and examined it, long and closely. Various things struck him as odd: the clear casting line where two moulds had once joined together; signs of hammering at one end, and at the other the smoothly crescentic cutting edge. It was certainly an axe, but it wasn’t like any axe he had ever used. For a start, there was no hole for a shaft. And besides, it was made from bronze or brass, not from steel. Then he had a bright idea. A friend of his in Fakenham was a keen metal-detectorist, and took all the magazines. Maybe he’d know what it was.
The next day found John in Fakenham with a cup of tea and surrounded by dozens of magazines. He leafed through them. There were stories about horse brasses, about Roman coins, about merchants’ tokens, about buckles, about everything under the sun – except axes. Then he struck lucky: in an article about Bronze Age metalwork he found a picture of a three-thousand-year-old bronze axe that looked fairly similar to his. It was by no means identical, but it was certainly close enough to set his mind racing.
In the days that followed he couldn’t let the matter rest. Again and again he thought, if it was a Bronze Age axe, then how on earth did it get there? Was it from an ancient wreck, or what? The more he pondered, the more curious he became. Eventually he phoned the Castle Museum at Norwich and described the object. The voice at the other end sounded interested. Could he bring it round to them?
The axe was at the Castle Museum for about four weeks. They were in no doubt that it was Bronze Age, and had been made around 1200 BC. They couldn’t find a local axe in their collections that was anything like it. Their best guess was that it may have been made in Ireland.
While he waited to hear from the museum, John returned to Holme beach several times. He noticed that the tide was slowly wearing away the surface around the strange stump. Then one day, a few feet away, he spotted the top of another stump. The next day he found another one. And then another. By the end of the week he could clearly discern a circle of stumps around the much larger central tree. The stumps had been hidden below the sand and mud, and as the tides swirled around the central tree they were gradually being exposed to the air.
John studied the smaller stumps closely. The circle was positioned on the seaward side of the peat beds; close to them, but not beneath them. Were they all tree stumps from a drowned forest? He knew that was the explanation for most of the wood found on the beach. But a circle? How could that be natural? Surely that had to be man-made?
By now John knew he had found something important. But how could he get somebody ‘out there’ interested? He lost no opportunity to talk about his discovery, but nobody seemed to take him seriously. John and his axe and his stumps. He began to feel that people were starting to laugh about him behind his back. Eventually someone came out from the museum to have a look at John’s circle. The expert pronounced that it was probably a fish trap or a salt pan, then walked over to the old wreck and spent the rest of the afternoon photographing that. John told me later he could have exploded with frustration.
In August, two weeks after the visit from the museum official, John received a letter from him in which he was told that, far from being unimportant, his find was causing great interest in the museum world. Next, he was contacted by Mark Brennand and Dr Bill Boismier, two members of the Norfolk Archaeological Unit, the team of archaeologists whose job was to investigate new discoveries in the county. They came to Holme beach to have a look, and John showed them the circle of stumps and the strange-looking tree at their centre. Mark and Bill took one look and stood back in silence, thunderstruck. Words seemed superfluous.
John was desperate to know more, but Bill wasn’t willing to commit himself. A man of few words at the best of times, he was not going to raise any false hopes at this stage. His field of expertise was the effects of tillage processes on artefact distributions in the ploughzone. Tillage processes had nothing to do with prehistoric religion, but in their hearts Bill and Mark knew what that circle of ‘stumps’ was. And it certainly wasn’t something as mundane as a fish trap or salt pan. As they drove back to the Unit, they could talk of nothing else. Was it really what they both thought? Could it be? They must get some further opinions. That evening, the phone lines from the Norfolk Archaeological Unit hummed.

CHAPTER ONE Setting the Scene (#ulink_d0307a71-0262-5e17-8468-6696aeae9e46)
ARCHAEOLOGY IS ABOUT human life in the past, but in my experience it isn’t as simple as that. Very often it’s about the life one is living in the present, too. I’ve no idea how it happens – and I know from talking to friends and colleagues that others have experienced this as well – but in some strange way archaeological discoveries happen that are appropriate to the way one is thinking at a given time. When, for example, I started my professional life in 1971, I excavated a well-known site at Fengate, on the eastern side of Peterborough. Here I began to discover details of the way prehistoric people organised their daily lives. This suited me fine, as I was then concerned with practical things too, such as how to organise a large excavation, how to assemble coherent published reports, and so on.
