England 2026 - Plague Village

When I excavate at Vindolanda there is that pesky in between weekend where they require us to put down the tools and rest.  It is usually the occasion for our little band to do some sort of interesting road trips.  This year the Saturday road trip started here:

Welcome to Throckrington.  The ancient church and an adjacent farm is everything that is above ground.  It is a plague village, a community of the dead.

Evidently it used to be a thriving place.  But in 1847 a sailor returned home....with cholera.  There were so many deaths that the village was abandoned, its structures burned to the ground.  Today it is a wind swept, lonely place.

Some of the tombstones make me think it may have been a bit peculiar even back in the day.

And....

If you squint through the lichens it says:

In Memory of ISABLE Wife of 

JACOB COOK, who died

May the 11th 1814 aged 75 years

Also JACOB COOK who died on 

the 9th of March 1817, in the 78 year of his age

For more than fifty years he was

deeply acquainted with experimental

relegion.  He lived a holy and an use

ful life, and died a happy and triumph

ant Death.  

(It does go on to list various other members of the Cook family, squeezing some grand kids in right down at the hard to read bottom edge).

Another notable burial in the place is Lord Beveridge.  At first glance I thought it was Lord Beverage, which would be interesting. I might have been thinking of a later stop on our itinerary.

Lord Beveridge of Tuggal is a pretty recent addition to the graveyard.  He is said to be one of the architects of the modern British welfare state.  I'd say he was lucky to have gotten into hallowed ground, as he described himself as a "materialistic agnostic", and dabbled in Eugenics.  He also - along with Albert Einstein - was part of a People's World Convention that post war was proposing to draft a Constitution for the Federation of Earth.  Rather Trekky.....

It was a busy Saturday, and I'll have to save the strange antiques market and Mad Sufferegette for another day.  But we ended it in style, with a visit to the brewery and tap room of the First and Last Brewery.  They make the Best Bitter that I enjoyed frequently at The Bowes.  Mmmmm for now all I can do is remember a pint of Reiver after a dusty day of digging.....

Chillingham Castle

Many people have difficulty in the matter of accumulating "stuff".  It's fun to buy things, cool to own them, but getting rid of them?  Nah.  It of course can lead to becoming a Hoarder.  Usually there is some limiting factor.  I've not watched the various TV programs on this matter but in general you can only fit so much "stuff" into a double wide trailer or, for the more fortunate hoarder, a barn.  But what if you have an entire castle to fill?  Things could get interesting.

On one of our Diggers Excursions last month we went to Chillingham Castle.  It has been very extensively rebuilt, but at its core it is an old place.  And  it sits in the debatable lands between England and Scotland.  Often besieged; I suspect if you were to talk to the ghosts of the various Lords who held Chillingham they'd misinterpret the term hoard to mean yet another pack of rampaging Scots on the way.

The current Lord, Sir Humphrey Wakefield, would be another matter.  He's done a lot of things.  Been a cavalry officer, a mountaineer who has climbed Everest, been married several times....and served as a director for various Antique firms.  He even worked for Sotheby's for a while.  Here's a guy who had access to an entire universe of "stuff".  And he's filled Chillingham up with it.

You are off to a good start when you walk through the front gate and have a WWI vintage machine gun aimed at you.

This shows the overall "organization" of the place.  Vickers gun, African drum, random photos, an aluminum ladder against the back wall.....

Chillingham claims to be one of the most "haunted" castles in Britain.  And to be fair, there have been a few skeletons found buried and walled up in odd places.  Here in one of the main halls is a guide who was very enthused about ghosts.  He has various ghost detecting equipment in that box behind him.  During his chat with us he did a quick take and said "There...did you see that spirit orb along the edge of the tapestry?"

It didn't seem right to disappoint the man, so our photographer Pete arranged a trick photo of us in front of that fireplace in the background.  We'll probably end up on their website....

Photo credit of course to Pete Savin.  Acting credits shared.

You actually don't even need to buy the fairly reasonable entry ticket to see cool things.  Before you hit the gift shop/box office you can cruise through a faux torture chamber.  It is suitably dark and gloomy so I made rare use of a flash here.....

