Tides of the March

This morning I was at Blaise Castle House Museum in Bristol, a neo-classical mansion set in a splendid park by Humphry Repton, not far from Blaise Hamlet, the famous Regency assortment of mock-rustic cottages. Bristol’s museums are still run by Bristol, in contrast to many places where the assembled evidence of a common identity is no longer seen as anything to do with the expression of a common voice and will.

One room is hung with pictures, mostly landscapes, including several early 19th century views of Bristol by W.J. Müller. They repay close study, identifying the still-familiar landmarks. There’s the cathedral; there’s the Arnolfini; St. Peter’s, St. Mary-le-Port, Temple Church. St. Mary Redcliffe, before the spire was finished off.

My reason for being there was a talk by Toby Jones, the man from Oregon, in charge of conserving the Newport Mediæval Ship. A story he knows well and tells compellingly. Older than the Vasa, older than the Mary Rose, this is Wales’ own triumph of maritime archæology. She remains nameless but dates from the mid-15th century, a time from which shipping records start to survive and so research is continuing. Warwick the Kingmaker, no less, is thought to have owned such a ship and to have sent her to Newport for repairs. The dendrochronology is clear that she was not originally from the Bristol Channel area; there is some evidence she may have been built at Bayonne in Aquitaine.

Pulled up a pill beside the River Usk, she slipped into the mud and stayed there until 2002, eventually seven metres below ground level. Newport City Council has now built a theatre and arts centre on the site. It was in the final stages of rescue archæology during those building works that the ship was discovered. And nearly lost. Worried about rising costs, the Council thought of abandoning her. Protesters held a vigil on site until minds were changed. The ship was to be excavated and recorded but not preserved. At last the Welsh Assembly Government stepped in with the funds to enable her to be lifted and for conservation work to begin.

Here some practical issues intervened. The concrete piles for the building had already been driven, 13 of them through the ship, nailing her to the bedrock. Lifting her whole being impossible, the only option left was to disassemble her, sawing through countless oak pegs swollen for five centuries. Still digging its heels in, the Council refused to excavate the stern as too difficult a job. Building a “cultural” centre that requires the loss of real, irreplaceable culture is the sort of thing one expects of such folk. Spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar.

Now the task for conservators is to put back together again the 95% of the surviving timbers recovered – all 1,700 of them. Newport, the council who also managed to demolish half their castle for a road junction and now also deny the public access to the rest, seem at last to be waking up to the huge tourism asset they have done their best to destroy. Should she have taken them by surprise? Core samples were taken ahead of piling – the proof is visible on the ship – and cores with huge quantities of oak in them should have alerted somebody. Surely the Taffia could not have had a hand in maintaining the silence? Honourable men, in Newport, all honourable men…

Returning Home

Time passes. It was the end of last month that I went to Bristol one Monday evening to hear the University’s Professor Mark Horton lecture at the City Museum and Art Gallery. Admission was free and that included the wine and the nibbles. No wonder tuition fees are set to rise.

The talk was entitled ‘Eadgyth – Bones of an Anglo-Saxon Princess’. Professor Horton spoke about Bristol University’s involvement in the process of identifying bones from Magdeburg Cathedral as those of Queen Eadgyth of Germany, a grand-daughter of King Alfred the Great. With help from more expert colleagues he explained the science behind the conclusion and also went through what else was found in the tomb. Fragments of ancient textiles, 16th century beetles and the remains of floral tributes. He finished with some photographs of the re-interment of Eadgyth in October, the bones placed in a new casket of titanium and silver, engraved in German and Latin. Next time the tomb is opened, German may perhaps be extinct but there will always be Latin.

Mark Horton is an archæologist and it was not his brief to say much about the historical context. Indeed, having described Eadgyth as the mother of Europe, he then confessed to finding royal genealogy boring. Nevertheless, he had to admit that the Germans found Eadgyth fascinating, with huge crowds attending the re-interment. She and her sisters had been much sought after as brides by the continental elite of the 10th century. Apparently, it was all because the Wessex line could claim great antiquity; the upstarts who filled the void after Charlemagne could appreciate that.

Anglo-Saxon England has tended to be the special preserve of rampant nationalism, yet in its own time it was anything but insular. The Anglo-Saxons came from the continent and continued to be part of it: Beowulf is set in Scandinavia. They received clergy and scholars from Italy, Greece and France and sent missionaries to the Frisians and the Germans. Offa corresponded with Charlemagne. Aldhelm, Ine and Alfred visited Rome. Edgar the Atheling – the last Englishman acclaimed King of the English – was born in Hungary. Harold Godwinson’s daughter Gytha married the Grand Prince of Kievan Rus and it is through this marriage that all English sovereigns from Edward III can claim descent from the House of Godwin. The continent is a recurrent part of our history, and therefore to some extent 'home'. Joint ventures like the research on Eadgyth’s bones can only make us realise still more a once obvious fact.