About ten years later, I became more interested in the way people thought, and how they ordered their religious and social lives. And what happened? I found myself working in a prehistoric landscape strewn with religious sites, near a small village in Cambridgeshire called Maxey. This more than whetted my appetite for ideology and the afterlife. I was treated to both in ample measure when I then excavated a large Neolithic ceremonial centre at another small village called Etton, near Maxey. But still I wanted more. And it was then, in 1982, that I had the good fortune to discover the extraordinary Bronze Age religious site at Flag Fen, near Peterborough.
Flag Fen is a wonderfully rich and complex site, and understanding it – or rather, trying to understand it – has stretched my imagination to the limits, and has been an invigorating and rigorous (although sometimes very frustrating) challenge. It was while I was deeply immersed in Flag Fen in 1998 that John Lorimer reported his remarkable discovery on Holme beach. And then things began to fall into place, and I realised I had to step back from Flag Fen. I was forced to appreciate that prehistory is best understood as an unfolding, continuing story. It is not about individual sites, however fascinating they might be, but is a saga of human beings, and the different ways they chose to cope with their own particular challenges.
The process of archaeological discovery has been deeply enmeshed with my professional life, and I don’t see how the two can be disentangled. So I won’t attempt the impossible, but will tell the tale as it unfolded around me, blow by blow. My own life and my research life will be part of the same story. But first I must turn the clock back to the final years of my childhood, when the wonders of archaeology were first revealed to me. It was an afternoon that will live with me forever. The time was autumn, the year 1959, and the place Eton College.
There was a warm, dusty smell to the wood-panelled room. A smell I have grown to love: of old books and maps, field notes, brown paper bags, Indian ink, pottery and flint tools. It’s a musty, peaceful sort of smell. A smell that says the world is in proportion. Perhaps it is the atmosphere of antiquity – I don’t know. But whatever it was, it pervaded the Eton College Myers Museum of Egyptology through and through.
George Tait was a senior master, and in the late fifties he was also Curator of the Myers Museum, which was housed in a purpose-built wing at the rear of School Hall. One day I found him working on several heaps of papers, which lay across the big central table and cascaded down to the floor by way of three chairs, an old orange crate and something that had once resembled a foot-stool. He could see I was at a loose end. My head was bandaged from a football injury I had received the day before, and the prospect of a tedious afternoon stretched before me.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll find you something to sit on.’ He cleared away the papers from one of the chairs, then said, ‘I’ve got something over here that may interest you.’ After a moment or two, he reappeared holding two huge volumes, which he placed on top of the papers already on the table in front of me. I was amazed. The two enormous tomes were for me?
George Tait returned to his side of the table and lit his formidable pipe. It was a vast smoking machine with a long, straight stalk and a furnace-like bowl, doubtless hewn from timbers drawn from a mummy’s tomb. Into this he stuffed leaves picked from plants grown in his own garden. The dense clouds of smoke smelled just like an autumn bonfire, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to the distinctive aroma of tobacco. Soon my eyes were running freely. But George puffed on regardless, poring over his papers. He was miles away.
I started to read. I had been given Howard Carter’s account of the discovery and excavation of Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922. It was an inspired choice, and I soon found myself completely gripped by the story of the discovery of the boy king’s mummified body and the fabulous treasures which surrounded him. As I read, I was there, amidst the sands of the Nile and the eerie, cool, dry darkness of the tomb.
After that day I made many visits to the Myers Museum and its larger-than-life curator. But although George Tait had a huge, commanding and at times stern presence, he was a gentle teacher, and was particularly good at helping his pupils grasp difficult concepts. Thanks to him, I grasped the basic principles of the subject that would soon form the centre of my life.
Tait’s archaeology was about people and the way they had lived. It was not about treasures and valuable finds, unless they could shed light on the way ancient communities behaved. Above all else, he explained that archaeology is a methodical discipline: that although Howard Carter made all those extraordinary discoveries in the tomb, he also spent days and days preparing a minute catalogue of his discoveries. He pointed out that Carter was at pains to draw meticulous plans of where everything was found. It took me some time to realise why such care was so crucially important. With hindsight, Tait’s improvised explanation worked well.
‘Just suppose,’ he said, ‘that you’re an archaeologist working two thousand years from now. You discover a room, and in it are two armchairs and a mysterious polished wooden box with a thick glass sheet on one side of it. You have absolutely no idea what this box was used for. Maybe it was worshipped? Maybe it was used to cook with? Who knows? So you decide to seek the help of other archaeologists. Now what do you do?’
‘I send them a list of what I’ve found,’ I suggested, ‘and I describe the chairs and the shiny wooden box as closely as I can.’ It was feeble, but I couldn’t think of a more sensible answer.