Of course most if not all of these torture implements are modern fakes, that's part of why they have atrocious lighting in this area.  The gigantic steel trap on the floor is one of those things supposedly used to cruelly, and one assumes fatally, capture poachers who strayed onto private hunting preserves.

You can also, sans ticket, go to their very nice tea shop.  Here it is seen from "The Minstrel's Gallery" where musicians would strum away with lutes and such back in the day.  Or even now, as you can rent the facility for private functions.

All manner of pikes and such on the walls.  Also antlers.  That massive set high up on the right wall are  Irish Elk antlers.  This was a species now extinct that overlapped with early Man and turns up in some cave paintings.  These antlers are dug up in various places, especially Ireland, and were an active commodity on the Castle Decor market back in the day.  These seem too big (sources vary but 11 or 12 feet across, max) to be entirely plausible as a genuine set.  Probably there was a competition amongst decorating nobility....my set is bigger than yours.  Ironic, as one theory for the extinction of Irish Elk is related.  As evidently "Does loved them some big ones" there was genetic selection for male elk with the most ridiculous front heavy....er.....racks.  Eventually the male half of the species figuratively and perhaps literally just tipped forward on their noses and could no longer move.  Add what metaphors seem good to you.

Lots more Castle Décor.  Random paintings on the wall, a table permanently set for a formal dinner.  That huge wooden thing on the back wall is a punt gun, a massive shotgun that you'd mount on the front of a small boat so that you could blast an entire flock of waterfowl all at once.

The whole place is chock full of things like this.  But there is a fair bit of actual history too.  Here's the view from The Edward Tower, where Edward the First (aka The Hammer of the Scots) stayed during one of his forays up this way.  Nice gardens.

In such a historic spot I had to ask my friend Pete to sit in the helpfully provided throne and strike an Edwardian pose.  He's clearly ruminating on the perfidious nature of the Scots - almost as bad as his allied nobles - and on the profound disappointment that was his son, the future Edward II.

If a castle full of curios and purported ghosts interests you I recommend Chillingham.  If you just want to see additional demonstrations of my principle that no opportunity for a silly photo should be missed.....come back on Monday.....

A Mystery at Corbridge

On a day off of the excavations we went over to Corbridge.  It was once the most northerly town in the Roman Empire.  Its history since then has been up and down.  The borderlands between Scotland and England have always been a "rough neighborhood" so it has been sacked, razed and generally obliterated several times.  This makes it a little tricky to figure out some aspects of its history.

Should you visit - with peaceful intent of course - in the modern era, you'll find a nicely excavated Roman fort with a very good museum.  And a quaint little town that has become very posh.  High end shops, beauty salons, that sort of thing.

But should you stray to the edge of the upscale High Street, down to The Wheatsheaf pub on St. Helen's street, and peek behind it, you'll see something interesting......

There, up above the dumpsters ( of course they are "skips" in UK ).

Lets take a closer look.....

So what's going on here?  It's a statue, definitely Roman style.  It is probably Abundantia, the goddess of plenty.  Note the Cornucopia.  Whether it is an original, in pretty nice shape, or a very well executed fake, is impossible to tell from this vantage point.  It certainly fits the niche quite nicely, and said niche is not a new addition.  And as we are quite a distance from the Roman fort and community, this gal has certainly traveled at some point.

You may note that the head looks a bit wrong; just a bit too small.  This is actually a point in favor of authenticity as Roman statues were often designed to have changeable heads.  One suspects this was especially useful for depictions of some of the dodgier, short reign Emperors....

As to the building, down the way and over the trash cans (sorry, bins) we see this:

1695.  So this is a pretty old building.  I found one reference to it being a dairy but presumably this was a recent use.  I suppose since we are questioning everything this stone could also be a later addition, but it looks right.

Near our mystery goddess, and being pointed out by a known goddess, we see these guys...

Also Roman, albeit in a sort of crude Celtic style that you encounter up on the frontier.  See also these swell "heads" found over at Carlisle last year.....

So what to make of the Roman statues behind The Wheat Sheaf pub?  I think they are legit.  Oh, as you go here and there you'll run across all manner of antiquities that were scooped up by travelers on The Grand Tour and installed in their manors back home.  But even if you can mentally edit out the trash cans and rewind a few centuries of history, this was not the swank abode of some aristocrat.  

