Guest Blog 2: That Little Ship... by @jessikart

Welcome to the second of our Guest Blogs on the subject of "What history/heritage means to me". This week's beautiful contribution is from Norfolk based @jessikart. Jess has been very, very firm about what I am, and am not, allowed to write when describing her and her writing. For instance, I am, under no circumstances, allowed to mention the fact that her own blog has been viewed over 60,000 times. I'm certainly not allowed to tell you that she has guest blogged for Mumsnet, or that her blog appears regularly on the front page of their website. I'm also strictly forbidden from mentioning the fact that her blog pieces have been picked up by regional newspapers, or mention her now infamous blog post concerning Ed Balls...

So what am I allowed to say? Not a lot. I can say that Jess is a recent volunteer with the Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey, where she not only helps undertake surveys but also advises and helps on matters concerning publications, and that her own version of a biography read - "Jess is a history obsessed moo, a twatty blogger, and a right pain in the arse for some. She can be quite sweary. Has Scottish hair..."

That Little Ship... by @jessikart

Look at that. It’s not much, is it? But that ship, that tiny little etching changed my life. This is, from my point of view, in equal parts both terrifying and hilarious.

Almost exactly 25 years ago, I was on holiday in the north Norfolk village of Salthouse. I was bored, lonely, the weather was grotty, there was no possibility of taking a walk that day, so 10 year old me decided to explore St Nicholas church instead, standing high on a hill at the end of our lane. I mooched about inside aimlessly, half looking around at the memorials and windows, but finding nothing to dispel my ennui. I clambered into the choir stalls, trailing a pudgy hand behind me along the wood. And I felt something.

And that was it. A ship. More ships. A whole fleet of ships. And initials too, and dates, and all sorts of odd things. But why ships? I stood, and I stared, and my head swam slightly as the world rushed in at me, and I realised that I wasn’t the only one who had been here. I know that sounds stupid, but history had never occurred to me like that. History had never been about people.

History was dates, facts, books. Kings, queens, military campaigns. Not people like me. Not people who did anything other than die a long time ago. But the realisation that they too had their own futile hopes, silent dreams, and secret wishes.  And time… They had their own lifetime, just like me and everyone I knew. That thunderclap awakening still haunts me now, with the power to bring me to tears.*

     *Yes, fuck off; I did type that through tears and snot

 Because it did change my life. In the same way that staring up at the stars in the night sky is both a comfort and a chilling reminder of how utterly insignificant we are. It's a reminder that I wasn't here for a long time, I'm here now, but then I won't be. I’d love to say that since that moment, I have always considered history in this context. But that would be a big hairy arsed lie. Because that’s not how history is taught to young and enquiring minds. It’s almost as though some people don’t want to share history. They don’t want people to care about it in that sense. They want it to be dates, facts, books.

     History… is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken

Not too hard, if I’m honest. A Level British Political History, last lesson on a Friday afternoon, hiding at the back of an overheated and stuffy Edwardian classroom. Listening to Mr John drone on, seemingly endlessly, about Corn Laws. With my cheek resting on the heel of my hand, my pen strokes becoming ever slower, elbow sliding further along the desk, chin dipping lower, blinks lasting longer…

     ‘And of course, who was one of the greatest advocates for repeal… Jess?

     Eyes slam open, head snaps back up, dribble wiped hastily from chin.

     ‘Erm… Cob…den…?

     ‘Correct. Now, the House of Commons had suggested the price per quarter, which as you know was 480lb, should be 80 shillings…’

The lowlevel background speech dragged on for a further 40 minutes until we had a ten minute break in the middle of the lesson. I’d huddle outside the Sixth Form common room, drinking a chemical coffee from the vending machine, smoking a fag. And sometimes I’d have a companion, and we’d chat and get wankily enthusiastic about 19^th Century art, music, architecture. About how the current events of then shaped and influenced life for everyone, and how this was reflected. We’d talk about patronage and protest, why Shelley  wrote ‘I met Murder on the way, he had a face like Castlereagh’, about the Tolpuddle martyrs, about what certain laws meant to people, real people, how it shaped their lives. And then the bell would ring, Mr John would sigh and say ‘You haven’t handed in that essay on Catholic Emancipation, don’t think I’d forgotten’ as he and I walked back into class, and I would resume my great fight against falling asleep in a lesson taught by a man who shared my passion for history.

You could sense the palpable frustration in him. That he wanted, desperately, to show his students that history wasn’t as he was teaching it. That this is the dry bit of the subject, but there is so much more. That the facts are inextricably intertwined with lives, with people, with meaning and feeling. Confined to a syllabus, however, he couldn’t convey that.  And when the school decided to crack down on the shocking practise of teachers joining sixth formers for a fag break, our chats stopped, and history became closed off to me. I half forgot Salthouse, and the whiplash memory was dulled. History became the very thing I didn’t want it to be. Dates, facts, books.  

And then just over a year ago… it was a dark and stormy night (no, really). I was titting about on twitter, probably making inappropriate remarks, and a blogpost got retweeted into my feed. And I read it. And just like the oncoming storm, Salthouse raced back in at me. Or rather, the ships sailed back into view, filling the horizon, their decks filled with the shadowy ghosts of all the people who had been there before me. Long before that bored and lonely girl happened upon them, they had been there too, just like me.  

