The annual Richmond Draw-Off is at an end for this year, and it’s been a spectacular one. The perfect note on which to end my final blog of 2025. It’s given me some fabulous finds, one in particular was very special, and allows me the indulgence of musing about lost and found jewels.
I’ve blogged about the Draw-Off before but, for those unfamiliar with it, it’s that time of year when the Port of London Authority (PLA) open Richmond Lock and Weir in order to carry out vital repairs. This results in some excellent low tides where, on occasion, it can look as though someone has pulled the plug on the Thames. This year’s Draw-Off has been longer than usual, beginning on Monday October 27th and ending on Friday 19th December.
The photo below, taken this year on the first day of the Draw-Off, Monday 27th October, gives a real sense of how low the tide has been and how much of the foreshore was tantalisingly visible, making the prospect of finds very intriguing. The foreshore here is hidden for the rest of the year so it’s a very special feeling to be able to step down ancient (and rather slippery) river stairs and search for artefacts.
Richmond Riverside during the 2025 Draw-Off. The foreshore visible here is under water for the rest of the year.
For those readers unfamiliar with this part of South West London, the London Borough of Richmond-upon-Thames is well worth visiting for its green spaces (home to Richmond Park, London’s largest deer park), scenic riverside walks and rich history. It’s the home of the long lost Richmond Palace, a stunning Tudor royal residence rebuilt and renamed by Henry VII in 1497-1501 on the site of the old Shene Palace, partially destroyed by a distraught Richard II in 1395 after the death of his wife Anne of Bohemia.
Only The Gatehouse and parts of The Wardrobe remain of the palace, though there is also surviving archaeology on the Thames Foreshore in the form of timbers from a jetty, carbon-dated to the late Tudor/early Stuart period. (Both The Gatehouse and jetty timbers are pictured below.) We also have surviving household accounts from Elizabeth I’s time here. Richmond Palace was thought to be one of her favourite homes and where she died on 24th March 1603. The Queen particularly enjoyed spending Christmas at Richmond, entertained by William Shakespeare’s acting company, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, who performed for her and favoured members of the Royal Court.
Sadly, contemporary images of the Tudor Richmond Palace are few and far between. The best visual view we have is Antonis Van der Wyngaerde’s sketch from 1562 showing its magnificent riverfront, complete with pepperpot turrets and gardens, drawn from the north (Middlesex) side of the river at what is now St Margaret’s. After Charles I’s execution in 1649, Oliver Cromwell ordered Parliament to assess the cost of demolishing the buildings and it was sold for £13,000, the stones re-used elsewhere. Eventually returned to Charles II following the Restoration of the Monarchy in 1660, by then the cost of rebuilding was too great and what remained of the ruined Richmond Palace was left to fall apart.
A Thames Heron faces the spot where there are still visible traces of the old Tudor/Stuart jetty. In Tudor times, Herons were hunted and eaten at Royal feasts.
The Gatehouse, one of the few surviving buildings of the Tudor Richmond Palace. It can be accessed via Richmond Green nearby, once used for sport, jousting and other Royal entertainments.
Sketch of the Tudor Richmond Palace riverfront by Antonis Van der Wyngaerde, c. 1562.
It was in the vicinity of the Tudor/Stuart jetty that I spotted one of the prettiest artefacts I’ve ever discovered on the Thames Foreshore. I’ve never found anything quite like this and it opened the door to a story that began in Central Europe in 1845 before somehow ending up in the river at genteel Richmond when I spotted a glint of something gold and tantalising in the water during this year’s Draw-Off.
Tantalising first view of something gold and glittering in the River Thames.
Turning it over in the water and seeing this beautiful jewel for the first time since it was lost in the river.
I knew I’d found something interesting and unexpected but wasn’t sure, at that stage, exactly what. A brooch of some sort, obviously, but clearly beautifully made to a very high standard using what appeared to me to be precious metals and semi-precious stones. It was also complete and undamaged, with a pin at the back. Taking it out of the river I gently removed a number of freshwater shrimps who’d made this their home over the decades, and re-housed them elsewhere in the water. There was quite a bit of mud in the nooks and crevices at the back of the brooch indicating this had been in the Thames for some time.
After a gentle clean-up at home, research into the brooch began in earnest. My trusty magnifying glass revealed a series of hallmarks – 925 UPM MMA – the 925 indicating gold-plated sterling silver. The other materials were mother of pearl, green enamel and garnet. Further research revealed that UPM stood for The Museum of Decorative Arts in Prague, and MMA for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. This was very exciting and I immediately emailed the museum in Prague to see if they could help shed more light on the jewel.
My brooch cleaned up and showing the rear view, hallmark 925 and the initials UPM and MMA.
Another view of my brooch from the back.
I was immensely grateful to the prompt reply from the team at The Museum of Decorative Arts in Prague who were extremely helpful and were able to provide me with information that helped colour in the backstory of my Thames find. I am particularly grateful to Dr Lucie Vlčková, who I contacted first and then signposted me to Dr Petja Matějovič, who provided so much helpful detail. I’m also grateful to Veronika Mědílková who, for the purposes of this blog, organised permission for me to use the museum’s images of the original necklace my found brooch was reproduced from.
Front view of the brooch, before clean-up, showing gilded leaves, mother of pearl flower, garnet stone and green enamel leaf.
The brooch, after clean-up, showing a visible loop at the top where it would have been attached to the other parts of a necklace.
In 2000, the Museum of Decorative Arts in Prague collaborated with the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, allowing MMA to reproduce a limited edition collection of copies of approved artefacts. The reproductions, if this brooch is anything to go by, were beautifully made and used semi-precious materials. My find from the Thames at Richmond is one of these reproduced items.
Dr Matějovič kindly sent me images from the original necklace that my brooch was reproduced from. The original necklace is now part of the collection of the Museum of Decorative Arts in Prague and was originally made in Central Europe c 1845. This necklace was fashioned from gold, silver, ivory, pearl, enamel and rubies. Common to this style, parts could be separated and worn as a brooch. It would have been commissioned for a high status and wealthy woman.
The original necklace, like so many beautiful things, would have been vulnerable during the Nazi occupation of Europe. It’s thought that it remained in private ownership and was eventually confiscated by Czech authorities after 1945 before transferring to the UPM in Prague in 1961. It has been on display here as part of an exhibition called ‘ART, LIFE.’ Dr Matějovič describes the necklace as a time capsule, symbolic of several stages of the life cycle of a plant. You can see this clearly in the way golden tendrils weave together the gold and enamel leaves, bejewelled flowers and seed pods.
The necklace also features in Dr Matějovič’s book ‘Jewellery -Form-Content’, bringing together jewellery past and present: jewellery still worn today, and jewellery that has not survived.
‘Jewellery -Form-Content’ by Petra Matějovič.
I have kindly been invited by Dr Matějovič to visit the Decorative Museum of Arts in Prague for their new exhibition ‘Jewellery and Figure’, which will be open until 29th March 2026, and hope to make the trip to Czechia sometime in the new year. A great start to 2026 and a wonderful experience to look forward to. I have included a link to the museum for more information about location and opening times:
Poster advertising the new exhibition – ‘Jewellery and Figure’ – currently on at UPM, the Decorative Museum of Arts in Prague, until 29th March 2026.
Finally, thank you to Angela (@up_for_a_lark on Instagram, please give her a follow) who was with me when I found this stunning brooch and was able to share the moment of discovery with me.
As the tide began to come back in and I set off for home I couldn’t help thinking that Elizabeth I would have approved of this find, made within the vicinity of her long lost Tudor Palace, albeit separated by a span of over four hundred years since she last spent time here. I’ll never know how this artefact got into the river, one can only speculate; it was lost, then found again. This is what mudlarks do – we find lost things and bring them and their stories into the light again.
View of the Tudor/Stuart jetty with Richmond Railway Bridge and Twickenham Road Bridge visible downstream.
The timbers of the Tudor/Stuart jetty where I found my brooch, are heavily symbolic regarding other historic jewellery. As mentioned above, Richmond Palace was reputed to be the favourite home of Elizabeth I and the place where she died on 24th March 1603.
Stone monument showing details of the monarchs who lived and died at Richmond Palace, including Elizabeth 1, who died here on 24th March 1603.
When mudlarking near the jetty I often think of the moment of the Queen’s death. According to legend, Robert Carey is said to have taken the Queen’s ring from her finger after she was pronounced dead. He then rushed to a boat, perhaps tethered at this very spot (travelling by road at that time was considered dangerous, the river was viewed as a much safer option) before being rowed down the Thames into the centre of London. He then disembarked and galloped at speed on horseback to James VI of Scotland, now James I of England. Elizabeth had died unmarried and childless, so James was named as her rightful heir (his credentials as the next Monarch were that he was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, Elizabeth’s cousin, and was also a great-great-grandson of King Henry VII.)
But as so often in history, fact is mixed with a heavy dose of fiction and exaggeration. Carey did indeed make the dash to Holyrood House in Scotland but, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, documents show that the ring Carey was said to have presented to James was not from the deceased Queen’s finger. Historians of this period, particularly the jewellery experts, believe it far more likely that Carey handed over a sapphire ring (definitely not the Queen’s actual ring) with the words that it had come ‘from a faire lady.’ James had previously given this ring to Carey’s sister, with instructions that it should be returned after the Queen’s death. In returning the sapphire ring so quickly to the new King of England, Carey may have hoped to curry favour with him by giving him assurance that Queen Elizabeth had indeed died. He had rushed north to Scotland without any other official documentation and against the express orders of Eizabeth’s Privy Councillors, an unwise move and which made him unpopular.
The ring that was actually taken from Elizabeth’s finger a week before her death, on the advice of her physicians, is known as the Chequers ring, and is one of the few surviving pieces of jewellery worn by her. The exact circumstances of her death are still a subject of hot debate today. Blood poisoning is commonly cited as the main reason – the Queen was a heavy user of lead-based makeup known as ‘Venetian Ceruse’, or ‘Venetian White’, which was later classified as a poison. She may also have died of pneumonia, streptococcus or even cancer. Permission for a post mortem was refused, probably to protect the cult status of the Queen’s ostensible virginity – in life she had been portrayed as a virgin, a goddess, but never as a normal woman. It was important that this myth was maintained.
Thought to have been given to her in 1575, and worn every day, the Queen’s ring had grown into her flesh over the years causing her considerable discomfort and necessitating its removal prior to her death. The Chequers ring was made from gold, mother-of-pearl, rubies, diamonds. Its chief feature is a locket with two portraits. One is of Elizabeth herself, the other traditionally thought to be her beloved mother Anne Boleyn.
Much of Elizabeth I’s jewellery has long since been lost, dispersed by James I after the Queen’s death, nor is it clear what happened to Carey’s sapphire ring either. Quite likely also lost or given away, no one knows where. The Chequers ring is uniquely special in that it survives, probably bought by the Home family, and descended down the line until acquired by Arthur Lee, First Viscount Lee of Fareham, owner of Chequers country house, which was eventually presented to the nation becoming the country home of the prime minister. The ring remains within the private Chequers collection, and is not on public view.
Jewels. Lost and Found in the Thames. And those that survive historic events to tell their tale.
And it’s on that bejewelled note that I hope you’ve all enjoyed a Happy Christmas; wishing you a peaceful and healthy New Year 2026. Thank you to everyone for reading and supporting my mudlarking blog, and for all the kind emails you’ve sent me this year.
NB Please note that a valid permit is required from the Port of London Authority (PLA) in order to mudlark or detect on the Thames Foreshore.
So Shakespeare tells us in Sonnet 18. And he’s correct. As we rattle on to the end of August, September is peeking cheekily round the corner and our parched and dry summer is coming to an end for this year. Tidying up in my garden, there’s already a sense of autumn, blackberries hanging off branches, leaves turning golden and falling from trees earlier than usual (though this is almost certainly due to the lack of rain) and the faintest sense and scent of smokiness in the evening air. It’ll soon be time to start digging out the jumpers to wear on crisp early morning mudlarking trips.
I’ve been holidaying in Roman Provence this July. Ok, I know other people’s holiday snaps and anecdotes are tedious but please bear with. My jaunt to the south of France has a purpose and is a glorious link to a recent mudlarking find on the Thames Foreshore. All will be revealed as you read on.
Incomplete Roman bone gaming counter found by me on the Thames Foreshore
Obverse of my incomplete Roman bone gaming counter
I’ve spotted Roman finds at various Thames Foreshore locations, not just in one particular area that’s known for its Roman artefacts. Without a shadow of a doubt far fewer finds are made here these days, as in most areas on the river, and yet there are always interesting discoveries waiting to be made.