Given the presence of nearby Roman stuff I'd rate it as highly probable that the people who lived here just went over and nicked a few items.  Perhaps at the time of the initial 1695 build or at a later refurb.  It's not easy to tell a 200 year old niche from a 300 year old one.  The two faced corner stone in particular looks out of place and my money is on it being a later addition.

Flowers for Field

Sometimes I see things and just sense a significance.  Often it takes after the fact research to figure it out.  When on Lindisfarne Island I was sufficiently intrigued by this tombstone to snap a pic.  I had thought it was F.I.E.L.D. Flowers, but even for the British having five names ahead of your surname would be a bit much.  No, it seems to just be Field Flowers.  A bit of a pun one supposes.

The story is of course a sad one.

At the time of his death in 1843, Field Flowers - son of the Reverend Field Flowers no less - was only 13 years old.  He was drowned in the wreck of the ship Pegasus off Lindisfarne.  Records indicate that his mother Frances and sister Fanny also perished that day. 

Who knew that my relative disinterest in the early history of Lindisfarne and my fascination with the life boat service would go in this peculiar direction.  It's not as if the badly deteriorating monument held any clues.....

Plague Stone

Last time I mentioned that on a visit to Penrith the author Daniel Defoe inspected various historic features including The Giant's Grave.  I wonder, no, I quite suspect, that he might have visited another obscure site on the edge of town.

This is a Plague Stone, to be found on what would have been the outskirts of the community.

Some background is needed here.  Penrith being a border town in the north of England had to endure frequent unrest due to uprisings of Scots, Rievers and assorted ruffians.  Unfair as it may seem, they also had periodic bouts of Bubonic Plague.  The most serious episode occurred over 1597 and 1598.  About one third of the population perished, with the victims ranging from the heir to the local Lordship down to the humblest of citizens.

There was at the time some understanding of contagion, and this posed a problem.  In towns you had money, a need for food....but you also had the Plague.  In the thinly populated countryside you had food, usually little or no Plague, but also.... no money.  Markets were closed for obvious reasons.

The answer was to set up Plague Stones at the edges of towns.  These were stones with carved hollows in the top.  The depression would be filled with vinegar, thought to be an antiseptic.  Townspeople would approach, put their coins into the vinegar, then step back.  Farmers would come, take the money, and leave produce.  A rather effective triumph of capitalism if you think about it.

Here I am pretending to toss a coin or two in, expecting lunch to turn up.

Surprisingly it did.  A nearby house keeps chickens and despite the presence of a busy road behind me they were allowed to be loose.  They promptly marched over to see what I was up to.

mmmm, Chicken dinner...

No, I did not have a nice lunch at their expense, I doubt the local magistrate would have been impressed by my knowledge of local history.  But lets get back to Daniel Defoe for a moment.

Defoe has possibly the greatest biography of any writer ever.  He was a merchant and a ship owner.  For a while he owned civet cats to make perfume.  He spent time in prison for both his problematic political beliefs and his frequent debts. He at various times ran a brick factory and was appointed a government inspector deputized to collect the tax on bottles. He is known to have been a spy for King William III.  He wrote on an amazing range of topics using 198 known pseudonyms.  When he died of "lethargy" in 1731 he was probably hiding out from his creditors.

Defoe is of course best known for Robinson Crusoe, but he wrote many other memorable tales including Moll Flanders.  Two of his lesser known works have a bearing on our tale.

Between 1724 and 1727 he penned "A Tour Thro' the Whole Island of Great Britain", a very early form of travel literature.  In it he describes Penrith in detail.  He is known to have visited at an unclear date; many entries in the Tour seemingly based on his earlier journeys as a merchant.

In 1722 he had published "A Journal of the Plague Year".  In it is contained a highly detailed account of the London Plague of 1665. Now Defoe was only five years old at the time and was evacuated from the city quite promptly.  His narrator for the tale is listed as the enigmatic "H.F.".  This is generally considered to be his uncle Henry Foe. Perhaps nephew Daniel had access to an unknown memoir, although other interesting theories have been put forward including one that has DeFoe coming into possession of the contemporary diary of Samual Pepys and managing to break the encryption in which it was written!