It didn’t matter to me that I’ll never know their names, their ages, what lives of quiet desperation they lived. Who they loved and were loved by. That’s their story that no one else will ever know. What mattered to me is that something mattered to them. That they were compelled, at some point in time to leave their trace behind, to make their mark on history. Something was important to them, and for that reason, it’s important to me.

It’s not just the deliberate marks either. A worn down staircase in Gressenhall workhouse. A reminder of thousands of feet, an accumulation of steps wearing down the stone with no malice, no intent, just effect.

 A rippled, bent tin door of a Spanish church, the heat of the sun warping the original design, the metal thinned and smoothed by the many hands that have touched it, surrounded by ancient walls flecked with shelling and scorchmarks from the Civil War.

 The ruins at Baconsthorpe. How many other people have stood, where my two children stood, and taken in that same landscape, lost in thought, or perhaps talking, or arguing, or weeping? Maybe not even looking at it, as familiarity dulls the senses.

 This, all of it, every little detail, is what reminds me that just as I am both the hero and villain of my life story, so is and was every person who has ever drawn breath. Their lives mattered to them, they were just as important as we are, and equally just as insignificant. We’re born, we live, we die. But we leave fragments behind. Little clues as to who and what we were. That is what history means to me. People. And people continue to be a source of fascination to me – some might even say the source of fascination in my life. Endlessly wonderful, frustrating, beautiful, base human beings. I observe them; I think about them, I write about them. And from writing, some of the best things in my life* have happened, things without which, I don’t know where I would be or the type of life I would have.

     *Usual ‘birth of children’ disclaimer applies

So it really wasn’t much, was it, that little ship? Just a little ship, carved into the wood. But it changed my life then. And it changes my life now, every day. A ship that has taken me on a strange and unpredictable voyage, sometimes calm, sometimes stormtossed. That’s what history has done for me. That’s what history means to me. People. Always people.

Guest Blog1 : Threads of Heritage...

Welcome to the very first of our guest blogs that form the NMGS Mini Blog Fest! Each of our guest posts over the coming weeks will look at the theme - 'What does history/heritage mean to you?' I am therefore delighted to be able to introduce you to the work of Karen and Lori, two American authors whose recently published work, The Medieval Vagina: An Historical and Hysterical Look at All Things Vaginal During the Middle Ages is certainly getting a fair amount of attention on social media and elsewhere.

Threads of Heritage

By Karen Harris and Lori Caskey-Sigety

Heritage is a complex word that conjures up more than history, culture, or traditions. Yet, heritage is comprised of these very things. Heritage is a composite, if you will; an alloy or a cocktail. But heritage is much more than a simple mixture of ingredients. Heritage is a tightly woven, intricate, interconnected intermingle of seemingly random threads that, taken together, tell a story. Heritage is a tapestry.

A tapestry, of course, is a cloth, a heavy woven piece of textile art. Each tapestry is woven on a loom using hundreds or thousands of individual threads in an artistic arrangement depicting a beautiful scene. A tapestry also tells a story. On its own, one individual thread is not impressive. The thread is only impressive when it is interwoven with others of its kind.  Only then, can its true beauty and importance can be viewed.

Slaves in the South of the United States during the first half of the 1800s used homespun tapestries, as well as rugs and quilts, as a means to share coded maps and instructions for escaped runaways who journeyed north via the Underground Railroad to, it was hoped, eventual freedom. The cloth was ideal; it was portable and could double as a blanket or covering. And if the slave was caught, his captors most likely wouldn't be able to decipher the symbols - even if they knew the significance of them.

Like a tapestry itself, history is filled with events that, when viewed in isolation, seem insignificant and trivial, but when viewed as part of the tapestry, we can fully see how integral each of these events are to understanding the bigger picture. 

Cassopolis, Michigan, is a dying Midwestern town with nothing much to show for itself today. Most businesses have long ago left this corner of southwest Michigan in favour of larger nearby cities, like South Bend, Indiana, and Kalamazoo, Michigan - and even Chicago and Detroit. Just as the businesses have gone, so too have the residents. Cassopolis is viewed today as an unimportant, dull thread.

Yet, Cassopolis is located along the final stops of the Underground Railroad’s route into Canada. Many escape slaves, attracted to the fertile farmland and hospitality of the Quaker residents, settled in and around Cassopolis and began building their lives as free men and women.

In 1847, a group of Kentucky slave owners crept into Cassopolis under cover of darkness to recapture the former slaves, who they viewed as their missing property. They were met with resistance not only from the former slaves, but from the peaceable Quakers as well. The Quakers calmed the slave owners, and convinced them to plead their case before the local judge. The legal process took longer than expected, a purposeful delay that gave the former slaves ample time to flee across the border and into the safety of Canada.

The enraged slave owners returned to Kentucky empty handed, determined that this would never happen to them again. They took their grievances to the courts and lawmakers. This event was the catalyst that led to the eventual passage of the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850 which, in turn, was one of the catalysts for the start of the American Civil War.