A few months ago I found something white and round lodged between two rocks and an ancient piece of timber. Thinking it was a piece of shell I nearly didn’t pick it up, but of course I picked it up. Rule number one in the Mudlarking Rule book – always ALWAYS pick things up; turn them over in your hand, weigh them, feel them, look at them properly. If still in doubt, ask a fellow mudlark. It so happened that conveniently one of these was larking on the foreshore nearby and he confirmed it as a bone gaming counter, though an unusual one. (The fellow mudlark was called Guy – do give him a follow on Instagram @mudlarking.about ) I took the artefact to show my FLO (Finds Liaison Officer) Stuart Wyatt at the London Museum as per the requirement of every mudlarking permit holder, i.e. to report your finds regularly so that the most noteworthy can be recorded on the PAS (Portable Antiquities Scheme) database. The link is here for those who want to read more about this useful resource and fantastic archaeological database https://finds.org.uk/
And I’m thrilled to say my bone counter is now recorded on the PAS – Record ID: LON-AA4BF5 – if you wish to see the detail for yourselves.
An assortment of Roman pottery sherds, burnt tegula fragment and my bone gaming counter – all found by me on the Thames Foreshore. Similar potsherds have been discovered in graves and cremations
It’s incomplete, not as glamorous as some of the bone gaming counters found by other mudlarks on the foreshore, but as it’s the first one I’ve ever found of this type I’m more than happy with that. Dating from 50 – 410 CE, the counter itself is sub circular in plan and is undecorated except for a central concave depression and a small central hole on one side, possibly from a lathe. The edges are bevelled outwards. Similar counters can be found in the reference books and papers of Crummy (Nina Crummy, Roman small finds expert and also expert in Roman material culture.) Also known as a Kenyon type A, these were produced throughout the Roman period with little variation.
The gaming counter has been heated in a fire and turned white and distorted. Fellow mudlark and artist Ed Bucknall ( also well worth a follow on Instagram at @edjbucknall) has suggested this could indicate the gaming counter might have been part of a Roman cremation. In other words, funerary goods.
The Roman Empire was multi-cultural and allowed a surprisingly diverse number of religious beliefs, though some were initially treated with suspicion, hostility and subject to persecution, e.g Christianity. Emperor Constantine famously converted to Christianity before the Battle of Milvian Bridge in 312 CE, though he continued to patronise other religions, clearly hedging his bets in order to safeguard his soul in the afterlife ‘just in case.’ Emperor Theodosius was the one who finally made Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire in 380 CE.
Londinium in late Antiquity showing Southwark as part of the Roman City
In Londinium as elsewhere, burial customs were adopted from all parts of the Roman Empire, adapted to suit, then later abandoned. Wealthy Roman citizens were able to commission elaborate tombs in contrast with those who were poor and whose bodies were often dumped into open pits. Burials were not permitted within the city walls and cemeteries were located away from cities, for both public health, superstitious and religious reasons, tombstones often found along main roads. Archaeological excavations of burial grounds give us a great deal of information and show a wide range of burial rites. These include conventional inhumation through to cremation and ‘bustum’, where the body was cremated over a burial pit. Many types of grave goods, including food offerings and personal objects, have been found alongside these burials. What is now the Southwark area of modern London has been the site of excavation for decades and archaeology has revealed it to have been an important place for the burial of Londinium’s dead. It was a significant area, though outside the main city walls, accessible by the first ever London Bridge built by the Romans across the River Thames.
London and the Thames looked very different two thousand years ago. The south of the river was marshy, what we now know as Southwark was essentially two large gravel islands which formed the southern bridgehead for the original (Roman) London Bridge. Major roads were built here to connect to other Roman cities in the south of England e.g. Watling Street (connecting Londinium to Canterbury) and Stane Street (connecting Londinium to Chichester.) Museum of London Archaeology (MOLA) have carried out excavations in Southwark and archaeologists have found remains of high status stone buildings together with mosaics, hypocaust heating systems and painted wall frescos.
Wooden jetties, warehouses and other remnants of waterfront activities show that the Southwark side of the river was just as much a centre of trade as the north side, and with strong links to the rest of the Roman Empire.
I was fascinated to read via the Southwark Council website that south of Borough tube station the Roman landscape was once dominated by a very large cemetery, including a number of mausoleums, walled areas containing graves and monuments to the dead lining the road along Stane Street and Watling Street. The link to more information about the history of Southwark is here:
I don’t know if my bone gaming counter came from a cremation in Southwark, but it came from somewhere and it might as well have been from Roman Southwark as anywhere else. Though there were also other cemeteries north, east and west of Londinium’s city walls.
Worn section of terracotta roof tile, possibly Roman or later, showing a makeshift gaming board
The river often plays games with us and coincidentally I found a worn, incomplete section of terracotta roof tile near where I’d found the bone gaming counter. I like to imagine someone beavering away making tiles and laying them out to dry in a courtyard. Boredom sets in and they idly mark a square piece of spare clay into a grid. Not a fancy gaming board that a high status individual or soldier might have used for the playing of Ludus Latrunculorum (similar to chess or draughts, the winner is the player who’s captured the most pieces) but a poor man’s or woman’s gaming board – functional, portable, will do the job. Something to while away the long hours in the tile maker’s yard when the boss wasn’t looking. That said, it’s impossible to tell if this is Roman clay; it could be later, but was found in an area of foreshore where Roman artefacts are found, and it’s the rich terracotta colour of the Roman era. I’ll never know, but it’s fun to let the imagination run riot and there’s no harm in speculating. And on this note, a third favourite mudlarking Insta recommendation is Peter (aka @ _tidetravel ) who writes in a much more evocative way about his mudlarked finds than I’ve done above, and really takes you back in time with his stories and descriptions of artefacts. He’s well worth a follow.
The Pont du Gard
Photo taken by my daughter, me striking a pose in front of the Pont du Gard
I am obsessed with Provence in the south of France. Mostly because of the history – Provence has some of the world’s most impressive Roman remains – but also the food and wine are rather good too. The name ‘Provence’ itself is a translation of the word ‘province’, i.e province of Rome. In Arles, Aix-en-Provence, Nîmes, Orange and Vaison-la-Romaine, you will find some of the best preserved arenas, amphitheatres, spas, villas and other monuments anywhere in the Roman world.
I’ve wanted to visit the Pont du Gard for my entire adult life and finally managed to do so this summer. It wasn’t hugely busy either, though we went on a scorchingly hot July day. Situated in the Gard department of Languedoc-Roussillon, 20 kilometres from Nîmes (Roman Nemausus), the Pont du Gard was an aqueduct constructed by the Romans in approximately 19BCE to 50CE as part of a system to carry water for 50 kilometres across hills and valleys to the wealthy of Nemausus for their fountains, baths, gardens and drinking water.
After the Roman Empire collapsed, the aqueduct fell into disuse. Over time the stone blocks were looted, eventually it was used as a toll bridge, then repaired and restored to the stunning monument we see today. There is also a museum, cafés and a gift shop as you enter the site (and some of the best ice cream for sale in Languedoc-Roussillon.)
Flowing through the arches of the aqueduct is the gentle river Gardon that can rise and flood and be torrential during the winter months. We swam in its waters on the hottest of hot days of our visit and it was difficult to imagine it as a viciously turbulent mass of water. Roman engineers were highly skilled and designed the foundations of the bridge in a shape like the tip of the prow of a ship, thus helping protect the aqueduct from violent currents. As we swam, and I checked the shallow river bed for artefacts (there weren’t any but it’s impossible to keep that mudlarking eye still, even when on holiday) I imagined the labourers and soldiers building the aqueduct all those millennia ago and wondering if they also played board games in their precious downtime using bone gaming counters, just like the one I found on the Thames. I’m sure they did.
Foundation stones of the Pont du Gard, designed like the prow of a ship to withstand storms and heavy currents
The Gatekeeper of the Pont du Gard
The Gardon
Spectacular views of the Gardon from the Pont du Gard
Prior to making our way down south to Provence we stopped off in Paris for a few days to visit my two favourite museums in the capital. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend the Musée Carnavalet ( free to enter) in Le Marais and the Musée Cluny (not free to enter) in St Germain-des-Prés; both museums are closed on a Monday. If you can’t cope with the huge crowds in the Louvre or Musée d’Orsay then these two smaller museums are perfect for you. The Cluny is France’s National Museum of the Middle Ages. In the heart of the Latin Quarter, it’s an amazing collection of historical buildings comprising Gallo-Roman thermae or public baths with divine exhibits everywhere you look, many familiar to my fellow mudlarks. Gazing at the contents of the cabinets it really was like greeting old friends.
Roman Pottery from the Carnavalet
Roman artefacts from the Carnavalet
Roman artefacts from the Cluny
Medieval floor tiles from the Cluny
Strolling from the Carnavalet to the Cluny, where many familiar saintly friends were on display, it was comforting to see this sort of Medieval ‘Entente Cordiale’ via the medium of religious artefacts bought, and lost, by pilgrims over the centuries. Featuring St Thomas Becket, St Veronica, St Anthony, Our Lady and also many unfamiliar ones. Clearly pilgrims travelled to many different shrines across Europe and quite a few of the badges on display have not, to my knowledge, been found in the Thames e.g. St Fiacre en Brie, St Maur, St Vincent, St Léonard, St Julien of Le Mans, St Geneviève and St Corneille.
Medieval pilgrim badges and their molds, greeted like old friends
Medieval potteryfrom the Cluny
And I’m finishing this blog with a ‘save the date’ reminder. The first of our mudlarking exhibitions for Totally Thames 2025 will be taking place at the Guildhall Art Gallery in the City of London, on Saturday 6th September and Sunday 7th September (I’ll be exhibiting my finds on the 6th only.) If you’ve never visited, the Guildhall is the site of Londinium’s amphitheatre and a stunning building, the perfect setting for a mudlarking exhibition.
Totally Thames 2025 – Roman Guildhall
Lost and Found – Totally Thames 2025
The link below will take you to the complete calendar of events for Totally Thames 2025, including the fascinating ‘Lost and Found’ series of events. These feature the stories of prison hulks, ancient wharves, East African seamen who settled on the Thames and many others revealed from archives, family histories and mudlarked objects from the river. For centuries the Thames has re-shaped the city of London and its people, connecting local communities with global flows of trade, migration and ideas.
Secrets of the Thames at the London Museum, Docklands
It’s been a hectic few months on the mudlarking front, and this Easter weekend has been the first time for a while where I’ve had the space and time to sit down, draw breath and reflect. (And write this blog, of course.)
At the beginning of April I was kindly invited to a preview of a new mudlarking exhibition at The London Museum, Docklands. Along with other fellow mudlarks, friends, family and a smattering of celebrities from the worlds of history and archaeology, I was given the opportunity to mingle over wine and nibbles and enjoy my first glimpse of this long awaited event. Canary Wharf was literally buzzing that evening. So, I dressed in my best sparkly sequins and prepared for an evening of mudlarking rock’n’roll.
Fellow mudlark Fran Sibthorpe, archaeologist Raksha Dave, and yours truly raising a glass at the preview of ‘Secrets of the Thames’
‘Secrets of the Thames – Mudlarking London’s Lost Treasures’ is a unique, year long exhibition dedicated to the hidden world of mudlarks, exploring the stories behind a range of fascinating objects and finds. The preview night was brilliant and busy but I spent so much time chatting to everyone that I didn’t get to see everything properly. This necessitated a second visit the following week, this time accompanied by my daughter and baby grandson, who slept peacefully all the way through oblivious to his mudlarking granny’s modest contribution to the exhibition, but no matter. I hope I’ll be able to take him mudlarking with me one day when he’s older.
Second visit to Secrets of the Thames at London Museum, Docklands, this time with my daughter and baby grandson
Twice a day, every day, the tide recedes. As this liquid carpet rolls back it reveals artefacts from London’s past; broken pottery, roof tiles, clay tobacco pipes, gaming pieces, a child’s shoe or maybe a tantalising glimpse of a colourful glass bead as it emerges slowly from the mud. The River Thames has served as a vibrant and bustling trade hub for millennia. A final resting place for lost souls, love affairs, the site of battles, criminal activity and executions, a repository for a range of tiny hidden treasures that mudlarks search for at low tide, just as they have done since the poor of Victorian London – the original mudlarks – tried to eke out a living by looking for items they could sell, such as coal, wood or copper.
Poignant quote from an anonymous child mudlark, aged 13, 1860
Today’s mudlarks are more fortunate and can focus on uncovering the past. We don’t mudlark for profit, indeed we are not allowed to sell the things we find. Licensed mudlarks are hobbyists, but so much more than that. We are passionate about what we do and view mudlarking as a privilege. We don’t take our permits for granted. Mudlarks have discovered thousands of artefacts that tell the story of London; its history, trade, industry, fluctuating and ever changing population, immigration, survival and regeneration. I am so grateful to be a small part of this; it’s the very heart of what the exhibition is about.