‘I doubt if they’d be any the wiser. Would you be?’
I had to admit I wouldn’t.
‘But if you included a sketched plan of the way the armchairs were arranged, how they faced the glassy side of the polished wooden box, then they might work out that the box was a television set.’
He had taught me an important archaeological lesson. Things only make sense in terms of the way they relate to other things. Later I was to learn that archaeologists refer to these inter-relationships as context. To an archaeologist nothing matters so much as context. Context is all. Without context, a find is just a find, a dead object; but with context it comes alive.
My ‘gap’ year out of school in 1963, on what was then known as the Digging Circuit, taught me a great deal about life. Some of the Circuit diggers were perfectly happy to stay as they were. They moved from one dig to another, living in winter squats, tents in summer, or ramshackle caravans. One or two had drink or drug problems, and I soon realised that a high proportion of them were using the Circuit as a retreat from the rat-race. Some of these people were quite sad, but they nearly all shared a belief in what they were doing. I suppose, in the final analysis, that vocation had taken the place of self-esteem, which for many of them had reached a low ebb.
Today, things have changed for the better. For a start, most diggers have a professional qualification, or are in the process of earning one. All are vastly better paid than they were in the early sixties. Site conditions have improved enormously, too: there are self-contained mobile toilets, safety clothing and warm site accommodation. Better pay also means that tents are only used in summer, and then by choice, not of necessity. But despite all these improvements, the life of a professional field archaeologist is still hard. Job security is poor, and most people spend large parts of their lives moving from dig to dig all over the country, and abroad. And then there’s the British climate.
As a result of my afternoons with George Tait at the Myers Museum, I had decided to study archaeology at Cambridge. If you can’t think about broad issues at university, then you’ll never think about them. In our lectures, my fellow students and I learned what George Tait had drummed into me: that archaeology is the study of the past, based on material evidence – pottery, flints and scientific information – rather than on written documents alone (the province of history). We also learned that archaeology is an effective way of studying broad changes through time – topics like, for example, the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, or the origins of farming. It’s less good at examining historical events, such as the Norman Conquest – a topic like that is best handled by historians, or by historians and archaeologists working closely together.
In my first year at Cambridge, the Professor of Archaeology was a great man: Grahame, later Sir Grahame, Clark. Grahame was a pioneer of what is today called environmental archaeology. As we shall see, it will play a major role in our quest. With his friend the botanist Sir Harry Godwin, Grahame was able to paint an extraordinarily vivid picture of life just after the last great Ice Age, about seven thousand years ago. He relied to a great extent on Sir Harry’s work on the pollen grains and seeds preserved within the peats found at various sites in southern Britain. This botanical research, together with work on preserved bones, insects and shells, provided the evidence they needed to reconstruct what the ancient countryside would have looked like. It showed that nine thousand years ago the East Anglian countryside consisted of stands of birch trees and pools of open water, and that the fauna included fish, herons and other birds, eels and beavers. On the drier land were large oak forests in which deer, wild boar and bear roamed freely.
I would never pretend to be a scientist, or even a scientific archaeologist, but I can understand what scientists are saying, and I know enough to ask them questions in their own language. It was not difficult for me to decide, in my first year at university, that this broadly environmental approach would be my own style of work. All my subsequent research has been carried out in a closely-knit team; it’s the only way to do good environmental archaeology. Nowadays my role would be described as ‘Team Leader’. My job is to make sense of the team’s results when we come to write the final report; it is up to me to achieve compromise when there are strong differences between individuals, and to see that the team runs smoothly and happily. It’s a great job, and I love doing it. In my opinion it’s far and away the most successful and satisfying sort of archaeology.
Grahame Clark retired from teaching while I was a student, and he was succeeded by Professor Glyn Daniel. They were as unlike as any two archaeologists could possibly be. It used to be fashionable in certain circles to patronise Glyn Daniel. He was an archaeologist, but he was also a supremely successful populariser of the subject. No other archaeologist has ever been voted ‘TV Personality of the Year’, an accolade he earned by chairing the hugely successful BBC quiz show Animal, Vegetable, Mineral? At his best, Glyn was a superb lecturer, and he managed to inspire me with a love of his own favourite period, the Neolithic (or New Stone Age), which I have never lost.
Everything that ever mattered seems to have originated in the Neolithic Age. All of life and death is there. I know Neolithic folk have been dead for nearly five thousand years, but as far as I’m concerned they could have died yesterday. My passion for the Neolithic and the Early Bronze Age (which in social and cultural terms is much the same thing) is directly due to Glyn’s inspiration.