We can view the entire tapestry, the entire Civil War in this case, and study what we see. This is the study of history. We can view the tapestry as a product of its time and examine the societal beliefs and attitudes that may have impacted the weaver. This is the study of culture. We can admire the painstaking dedication of the artisan who is so skilled at his craft. This is the study of traditions. Or we can start by looking at the whole tapestry - then follow each thread, one by one, to see where they start - and how they intertwine with each other. This is heritage.

Karen and Lori's new book, The Medieval Vagina: An Historical and Hysterical Look at All Things Vaginal During the Middle Ages can be viewed here - http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Medieval-Vagina-Historical-Hysterical/dp/1500267619 

What heritage/History means to me. Pt.1 - Blood and Bone.

Welcome to the beginning of the Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey mini blog festival 2015! Over the next two months we are welcoming guest bloggers to write on the them of 'What history/heritage means to you?'

We already have some superb blog pieces and writers lined up for you, with contributions from historians, archaeologists, renowned bloggers and volunteers. All of whom will be writing upon the same subject, but each from their own unique perspective and based upon their own unique backgrounds and experiences. However, the one thing that all of them have in common is their love of history and heritage. It is hoped that by bringing together such a diverse group of people that this series of blogs can both highlight the differences between the various areas of today's heritage world, but also allow us all to explore the areas that we have in common; and perhaps even generate a few ideas on how all areas can work closer together in the future to ensure that our world heritage is both valued and cared for.

We kick off the mini blog festival at the end of this week with the first of our contributions from abroad; two American female historians that I must admit had escaped my attention until recently. However, as both have recently co-authored and published a book entitled 'The Medieval Vagina' I am sure that like me, you will be watching their work very closely in the future! Their new book has certainly generated a lot of attention on social media and the internet in general, despite apparently having a quite 'tame' front cover, so when they volunteered to write a blog post for our little collection - how could I say no? Having now also read that blog post I also know that you won't be disappointed. Superb writing. However, before we get to the real quality, I have been reminded that I said that I also would write the first post. A short introductory piece about exactly what 'Heritage/History means to me'. So, in the beginning...

Matthew Champion: Project Director, Norfolk Medieval Graffiti Survey

Now this may surprise some of you, or not, but I haven't always been "that weird graffiti guy with the bad attitude". Oh no, for many years I worked in heritage and archaeological publishing, where I was known as "that weird publisher guy with the bad attitude", and before that I was involved in historic buildings, working alongside your regular type of English builder who just knew me as "weird". I could go on, but will spare you the tedious litany of what my parents used to describe as "why can't you get a real job". However, of all the jobs I have had, and roles I have largely invented for myself (according to one former county archaeologist), have all had one thing in common - they have been low paid...  Actually, scrap that. They've had two things in common. Alongside the appallingly low rates of remuneration all of these roles have, to some degree, been involved in history and heritage. For me all of these roles, all of these jobs, were simply ways to discover more about the past, to make connections with those who have gone before us; those who have shaped the world in which we live today. Looking for someone to blame I guess...

Exactly why I had/have this need to connect to the past is, as it is in all of us, a matter of some debate. I've studied enough history and archaeology to be able to say quite categorically that it most certainly isn't a belief in the idea that 'things were so much better back then'. They almost certainly weren't. Indeed, being born into just about any age other than the modern one would have most likely resulted in a life that was nasty, brutish and short. Perhaps it is the result of a childhood trauma? A wish to escape the reality of the modern world? Who knows. What I do know is that this connection to the past is important to me. It helps define who I am, and informs the decisions I make; and whilst knowing that there are a hundred generations peering over your shoulder can be a little intimidating, it can also at times be reassuring. To be able to look at a building or landscape and unravel the story of the past laid out before me is something that informs how I interact with that landscape or building today. However, to me and above all things, heritage and history are far more than the stories of the visible world around us today. More importantly my view of the past, and what it means to me today, is informed by people.

Right, we have to do a bit of time travel now. We have to jump back in time, many, many years, to when I was about eighteen or nineteen years old (feel free to add in Dr Who style sound effects at this point). Can you see it yet? Black and white images rolling backwards, pages blowing off an old fashioned calendar, grainy images of people rapidly walking backwards down the street... and suddenly we are there. Back in the days before wifi, decent coffee and any foreign beer other than cheap aussie lager. Back in the days when I had hair - and lots of it. Well, way back in those dark long forgotten days, I used to work in an armoury. That's right - an armoury. Not one of your modern places full of guns and things that go bang with unnerving regularity - but a medieval armoury. A place full of sheet metal, swords, daggers, rapiers, halberds and red hot forges. Now this wasn't just any old medieval armoury (knowing that you are bound to have come across at least a few dozen such places) but one of the best in the country, that undertook conservation work for many of the major museums in Europe and beyond. Indeed, it really wasn't unusual to come across a group of loitering security guards tasked with protecting some incredibly valuable piece of arms and armour that had been sent to us for restoration - and by the looks on their faces wondering just who the hell they'd entrusted it to. However, much as I liked the shiny sharp stuff, my job was to do the leatherwork; to create copies of things like sword scabbards and knife sheathes in exactly the same way in which they had been made centuries earlier. A bit of a specialist area as you might imagine with, as usual, very few career prospects.