Display cabinet showing sherds from the first potteries on the Thames
‘Secrets of the Thames’ is thoughtfully curated by Kate Sumnall and her talented team. On entering, you are welcomed by contemporary accounts of mudlarking, paintings and pamphlets providing context for the exhibition. Visitors are then encouraged to explore and engage with the displays, subdivided by period and theme. The exhibition doesn’t shrink from addressing difficult subjects, and one powerful section covers the West African slave trade, as it should. We also hear first-hand accounts from today’s mudlarks, and quotes from them are displayed throughout the exhibition as they describe what mudlarking means to them personally. This short, sweet and perfect quote by fellow mudlark Caroline Nunneley (@carolinenunneleymudlark on Insta) says it all.
‘Thank you, River’, quote by mudlark Caroline Nunneley
I’ve posted just a small selection of some of the artefacts on display. There were so many fascinating things to see that I’d prefer you go to check them out for yourselves. But if I had to single out some favourites (please don’t judge me) I would have to plump for the 18th century eel fork (photo below), Roman intaglios spotted by mudlarks over the years ( definitely a ‘wish list’ find for me, perhaps one day….), stunning pottery reproductions, sketches and prints by mudlarks Mark Sowden, Charlie Dixon and Ed Bucknall (@marksowden3 @charlie.collects and @edjbucknall on Insta) and mudlarking-influenced sculptures – ‘Finders Keepers’ – by Billie Bond (@billiebondsculptor) The work of some exceptionally talented people is on display here showcasing the mudlarking finds. The perfect juxtaposition of old with new. The mudlarking community is very talented and creative.
One of my favourite exhibition artefacts – an 18th century eel fork
Roman intaglios found by mudlarks on the Thames Foreshore
Mudlark Caroline Nunneley – from the ‘Finders Keepers’ series by sculptor Billie Bond
Mudlark Mark Sowden and some of his Roman Pottery reproductions, inspired by sherds found on the Thames Foreshore
A personal highlight of the exhibition for me comes as the exhibits draw to a conclusion. Utterly inspired, it’s a HUGE glowing Moon, the work of Luke Jerram and Felix Taylor. I couldn’t believe that the Moon has it’s own room. How lovely is that?
The Moon Room, created by Luke Jerram and Felix Taylor
My baby grandson and daughter silhouetted in the Moon Room
I took so many photos of this shiny silvery orb. Completely entranced. For without the Moon mudlarks are nothing. We cannot do what we do without it, because the Moon’s gravitational pull is the primary driver of earth’s tides.
On Earth, our precious oceans bulge out on both the side closest to the Moon and on the side further away from the Moon. These bulges create high tides. The low points are where low tides occur. Thank you, NASA, for the scientific explanation.
And at the New Moon or Full Moon, the tidal range is at its maximum. This is called a ‘spring tide’, when high tides are very high and low tides are very low. The phrase is nothing to do with the actual season of Spring. Rather, it means’ spring’ as in ‘spring forth’, ‘jump’, ‘rise’, ‘burst’ etc. Basically our oceans are bulging more than normal and it’s mind-blowing to contemplate.
So do say a special hello to the Moon Room when you visit.
My daughter checking out the mock-up of Stuart Wyatt’s (FLO) desk at the London Museum, a familiar sight for mudlarks who come to report their finds. This is a requirement of all who hold a mudlarking permit
But my photos aren’t doing this exhibition justice. You should go and see it for yourselves. Above all, it is rich in human experience. When I was a fresh-faced undergraduate studying for my history degree at university, the curriculum was predominantly about Kings, Queens, Politics, Treaties and Wars. Mudlarking is so much more than this. It’s about the lives of ordinary people whose names we might never know but who lived, loved, feared and hoped, just like we do now. This is what the artefacts we find bring to London’s story throughout millennia. A unique archaeological resource and rich legacy of the city and its peoples brought to life through items lost to the river over time.
My baby grandson being introduced to photos of myself and fellow mudlarks (though he slept through it all.) Photographs copyright John Chase, The London Museum
A joy to see the Battersea Shield, dredged from the Thames in 1857 during excavations for Chelsea Bridge
Last but not least, I must give a big shout-out to amazing photographer John Chase, who spent the preview evening ‘on duty’, recording the event with his camera, and for all the wonderful photos and images he’s taken for the London Museum exhibition.
John Chase busy at work photographing mudlarks Fran Sibthorpe and Jo Cook @johnchase5350 @franjoy7 and @little_jo_cook_mudlark on Insta
Secrets of the Thames is on at the London Museum, Docklands, until 1st March 2026, so there is plenty of time to book to see it. For more information and tickets click on the link below:
Canary Wharf with sign to the London Museum, Docklands
NB It is a legal requirement to have a valid permit from the Port of London Authority in order to search for, and remove, items from the Thames Foreshore. Further details here:
2024 has been a mixed year with many ups and downs for the mudlarking community, currently in need of large reserves of perseverance and resilience after recent challenging months. However, as we tiptoe into the new year, there’s also been much to celebrate. Many wonderful finds continue to be made by my fellow mudlarks, and our passion for this hobby shared during the past year with members of the public at Hands on History and other exhibitions in historic locations both in and outside London. It’s been a tribute to the bonds that bind us together that, whatever difficulties beset us, friendships forged in the mud of the foreshore continue to sustain many of us through tough times. This is why I love mudlarking.
2025 will see a celebration of mudlarking in the biggest exhibition of its kind ever staged at the London Museum Docklands. ‘London’s Lost Treasures’ opens to the public in April 2025 for a whole year and will be very exciting. I’ll be writing more about this in the new year but here’s one of the promotional articles from the BBC news website to give you a taster of what to expect. Do come! https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/ce9z9lerm90o
And this coming year will also mark ten years from the very moment I first stepped tentatively onto the foreshore and began my mudlarking journey, a very special anniversary for me. It’s been a blast. To celebrate the wonder and privilege that is mudlarking this, my last blog of the year, will be about a bucket list find I made earlier in July.
The ghostly profile of Emperor Constantine II on the obverse of a bronze follis
Summer has been very hit and miss on the weather front in the UK this year. We’ve had so much rain that predicted tides on the Thames have often been higher than expected, and previously lucrative spots have been increasingly inaccessible. On the occasion of my summer bucket list find I decided to go somewhere I hadn’t been for a while, more in hope than expectation, and also out of desperation as I’d missed the earlier train that morning so knew that mudlarking time would be limited. When I eventually got to the river I wasn’t expecting to find very much.
There were a few figures pottering about on the foreshore as I arrived – mudlarking friends Charlie, Tommy, and veteran Society of Mudlarks member Mackie with metal detector in hand, headphones clamped securely to his head – but we were all focused on our own particular areas, shutting out all other distractions. I knelt down at a particularly promising patch and began to scan the mud, rocks and gravel. If you’ve ever wondered what mudlarking on the foreshore actually looks like, the photo below will help give a flavour of just that. It’s about getting your eyes in, looking for particular areas of eroding mud, promising clumps of metal and hoping, just hoping, that it’ll be your lucky day. And so it was for me. If you look at the photo below, can you spot what I saw? (Clue – green gloved finger is pointing at something very interesting.)
Do you see what I see?
Newly emerged from Thames mud where it had lain hidden for approximately 1,700 years was my first ever Roman coin find. I don’t find many coins, indeed I suffer from coin blindness, so this was particularly special. A Constantine II bronze follis from the Arles (Arelate) mint, though these were also struck in London. Constantine II ruled as Caesar from 337 – 340AD.
On the obverse (see first photo) the Imperial image is seen facing left. The legend reads CONSTANTINVS IVN (Junior) NOB C, laureate draped with cuirassed bust. On the reverse, the legend VIRTVS CAESS followed by ARLT (Arles) and an image of a camp gate which is open, above which are two turrets, though some coins of this type show four.
Reverse of my Constantine II bronze follis showing open camp gates and two turrets
A clearer image of the obverse and reverse of a Constantine II bronze follis, this one showing four turrets above open camp gates. Minted in Arles (Arelate.)
Constantine II is one of those Roman Emperors one could safely say had ‘issues’. Born in Arles, Provence, then a Province of the Roman Empire (the name Provence comes, not surprisingly, from Province, ie a Province of Rome) he was the son of the much more renowned Constantine the Great, famous for converting the Roman Empire to Christianity and the model for the massive stone marble head in the Capitoline Museum, Rome, and grandson of the indomitable Empress Helena. It’s reasonable to speculate that Constantine II struggled to escape his famous father’s shadow.
He was made Caesar before his first birthday in 316AD, a huge burden for an older man, unimaginable for such a young child who was still literally a baby. But such is reality in the dynastic fast lane of the Imperial Roman family where life was complicated, often short, and violent. Constantine II inherited the western part of the Roman Empire – rainy windswept Britain, Gaul and sunny Spain – on the death of his father.
He quarrelled with his brother Constans, invading his brother’s territory, only to be killed for his pains in an ambush in Aquileia. He ruled for a mere three years and achieved little of note.
I often think that Roman Provence gets overlooked in history but it’s richer in ancient Roman monuments and artefacts than anywhere else in the world, even more than in Rome itself. Blessed with vast amphitheatres and triumphal arches, paved roads and magnificent aqueducts in a breathtakingly beautiful landscape. Arles, Nîmes, Marseille (all of which have great Roman museums,) plus Orange and Aix, to name just a few areas which are well worth visiting.
Arles was the favourite city of daddy Constantine the Great because it lay at the heart of the Roman Empire in western Gaul. Geographically a key link between Italy and Spain, with great highways stretching from the Alps to the Pyrenees, as well as routes to the flourishing Mediterranean ports.
Edwin Mullins’ book on Roman Provence, which I’ve referenced in previous blogs, though a bit dry, is nonetheless an excellent guide to this region and its history, covering six centuries of Roman occupation in this landscape. I’ve just done a quick google to check on the availability of this book and, predictably (please don’t shout at me) it’s currently out of stock, also out of print. Sorry. ‘Tant pis’, as the French would say, though perhaps ‘non est praesto’ in Latin would be more appropriate. But keep a look out for copies, if you can.
Recently the most marvellous thing happened when, courtesy of two fellow mudlarks, my foreshore found Constantine II was reunited with his father Constantine I (the Great) and grandmother Empress Helena (mother of Constantine I.) My fellow mudlarks and friends, Caroline and Guy, shared their Roman coin finds in a social media post and we were finally able to bring this ancient dynasty together. (Please follow them both on Instagram – Caroline is @carolinenunneleymudlark and Guy is @mudlarking.about)
Guy was the lucky finder of a Constantine the Great coin, obverse showing the familiar profile of the Emperor facing right, time and tide having given the coin a faint coppery green patina, slightly worn around the edges and incomplete after millennia immersed in the murky waters of the Thames. A wonderful coin to spot and much envied by other mudlarks.
Obverse of a Constantine the Great coin found by Guy @mudlarking.about on the Thames Foreshore
Reverse of a Constantine the Great coin found by Guy @mudlarking.about
Constantine the Great in profile. Image courtesy of Guy @mudlarking.about
The marble head of Constantine the Great in the Capitoline Museum, Rome
Yours truly gently stroking Constantine the Great’s big marble toe in the courtyard of the Capitoline Museum, Rome. Photo from August 2016
Then came the formidable Empress Helena. Her image was found on a coin spotted by fellow mudlark and friend Caroline Nunneley, who doesn’t know how thrilled my mother was when I shared this find with her, for reasons that will be clarified anon. (Small clue to keep you all going – Empress Helena is a bit of a legend in our household.)
Obverse of an Empress Helena coin found on the Thames Foreshore by Caroline @carolinenunneleymudlark
Flavia Julia Helena (250 to 330AD) is also known as Helena of Constantinople, and in Christianity as St Helena. A true survivor, born from a lower class Greek background thought to be from Drepanum, Bithynia, in what was then north west Asia Minor, though evidence for her precise place of birth is scant. She became the wife of Emperor Constantine Chlorus, mother of another Emperor (Constantine the Great) and grandmother to a third (Constantine II).
Helena is an important figure in Christianity having converted due to the influence of her son Constantine the Great, according to the writer Eusebius, who recorded details of many of her pilgrimages to Palestine and the eastern provinces. In the final years of her life she visited Syria, Palestine and Jerusalem where claims were made that she was given fragments of the True Cross. Her son named various cities after her – Helenopolis in Palestine, Helenopolis in Lydia, and also a province.
A fresco from Trier, Germany, thought to be of Empress Helena
She is thought to have been at least 80 when she returned from Palestine, a grand old age for that time when life was short and even mothers of Emperors weren’t safe from plots and treachery.
