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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’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.

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 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.

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.

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 –

Nene Valley Archaeological Trust – https://www.nenevalleyarchaeology.co.uk/

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

http://www.pipearchive.co.uk

March is Women’s History Month so I’ve been spending time immersed in researching a spectacular recent Thames find, long since at the top of my ‘mudlarking finds’ wish list, that fits the bill perfectly regarding exploration of the lives of women in the past and their links to living and working on the Thames.

The challenge of in-depth research is both exciting but also daunting if you want to do your subject the justice it deserves, and I’m only at the very start of this journey.

No research is ever done in isolation and I’m grateful to Professor Tracey Hill, who has kindly signposted me in the direction of the Guild of Pinmakers or Pinners, a Guild no longer in existence and one I didn’t know existed. Tracey has also told me how she’s found pins used to mark a particular page in historical manuscripts. This was apparently a fairly common practice, though archivists and conservators tend now to remove them from documents in the interests of preservation and avoid staining and tearing of fragile documents.

Every find starts with a trip to the foreshore and it wasn’t the greatest of low tides the day I found my Pinner’s bone. I pretty much had the foreshore to myself, which was an unexpected bonus and doesn’t happen very often.

What seemed to me to be a fairly common bovine bone, I initially thought a femur though my knowledge of animal bone names isn’t my greatest strength, caught my eye when I noticed some deep grooves and clear chiselling at its base as I picked it up to take a closer look.

I’d found a Pinner’s bone.

Pinner’s Bones or Pinholders were usually made from the lower leg of a cow or horse, ie the metapodia or cannon bones. They were sawn in half with grooves, such as in the trio of photos below shown from different angles, where the pin wire was placed ready for filing.

London Archaeological excavations have found many Pinners’ bones at the site of religious orders, particularly, though not exclusively, nuns, suggesting this was a popular way for an Order to generate additional income. Before buttons became widely used, rich and poor were literally pinned into their clothing with a variety of different types and lengths of pins, which is why mudlarks find so many of these, fallen off clothing or washed into the river via drains.

Pinners’ tools, such as my find, were used by the maker to help sharpen the pin, beginning life as drawn wire (brass/copper alloy.) This was placed in the groove at the end of the bone, at an angle, and rotated to fashion a pin point. The pin head, which could be a solid head or wound wire-head, was soldered by hand afterwards.

The 14th century saw a huge expansion in the Pinners’ craft, the pin makers’ process becoming more refined and elegant. Finer ones were used to pin delicate materials such as silk, linen headdresses or transparent veils, and sometimes shown in Medieval art.

Queen Elizabeth I’s household accounts show her pin maker, Robert Careles, supplying her with hundreds of thousands of pins every six months, from ‘small helde Pynnes’ to ‘great verthyngale Pynnes.’ They were looked after and stored carefully on pin cushions when not in use. Pins were never left in precious fabric as this might tear or stain the garment due to oxidisation. It took at least two hours to pin the Queen into her clothing every day, and a similar length of time to unpin her afterwards. Pity her ladies maids who had to do this without actually touching the Royal body.

Yet the primary purpose of this blog and current research isn’t so much to discuss pins and their use in depth, but rather to begin the process of drilling down to a different layer of the pin making trade. This is a huge work in progress, and I’ve barely scratched the surface, the scale of this project making me realise just how much work will be involved in order to bring to life the stories of women who worked in this business.

I’m grateful for the fact that while the south side of the river (Southwark/Bankside) was largely a stinking, chaotic, unregulated mess during the medieval and later periods, the north side was subject to strict and careful regulation by the Guilds within the City of London.

The British Library has The Pinners’ Book, showing early accounts from 1462-1464. This is evidence of the Pinners organising themselves into a craft of recognised standing, and in 1463 they showed their growing influence when they petitioned Edward IV for protection from increasing foreign imports.

A preliminary search through documentation shows that women (often completely absent from medieval records unless they paid poll tax or committed crimes) begin to be named from the early 14th century onwards as members of the Pinners’ Craft, but only if they were the wives or daughters of a deceased pin maker. It seems this practice was also in existence in France where the Parisian aglet-making Guild protected widows by allowing them to continue with the business run by their late husbands.

Margaret Hall is listed as having paid 10 shillings, a lot of money for that time, to become a member of the Pinners’ Craft in 1477. Other widows are named as paying 3s 4d to keep up a Pinners’ workshop after the death of their husbands. Among their number were Margaret Exnyng, Margaret Golde, Margaret Crawford and Katherine Smyth, who were all admitted to the Pinners’ fraternity in 1498, though accused of being ‘forins’, ie trained outside the City of London.