So there I was one day, sitting in the former stables where we kept all the leatherwork, listening to the banging of hammers and very, very loud Vivaldi from the workshop next door - and with a work of art before me. A broken work of art. It was a late medieval sword scabbard, formed from two thin pieces of wood that had been covered in leather and then bound together with tiny almost invisible stitches down the back. On the end, to prevent wear, was a highly decorated metal 'chape' that covered the last few inches of the scabbard - and which I had to try and remove so that the stitching could be repaired. Eventually the chape came away with a slight jolt, revealing the end of the leather covered scabbard - and the stitches along the leatherwork that it had concealed. And then it struck me. Looking at that tiny line of stitches, I realised that I was the first living soul to have seen those stitches since the medieval leatherworker who had made it over five centuries before me. That the last fingers to run along the slight raised ridge of stitched leather had been his, and that he had long since crumbled to dust leaving nothing on this planet except the tiny piece of craftsmanship that sat before me. The sounds of metalwork from next door seemed to dim, and it was as if I could feel him there, looking over my shoulder, admiring a job well done. Five centuries slipped away and two people, separated by an eternity and only the thickness of a moment, shared a connection that was both ethereal - and as deep rooted as blood and bone.

So for me history and heritage has always been about people. It has always been about making connections with the past, and how those connections can influence us today. It is about what history and heritage really 'mean' to the people who interact with it. My role is a simple one. I'm just a facilitator. Someone who helps others discover their own connections with the past. Hopefully they'll mean as much to them as they have done to me...

The Death of Heritage: playing in the ashes of the past...

Today saw the launch of the new look English Heritage and Historic England, born from the forced severance of the old English Heritage organisation. Until now the historic environment in England has been largely the legal responsibility of one organisation; English Heritage. Established in 1983, it was the natural successor to the old Department of Works, responsible for the care of over 420 historic properties in public hands. However, it has been an uneven and, in the view of many, a restrictive role that saw the one organisation have two very distinct and separate hydra like heads. On the one hand English Heritage were responsible for the maintenance and care of the many hundreds of historic buildings that litter our towns and countryside like so much historic confetti; everything from medieval monasteries and castles to iconic World Heritage Sites such as Stonehenge and large parts of Hadrian's Wall. They were responsible for the visitor experience, the retail outlets and the overflow car park on busy bank holiday weekends. However, on the other hand the same organisation was also responsible for implementing and enforcing current planning legislation in respect of the historic environment; offering advice and comment on everything from Scheduled Ancient Monuments to how the erection of an illuminated shop sign might impact upon the setting of a Listed Building. The two heads of the hydra were not seen by many as entirely obvious, or comfortable, bedfellows.

Well, the uneven marriage has finally ended in divorce. From the 1st of April (no irony apparently intended) English Heritage is to be split into two. The care of the historic properties will now be run by a charitable trust, still to be known as English Heritage, into which the government will invest about £80 million  for immediate repairs and consolidation. This is the new body that will be responsible for the historic houses and castles we visit, the interpretation of our heritage on the frontline and, of course, the gift-shops full of pencils, rubbers and shiny branded notebooks so beloved of visiting school parties. The rest of the responsibilities held by the old organisation, including most aspects of planning, advice and heritage protection are to be vested in a new body to be known as Historic England. This new body, according to Culture Secretary Sajid Javid speaking at the official launch of the organisation, will remain part of the government's responsibility and they intend to keep  "its functions close at hand."

So it appears that all is glowing and rosy in the world of heritage protection. However, looks can be deceiving. Is this, as Sajid Javid insists, simply the adapting of an old organisation "to suit the age in which we now live", or is it one of the final stages in something more fundamental; the systematic dismantling of all forms of environmental and heritage protection that has taken place over the last five years? Given the evidence it is difficult to conclude that it is anything other than the latter.

When the Tory party came to power five years ago one of their key ambitions, much promoted within business communities and elsewhere, was the doing away with 'red tape'. They were going to be a friend to business, remove the perceived 'brakes on development' and allow us to build our way out of recession. However, it soon became clear that their perception of what constituted red tape was anything that might slow down or hamper development. Anything that caused delay or expense to developers was their enemy and it had to go - and go it did.

The first to go was planning legislation. Seen as complex and restrictive, over 1500 pages of planning law was reduced to a single document of a little over 50 pages in length. The National Planning Policy Framework (NPPF) was to give a clean slate to the planning process and a green light to developers. Guidelines and well crafted legislation, that often left little or no room for ambiguity, and had been developed over a period of more than half a century, was thrown out of the window in favour of a document that contained more gray areas, ambiguities and contradictions in its fifty odd pages than the average Dr Who script.