During excavations and the rebuilding of Jerusalem it’s documented that Helena ordered the destruction of a temple dedicated to Venus built on the supposed site of Christ’s tomb. During the subsequent rebuilding, three crosses were apparently discovered, Helena eagerly taking possession of them, a story recounted in ‘On the Death of Theodosius’ by the writer Ambrose. He wrote about a seriously ill woman who was said to have touched the third of these crosses and mysteriously recovered, thereby convincing Helena that this must indeed be the true cross. Her son Constantine the Great later ordered the building of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on the site of this discovery.
Helena was also said to be the fortunate owner of assorted fragments of cloth from Christ’s tunic, other pieces of the holy cross, and pieces of rope that had tied Christ to the Cross. Some of her relics can still be seen today in the Basilica of Santa Croce in Jerusalem though others are scattered around Europe in various basilicas, so large was her collection. As a collector of holy artefacts she had no equal.
Helena died in 330AD with her son Constantine the Great by her side. Her sarcophagus is on display in the Vatican Museum though the whereabouts of her actual remains are a bit of a mystery, possibly resting under the main altar in the church of Sant’Elena, Venice, though not everyone is convinced.
I mentioned earlier that my mother was delighted by my sharing details of Caroline’s Roman coin find with her. Empress Helena reminds her of her mother, my grandmother Maria, who shared this same obsession with collecting holy relics, not particularly bothered if their provenance was dodgy. My grandmother was also a proud owner of parts of what she was convinced were the True Cross, the walls of her small home in Poland literally covered in religious icons, rosaries and other sacred objects. She and Empress Helena would have got on like a literal house on fire though, unlike Helena, my grandmother’s collection of holy relics has sadly long since disappeared into the mists of time.
Empress Helena, her son Constantine the Great, and his son (Helena’s grandson) Constantine II reunited at last. Image courtesy of Guy @mudlarking.about
We will never know who owned and subsequently lost any of these three coins. Perhaps a centurion, newly stationed in this damp , grey and miserable outpost of the Roman Empire, probably wishing he was back home in sunny Provence. And who can blame him? As he disembarks from the boat that brought him here, one of these coins slips through his freezing fingers into the murky depths of the river Thames.
Wishing a Happy New Year 2025 to all subscribers and visitors to this mudlarking blog. WordPress informs me that last year approximately 150,000 of you read about my finds from the Thames, and the stories behind them, and this makes me very happy. Thank you for reading.
(NB A valid permit from the Port of London Authority (PLA) is a legal requirement if you wish to mudlark on the Thames Foreshore.)
Tower Bridge, September. View from the foreshore at Horselydown Stairs looking upstream
It’s late September. Summer, or what’s passed for summer in the UK this year, is morphing slowly into autumn, students have returned to their studies and the seasons turn again.
I’ve made some wonderful mudlarking finds since my last blog – a Thames thimble, a Victorian-era halfpenny inkwell, another 15th/16th century Pinner’s bone AND my first ever Roman coin! – and life has been busy. But I’ve decided to save writing about these finds for the next blog and to write about something else this time, something very dear to my heart. The Thames Path.
‘Solvitur Ambulando’ is a phrase I learnt during Latin lessons at school. Loosely translated it means ‘it is solved by walking’. Often attributed to dear St Augustine though like so many famous sayings no one quite knows who actually said it first. But it’s long been known and championed that walking is a wonderful thing to do – good for both our physical and mental health.
All of which segues neatly into writing about The Thames Path, and I’ve spent quite a bit of time walking various stretches of it this month too.
Stretching for approximately 185 miles in total, the Thames Path follows the greatest river in the world from source to sea, past bucolic water meadows, picturesque rural villages and historical towns and cities. There are many different routes you can take, both long and short, according to taste, level of fitness and how far you want to walk. There is an excellent Thames Path/National Trail website with lot of information and advice if you’re planning a walking route:
The idea for Thames Path walks was first proposed in 1948 though they weren’t officially opened as walking routes until 1996. The route this blog is focusing on is a fairly short one, all things considered, from London Bridge to Rotherhithe, walking in a downstream (easterly) direction along the river.
Bollywood comes to the River Thames
As you exit London Bridge station, cross the road and turn right along Tooley Street, then left along More London Place. You’re never far from the river in this location and you’ll see it re-appear as you approach City Hall and Potters Field Park. Tower Bridge looms straight in front of you.
On the rather grey September morning when I walked this particular stretch of the Thames Path, Potters Field Park was a riot of colour. A group of Bollywood actors and dancers had taken over and were practising their moves, barefoot, on the grass. It was lovely to see. After a chat and some photos I waved them goodbye and walked on.
Continuing southside under Tower Bridge Shad Thames appears in front of you, The Anchor Brewhouse on your left. In 1787 Scotsman John Courage bought a small brewhouse on this very site. A year later, records state that he’d managed ‘to brew 51 barrels of beer at the Anchor Brewhouse, Horselydown’. The building was later expanded to include a boiler house and malt mill in addition to the brewery itself. The current building dates from 1871, largely rebuilt in 1894-1895. Later restoration work took place during the 1985 -1989 redevelopment of this area and the building is now Grade II listed.
The Anchor Brewhouse, Horselydown
As a side note, while writing this blog I got majorly distracted by my research into the history of brewing in Southwark, which is long and distinguished, its roots going back to the early Medieval period. The landscape then was very different with many small streams, in addition to the Thames itself, providing one of the essential ingredients for this industry – water. Both Chaucer and Shakespeare have at different times mentioned the brewers of Southwark in their writings.
Women dominated the brewing industry throughout England from about 1300-1500, after which the patriarchy essentially flexed its muscles and pushed them out. The reasons for this are both obvious and complex though, in a nutshell, men became increasingly insistent that more traditional gender roles should be adhered to by women, especially once the Reformation had swept through much of Northern and Central Europe, leaving them vulnerable to charges of ‘crimes’ such as witchcraft, with its inevitable trials and punishable by death, if they upset the status quo. It was instead preferred they should stay at home busying themselves with domesticity and raising children.
The history of medieval brewing has given me a fresh insight into women and business in the Middle Ages which, for all its difficulties, allowed them a measure of financial independence and freedom, particularly for those who were unmarried, to pursue a way of life that gave them some degree of agency. It’s unfortunate that we will never known their names because amid the chaos of life in Medieval Southwark, unlike north of the river, there was little in the way of record keeping.
It isn’t perhaps as widely known as it should be that from Ancient Egyptian times onwards the very first brewers were women. They brewed for religious ceremonies and to make a practical, protein and carbohydrate-rich drink for the home at a time when working class people could not afford wine, and river water wasn’t clean or safe enough to drink on its own. Plus ça change…
And it was women who brewed and sold most of the ale in Southwark , indeed in much of Medieval England. They produced and sold ale from home (ie ‘home’ was often just one small room shared with others), or going to market to sell their brew from cauldrons. Southwark, south side of the river, did not have the regulatory controls of the City of London and Guilds on the north side of the Thames, so women were free to produce and sell as they wished, earning money and enjoying a measure of financial independence and control thanks to their knowledge of fermentation, often passed down the female line of the family.
In fact, the word ‘Brewster’ means a female brewer. The first mention of women’s involvement in this trade in Southwark appears in about 1200. At that time brewing meant producing ‘ale’ – a drink made from fermented yeast, malted grain and water. If you had access to water you could make ale. It was sweet tasting and popular, widely consumed, but unstable and spoiled quickly. It also couldn’t, for obvious reasons, be produced in large quantities.
The introduction of hops and changes in farming practices in the 16th century precipitated widespread changes in the brewing industry, another reason why women began to be squeezed out.
Inevitably by 1600, most brewers in London were male. The use of hops in brewing switched the focus from ale to beer and made the product more bitter but also created something more resilient. Making beer conferred social prestige on the (male) brewers who had the money to invest in equipment thus beginning the industrialisation of brewing. Financially, logistically and socially women could not compete with this and it meant they were effectively pushed out of the brewing process.
So, when you look up at the Anchor Brewhouse spare a thought for the raucous playground that was medieval Southwark and pay silent homage to the women brewers who went before.
Horselydown steps leading to the foreshore
Horselydown steps. Now badly weathered, so it’s important to take great care here
There are steps that take you through the Anchor Brewhouse onto the Thames Foreshore from which there are magnificent views of Tower Bridge. The Thames Foreshore is an open public space, though with some restrictions in certain places, and you are free to walk here. But I do urge extreme caution for anyone navigating these algae-covered river steps as they are old and eroding fast. On the day I took the above photo of Horselydown stairs, a tourist had slipped and fallen down them. She was a bit shaken but fortunately wasn’t seriously injured. A young German couple got chatting to me and told me that this location is advertised quite openly on TripAdvisor (which is where they’d learnt about it) but they didn’t recall it coming with health and safety warnings. So, if you are coming down here, please be careful and wear decent footwear. Cool photos of Tower Bridge on Instagram are no fun if you’ve ended upbreaking an ankle to get them.
The Port Of London Authority (PLA) who manage the Thames Foreshore have an excellent page with advice on visiting the Thames, including a free ‘Go Jauntly’ app which is useful to download:
Shad Thames in the 1980s, prior to redevelopment, as seen in this London Docklands Guide by Tony Phillips
Re-emerging onto the pavement outside The Anchor Brewhouse you will find yourself back on Shad Thames, the name itself is a corruption of ‘St John at Thames.’ In the Victorian-era, when the Port of London was one of the busiest ports in the world with goods being loaded and unloaded from literally thousands of boats, barges and lighters, Shad Thames was known as the largest warehouse complex in the capital. Completed in 1873 these warehouses were home to huge quantities of coffee, tea, spices, dried fruit and all sorts of other commodities brought in from around the world. This led to the area being known as the ‘larder of London.’
Cardamom Building, Shad Thames
Today Shad Thames has been re-developed into offices, luxury apartments and restaurants. But the history of this area remains in the very bones of the buildings. As you walk along you can still see the overhead gantries which connected the warehouses and, if you stop for a moment outside Cardamom Building (pictured above), close your eyes and imagine the scent of spices in the air.
Passageway from Shad Thames to Butler’s Wharf
Opposite Cardamom Building there is a passageway that will take you back to the river and Butler’s Wharf. Shad Thames documents show that a grain trader by the name of Mr Butler rented wharehouses from the Thomas family in 1794, hence the name ‘Butler’s Wharf.’ Today the existing Butler’s Wharf has a public walkway which forms part of the Thames Path with excellent views of Tower Bridge upstream, St Katharine Docks directly opposite, and views of Rotherhithe and Canary Wharf downstream.
You’ll see Butler’s Wharf Pier as you walk towards New Concordia Wharf. Butler’s Wharf Pier is home to a fleet of private chartered boats owned, along with the pier itself, by the Livett family who have been working the Thames since 1710. The current director of the pier is Chris Livett, a seventh generation Thames Waterman and Waterman to King Charles III, having previously served in this capacity for the late Queen Elizabeth II.
St Saviour’s Dock
I always like to stop and take in the view at St Saviour’s Dock. To the right of my photo you’ll see an inlet which is where the River Neckinger, one of London’s subterranean rivers that rises south of Southwark, flows into the Thames. In the 18th century the Thames was so busy bringing in goods from all round the globe that cargoes were often stranded in the river for weeks on end. Indeed it’s been said you could walk across the Thames from south to north and back again by jumping from one vessel to another. The area became one of many in the Pool of London that was notorious for theft as pirates attacked the moored vessels to steal the goods.
This was one of the main reasons for the creation of the first proper police force in London, the Thames River Police, organised in 1798 by Scottish magistrate Patrick Colquhoun and master mariner John Harriott. Initially funded by merchants from the West India Company who were losing large amounts of cargo to theft and looting, the river police brought much needed law and order to the crime-ridden Thames. Eventually absorbed into London’s Metropolitan Police in 1839 after which they became known as Thames Division. They continue to exist today as the Marine Policing Unit (MPU) and are based at Wapping.
If pirates were caught looting vessels they would be hanged at the mouth of St Saviour’s Dock. The very name ‘Neckinger’, the underground river which reaches the Thames in this spot, is thought to be London slang for ‘Devil’s Neckerchief’, ie a reference to the noose used to execute pirates. I’ve walked this path on foggy winter days when there’s an eerie half-light and you can hear the creak of ancient timber from the wharves, wind whistling through the hydraulic cable of the stay swing bridge (installed in 1995 to connect the Thames Path.) It’s not too far-fetched to think you’ve stepped back into a very dark time when the bodies of criminals were left hanging from gibbets here.