Glyn taught a course on the Neolithic, Bronze and Iron Ages at Cambridge. The dates of the various periods tend to wander somewhat, as research progresses, but the Neolithic comes first, and in Britain lasted from about 5000 to 2700 BC. It was followed by the Bronze Age (roughly 2700 to 700 BC). The Iron Age was the final prehistoric period, which extended from the close of the Bronze Age to the Roman Conquest of Britain in AD 43. Glyn’s course was known to the university authorities as NBI. Perhaps predictably to the students, it was of ‘No Bloody Interest’. I chose not to study the other option of Iron Age, Roman and Anglo-Saxon, or IRA – which for some reason never seemed to acquire a student name.
I remember being puzzled by archaeologists’ periods. Were Neolithic people aware when they woke up on the first morning of 2700 BC that they were entering the Bronze Age? Of course not. The Ages were invented by some inspired Danish archaeologists, working on museum collections in the last century. They came up with the Three-Age System (Stone followed by Bronze and then Iron) in the first instance simply as a way of ordering their collections. Only later did it gradually acquire a wider significance.
At university we were taught that the Three-Age System would soon be a thing of the past, to be replaced by the flood of radiocarbon dates that were then just beginning to arrive. They have indeed had a profound effect on our understanding of the past, but I can see no consistent evidence that the old Three-Age labels are actually being replaced. I think they’ll be with us for a long time yet.
At Cambridge, British archaeology was taught in a rather rigid framework, or straitjacket, of ‘cultures’. In theory, ‘cultures’ were meant to be synonymous with actual communities of people – tribes or confederations of tribes. But in reality ‘cultures’ were no more and no less than types of pottery. So we were taught about the Beaker Culture or the Grooved Ware Culture, and I have to say I found it extremely difficult to imagine the actual people lurking behind these arcane concepts.
The various ‘cultures’ were accompanied by long lists of sites, where the particular types of pottery which were believed to be characteristic of them were found. The lists were, in turn, accompanied by maps, covered with dots and arrows which purported to show how these people/pots moved around Europe. It was all extremely mystifying, and I remember wondering why on earth these people wanted to move around all the time. It seemed, and indeed it still seems, an odd way to behave.
There was a third lecturer at Cambridge who was to have a very profound influence on my subsequent career, partly because, like me, he is a practical, down-to-earth person. He comes from Canada, where I spent much time during my formative years as a field archaeologist. John Coles is remarkable because he has turned his hand to numerous types and styles of archaeology. His doctoral research was on Scottish Bronze Age metalwork, but he is also, or has been, an authority on experimental archaeology, Scandinavian Bronze Age rock carvings, the Palaeolithic (or Old Stone Age) and wetland archaeology, for which he is perhaps best known.
In the mid and later sixties John was doing far more than his fair share of lectures in the Archaeology Department, and he supervised me in a variety of topics. I don’t think I was a very good pupil towards the end of my time at university, because I couldn’t see that there was a future for me in the subject. Archaeological jobs were extremely scarce, and were invariably snapped up by people with good first-class degrees. I knew I stood little chance against that sort of competition. But John persisted, and somehow he managed to cram sufficient knowledge into my skull to earn me a decent enough honours degree.
I don’t want to be unfair to other lecturers in the department, but John seemed unusual in that his head was not stuck in the clouds for most of the time. He was then working in the peatland of the Somerset Levels, and his lecture slides were not just of disembodied artefacts and distribution maps. Instead, he showed us photographs of people with muddy hands, digging trackways in wet peat, or felling trees with flint axes, or wrestling with hazel wattles while reconstructing prehistoric hurdles. Frankly, his lectures were almost the only thing that kept my flickering flame of interest in the subject alive.
Archaeology in the mid-sixties was superficially calm. Old ideas, such as the pottery-based ‘cultures’, still just managed to hold on, but a tide of new thinking and new scientific techniques was about to rip through the old order. The subject would never be the same again. As has been mentioned, one of the most profound instruments of change was radiocarbon dating. Although I’m now older and wiser, I still find it almost magical that one can take a piece of bone or charcoal, pop it into a machine for a few days and then be told how old it is – to within, say, fifty years. And if you’re lucky enough to have a decent-sized sample (a teacupful of charcoal, say) it will only cost about £200.