The next 'brake on development' targeted by the government were those bodies who actually had their legal responsibilities for ensuring the protection of our heritage and environment. These included the Environment Agency, Natural England and English Heritage, all of whom suffered swingeing cuts to their funding and resulted in job losses. In the case of the Environment Agency the government went even further, appointing Sir Phillip Dilley, a noted planning and development specialist, as the new chairman. The cuts had the intended effect, leaving the agencies stretched and able to undertake only the barest minimum of their legal duties. There were reported cases of agency officers being unable to undertake site visits for even major developments due to budget constraints, preferring to rely upon viewing the site on Google Earth.

In the case of protection for the historic environment cuts within English Heritage caused a pervasive culture of fear. Individual officers relate stories of being told by their superiors not to intervene in planning issues that had already become 'live' (plans that had essentially already been approved by local authorities) for fear that they would be seen as further stifling development and bringing further cuts in their direction. This change in attitudes was soon picked up upon by planning officers within local authorities. When dealing with applications that might be considered controversial, it became a matter of policy rather than oversight within certain 'rogue' councils not to consult with English Heritage until after the application had been initially passed by their own development committees; thereby effectively ruling out possible interference from English Heritage until such point as their hands were already tied.

The final levels of heritage protection beneath English Heritage, the county based 'Historic Environment Services' (HES) who are directly responsible for offering archaeological advice upon planning applications, was actually even easier for the government to undermine. General cuts to local authority budgets has led to the need for cost savings on a massive scale, and sadly it has been the county Historic Environment Services that have found themselves in the front line. Services have been reduced, posts have been lost and workloads increased. In recent weeks one county council (West Sussex) has stated that it is actually completely ceasing to offer archaeological planning advice to most of the local authority planning departments in their area, leaving them to make their own arrangements with external contractors, whilst another (Northamptonshire) has stated that it aims to outsource 95% of all of its services - with no indication whatsoever of who, if anyone, will be offering archaeological advice to planners.

Having dismantled the mechanisms and agencies whose role was to protect the historic environment the government continues to attack all forms of heritage protection. More local governments cuts are being put forward, the Portable Antiquities scheme is once again under threat and Judicial Review, the last line of defence against bad and ill informed planning decisions, is to be made much harder and more expensive to undertake. Whilst each exercise in 'cutting red tape' seen in isolation may be regarded as simply removing the occasional brick from the wall of heritage and environmental protection, the cumulative result has been that the wall now has more holes than bricks.

The question must be whether, putting aside the destruction of heritage and environmental protection, the government has actually succeeded in what they set out to achieve? Have they managed to do away with what they regarded as the greatest enemy of development, developers and big business? Have they actually reduced the dreaded 'red tape'? Today the term 'red tape' is seen in almost wholly negative light, with connotations of overly heavy handed bureaucracy and top-down policy implementation for the sake of implementation; a political and media short-hand for restrictive practices and over regulation. However, it's worth remembering that every piece of this red tape legislation has been put in place by a former government, many of them Tory, for what was considered the protection of heritage and the environment. The development of the Green Belt, over a thousand pages of planning legislation and the Scheduling of Ancient Monuments were not simply pieces of political whimsy pulled from the air on after a brief discussion in the House of Commons bar. They were the result of a perceived and recognised need, extended periods of practical engagement with the subject and a wish to preserve irreplaceable heritage and environment assets for generations, rather than just the term of the next parliament. As any planning officer of whatever political persuasion will now tell you, the reduction of planning legislation to a little over fifty pages of the NPPF has not simplified the planning process. It has simply done away with areas of certainty that did exist in the old legislation, created a mass of grey areas and directly resulted in the publishing of multiple 'guidelines', designed to run alongside the NPPF, that are now almost as long as the original legislation it sought to replace. Planning by legislation and consent is largely being replaced by planning by litigation; where those who can afford the bigger barristers carry the day. There is, it would appear, sometimes a need for red tape.

There are those who believe that we are fiddling whilst Rome burns; watching generations of heritage protection being dismantled around us with no coordinated opposition, or potential for the future reversal of some of the most damaging measures. However, the view from the frontline of heritage and archaeology in England is that, when we look back on this period in a decade or two, we will realise that we weren't watching Rome burn at all - we were already simply playing in the ashes. Heritage protection has been, and continues to be, dismantled at every turn and with each week and month that passes. Today, however, the great and the good gathered together in the Chapter House of Westminster Abbey to celebrate the launch of two new organisations that, in the words of Sajid Javid, "will be free to explore new ways of engaging with communities. New ways of protecting and promoting our heritage." Let us all hope that there is some real truth in Javid's words, and that today's celebration doesn't turn out to be an expensive wake for a long lost past.

NOTE: Since originally writing this post it has caused some controversy. It has been stated that it is a purely political piece of propaganda. That was never the intention. Whatever my personal political views I do not believe that there is an major party that, at the present time, takes heritage and environmental matters seriously. I would also add that every statement made in the blog above can be backed up with facts and figures. For instance, the Natural England case referred to was that for the development of a 7 acre lorry park (classed as a 'major development' by the planning authority) on designated environmentally sensitive land in the Wensum valley, Norfolk. Natural England did not make a site visit, citing budget constraints, and are on record in the minutes of the Development Committee meeting as saying they relied instead on viewing the site from Google Earth. Local opposition groups offered to pay for either their bus fare or a taxi to visit the site. The offer was not taken up.