St Saviour’s Dock, view across the swing bridge to New Concordia Wharf
View of old wharehouses behind New Concordia Wharf, now converted to offices and apartments
Just before you cross the swing bridge approaching New Concordia Wharf, you’ll see to your right what remains of the exteriors of Wheat Wharf, The Clove Building, Tea Trade Wharf, Saffron Wharf, Anise and Coriander Court Buildings – remnants of the Victorian spice warehouses, although this site also housed two corn-drying kilns.
Charles Dickens set ‘Oliver Twist’ in the area of Shad Thames and looking back at old photos you can see why. Once notorious for poverty, though the warehouse and ship owners made large fortunes from the import of goods stored here, it would have been dark, dirty, noisy and dangerous for local people, criminals lurking in the shadows. Bill Sikes meets a violent death in the mud of St Saviour’s Dock while Fagin’s Den was located in one of the Shad Thames warehouses.
Passageway to Reeds Wharf and Bermondsey Wall West
Continuing along the Thames Path, a striking red-walled passageway takes you briefly away from the river and into a courtyard that belonged to Reeds Wharf, a Grade II listed 19th century warehouse. There’s been a warehouse on this site since the 18th century but the current building dates from the 19th and was a granary once belonging to H. Reed, mainly handling grain from North America.
Reeds Wharf, a former Granary
Bermondsey Wall West, part of the Thames Path
Then continue along Bermondsey Wall West following the well signposted Thames Path route which will bring you back to the river at Fountain Green Square, just past the location of the new super sewer at Chambers Wharf. This is Tideway’s main drive site where tunnelling first began in the Thames, one of the busiest and most important locations of the project. The work is very much ongoing here and this summer has seen Tideway beginning to remove the cofferdam, the temporary area of land built out into the river so that structures could be built below ground. The new super sewer will mean that instead of flowing into the river, almost all sewage overflows in the centre of London will be stored in the tunnel until it can be safely processed. The super sewer is expected to be fully operational in 2025, and not a moment too soon.
Tideway working at Chambers Wharf
From this point at Chambers Wharf it’s now possible to complete the short walk down to Rotherhithe, past Cherry Garden pier, and the end of this part of the Thames Path. There are quite a few points of interest along the remainder of this route.
View from Chambers Wharf downstream to Cherry Garden Pier, Bermondsey to Rotherhithe
Bronze statue of Joyce Salter and her cat
Tribute to the Salter Family, Bermondsey
One of my favourite parts of this walk as Bermondsey merges into Rotherhithe is the group of riverside bronze statues in tribute to the Salter family – Ada, Alfred, their daughter Joyce and her cat. I’m not a fan of statues in general but I love these and, although tinged with sadness, they somehow always manage to bring a smile to my face. A contradiction, I know, but the statue of Joyce in particular is so full of life.
Ada and Alfred Salter transformed the lives of people in crime and disease-ridden Bermondsey, becoming much loved figures in their community. Alfred was a brilliant doctor with a social conscience who had trained at Guy’s Hospital and moved to Bermondsey at the beginning of the 20th century to work in this deprived area. He didn’t charge the patients he treated, promoting the idea of free health care well before the NHS formally did when it came into existence in 1948. Ada, a social worker, opened clubs which transformed the lives of Bermondsey’s toughest working girls and gave them hope along with a chance of a better future. Ada met Alfred in Bermondsey and they married in 1900, both joined the Independent Labour Party and devoted the rest of their lives to the poor of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. Ada later became the first Labour woman councillor, eventually Mayor, in London. Alfred was elected MP for Bermondsey in 1922.
The lives of Ada and Alfred Salter were marred by tragedy in 1910 when Joyce, their only child, died of scarlet fever at the age of 8. A highly contagious illness that mostly affects children, today it’s easily treated with antibiotics. At the beginning of the 20th century however, there was no such medication, and in poverty stricken areas of large cities the disease spread quickly. The Salters never recovered from Joyce’s death and threw themselves into work.
Sculptor Diane Gorvin has called these beautifully forged statues ‘Dr Salter’s Daydream’. An elderly Alfred Salter sits by the river imagining his beloved wife Ada, much loved daughter Joyce with her cat, as they once were in happier days.
King Edward III’s Manor House, Rotherhithe
Just to the side of the tribute to the Salter family are the remains of King Edward III’s manor house. Edward III (Plantagenet) ruled from 1327-1377, famous for taking England into battle with the French during The Hundred Years’ War and annexing large parts of France for the English crown. He married Philippa of Hainault and they had fourteen children, one of whom is my favourite forgotten medieval teenage princess, Joan of England.
This Royal building, now a scheduled monument, was actually a moated manor house constructed in 1350 when Rotherhithe was a small hamlet set in low-lying marshland. The King would arrive by boat and moor the Royal barge at river steps that then led directly to a gatehouse.
It’s been said that the manor house may have been used as a hunting lodge but this is unlikely as there was no Royal Park nearby unless the hunting involved water fowl, which was perfectly possible. More likely it was used for the king to practice his falconry as there was a clear view of the birds across the flat marshlands and river.
By the 16th century this area had begun to change significantly in appearance with land being reclaimed and the Thames waterfront pushed northwards. A road was built along the new river embankment, eventually becoming what is now Bermondsey Wall. In the 18th century this site became the Rotherhithe Pottery and by the 19th century warehouses had been built on it, the final warehouse demolished in the 1970s. After archaeological excavations in the 1980s the area was restored to the vista we see today.
1 Fulford Street, the ‘leaning tower of Rotherhithe.’
As you walk on, keep an eye out for the strange, solitary, cream building known locally as the ‘leaning tower of Rotherhithe’. It has a fascinating history. Recently sold by Savills it was once part of a row of buildings along the river, many of them destroyed or severely damaged by the Blitz.
Previously known as 41 Rotherhithe Street, now renamed 1 Fulford Street, the building was once owned by Victorian barge company Braithwaite and Dean, and used as an office where lightermen (who unloaded goods from flat bottomed barges) pulled up to collect their wages. In 1937-1939 it was home to Winston Churchill’s nephew, Esmond Romilly, and his wife Jessica Mitford. Noel Coward was a frequent visitor to this house as was Princess Margaret with photographer Anthony Armstrong-Jones, who she later married.
Peeking through the railings at St Mary’s Church, Rotherhithe
Once you’ve reached St Marychurch Street, it’s worth popping in to have a look at the churchyard and church of St Mary’s, if open. The present parish church (full name St Mary the Virgin with All Saints) dates from 1714-1716, though there’s been a church here since the 12th century. It has some very well known memorials incuding one marking the final resting place of Christopher Jones, captain of The Mayflower, which took the Pilgrim Fathers to America in 1620.
It is also the burial place of Prince Lee Boo of Palau, a Pacific Island Prince, and of Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Teddeman. There’s a lot of useful information about St Mary’s on their church website, click on the link below to learn more:
It usually takes me approximately an hour to walk to this point (avoiding the temptation to nip down to the foreshore to mudlark via whichever river steps I happen to be passing en route), though perhaps an hour and a half if strolling slowly and stopping to take photos and gaze out over the river. If you’re well and truly flagging by now, directly opposite the church is the famous Mayflower pub where you can stop for refreshment and then carry on to the Brunel Museum. Or terminate your walk here and make you way home via Rotherhithe Station. It’s your choice entirely and you can always come back another day.
The Mayflower’s history as a pub is deeply and predictably rooted in its location, an area rich in maritime history and trade. Goods would have been unloaded from the nearby wharves and lightermen, watermen and sailors from all around the world have caroused in the pubs and taverns here ever since the 17th century. Rotherhithe was also a busy centre for ship building and ship breaking.
The current building is not the original one from the 16th century and known as the Shippe Inn, later rebuilt and renamed The Spread-Eagle. War damage during the Blitz resulted in a major refurbishment in 1957, which will come as a shock to some readers, because it was only then that it was renamed The Mayflower. The architect responsible decided to recreate a 17th century interior which makes The Mayflower look much older than it really is. But a good story never dies and the pub still has strong connections with American visitors who can sign a ‘Descendants Book’, if they can prove their ancestors sailed from here on The Mayflower ship in 1620.
Cumberland Wharf, the approximate site where The Mayflower set sail for America in 1620
If the history of The Mayflower is of personal or historical interest to you, before leaving the area take a left turn as you exit The Mayflower pub and stroll for a few minutes along the Thames Path to Cumberland Wharf. This is the approximate site where the Pilgrim Fathers set sail for America (via Southampton and Plymouth to pick up supplies.) There is a bronze statue marking this event and its place in history.
Charles Hay & Son, 135 Rotherhithe Street
En route to the site of the departure of The Mayflower ship you’ll pass both the Brunel Museum and the sensitively restored building belonging to Charles Hay & Son, located at 135 Rotherhithe Street, who were successful barge and lighter builders. The striking royal blue paint of the doors and windows pops out from the brickwork and gives a real flavour of what this area must have once looked like.
The Brunel Museum, Railway Avenue
Last but not least, the Brunel Museum in Railway Avenue is a fine small museum well worth visiting and of manageable size even if your energy has drained away by now. Run by volunteers, it tells the story of one of the world’s greatest engineering dynasties, French born Sir Marc Isambard Brunel and his son Sir Isambard Kingdom Brunel (named after his English mother Sophia Kingdom.) Check the museum’s website for opening times.
Today the Thames is both recognisable in parts, unrecognisable in others. The London Docklands Development Corporation, set up in 1981 by Margaret Thatcher’s Environment Secretary, Michael Heseltine, who granted permission for massive redevelopment to begin on both sides of the Thames in the mid 1980s, shaped the vista we see today. There was considerable opposition to the initial plans as locals feared buildings being turned into luxury apartments, and old communities pushed to the margins. Much of this came to pass and it’s difficult not to feel sympathy with those whose families had lived here for generations. But even now when walking this stretch of the Thames Path I can still hear old Bermondsey voices in the air, so the spirit and identity of the original residents is very much alive and well in places.
And something tangible still remains of the old city port, the noisy brutal smoky London of commerce and enterprise.
The Thames Path tells the story of London – its trade, its industry, its ever-changing population, its immigration, survival and regeneration. So get walking, and absorb yourself in the history of the greatest city in the world.
I’m often asked what my favourite types of pottery finds are. I have a bit of a thing for Staffordshire Combed Slipware, its yellow and striped colourways reminding me of the decoration on a Mr Kipling Bakewell Tart. (For my North American readers, this is a type of cake available in shops throughout the UK and nothing whatsoever to do with the more derogatory use of the word unfortunately used to describe women.) And anything with a potter’s thumb print visible on the piece will always come home with me, especially those found on Surrey/Hampshire (medieval) whiteware or post medieval redware. But I also have a fondness for modern sherds and anything floral is a keeper too, much to the despair of my ever patient family. ‘What? Another ten pieces of that cracked willow-themed stuff? How much of it do you need?’ I’m not sure everyone at home still fully understands my obsession, even after all these years of me searching the river.
When I first began mudlarking nine years ago, I fell more than a bit in love with sherds of blue on white bone china that I often spotted on the Thames Foreshore. Not to everyone’s taste but there was something attractive about the blue flowers (I later realised were asters) that embellished a particular type of crockery in such a blowsy, confident manner. It was some while before I identified the floral design on these sherds of cups, saucers, plates and other types of table ware as belonging to the famous Express Dairies.
Sherds of crockery from Express Dairies, found by me on the Thames Foreshore
It’s been a pleasure to research my Express Dairies Thames-found pottery sherds as this is a well documented company with a fabulous, extensive and detailed archive including photos, posters, newsletters, recipes for the stressed housewife, in-house magazine and story books for children.
I’ve borrowed a few bits and pieces from the archive for the purpose of writing this little blog but recommend you click on the link below and have a browse through it yourselves. It’s an absolute joy.
A few weeks ago I spotted a painting on social media. Thinking it was Victorian-era I was surprised to discover it had been painted in 1965 by Peter Colville Horridge Gardner. It’s called ‘Express Dairy’ and shows a horse and milk cart from the dairy on Dawes Road, Fulham. A real portal to a bygone age and I love it because it captures perfectly what this firm stood for.
‘Express Dairy’ Dawes Road, Fulham, painted in 1965 by Peter Colville Horridge Gardner (Hammersmith & Fulham Archives and Local History Centre)
Express Dairies are a former brand of Dairy Crest, a throwback to decades past when wholesome milk was delivered to your door by a cheery milkman and all was right with the world. They specialised almost entirely in home deliveries of milk and other dairy products.
The company was founded by George Barham in 1864 as the ‘Express County Milk Supply Company’, the name deriving from the days when fresh milk was brought overnight into London by rail – an express locomotive – thereby enabling a speedy and efficient delivery to customers, this reflected in many of the publicity posters produced by the firm.