The Bubonic Plague must to have fascinated Defoe; it is a topic he touched upon often prior to writing his "Journal" (if we assume it is at least partly his creation).  So I assume he would have to be interested in a Plague Stone when he visited Penrith.

Does the concept make it into his writing?

Yep.  

"It is true, People us'd all possible Precaution, when any one bought a Joint of Meat in the Market, they would not take it of the Butcher's Hand, but take it off of the Hooks themselves.  On the other Hand, the Butcher would not touch the Money, but have it put into a Pot full of Vinegar which he kept for that purpose.  The Buyer carry'd always small Money to make up any odd Sum, that they might take no Change."

Plague Stones appear to be reasonably common in England.  At least stones for which the claim is made are common.  Some are just hollowed out rocks.  Others, such as the Penrith example, are early cross bases repurposed for this role.  Likely the Penrith specimen originated at the same church where Defoe viewed The Giant's Grave.

Catrigg Force

Lest the title confuse you, I don't believe there are any Cat Special Forces involved.  Although one never really knows.

Better half and I are ensconced in the wilds of West Yorkshire, doing a bit of walking.  It is a footloose existence, we get up in the morning, look at a map and decide we'll go somewhere.  Today it was Catrigg Force.

In the local lingo a "force" or sometimes "foss" is a waterfall.  Rigg means a good sized hill.  Nobody seems to know how cats got involved.  Catrigg Force is a waterfall about a mile outside of Stainforth, which in turn is about three miles upstream from Settle.

The walk goes up a the hill by way of the "Cat Steps".  These are of unclear antiquity, probably not - as the local legend claims - created by the Giant of Winskill.

After a bit of meandering, The Force is with you.

The first glimpse is not impressive.  The stream is about three inches deep!

But when you go down a side path into a deep, cool wood it looks a bit more inspiring.

It drops 12 meters into a deep gorge.  When we visited it there was not much water going over, as it had been dry, but it is said to be really something in a rainy season.

At the end of this walk over the sunny uplands, you really deserve a nice pint.  The Craven Heifer in Stainforth looked just the ticket....but it was closed for repairs!

Craven as it happens is not an aspersion on the character of this cow, it is the name of the local district.  The specific heifer mentioned lived in the early 1800's and was so majestic that she became known as "The Craven Heifer".  Several pubs including this one were renamed in her honor.

Oh well, just a longer walk to the needed refreshments.  Our trek homeward was along the River Ribble, and went past Stainforth Force, another waterfall.  This is a salmon river and this looked like a substantial obstacle to upstream travel.

Back to our lodging with heavy legs.  Two refreshments each (ale and G/T respectively) did much to restore them.

Digger's Day Off - Saving Lives instead of Souls

On our weekend between digging sessions a bunch of us Old Hands go here and there on little adventures.  Usually there is some historic site involved.  Saturday was no exception.  We had a fun trip up to Holy Island, home of Lindisfarne Priory.  Tons of History.  This is where the fabulous Lindisfarne Gospel comes from.  I'm not going to show you any of that stuff.  I keep getting distracted by small interesting things.  

On the island I saw this set into a wall.

R.N.L.I is the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.  I had been vaguely aware of them, you see their distinctive coin boxes in many local businesses.

They have been around a while.  I actually prefer their original name, the National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Shipwreck.  It serves a function similar to what the U.S. Coast Guard does in American waters, helping mariners in distress.  But it is entirely funded by the public and manned by volunteers.  Think of it as akin to a nation wide volunteer fire department.

While waiting for fish and chips in Sea Houses I noticed a sign indicating that there was a R.N.L.I. charity shop by the harbor.  I ducked in to find the shop just closing up, but still open was the door leading into the boathouse.

On the walls are tablets describing their rescue operations over the years.  

Those from 1914 to 1918 are particularly busy.  The Great War did not shut down commerce and fishing to the extent that the Second World War did, and quite a few small craft fell victim to mines and torpedoes.  The numbers listed are lives saved.

That is not to say that that 1939 to 1945 were quiet years.  Some of the lifeboats went to Dunkirk.  And the crews, by this time mostly older men, had plenty of sailors and aircrew to rescue.