In addition, since the publication of this piece the government has issued its formal response to the Commons Select Committees investigation into the first two years running of the National Planning Policy Framework (NPPF). The Commons Select Committee was tasked with examining how the NPPF had been operating in practice and what could be done to improve it. The Committee, after much study and deliberation, put forward a list of recommendations, most of which were aimed at clarifying areas of the NPPF that were considered ambiguous and addressing "the growing number of concerns about unsustainable development". The Committee considered that many of these concerns were "significant and need to be tackled". 

On the 27th February 2015 the government issued its response to the Committees recommendations - the vast majority of which were completely rejected. The Chair of the Communities and Local Government Committee, Clive Betts M.P., responded by stating that he was "very disappointed by the Government’s response to my Committee’s recent report... Sadly, the Government’s response shows it is burying its head in the sand about these important public concerns."

The Knights Templar Conspiracy: the secrets on the wall...

Everyone likes a good conspiracy theory don't they. Everything from 'Who really shot President Kennedy' and 'Area 51', to 'Richard III and the Princes in the Tower' and 'Why the Marathon bar was really re-named Snickers'. There's simply no getting away from it. People love a good mystery; the idea that there is a 'real' and 'hidden history' to which only a few worthy types know THE TRUTH. I suppose it fits rather nicely with mankind's general paranoia; that because we rarely understand everything that is going on in the world about us, that there must be something that is being deliberately kept from us. Some great secret that, if only we could hunt down the clues, might help us understand what is REALLY going on. That there are mysterious and shadowy organisations out there, hidden from the rest of humanity, that have for centuries been quietly pulling all the strings - steering the world in the direction that the 'Secret Masters' have mapped out for us all.

Well, when it comes to medieval studies there really isn't a more enduring and popular conspiracy theory than that concerning the Knights Templar. According to 'received wisdom' (the general term applied to something for which there is no evidence - but which will sell paperbacks by the tens of thousands) the Templars were a shadowy military order whose mysterious rise to power and subsequent downfall has been linked to everything from the Holy Grail to the hidden bloodline of Christ (which, according to some works are actually one and the same thing). According to some theories they were the guardians of a 'great treasure' of 'great secret', that they had found something in the remains of Solomon's Temple that allowed them to blackmail the Pope and hold the whole Catholic Church to ransom. That they, the military arms of the Church, were the true rulers of the Christian Middle Ages. The most enduring of all the conspiracy theories concerning the Templars is that they themselves actually endured; that after their order had been disbanded and destroyed elements of the order remained in hiding, carrying on their secret work down through the centuries. Protecting their great secret until the time of revelation is upon us...

Interestingly the shadowy presence of the Knights Templar has also wormed its way into the study of medieval graffiti inscriptions. At any one time there will be half a dozen dedicated souls out looking at the medieval churches of England looking for the 'hidden signs' left behind by the Templars - and what could be better than to discover hidden graffiti on the walls; messages that have been seen by no one for centuries? As a result you'll be amazed (or not) at the number of messages I receive from individuals who claim to have either found these secret messages of the Templar, or who want to point out that some of the graffiti WE have been finding was undoubtedly the work of the Templars. That the inscriptions were secret messages left by the Templars for those that came after them, leading them one step closer to discovery of this 'great secret'. Sadly, it appears that nothing I can say or do, that no hard evidence presented before them, will deter them from this view. Indeed, by arguing against their view, WE become part of the conspiracy - part of the mysterious organisation(s) designed to keep people from THE TRUTH! We're probably responsible for that whole Marathon/Snickers thing too...

The problem with medieval graffiti though is that there are some sites that simply ASK to have conspiracy theories woven into their very fabric. Royston Cave in Hertfordshire is one such site and it is here that the ideas/theories/conspiracies of Knights Templar graffiti has really found its greatest flowering. The cave was discovered by accident in the middle of the eighteenth century beneath the town of Royston itself. It was carved out of the soft local chalk and is actually rather small, being only about three metres in diameter. When discovered it was found that just about every wall surface in the cave had been craved and inscribed with symbols, motifs and images - many of which were clearly medieval in origin. However, at the time none of the local antiquarians had ever seen anything quite like it. They had no idea what function the cave had originally served, although some speculated that it might have been a chapel, and no idea at exactly what date it had been made - and by whom. It was a complete mystery; and eighteenth and nineteenth century antiquarians, when faced with a medieval mystery, always had one idea to fall-back upon - the Knights Templar!

And so it began. The association between the Templars and Royston cave. It has been described as a hidden Templar chapel, and secret meeting place for members of the order and a secret chamber in which the English Templars would keep their great treasury - and their own secrets. Even today crowds of Templar enthusiasts visit the site - trying to decipher the hidden meaning on the walls...