They had two major creameries and bottling plants in London. The first was located near South Acton railway station on the North London Line, giving access to milk trains from Great Western Railways and Southern Railways. The second was at the company’s HQ in Cricklewood, adjacent to the station. This ensured good railway access for milk trains from London, the Midlands and Scottish Railways. All bases were covered.
‘While London Sleeps’ booklet published by Express Dairies in 1930
And as we’re on the subject of overnight milk trains I have to sneak in a particular milk-related story from my time as a history undergraduate. I’d been to a student gig which ended in the wee late hours – if memory serves it was the doo-wop revivalist group ‘Darts.’ Rita Ray, Griff Fender and manic, wild-eyed, wild-haired Den Hegarty, famous for hit songs such as ‘Daddy Cool’ and ‘The Boy From New York City’ – give them a google if you’re too young to remember. My memory is hazy on the details but after the gig I headed to the station with a friend and we missed our last train home. Somehow we managed to get a lift on a milk train leaving in the early hours of the morning and it dropped us off at Strawberry Hill Depot, from where we were able to get safely back to our beds. I don’t recall if it was an Express Dairies milk train but it did the job and got us home in one piece. I can, however, still remember the bone-shaking rattle of the milk churns.
And who amongst us hasn’t cadged a lift on a late night milk train post gig in order to get home after an evening out? A story to tell the grandchildren one day…
Express Dairy News cover page from December 1959
Post war society was changing fast and Express Dairies faced difficult times keeping up with new demands from consumers. The advent of supermarkets created heavy competition and the customer was presented with much greater choice than ever before. To meet this challenge, Express Dairies developed and launched long-life milk thus ensuring its brand and name remained present in customers’ minds. The downside of the march of the supermarket inevitably meant that the desire for home delivered milk began to decline as the supermarkets offered cheaper dairy produce. But somehow the delivery of milk in the early hours survived and still continues. While researching this article late into last night, fuelled by cups of tea and biscuits, I could hear our local milkman purring down the road on his electric milk float, stopping here and there to leave milk on people’s doorsteps. It’s strangely comforting to know this tradition thrives to this day.
Express Dairies was eventually taken over by Dairy Crest in 2006, who sold its deliveries business to Creamline Dairies in July 2013 and its milk processing business to the German firm Müller in December 2015, thus bringing about the end of an era. If you have any personal memories of Express Dairies and milk deliveries please let me know.
A cream pot featuring the Express Dairies ‘aster’ design
As mentioned, I’ve found many sherds of Express Dairies pottery while mudlarking on the Thames Foreshore – fragments from milk pitchers, ceramic jars, cream pots, tea caddies, tea sets including cups and saucers – the stylised blue on white aster popping up brightly from the mud and gravel.
I’m grateful to fellow mudlark Tobias Nehmy Neto for allowing me to share his Express Dairies-related finds from the river. Tobias has found brass buttons featuring the Express Dairies logo, almost certainly from the uniform of a milkman from the company. As with most Thames finds we’ll never know exactly how these got into the river but they look beautiful and open another door to the past of this much-loved firm.
Express Dairy brass button made by Firmin of London. Found by Tobias Nehmy Neto
The buttons were made by Firmin & Sons of London. This famous firm has been proudly making buttons since 1655, one of the oldest manufacturing companies in the the UK and indeed the world. From modest and humble beginnings as button makers, the firm expanded rapidly to become designers and suppliers of uniforms, livery badges and buttons (complete uniforms too) serving numerous monarchs, and receiving the Royal Warrant. Now located in Birmingham, they continue to manufacture buttons, badges, uniforms for the military, swords, horse furniture, corporate clothing, livery, medallions and so much more in their factories.
Clear detail of an Express Dairies brass button, gilding still visible, found by Tobias Nehmy Neto
A stunning selection of some of the many other button finds made by mudlark Tobias Nehmy Neto
Tobias has found many incredible items in his time mudlarking. I recommend his Instagram account for more details of his finds @tob2n and he has a YouTube channel that’s well worth subscribing to at https://www.youtube.com/user/Tob2n
I’m extremely proud to have been asked to become an ambassador for Thames 21, a charity that campaigns, educates and works with communities to protect rivers, canals, streams, ponds and lakes in London. The Thames itself is one of our great public spaces in the capital and faces enormous challenges in this time of climate emergency and biodiversity loss. Whilst permission is needed to mudlark and detect on the Thames Foreshore (currently permits have been suspended by the Port of London Authority – https://pla.co.uk/thames-foreshore-permits) much of the river is free for people to access and walk on at low tide, though there are some restricted places and obviously care must be taken.
Thames 21 are launching London Rivers Week, 22nd to 30th June, a week long annual campaign inspiring the public to celebrate all of London’s rivers and the many projects taking place to protect them. The aim is to actively connect communities with their local rivers, to care for and protect their blue and green spaces.
This year’s theme is ‘London is a river city’, focusing on health, well-being and culture. Culture and nature have always been intertwined – literature, music, history, archaeology, arts – and rivers and green spaces have provided great inspiration to people across the world.
There are many activities and opportunities for people to get involved – free walks, webinars, talks, river clean-ups. There’s something for everyone; individuals, families and children.
London Rivers Week raises awareness of the capital’s network of rivers, how they benefit us and how we can preserve them. Click on the link below to find out more and register for an activity or event.
View across the Thames from the Southbankon a murky day inJanuary 2024
January has seen a welcome return to the Thames Foreshore after the over-indulgence of Christmas and the New Year. I like this time of year, after all, my ancestors came from both East and North East Europe so cold winters are in my DNA but, much as I love scarves, hats, fleecy gilets and warm woolly jumpers, I find myself starting to long for the return of longer, warmer, brighter days and increasingly shorter nights. Roll on Spring!
My first jaunt to the river in 2024 took place in South West London, my home patch of the capital. Winter aside, the last few months have seen truly miserable weather where it seemed as if it was never going to stop raining. Literally, weeks and weeks of heavy downpours have predictably resulted in very high water levels on the Thames, disappointing low tides and plenty of flooding of the Thames Path, particularly affecting the area covering Putney to Teddington Lock.
South West London Foreshore showing the view from Fulham (north side) to Putney (south side) with Putney Bridge in the distance
During this heavy rainy period, I took my mudlarking friend Tom down to the foreshore in South West London as he’d never been to the river in this neck of the woods and was keen to explore. Without giving away too many secrets (some of the regulars who come here won’t forgive me if I do), the foreshore in this location has a very different look and feel from the foreshore you’ll find in the Centre of London. It’s much more built up with tons of hard core covering potentially interesting find spots, and a longer foreshore where you can walk for some considerable distance wasting a lot of valuable searching time if you’re a newbie. It helps if you’re with someone who can point out where the artefact scatters are.
But there are intriguing finds to be made here and many interesting Thames archaeological features. You’ll find pre-historic peat, Iron Age posts, the remains of Anglo-Saxon fish traps, ancient causeways, rotting timbers, Georgian-era mooring posts, old wharves and broken sherds from the potteries that once churned out their wares up on the embankment. The South West London foreshore is home to many thousands of years of the capital’s history, still visible at low tide.
The South West London Foreshore at Putney. Dangerously high low tide, few finds to be had on a day like this
Tom and I arrived on the foreshore with an hour and a half to go before the turn of the tide and made our way slowly downstream, with me pointing out favourite spots and ancient features. I’d already noticed that the tide was far higher than I’d been expecting (moral of this story – check live tide timetables when the weather is dodgy, not just predicted ones) and there was a much stronger prevailing wind at river level than we experienced higher up on the embankment.
The South West London Foreshore at Fulham, Dangerously high low tidein which we nearly got into serious difficulties
We pottered downstream towards an interesting part of the foreshore known for being a location for pottery sherd deposits; clay, stoneware and porcelain fragments tumbling about in the river for centuries before being dumped at low tide for us to search. So engrossed were we in potential finds – Tom found some intriguing metal, I was distracted by an old button – that I took my eye off the river.
I’ve never done this before and Lord knows why I did this time. Mudlarking is engrossing, addictive and it’s easy to lose all sense of time and place. When you’ve spotted something interesting, the temptation to search a bit further, for a bit longer, is extremely strong. ‘We’ve still got plenty of time’ you tell yourself. If only. You’ve probably guessed what happened next… (cue Hammer Horror music.) I looked up from our spot on the foreshore where we were both crouched, chatting away, when I realised to my horror that the tide was coming in fast. It would soon be lapping round our feet, and not that gently either. The wind had picked up and was making itself felt.
As luck, or bad luck would have it, we were midway between two exit points - one further downstream near a well known sports club, next to which is a handy slipway, and one upstream which, although a wee bit nearer, suddenly seemed five miles away. The closest exit was actually a ladder attached to the embankment wall close by but it was rusting, with missing rungs, and decidedly dodgy. No thanks.
There’s something about being in a dangerous situation that seems to numb the brain and make time stand still. I felt guilty that I’d let Tom down by being the (ho ho ho) expert on this part of the river and yet, when it was most crucial, I’d taken my eye off the ball and put us both at risk.
It can be hard to keep calm when the river’s coming in quickly towards you, swirling around you, underneath you, trapping you in its watery embrace. Stupidly I hadn’t brought my usual wellies with me that day but was wearing ordinary walking boots. Fine if you’re hill walking, but of no use when the water’s coming up to your knees fast and the lower half of you is becoming waterlogged.
After nine years of mudlarking I’d forgotten a few cardinal rules – never ignore the pinch points on the foreshore and, on days when the low tide is much higher than expected, the tide will rush in more quickly than you think.
I won’t lie, I panicked.
We made our way as quickly as we could to the main river steps upstream before encountering a savage pinch point which we had no choice but to wade through, the water up to our knee caps now and rising fast. ‘How deep can it be?’ I tried to reason with myself. Well, quite deep and getting deeper. Oh and why am I feeling strong currents gripping my feet? Where have they come from? Who knows. Just keep moving and remember to stay calm and breathe. In for four, out for four. Repeat.
And the mud, oh the mud. Thames mud is gloriously protective when it comes to ancient artefacts, its anaerobic quailities stabilising finds and making them look as fresh as the day they were lost, but if you find yourself stuck in it trying to escape a rising tide it quickly becomes your enemy. Feet sinking fast into it, the mud is like stepping into glue. It impedes your exit and sucks you into its gloopy embrace. At one stage, one of my boots stuck fast and I thought I’d end up bootless. As if that was the only thing to worry about.
Tom stayed calm (more than could be said for yours truly) and somehow we eventually slopped and sloshed our way onto a drier area of foreshore before, thank goodness, the river steps came into sight. We were now home and free, though it took a while for the shakes to leave me. I was mightily relieved I hadn’t been on my own and, when we debriefed afterwards, realised that both the RNLI and Port of London Authority had rescue boats berthed not too far away. We were probably very close to making that call-out but thankfully we didn’t have to. In the words of W. Shakespeare, ‘all’s well that ends well.’
Lesson learnt.
A few weeks after this drama, I made myself return to the scene of the ‘disaster-that-nearly-was’ because I genuinely feared I might have lost my nerve. But the day was clear, river levels were normal and there were quite a few other mudlarks pottering about. I felt safe. Keeping careful watch on the time and the tide this time, I didn’t find very much, but didn’t care. I kept my nerve and gradually began to relax again.
The Chelsea Foreshore showing an extremely high low tide a few weeks ago
I also made a return visit to the Chelsea Foreshore in January, a favourite spot of mine not often visited by mudlarks. The foreshore here is becoming increasingly narrow and less accessible due to rising sea levels, a side effect of climate change. An extremely good low tide had been predicted that day, the weather was glorious (see the Mediterranean blue skies in the photo above) and it was time to catch up with some of the Chelsea Houseboat community I’ve got to know over the years.
The Chelsea Foreshore, north side of Battersea Bridge, is glorious for so many reasons. Once the location of a Saxon Manor House, also later the home of Sir Thomas More, Henry VIII’s Lord High Chancellor and friend, until the King ordered his execution because Thomas refused to acknowledge him as Head of the Church in England. With friends like Henry VIII, who needs enemies? Thomas More’s eldest daughter Margaret (More) Roper embarked on a dangerous journey by boat from Chelsea to London Bridge in order to retrieve her father’s head, impaled on a spike after his execution, thus saving it from a watery grave. One of the most learned women in 16th century England, I’m a huge admirer of her intelligence and bravery.
And not forgetting that in the 19th century Chelsea was where William de Morgan had a ceramics factory, the perfect forerunner of the area’s later creative, arty, Bohemian reputation before the cost of real estate drove most artists elsewhere.
