Down on the Farm- August 28th 2008

28th August 2008 - Ghosts on the Hill

The ground here is full of chunky stones mixed in with many pieces of pot shard. Every turn of the spade brings them to the surface. We are told that in ages past this whole hillside was occupied by potters who dug the blue clay from the edges of the stream that runs through the lower field, carrying it up the slope to their workshops, to work and shape into pots, jugs, bowls and plates. The remains of their kilns are dotted about all over the hill, mostly covered over now by layer upon layer of wind blown soil and debris.

Most of the pieces we find are small, about one square inch and mainly in greyish-blue clay, with a lesser portion of them in red terracotta. A few bits are larger and are recognisable as pottery; here are the thick flat sections of pot bases, there the rounded curves of jar lips. We make piles at the edges of the beds as we work and take out the best pieces to examine more closely later on. At the end of the day, we give them a quick scrub and then sit down to admire the day's haul and ponder over their age and use. A few have simple decoration, mainly thin horizontal lines just beneath the lip of a pot, the sort that could be made quickly by holding a pointed tool against the wet clay as it turned, but most are plain. Both Romans and the ancient Britons were skilled at decoration so maybe these pieces were for functional use. I look for finger prints am a little disappointed to find none. As we dig, I keep hoping that we might discover an entire pot, but we never do. After all, any items that were whole and usable would have been sold, not discarded.

Here and there, we come across clusters of what appears to be burned brick. It is dark red and crumbles easily, with parts that are charred black. Comparison with the soil we dig it from suggests that it was made right here – the texture is just the same. Could these burnt pieces indicate the sites of kilns? We stand at one spot and look down, pondering. Someone must have worked right here, on this very spot where we are now digging and little enough has changed that we can still find the traces just beneath the surface.

It gives me an eerie feeling, knowing that so many generations have tended this place before us. The eeriness stems, partly, I think, from the fact that the land about is mainly uncultivated and the landscape uninterrupted; we, though, are village dwellers and used to other houses about us, we are not accustomed to such openness. This slight disquiet is reinforced by there being few modern trappings on the site, with those that are here being largely hidden by clusters of trees. Just one house can be seen at the bottom of the hill, a new-build in the guise of a converted barn, the remainder being fields, trees and hedgerows.

I wonder how this hillside and the valley beyond looked when the first pots were being fired. The fields may have been smaller, though they are certainly not large, even now, and there may well have been more dwellings, with smoke rising from them, drifting away across the valley. It is quite possible that the view has altered little through the centuries.

As I dig, fetch, carry and walk back and forth, I have the curious sensation of being watched, as if someone is standing behind my shoulder, or a little way off, just out of view. Sometimes it feels as if they are right next to me, just a few feet away, calmly watching my face, my movements, examining the soil that my fork turns over. I straighten up to look about but see no one. Is it that we are unused to working in the open, or do I sense the passing of the ages through this place, all the people whose lives have played out on this spot over the centuries?

In my mind's eye, I imagine that they are still here now, all of them, clustered ghosts gathering just beyond the edge of perception, the shadows of ancient people assembling to observe the latest incomers, watching us to see who we are, what we are doing, whether or not we care for the land as they did.

I work, thoughts partly on what needs doing this day, while in another part of my mind they drift and I start to imagine what thoughts these ghosts around me are having, idly making up stories. Yes, something deeply buried here, long ago, with one or more souls still keeping watch. The ghosts cluster in, watching and whispering amongst themselves, agitated,

'See, she's getting close now, getting close'

'But will she find it?'

'Move away! Move away! It must stay hidden!'

What could be there to find, I wonder? Evidence of some ancient crime, perhaps, a buried hoard - bones and gold.

I will dig up a tangle of skeleton, scraps of leather, old weapons, glass beads, semi-precious stones. The bones will tell a story, one of high living, violence and hasty burial. How will this story go? I muse on it as I work and see what comes to mind.

A man come back from voyaging overseas, come to visit family and friends, to show himself and his new wealth to those he left here many years before. As he mingles with old friends, he sees a beautiful young woman and is smitten; seeing in an instant a long and blissful life with her, he vows to make her his own. She is spoken for, but this brooks no issue with him and he sets about secretly courting her, with a passion he has previously never known nor ever thought possible in himself. She returns his ardour and they craft a plan to run away; he will take her with him back across the sea, where they can live safely together and cherish their love.

Their scheme is exposed by the careless words of an excited child who overhears their conversation as they stand together in a secluded arbour, urgently whispering their desires. The wronged suitor is filled with jealous rage and, vowing revenge, gathers together a group of followers to carry out retribution.

Late that night, they find him and make him pay with all. Take his life and his hoard. His body is buried in the dark, under a workshop, never mentioned again by those who did the deed. Those who know, they all try to forget that night. The hoard was divided, each part separately concealed, carefully marked.

One remembers, though for a short time only. She who would so willingly have been his wife runs from the village in distress and, in an agony of grief for her dead lover, throws herself on a sword, joining him in death.  

I press the fork in with my foot, watch the soil, another pot shard turns up on top of the pile.  My thoughts drift. The soil turns. Another pot shard. My thoughts drift. The day goes on.

© Copyright Miranda Hodgson 2008