Right, well here's the thing chaps - and you probably aren't going to like this one little bit - but the carvings at Royston cave aren't unique. In fact, except in terms of quantity, they aren't even very unusual - and they certainly have absolutely nothing to do with the Knight Templars. Sorry! You see, the thing is, we come across carvings and graffiti like the ones in the cave absolutely all the time. The symbols and motifs are EXACTLY what we would expect to find in any late medieval chapel, and those at Royston are most probably just that - late fourteenth or fifteenth century - centuries after the disbanding of the Templars. Indeed, if you look at the medieval chapel that survives in Norwich castle, or the passageway to the chapel at Carlisle Castle, you will find exactly the same thing - and I do mean 'exactly'. "Ah.. castles", I hear the conspiracy theorists whisper, "castles where knights would be...". It isn't just castles where such graffiti is to be found either. Cathedrals and parish churches across England are crammed full of just such inscriptions; St Catherine and her wheel, scenes of the crucifixion and images of swords, shield and daggers are scattered across the medieval stonework. All of these inscriptions, as far as my studies have made clear, were created by the  everyday folk of the medieval parish. Indeed, to the best of my knowledge (and I'd love to be proved wrong on this) there isn't a single piece of medieval graffiti in this country that can be positively identified as being Templar in origin.

Sorry. But there it is. There is no hidden message from the Templars scratched into the walls of our churches. And why would there be? By the time of the great rebuilding of many of our East Anglian churches the Templars had been gone for centuries. And what message would they want to leave behind anyway? Seriously? Would members of one of the richest and most prestigious military orders in medieval history really scratch hidden messages into the walls, leaving details of their 'secret dealings', just so that they can be rediscovered centuries later by a bunch of conspiracy theorists? And let's be honest here. I don't know about you, but I suspect that if there really are 'Secret Masters' out there, shadowy organisations of illuminati, then they are pretty unlikely to have their own websites and facebook groups are they? Tell you what, you can decide on that one...

Here's the thing though. The walls of our churches ARE full of hidden messages. The do conceal great mysteries and many of them haven't been seen for centuries. However, rather than being the mysteries of long lost knights and crusaders bent on world domination, they are the everyday mysteries of medieval faith and belief. They are the mysteries of life, love, marriage and death in the medieval parish; the mysteries of people dreams, hopes and fears. For me, wandering the stunning medieval churches of eastern England, that is more than enough of a mystery...

 

Chasing the dead

I appear to have spent a lot of time recently chasing the dead. Chasing after notes, fragments and details of the long dead - and looking at the tiny, and sometimes immaterial, monuments they have left behind them. Many of course left nothing. The majority of the medieval population of England have no memorials, no monuments to lives well lived - or otherwise - but passed through this world leaving not a single lasting mark upon it. The dead and unseen of the past. The brasses and monumental marble effigies were for the rich; those who could afford the cash and time to ensure that they would, in name at least, be remembered. The less wealthy, but still well off, gave money towards church improvements or the gloriously painted rood screens and stained glass that still grace many of our churches. Their names inscribed into the churchwardens records, and often the object itself, to stand as a permanent testament to their three score years and ten. For the rest, in an age before gravestones and burial registers, the most they could hope for was a decent send off with family and friends. A few candles and masses, should they be lucky enough to belong to a local guild that supported such activities, and bread and ale distributed to the needy poor after they had taken their place back in the deep soil of their parish.

There was, however, one group of individuals that left their mark all over the parish churches of England, cut deep in to the stonework of piers, walls and doorways - the merchant classes. The rising middle class of the late middle ages or, to give them their more recent title amongst trendy post-revisionist historians, the 'middling sort'. Don't ask me what a 'post revisionist historian', or even  the earlier model 'revisionist historian', actually is.  I don't know. Along with 'multi-vocality' it is a closed book to me.

The merchant classes of the later middle ages were ambitious. Ambitious people in an aspirational church. Where wealth and status were sought not as a means to an end, even a spiritual end, but as the end in itself. One need only read the accounts of people such as Margery Kempe or Chaucer's Wife of Bath prologue to realise that wealth and status were, for some, their own reward. Eyes that should have gazed heavenward in search of salvation darted to left and right instead, undoubtedly costing to the nearest penny the Alderman's wife's new gown or checking to see that everyone had noticed your own new attire. And for the most ambitious of this middling sort, those who made their chinks in trade and industry, the rewards of this generation were sometimes not enough. Those who really made their way in the world, and piled away the gold and silver, could expect to buy a marriage for their children that took them way above the expectations of their own humble birth and in to the lower ranks of the gentry. If they were ambitious enough, and rich enough, their grandchildren would be born in to the nobility. Had they lived long enough then, in all likelihood, they'd not have been welcome guests at their own grandchildren's weddings.

However, as with all ambitions, great oaks from small acorns grow. The ambitions of the merchant classes had many, many outlets - and their need for memorialisation was only one amongst many that jostles for position. In terms of church graffiti the most obvious symbol is the 'Merchants Mark' - a device or motif supposedly unique to an individual merchant that acted in much the same way as a logo does for a modern company. A symbol that was easily recognised by both the literate and illiterate alike, and one that was associated with one particular merchant. Merchants used these marks to mark their goods, to sign documents and even to adorn their houses. For those that made it in to the ranks of the very rich these same marks are found adoring their own memorial brasses or alabaster tombs. A small but proud mark of the humble trading origins of a merchant of note. They were, in effect, a type of heraldry for those of too low a class to be entitled to have their own coat of arms. The ultimate in aspirational motifs.