But I digress. I’d specifically come down to Chelsea to check on the Chelsea fish trap here. Carbon dated to AD 730-900, this is a beautiful thing and one of the few remaining Saxon fish traps on the Thames. Most people passing by on the embankment above barely give it a second glance. I was therefore gutted to arrive and find that even as the waters receded a bit you still couldn’t see a thing, so high was the water level. Chatting to one of the houseboat owners later, I was told the tide levels have been overwhelming in recent months and therefore the fish trap hasn’t actually been seen for quite some time. Eventually it will be claimed by the river, but I hope that doesn’t happen for many years yet.
Below is one of my photos of the V-shaped fish trap taken in 2018. I hope it becomes visible again soon.
Saxon fish trap at Chelsea, photo taken in 2018
But it hasn’t all been doom and gloom and impossibly high low tides. My first visit to the City of London foreshore this year was an excellent one where I made a dream find, something on my bucket list for a very long time.
Roman roof tile with the paw print of a Roman dog
Many mudlarks dream of finding a paw print of some description, usually embedded in an ancient floor or roof tile. Usually these tend to feature a dog or a cat and it was thrilling when one of these was thrown at my feet by wash from a passing Thames Clipper. The tiniest hint of a claw visible in my paw print find indicates a dog was responsible (NB: cats retract their claws when they walk whereas dogs don’t), and a fellow mudlark recently found a tile with a goat’s hoof print. Equally there have been some very big cat paw prints found on mudlarked tiles. I’ve had conversations with larkers about the possible provenance of these and we speculated that they might even belong to a puma or lynx.
This isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds if you consider that the biggest amphitheatre in Roman London was located at the site of the current Guildhall Art Gallery (Guildhall Yard, Aldermanbury, in the City of London). This was once the site of plays, executions, gladiatorial and animal combat and other gory spectacles. There would have been many animal escapes into the city so it’s therefore quite possible that a wretched Roman roof tile maker, having layed out his tiles to dry in the open air, returned to find a massive wild cat paw print embedded deep into his work.
Last, but not least, I’m excited to let everyone know that the first of this year’s mudlarking exhibitions will soon be taking place at the stunning Watermen’s Hall, the historic home of the Thames Watermen and Lightermen, on Saturday 24th February and Sunday 25th February, from 10am -4pm. The venue is located at 16-18 St Mary-At-Hill, near the Tower of London, and entry is free.
On each of the two days, fifteen mudlarks will be displaying their personal collections and I’ll be exhibiting some of my favourite mudlarking finds on the Saturday, so do please come. For further information on this and other mudlarking exhibitions to be announced later in the year, follow @handsonhistorymudlarks plus event organisers @jasonmudlark aka Jason Sandy, @mudika.thames aka Monika Buttling-Smith and @oldfatherthames aka Marie-Louise Plum, on Instagram.
Earlier in the year I was invited to spend the morning at The Thames River Police Museum in Wapping and was shown round by the very knowledgeable and welcoming curator, Rob Jeffries. I’ve always been fascinated by Wapping, its history, particularly in relation to the growth of the docks and warehouses, recent redevelopment and how this has impacted on the area. So I eagerly accepted Rob’s invitation to visit, and took the other half with me as well who had never been to Wapping. It made for a great day out for the two of us even though the weather was cold, windy and the clouds in the sky a dark steel grey. And, yes, a pub lunch was involved too.
Marine Police Unit (MPU) boat returning to its base at Wapping. Rotherhithe is visible on the opposite shore.
I first started to visit the Wapping foreshore in 2017. I’d been mudlarking in both South West London and the City of London areas before then, but had never taken myself out further east (downstream) and realised it was time to do so. It’s always been important to me to broaden my knowledge of different mudlarking areas and what they might reveal archaeologically and historically re mudlarking artefacts.
A Thames buoy found on the Wapping Foreshore recently. All sorts of things can wash up at low tide.
Regarding the history of Wapping itself, I can only touch the surface in this blog as there is so much to write. It’s a fascinating area with a deep, rich, and sometimes violent history, as was much of London in centuries past. Now it’s a diverse and modern district with cafes, galleries and restaurants, though sometimes it worries me that the atmosphere can be a little bit bleak and empty when leaving the station, walking down the high street, and not seeing many people about, certainly during the week.
A typical Wapping warehouse doorway (part of King Henry’s Wharf) advertising storage space for goods.
Wapping was first mentioned in the 13th century when it was little more than a tiny settlement on the river Thames. The first wharf was constructed in 1395 and the area began to grow quickly, becoming known as Wapping-on-the-Woze and eventually becoming an important port and maritime hub.
The area particularly flourished in the 19th century when the London Docks were built to the north and west of the high street. As docks and huge warehouses were constructed, the local population suffered as many of their houses were demolished to make way for the vast new builds. Squeezed between the very high walls of the docks and warehouses, Wapping could feel quite isolated at times, though the community welcomed the opening of Wapping Station in 1869 which helped them access other parts of the capital.
Phoenix Wharf, Wapping, riverside view.
Wapping has always nurtured a diverse community with people from all round the world coming to live there over the centuries. In the 15th century, a community of seamen from the Low Countries (Belgium, The Netherlands and Luxembourg) began to arrive there and settle, followed in later years by a sizeable Irish population in the 16th century, while in 1702 a French speaking church was built and established at Milk Alley, many French speakers coming from Jersey and Guernsey to look for work. In the 18th century, Wapping also saw a sizeable increase in seamen of colour being baptised in the area and choosing to make their lives there. Many of these seamen may well have been originally enslaved, then given their freedom on becoming sailors, marrying and making a new life for themselves in Wapping. This is a particularly interesting area for research, and one I may come back to in the fullness of time, as it shows how 18th century British history constantly intersects with the slave trade on so many different levels.
German bombing during the second world war devastated the Wapping area as docks, warehouses, plus homes were destroyed and many lives lost. The area remained scarred and derelict for decades after, until the 1980s in fact, when the formation of the London Development Docklands Corporation, a government quango set up to redevelop the area when Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister, brought many changes to Wapping. Not everyone welcomed the new redevelopment; residents who’d lived in the area for generations, as so often happens, felt priced out of the new luxury apartments and houses and voiced anxiety that the community would start to change around them as wealthy people moved in and older established families could no longer afford to live there. It’s difficult not to have sympathy with these views.
St John’s Wharf, Wapping.
For all the sometimes empty atmosphere of some of the Wapping area, enough character remains from the old warehouses and foreshore to give visitors a sense of what it would have looked and felt like in centuries past. Sailors would be constantly arriving in boats and barges, bringing with them goods from all round the world, to enjoy some drunken time in the taverns, inns and brothels that lined the Thames Foreshore here. If you close your eyes, you can almost smell the scent of tea, coffee, spices, even gunpowder as it was brought in from ships lining the local docks.
The Prospect Of Whitby, one of the many historic and atmospheric pubs that can be found in Wapping.
Execution Dock, Wapping, though the real one was thought to be further upstream. Bodies of criminals were kept strung up for three tides then cut down as a warning to others. Such was the level of crime in this area that it seemed criminals were not deterred by the ultimate penalty, death by hanging.
There is so much more one can write about Wapping, but I must return to my visit to the Thames River Police Museum before I get carried away. (NB: for those who haven’t been here, but would like to visit, the museum is not open to the public. Visits are by appointment only and you will need to contact Robert Jeffries, the curator and retired ex-policeman, to arrange your trip.)
Metropolitan Police, Thames Division, now known as the Marine Policing Unit (MPU.)
Housed in an old carpenter’s workshop, above and around it is Wapping Police Station, HQ of the Thames River Police, known as the Marine Policing Unit (MPU.)
In 1798, a newly formed body of police officers, a move initiated by Magistrate Patrick Colquhoun and Master Mariner John Harriott, brought much needed law and order to the Thames, riven as it was by all sorts of criminality that was spiralling out of control. Pressured and initially funded by the West India Company, who were losing huge sums of money because of the theft of goods from their boats and barges.
Early police uniforms; some of the first Thames policemen were drawn from the ranks of seamen as they knew how to sail and man a boat in all different conditions.
In those early days, the newly formed river police were largely taken from the Navy. Press-ganged sailors returning to London needed work and they possessed the three main requirements to police the river – they were handy with a firearm, sword and could row a boat.
Eventually absorbed into London’s Metropolitan Police in 1839, becoming Thames Division, today the Thames and all of London’s waterways are policed by the Marine Policing Unit (MPU) of the Metropolitan Police Service. Their role now is to save lives when people are in difficulty on the water, catch river criminals and work with Counter-Terrorism Units.
Account of a Thames Police Officer being given the body of a newborn baby found in the Thames. A gruesome, but not uncommon discovery, I was touched by the humanity expressed in this diary.
Photographs and a flag from the early days of the river police.
During the visit to the museum I learnt the names of master criminal gangs from the 17th and 18th centuries, prolific offenders, highly organised and who instilled terror in anyone who dared cross or challenge them.
Chief among these gangs were the highly feared Nighthorsemen, a sort of River Thames Mafia, who targeted goods on West India Company Ships, a lucrative and rewarding bit of thieving which the authorities wanted stopped as their losses were so great. The thieving focused on specific items that could be easily disposed of, eg sugar.
Thames Police Museum, Wapping, exhibits showing the history of policing the river and dealings with master criminals.
Also among the 17th century/18th century criminal gangs were the Lighthorsemen, Lumpers and Shufflehunters, who tended to focus on the theft of smaller items. I was intrigued by these names as I’d never heard of them and have resolved to find out more when time allows.
The museum also holds poignant original diaries detailing the work and many of the cases that involved the river police. I was very moved to read about the compassion shown over the retrieval of a newborn baby from the Thames (something that was sadly not uncommon in centuries past if the baby was stillborn or unwanted), and was then carefully taken to a mortuary for identification.
The museum also contains a wealth of intriguing mudlarking finds from the foreshore below. This is the base of a late 17thC/early 18thC Delft style bowl with hand-painted blue on white design.
I also want to pay tribute to Ann Hunt, whose name I had never heard of until my visit to the Thames Police Museum, but who was the first serving female officer in the river police. Part of her uniform, including her hat (see photo below), is on display in the museum.
Ann Hunt’s police hat. She was the first female officer to serve with the river police.
Ann’s training would have started with two years in the Met Police on land, before undertaking an intensive interview and selection process to join Thames Division.
It was fascinating to absorb so much from this small museum, sometimes larger museums can be overwhelming, but we left having learnt so many new things about London’s history regarding the river and thankful for the hugely important work the River Police do. Whenever I see one of their launches speeding along the Thames on their way to an incident I’m always full of gratitude for the work they and other professionals do (also the RNLI) to keep us safe on the river.
Of course doing touristy things leaves one hungry so we decamped to one of the many excellent Wapping pubs in the vicinity of the museum, choosing The Captain Kidd, 108 Wapping High Street for a scampi, chips and beer lunch. Highly recommended.
The Captain Kidd, 108 Wapping High Street.
Excellent pub lunch.
Last, but not least, I’d like to take the opportunity of thanking everyone who reads, messages me with their kind comments, or subscribes to my Thames Blogs and Burblings, and to wish you all a Merry Christmas and peaceful and happy New Year. I’ll be posting my next blog in the new year so this is the last one of 2023.
And if you’re looking for mudlarking or mudlarking-related books for yourself or as a gift for someone else this Christmas, then I heartily recommend the following excellent reads:
‘London In Fragments’ by Ted Sandling. The first modern mudlarking book I read and so beautifully written and illustrated. A really inspirational book.
‘London Clay: Journeys In The Deep City’ by Tom Chivers. This book is not about mudlarking as such, but rather full of stories that are a great mix of London’s geology, history, folklore and memoir. I learnt so much from Tom’s book.
‘Mudlark’d: Hidden Histories From The River Thames’ by Malcolm Russell. This book features the stories of forgotten people told through lost objects, revealed by changing tides. A welcome addition to books on mudlarking, Malcolm also reveals many previously unknown aspects of London’s history.
‘Mudlarks: Treasures From The Thames’ by Jason Sandy. A beautifully put together book featuring the stories of individual mudlarks and some of the incredible finds they’ve made over their years on the Thames Foreshore. One of the most stunningly illustrated books on mudlarking I’ve seen so far.
‘Mudlarking: Lost And Found On the River Thames’ by Lara Maiklem. A beautifully written book detailing how it feels to be a mudlark and our emotional connections to the river. Lara writes about what made her start mudlarking and the enjoyment and peace of mind she gets from being on the Thames Foreshore.
‘A Field Guide To Mudlarking’ by Lara Maiklem. A practical, useful and helpful guide to mudlarking, beachcombing, field walking etc and how to recognise finds.