An interesting diversion.  Instead of highlighting Lindisfarne and the saving of immortal souls I got interested in the Life Boats and the saving of mortal lives.

A small corner of Flanders Fields

Flanders, that flat and much fought over portion of Belgium, is dotted with immaculate cemeteries like this one near Wytschaete.

The horrific losses of the Great War had a major impact on how the warring nations viewed their casualties.  In England particularly, the terrible harrowing of an entire generation of the Empire's best was sobering.  Even before the war had ended there were plans being made that turned into the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.  One of the minds behind it was Rudyard Kipling, that most emphatic of Imperialists, whose only son, an 18 year lieutenant, lay dead in a lost and unmarked grave.

The cemeteries can be large or small.  Most are in rural locations as it was decided that the men should rest near where they fell.  In a radical move it was also decided that in death there would be no class distinctions. Officers and men all have the same grave stones.  Men from Britain and from all over the Empire rest together.  They are well maintained and humbling.

With that somber background I was rather unprepared to find this grave marker in this little cemetery near the Hill 80 dig.

The grave of a German corporal, one of 14 German graves among the total of 105.  One of the Germans was actually a sailor! 

So what gives?

German casualties were collected after the war and primarily buried in three large cemeteries dedicated specifically to that purpose.  But 1,105 Germans remain buried in 79 Allied cemeteries scattered across Belgium.  In many cases these casualties were men who died of their wounds while prisoners.  But In this cemetery, Torreken Farm Number One, all the German casualties died between April 10th and May 1st of 1918.  The German spring offensive started on April 9th and it seems that this existing Allied cemetery was in the captured territory and was simply used for new German casualties.

And how did a sailor end up as a casualty? 

That's a little harder to say.  There were sailors assigned to the German armies, they for instance operated the really big guns that were repurposed from naval projects once it became clear that long range ship construction was not a realistic option.  There were also "Marine Divisions" of German sailors assigned to holding the coastal portions of Belgium.  That seems fair, down near the sea Belgium was probably as much water as dirt, since the dike systems were destroyed in 1914 to slow the German advance.   

The grave marker for the sailor, Gottlieb Arndt, has the designation "Marine Howitzer Battery One" so I am assuming that he was a gunner assigned to land duty when victory at sea was no longer considered possible.

Bad feelings towards Germany were common after the World Wars, and may not entirely forgotten to this day.  So it is good to see that at least here and there a bit of common decency prevails. It would have been easy enough to disturb the rest of these German dead.  But it is not as if any of these young men had a part in the chain of bad decisions that made Flanders the site of four years of inhumane slaughter.

Gladstone versus Disraeli

Perhaps in my post from last Friday I assumed a knowledge of British politics that is not common on this side of the Atlantic and perhaps even not universal on the other side.  So a brief explanation.

William Gladstone was one of the great British statesmen of the Victorian age.  He was what we'd now think of as a Progressive.  His opposite number, at least equally great, was Benjamin Disraeli, a conservative.  

They apparently had a genuine dislike for each other and this made for some ferociously personal insults going back and forth.  Disraeli was always a little better at this.  A few classics:

"The difference between a misfortune and a calamity is this: If Gladstone fell into the Thames, it would be a misfortune. But if someone dragged him out again, that would be a calamity."

"Inebriated with the exuberance of his own verbosity, and gifted with an egotistical imagination."

"He has not one single redeeming defect."
 

And there is that great, if apocryphal exchange between Disraeli and an unnamed Member of Parliament:*

"You sir, will certainly die either on the gallows or of the pox."

"That depends, sir, on whether I embrace your principles or your mistress."

You just have to wonder how that sort of political language would have gone over in other times, in other places.  In America of the contemporary mid 1800s it may well have resulted in an invitation to meet with pistols at dawn.  In America of the current day it would have made Disraeli the King of Twitter.

But Gladstone had his moments too.  Here's  a cartoon of him showing Disraeli the door when replacing him as Prime Minister:

(image from the Hathi Digital Library Trust, Princeton University)
http://www.victorianweb.org/periodicals/fun/2pms/11.html
_______________________

*It is a humorous quotation that had been kicking around for quite a while, and while Disraeli is certainly the kind of guy who would say things like this it is pretty clear that he was not the first one to do so....