Before Willard F. Libby, a chemist at Chicago University, invented radiocarbon dating in 1949, archaeologists researching in remote places (such as Britain) had to work almost blind. If they wanted to date something – let us say a Neolithic stone-built tomb – they had to find similar tombs elsewhere across Europe, until eventually they reached the well-dated world of the eastern Mediterranean. In areas such as the Aegean it was believed that the dates were more secure, because actual written records – such as the famous Linear B script of Crete and Greece – extended back as far as 1400 BC. These dates may well have been more secure, but the problem didn’t lie there. It lay in the chain of false – or perhaps more truly forced – reasoning that linked the eastern Mediterranean to more peripheral areas. Radiocarbon was to expose this ruthlessly.
The idea behind radiocarbon dating is quite straightforward. Libby was researching into cosmic radiation – the process whereby the earth’s outer atmosphere is constantly bombarded by sub-atomic particles. This produces radioactive carbon, known as carbon-14. Carbon-14 is unstable and is constantly breaking down, but at a known and uniform rate: a gramme of carbon-14 will be half broken-down after 5,730 years, three-quarters broken down in twice that time (11,460 years), and so on. Libby’s breakthrough was to link this process to living things, and thence to time itself.
Carbon-14 is present in the earth’s atmosphere – in the air we all breathe – in the form of the gas carbon dioxide. Plants take in carbon dioxide through their leaves, plant-eating animals eat the leaves, and carnivores, in turn, eat the plant-eating animals. So all plants and animals – even vegetarians – absorb carbon-14 while they are alive. As soon as they die they stop taking it in; and, far more importantly for archaeology, the carbon-14 in their bodies – in their bones, their wood or whatever – starts to break down. So by measuring the amounts of carbon-14 in a bone, or piece of charcoal, fragment of cloth or peat, it is possible to estimate its age very accurately.
But there are problems. First of all, cosmic radiation has not been at a uniform rate, as Libby at first believed. Sunspots and solar flares are known to cause sudden upsurges of radiation. Nuclear testing has also filled the atmosphere with unwanted and unquantifiable radiation. As if these problems weren’t enough, the quantities of radiation being measured in radiocarbon laboratories around the world are truly minute, especially in older samples. All this uncertainty means that radiocarbon dates are usually expressed in the form of a range of years, say 1700 to 2000 BC, rather than a single central spot-date like 1850 BC.
There was a period of about ten years after the publication of Libby’s initial idea before any reliable datings became available. Then the pace began to hot up. By the time I was sitting my final exams, in May 1967, the early trickle had already become a flood. Today, radiocarbon dating is a completely routine process, carried out in various parts of the world hundreds of times every day.
Those early radiocarbon dates got me thinking about the prehistoric past in a new way. Perhaps it was the scientific certainty they implied, the fact that radiocarbon doesn’t lie. They seemed to connect us directly to the past, and in a way removed a part of the curtain of mystery which hung between us and them – those shadowy figures of the Neolithic twilight.
The new tide of radiocarbon dates produced some extraordinary results. At first, some of the dates were much earlier than archaeologists had expected. But, being human, they were loath to throw out their old ways of doing things just because some scientists told them their dates were wrong. So they pressed on regardless. Then, as the evidence accumulated around them, some conceded that they had underestimated the true age of the Neolithic and Bronze Ages, and that both periods seemed to have lasted roughly twice as long as was previously believed. All of this they could take: their scheme was basically right, just a bit too young and a bit compressed. They were shortly to be proved wrong.
By the time I was doing the revision and research for my final degree exams, it was becoming increasingly apparent that the radiocarbon revolution was not about dates alone. Prehistory was being reassembled in a new order that would have profound effects not just on what we researched – i.e. the subject-matter of our enquiries – but on our thought-processes themselves. In Britain, America and elsewhere in the mid-1960s, archaeologists were questioning the very way they thought about archaeology. How could the processes of archaeological reasoning be improved? Most important of all, how could they be made more explicit, more open to scrutiny and review? Some felt that the new wind blowing through the subject was cold and cheerless. Myself, I found it invigorating. It was good to see the cobwebs being blown away.
As a British archaeologist, working on British material, I had always felt something of a poor cousin compared with those who studied the Classical world, Egypt and the Near East. But all of that was about to change. As I realised what was happening around me, I began to feel – and it was a feeling, not a consciously worked-out idea – that British prehistory really did matter. It had its own identity and integrity. It was not a devolved by-product of someone else’s creativity, a feeble copy of something magnificent in the Aegean. No, it was well worth studying for its own sake. That was enough for me: somewhere deep inside I could detect the distant sound of a huntsman’s horn. Without knowing it, I was about to start the quest of a lifetime.

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