‘The River’s Tale’ by Nathalie Cohen and Eliott Wragg. A really useful book focusing on the archaeology of the Thames Foreshore rather than finds, and what we learn about the river’s use in centuries past from the historic features found on the foreshore at low tide. This book adds a different dimension of knowledge for lovers of the River Thames and its archaeological past.
And on that note, leaving you with some of my Thames-found pins decorated in arty Christmas tree fashion. Have a good one!
September has come round again in the blink of an eye.
It’s been a busy summer, a family wedding in Provence (which was quite magical) but I haven’t had as much time to spend on the foreshore as I’d like. As I type, the weather isn’t exactly autumnal in London either. I’m currently melting as a result of an unexpected heatwave that has broken UK records for this time of year, and actually drove me off the foreshore at the beginning of the week as it was far too hot to be out mudlarking at midday, in 30 degrees plus. I’ll be happier when we’re back to what are more normal temperatures for this time of year, thank you very much.
September also means a return of the annual Totally Thames Festival with its unique, diverse, accessible and comprehensive programme of arts, cultural and historical events celebrating the River Thames in London. This features a number of mudlarking exhibitions, including this coming weekend’s event (Saturday 16th September and Sunday 17th September) in the atmospheric environment of the magnificent St Paul’s Cathedral.
I’m particularly excited about the St Paul’s event because it will also feature the work of sculptor Billie Bond (on Instagram as @billiebondsculptor) who will be exhibiting her ‘Foreshore Foundlings’, inspired by some spectacular mudlarking finds that remind us of the inevitability of life and our connection to past lives on the River Thames. One of the most striking of Billie’s exhibits (reproduced in black stoneware and gold leaf, and in my top three favourite mudlarking finds ever) is based on a small hand-carved medieval bone bead, known as a Memento Mori, spotted by fellow mudlark Caroline Nunneley (@carolinenunneleymudlark on Instagram)
Billie Bond’s sculpture of Caroline Nunneley’s Medieval Memento Mori bead
Billie will also be giving a talk at the National Maritime Museum on Saturday 23rd September. You can follow @handsonhistory on Instagram for more information on the September mudlarking exhibitions and click on the link for further details regarding the Totally Thames calendar of events for this year’s celebration of the river https://thamesfestivaltrust.org/whats-on/
Late August was a good one for Roman finds from the river. Nothing va-va-voom spectacular, wonderful though that would be (and I’m still searching fruitlessly for a Roman bone gaming counter as they continue to elude me…) but instead fragments of things that to the untrained eye might not look that interesting.
Sherd of colour-coated ware found by me on the Thames Foreshore
This small but perfectly formed sherd is known as colour-coated ware, lost to the river in the days when Britain was a province of the Roman Empire, Londinium its capital. A place of status, a port, strategically important and protected by a 3 km city wall.
Incomplete example of what my sherd might have looked like in all its glory. Image – Wikipedia
This pottery was made in the Nene Valley, modern day Peterborough area, and introduced by migrant potters from the Lower Rhineland in the mid 2nd century, later made in potteries in Colchester too.
I recently read an academic paper which told me that Nene Valley ware replaced the orange terracotta Samian ware as the preferred table vessels in high status Roman homes as fashions began to change. Nene Valley colour-coated ware has also been found in non Roman aristocratic homes showing how the upper classes eventually and willingly adopted Roman trends.
As this was high status pottery, its breakage would have caused great annoyance. And always those many questions that whirl around in a mudlark’s brain; how did this sherd get in the river? who broke it? who last held it in their hands? what sort of Roman curses did they scream on realising the piece was smashed to smithereens?
Nene Valley pottery was considered the height of sophistication, the pieces characterised by a pale base fabric with strongly contrasting darker surface colour (known as slip) and creamy decoration showing hunting scenes, grapes, vines, olive leaves and other types of floral design.
My found sherd of Nene Valley pottery also includes a nice bit of rouletting at the base of the decoration, characteristically seen both at the bottom and top of this kind of colour-coated ware.
This is why I love the Thames. Some days it gives you a nice little haul, some days nothing at all, and many in-between days where all you find is a small sherd of pottery but one with a rich history to tell, ancient voices, long gone, reaching out to us across the millennia.
If you want to read more about Nene Valley pottery I recommend the following introduction –
If the Romans are your thing, I also heartily recommend a trip to the Roman City Wall at Vine Street, in the City of London, where you’ll find a surviving section of Roman Wall that once surrounded Londinium nearly 2,000 years ago.
Entrance to the City Wall exhibition at Vine Street
The Roman Wall served as a protective boundary and also a status symbol, proclaiming the wealth and importance of this Roman City. When the Romans left in AD 410 the wall fell into disrepair, only rebuilt during the medieval era when it marked the limits of the medieval city of London.
As centuries came and went, London grew and the area around the wall underwent significant change – new buildings, shops, businesses, houses, taverns and wharehouses swallowed up what was once the Roman wall.
Part of the inner face of the newly exposed Roman Wall
In 1905 the inner face of the wall was exposed and preserved in the basement of Roman Wall House. In 1979, the outer face was uncovered, together with a previously unknown bastion (defensive fortification.)
There are many objects on display, not all of them from the Roman period, belonging to people who lived and worked here over the centuries as London grew and evolved into the city we know today – these long lost items were found in rubbish dumps, defensive ditches, cesspits, workshops, houses, a warehouse and underneath an office block.
Roman roof tile fragments (tegulae) and other finds at Vine Street
Do pop in and visit if you can. It’s free to enter though you need to book a time slot. The exhibition is at:
The City Wall at Vine Street, entrance at 12, Jewry Street, London EC3N 2HT. Opening times are 9am- 6pm, Sunday to Monday. Nearest stations are Aldgate or Aldgate East.
I haven’t been able to mudlark for the last couple of months – a combination of family wedding preparation and recovering from surgery has kept me away. So it was a real joy to return the the Thames Foreshore this week and get stuck in the mud again (though not literally…. thank goodness.) The sun shone and the weather’s been perfect, particularly in the early mornings, though getting hotter as the day kicks in.
Return to the Thames Foreshore
I visited a few favourite river spots this week and, although I didn’t make that many finds (to be honest, you often don’t find that much on one visit, however fruitful some mudlarking accounts may look on Instagram) – I did come away with one or two nice things and was more than happy with that.
My star find on Monday morning’s trip to the foreshore was this fabulous clay pipe bowl. With partial stem (it’s not often one finds a complete, undamaged clay pipe these days though it does happen if you’re lucky) and bowl showing the crest of the Prince of Wales – ostrich feathers with the motto ‘Ich Dien’, or ‘I serve.’
Armorial clay pipe bearing the crest of the Prince of Wales
It’s thought the crest was adopted after the Battle of Crécy in 1346 when the Black Prince (Edward, eldest son of Edward III) killed the King of Bohemia and assumed his crest design and motto.
Reverse image of the clay pipe bowl, the maker’s mark shown as a star on the spur of the stem. The maker is as yet unresearched but likely to be London based
The actual title of Prince of Wales was thought to have originated when Edward I of England subjugated Wales in 1276. His eldest son, Edward II, born in Carnarvon in 1284, was created the very first Prince of Wales in 1301, the title being passed on to each subsequent eldest son. The title continues to this day, a gift of the monarch, the current incumbent being Prince William, eldest son of newly crowned King Charles III. Recent polls suggest that the average Welsh citizen, if not strongly opposed to being linked to this archaic and largely symbolic title is, at best, increasingly indifferent to it.
The seam of the Prince of Wales clay pipe bowl showing tobacco leaves
A large number of Prince of Wales armorial pipe bowls found in London date from the second half of the 18th century, though some later ones are from the 19th century. The second half of the 18th century was, however, the period when the most elaborate of these pipes were produced in many different designs, each variation indicating who the pipe maker was.
The pipes were made predominantly to display loyalty to whoever was the Prince of Wales at the time but the ostrich feather motif was also linked to a large number of taverns. Bryant Lillywhite in his book ‘London Signs’ records over fifty ‘Prince of Wales’ taverns between 1606 -1851, as well as at least eighty five called ‘The Feathers.’ This design would therefore have featured on numerous tavern pipes.
And although commonly used as a tavern sign, the ostrich feather motif was also used by a variety of tradesemen, particularly booksellers, and sometimes appear in 17th – 19th century tokens.
My own clay pipe find is similar to the illustration in Fig 33, and other examples of this style of armorial Prince of Wales design on a pipe bowl have been found at Battersea, Chiswick and Lambeth, where we know pipe makers were in business making these clay pipes.
Researching this clay pipe design I fell down a rabbit hole of alternative pipe research new to me, and which led me into some fascinating yet dark areas of history. Who knew clay pipes were once such rigid indicators of social class and even criminality?
Thomas Rowlandson’s satirical print ‘Procession of the Cod Company from St Giles’s to Billingsgate’, 1810.
I am particularly grateful to Sarah Inskip and Angela Joy Muir for research they’ve done into past criminal records showing how clay pipes, particularly the stem, were both frequently used as a lethal weapon and also as a barometer of morality, especially where women were concerned.
By the 18th century, public smoking and tobacco use were considered a distinctly unfeminine habit, restricted mostly, though not entirely, to women from the labouring classes. Depictions of female pipe smoking were frequently associated with rough manners, loose morals and sex work.
Thomas Rowlandson’s satirical print (see image above) depicts several Billingsgate fishwives carrying baskets on their heads while smoking clay pipes. The term ‘fishwife’ of itself has lingering (and, to my mind, unfair) connotations of coarse, filthy, gossiping, screeching women, whereas the reality was that the lives of these women were hard and unforgiving as they heaved and carried and sold fish in order to eke out a living. Higher status women in Rowlandson’s other prints were, of course, never featured with clay pipes. In one of his other prints – ‘St Giles Courtship’ – a pipe-smoking soldier is shown flirting with a young working class woman whose breasts are exposed and who is wearing a hat with a clay pipe tucked into the band. The message was clear though hypocritical to our modern eyes – ie that clay pipe smoking was not a ladylike thing to be seen doing.
Bewteen 1615-1904, sixty six different instances were found in court records showing clay pipes being involved in threats to life. Many of the cases are from London (thanks to the availability of Old Bailey records, an invaluable source of historical criminal information) and the frequency with which London cases were reported nationally, though documents and newspaper reports show that similar cases were widespread throughout Britain.
These cases involved the use of a clay pipe as a weapon of assault, some of which resulted in death, as well as assaults, wounding or cutting of the victim including eye gouging.
There were many scenarios where a violent attack involving a clay pipe -turned-weapon escalated from what had started as a minor dispute. Records show that in 1882 David Bratley was stabbed in the face with a clay pipe stem by Edward Seamey at a coffee stall, while Daniel Mynch was charged with stabbing James Barry in the eye in the street after he refused to give him some tobacco in 1878.
Many other court cases involve clay pipe attacks where people were socialising together and had drunk too much, also attacks where people were in close proximity eg in prison, or within a strained domestic setting, eg family, where records show a husband violently assaulting his wife, lodger or even landlord.
Old Bailey records show that clay pipe assailants were predominantly men (of sixty three cases where the gender of the perpetrator was known, fifty nine involved a male assailant) though women feature as aggressors too, although they were more likely to use a clay pipe as a weapon for reasons of self-defence or to attack another woman.
In 1858 at the Cherry Tree public house in East London, Margaret Shea was charged with using a pipe to ‘unlawfully wound and cut the face’ of Ellen McCue, a costermonger ( a fruit and vegetable seller) after a dispute broke out in the street between the two women’s sisters. In Cardiff in 1864, Ann Cummings ‘a gaudily attired female’ was charged with stabbing a sailor by the name of James Slack in the face with a pipe stem, puncturing his cheek and narrowly missing his eye. In Ann’s defence she stated that James and another man approached her and another woman and ‘attempted unwelcome familiarities’ with them. Although not explicitly stated, there are conflicting acounts of what happened and the suggestion is that Ann may have been a sex worker soliciting on the street, her case and that of other women showing details of the lives of sex workers in 19th century Britain and the risk of ever present violence that shadowed them. In these instances, the clay pipe became a weapon in women’s hands just as it did in men’s.
It was good to be back on the Thames Foreshore again and I’ll be treating my clay pipe finds with a new found caution.
18th century image of a kitchen maid smoking a clay pipe, the length of the stem indicating this could have been a formidable weapon
Sources:
‘The Archaeology Of The Clay Tobacco Pipe’ edited by Peter Davey
Bryant Lillywhite ‘London Signs’ (pub 1972)
‘Clay Pipes bearing the Prince of Wales Feathers’ by Richard Le Cheminant
‘Material encounters: the alternative use of clay tobacco pipes in England and Wales, c.1600 -1900’ by Sarah Inskip and Angela Joy Muir
A Mudlark's Diary 