Archeology Spring Training Part Six - The Difficulties of Buttons

Distinctive buttons have been a part of military uniforms for several hundred years.  So being at least conversant with them will be important when excavating in Flanders this spring.

Of course in the general sense it is well known which regiments were in the line at any given time.  And with the condition of the battlefield you can't always learn much from a button.  It could have come off a uniform at any time, or been post war surplus, or have been lost in 1914 and tossed about a hundred times since then by the explosion of shells.  But sometimes buttons can help you a great deal.  It is important that soldiers who died in battle get a respectful burial.  And while it probably does not matter much to them, it is important to us, that they get put into the proper cemetery.  Buttons are one of the best indicators of where that should be.

So context is rather important.  And one difficulty of today's examples is that these two were just down in the bottom of a box.  One or both might have been buttons I have found over the years.  One or both might have been in a batch that my wife recalls getting from some British detectorists.  In terms of studying them I suppose it does not matter today, but I shall make a pitch here for meticulous record keeping!

Oh, there are other issues with buttons.  They were produced in massive quantities and were exported all over the world.  They often imitated each other and cribbed from any source of culture that was then current.  They are extensively documented but there are always more variants and small time producers out there.  The cheaper ones tend to have a thin wash of brass that easily rubs off.

But for what it is worth here are a couple to get me thinking....

This guy is obviously a Cupid.  He's pretty generic, no identifying marks on front or back.  Nicely executed.  I rather doubt I'll be finding anything like this in the trenches of the Ypres Salient but I suppose one never knows.  After all, many soldiers got clothing parcels from home to help them through the winter months.   

The button below led me a merry chase indeed.  With a griffin on it you'd assume it was Welsh.  The back has what can faintly be made out as the marking HRH SUPERIOR QUALITY.  This is the kind of mark you often found on 19th century military buttons both in England, and by way of export, here in the U.S. in the Civil War era.  So, has to be a button from a Welsh regiment or militia, yes?

No.

It took some sleuthing but I eventually figured out that this is what is called in the UK a "Livery Button".  That is, the kind of button servants would wear when employed by nobility.  Think Downton Abbey and all that.

The inscription is "FIDES ET VIRTUTE" meaning "Faith and Virtue".  And it was referenced with the name Gladstone.

Surely not THAT Gladstone?

Actually, yes.  Or, pretty much.  Gladstone the Prime Minister was the younger son of John Gladstone, who was named Baronette of Fasque and Balfour in 1846. His older brother therefore was the second in the line. This is the family crest, one no doubt still displayed proudly by the current Baronette, who is the 7th.

As to why it has a Griffin, usually associated with Wales, sometimes there is no explaining the arcane ways of Heraldry.

Pretty cool though, presumably a button from a servant's coat.  Age is indeterminate but certainly could have been contemporary with THE Gladstone.

I'm pretty sure this did not originate from Wisconsin, must have been in that stuff from the detectorists.
--------------
An addendum courtesy of the marvels of the internet.  I can probably identify what day of the week this button would have been worn and what garment it came off of.

In a book called Keeping Their Place: Domestic Service in The Country House 1700-1920 I found the following account by a man who was in service to the Gladstones...

"During the week I wore a full-dress suit of dark grey wool which had six silver buttons on the coat, three on each side.  With it I wore a bat wing collar, stiff shirt and white bow tie.  The Sunday livery was cut exactly like the regular suit but it was made of plum colored-wool and trimmed with gold buttons."

Of Moths and Manses

Mostly for my own amusement I make occasional mention of my house as being called "Trowelsworthy Hall".  It is of course a very real place, and as it is past the century mark expensive repairs and upkeep are always lurking. 

On a recent Saturday morning as I sat on the front porch swing I was dismayed to see what looked like a bit of peeling paint on one of the pillars.  

Zooming in nice and close we see that it really is this:

  

The wee chap is doing his or her best to blend in.