I come across a great many merchant's marks scattered across the walls of our medieval churches and cathedrals. Neatly executed and bordering on the 'professional' they are often to be found in small groups, huddled together against a mass of surrounding inscriptions. In some cases they are to be found in distinct patterns, concentrated around areas that might be deemed spiritually significant; side altars, image niches and shrines. Here they cluster like notes upon a prayer tree; each a little request for the benevolence of the Almighty to fall upon the owner of the mark. A prayer for an ambition achieved. And yet here is the thing. Many of these merchant's marks, these unique identifiers, are just that - unique. They don't adorn the brasses and tombs of rich merchants. They don't decorate large timber framed merchants hall, and they don't appear in the port books or alderman's records of the great trading towns. In many cases they are the only example of that particular mark; the symbol of ambitions that never bore fruit and fortunes that were never made. They are the last mark on this world of hopes that were dashed by either misfortune or ill chance. The last message of a shattered dream.

I spend a lot of time chasing the dead. Sometime they leave far too little to find...

The BEST graffiti church in England - and a bit about blowing up moles...

In terms of medieval graffiti there are certain churches that are simply legendary. Churches that are just so damned good that they have become a Mecca for graffiti hunters everywhere. Places where you would fight hostile churchwardens and evangelical happy-slappy guitar playing vicars simply to be allowed to step over the threshold. These are the GREAT graffiti churches. The churches such as Lidgate, Blakeney and Bedingham. However, all these amazing churches pale into insignificance at the mention of one particular church. It's very name makes graffiti hunters go weak at the knees and dribble to leak from the corners of the mouth in anticipation. It is the cream of graffiti churches, the best of the best. The one graffiti church that has been subject to intense study - and it is Ashwell in Hertfordshire.

I'm a contrary sod at the best of times. You say black and I will invariably say white. It isn't really just to disagree with you - more just to see what the reaction will be. A bit like licking you fingers and then sticking them in a power socket. You know it's wrong - but can't help wondering just what will happen (2nd degree burns as it turns out). Or the time I experimented with using gun powder as a deterrent for moles - all in the interests of healthy experimentation and being a contrary bugger. The mole experiment, just in case you want to try this at home, wasn't a great success. However, I did learn that it was possible to sleep through the night with your hand in a bucket of cold water. Right... where was I? Ah, yes, Ashwell church. Well, here's the thing, if somebody tells me that a church is THE greatest graffiti church in England then I will immediately take such a statement with a really, really big pinch of salt. I will, to be blunt, blow raspberries in their general direction and assume that they don't know what the hell they are talking about. Sure, Ashwell might be good - but have they been to Lidgate? To Blakeney? To Bedingham?

So, finally, this week I went to Ashwell. I have been before, but that was many years ago - before I really knew what I was looking at - so a return trip was in order. I had to go across to Oxford earlier this week to give a lecture at the university (I know, I know... it isn't Cambridge - but beggars can't be choosers etc) and Ashwell was sort of on the way. Give or take.

So there I was, camera and torch in hand, faced by what the world has come to think of as the 'great' medieval graffiti church. I had about an hour to wander round and, if I was lucky, should get in a good deal of sneering and bad comparisons in that time. I ventured inside...

Ok. So it is good. One of the best. Actually quite superb... Holy crap I was shaking after ten minutes of running a torch across the surface of the stone walls! It was, not to put too fine a point upon it, immense. Just about every single surface I looked at was covered in a mass of early graffiti. The tower, the piers, the western wall - everywhere. Layer upon layer of inscriptions and symbols. I was, quite simply, in graffiti OMG heaven. Here's the thing. Ashwell IS the best known graffiti church, and certainly the most extensively written about. It has been studied by Hine, Coulton and Sherlock, and had TV archaeologists and historians crawling through its nave. However, they've all been getting terribly excited for completely the wrong reasons.

Ashwell is really known for the massive number of medieval text inscriptions to be found in the church - and it does contain a really unusually high number of early Latin inscriptions. They range from the inscription in the tower, which records the arrival of the Black Death in this small Hertfordshire village, to a tiny inscription in the south aisle which records the peasants revolt. There are texts of moralising verse - and Latin insults describing the Archdeacon as 'an ass'. There are excerpts from the bible and comments upon the quality of the mason's workmanship. You name it - it's there - and they are wonderful. However, the text inscriptions, all of which are open to interpretation, are a tiny, tiny fragment of what else is there. Probably less than 1%.

Ashwell church is full of early graffiti. Images of people, faces, buildings, animals and ritual protection marks galore. 'vv' markings cover one side of the tower arch, compass drawn designs are everywhere - and a hand raised in the act of blessing adorns the pier at the eastern end of the south aisle. Wherever you look there are devotional markings; the hopes, fears and dreams of the medieval congregation etched deep in to the walls of the parish church. The text inscriptions are good too - but they are an embellishment. The gilding of the lily. Even without them, and their multiple and enigmatic interpretations, Ashwell would still be a jewel in the crown of graffiti studies everywhere.