I got a sense of deja vu because I have seen very similar photos in old science textbooks when I was young.  It seems that one of the early studies lending experimental evidence to Darwin's theory of Natural Selection came out of the British Midlands in the 19th Century.  It was noted that as industrial soot poured out of Manchester and its environs, all the trees out in the countryside got dark and sooty, the light colored lichens (which really do look like moths..or paint chips) having died off.  Soon dark colored moths, previously quite rare, became the norm as hungry birds gobbled up all the poorly camoflaged lighter variants.

A few observations.

1. Manchester has been cleaned up a great deal.  We spent a short time there in May and I saw no soot at all.  Also no moths but I was not looking specially for them and they are good at hiding.

2. British scientific studies generate an enormous amount of amusing commentary.  In looking at this question I found not only the sensible issues of how many moths you need to extrapolate for all of Insectkind, but some highly entertaining accusations of moths glued to tree trunks to fudge data, and one author comparing his disappointment in having to reconsider his position as being similar to finding out at age six that his father, not Santa Claus, was the bringer of Christmas presents.

3. I don't need to paint the porch this year.

Warden Churchyard, Northumberland

Almost all church yards are dense with history, and in the UK you find some really remarkable examples.

Up in Northumberland, near Corbridge we made a brief stop at a place called Warden Churchyard.

The church proper is very old, with the squared off, military look to its tower leading some to speculate that the Saxon architect of this place might have used a still extant Hadrian's Wall turret as his inspiration.

You find all different layers of history.

Here, next to the door of the church we find what is felt to be a very worn down former Roman altar. It has a later carving of The Green Man on it.  Green Man was an odd hold over of pagan fertility cultism that the Church just looked at and shrugged.

I did read one source that fancifully claimed that the break in the middle was to "release" any pagan influences before the stone was allowed onto hallowed ground.  This is somewhat unlikely, stones have a tendency to break on their own.

Here's something you don't see every day....

A series of graves with iron cages on top.  No, not a concern about the Dead Rising Up as zombies. But something slightly unpleasant.

This is probably a "Mortsafe".  For a long time there was a stigma against dissecting dead bodies for medical education.  In medieval times it was opposed by the Church and even into the modern era it was not regarded favorably.  Medical students who wished to study anatomy would sometimes turn to "Resurrection Men".  For a fee these guys would go out under dark of night and dig up a nice fresh corpse for you.  The practice was wide spread, both in the UK and elsewhere.  It was especially prevalent and reviled in Scotland, where beliefs in the resurrection of the body after death were quite strong.

As a result measures designed to stop grave robbing were the most elaborate in the immediate vicinity of Scottish medical schools.  My examples from above are "over the border" in England but not by that much.

I actually question whether the intent here was preventing grave robbing.  Warden Churchyard is a long ways from any plausible market for a dead body, and the shelf life would be, er, limited.  Also, grave robbing was much reduced after the passage of the Anatomy Act of 1832 made access to unclaimed bodies much easier for students of medicine.  The death dates on these stones are all much later.  I can see an 1862 clearly and there was another that seemed to be from 1891.  Perhaps this was a mortician selling out old stock.  Or maybe somebody just indulging a rather macabre whim.

Our last stop today is a sad one.  Have a look.

An especially fine military monument in a country that lost so many of her best and bravest.

Now take a closer look.

Poor Private Thomas Harrison.  He died on the last day of World War One.  Literally on the 11th day of the 11th month.  For all we know it might have been on the 11th hour, the exact moment that the guns fell silent.

His name is relatively common, so I have not been able to find out much about him.  The designation
N.F. stands for Northumberland Fusiliers.  This was a long established Regular Army regiment that during the course of the Great War expanded into a bewildering 51 battalions and fought from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end.

I am not sure why Private Harrison died in Cardiff, Wales.  A reasonable guess might be that he died of wounds while in hospital.  The 3rd Western General Hospital there was a rather large establishment.

Why we need Pubs

Here we have an important landmark for humanity.

St. Mary's Hospital, London.  Near Paddington Station.  It's importance?  Turn around.

I have managed, well  to accidentally capture the reflection of the red brick building.  That was where Sir Alexander Fleming discovered Penicillin! Now, did mold spores from his favorite pub waft across the street to help mankind vanquish disease?  I'm going with probably here.  Yeast and deep thoughts....that's what pubs are all about really.