The London Metropolitan Archives has further documents that first mention a Guild of Pinmakers or Pinners as early as 1376, thought not their detailed accounts, which began to be kept much later. From the late 15th century onwards they had also become associated with the guild of wire-workers, and later in 1567/8 with the Girdlers’ Company.

But by 1605, the Pinmakers’ Company received their own charter of incorporation. Seven years earlier, in 1598, the Company left the Hall in Addle Street, west of Mansion House and bordering Addle Hill, just off Carter Lane, west of St Paul’s Cathedral.

The Pinmakers’ Company had rented the Addle Street Hall from the Plaisterers’ Company, after which they decamped to a site in St Mary At Hill, and eventually to St Katherine Cree, which they abandoned in 1723.

The most detailed records of the Worshipful Company of Pinmakers are from the 17th to 19th centuries, the latter date surprising as it shows that full scale industrialistion hadn’t fully put paid to the hand-made pinning business although by this time pins were being mass-produced in factories.

The next stage of my research is to look in more detail at the wills of women actively involved in the pinning trade, and see what new light this might shed on their status and role in business during the late Medieval period.

Welcome to my final mudlarking blog of 2022 and my most important find of the year, possibly ever. The perfect way to round off twelve months in which many other wonderful finds have been made, though this tops the lot. The river Thames has been very good to me so it’s fitting that I’ve saved the best for last.

In January, at the very start of the year, I returned to a part of the Thames where I hadn’t been for a while. I have many favourite areas of the foreshore, with secret spots that I’ve become familiar with over the years, and try to balance my mudlarking trips so that I visit all of them regularly, time constraints allowing.

It wasn’t the best of tides that day, the weather was dreich (bleak, nippy and dreary, as the Scots say), the stretch of foreshore busy. It was good to catch up with mudlarking friends I hadn’t seen for a while though no one seemed to have found much that morning. (NB Social media can make it seem as if we find exciting things all the time but the reality is very different and there are many occasions when we come away empty-handed.) Fingers and toes numb with cold, the tide was beginning to come in. I was about to call it a day when I decided to return to a spot I’d already searched and give myself a final ten minutes – in mudlarking parlance we call this ‘last knockings.’

I’m so glad I did.

A large wave from a passing Thames Clipper caught me unawares (I will never learn to step out of the way quickly enough) and managed to fill my wellies with water. As the wash began to recede, I looked down and spotted a small pewter item at my feet. It definitely hadn’t been there a few minutes before. My reflexes were clearly very slow that day and the soggy feet weren’t helping. I remember standing on that spot, as if in a trance, while the wash continued to rush in and out again, carrying off the small item with it.

But sometimes tiny Thames miracles happen.

Having been washed out, probably lost forever, the pewter ‘thing’ was dropped at my feet a second time. Seriously. This really happened. The River Gods were smiling down on me that day and I was determined not to lose it again. I lunged at it with frozen fingers (my gloves had long since soaked through that day), picked it up, popped it in my finds box and went home to examine it later. I didn’t even take a photo of the find ‘in situ’, which is an absolute mudlarking rule.

I need to add that, at the time, I had no idea what I’d found. Picking it up, it was initially upside down in a ‘W’ not in an ‘M’ form. So, what was it? Decoration from a belt? From a shoe? From something else entirely? Turning it over, I noticed the ghostly trace of what was once a pin on the back, which intriguingly suggested a badge… If it was a badge, I was sure it must have secular origins though it was a mystery what these might be.

A week after I’d found it, and still not a clue what it was, I took it to the Museum of London to show the FLO (Finds Liaison Officer) who immediately identified it as a Pilgrim Badge. At which point I nearly fell backwards out of my chair.

I’d found a small, but perfectly formed, medieval pilgrim badge, something I never thought would happen.

It’s now been recorded on the Portable Antiquities Scheme Database and I’m grateful to both Stuart Wyatt, and Brian Spencer for his book ‘Pilgrim Souvenirs And Secular Badges’ (MOLA publications) which contains a wealth of information, including many examples of pilgrim badge similar to mine.

My pilgrim badge is one of a type featuring the Lombardic ‘M’, the letter standing for Maria, Queen of Heaven, mother of Christ. Letters often formed the substance or framework of 14th/15th century pilgrim badges. Other letters that appear in these badges are the Lombardic ‘V’, for Virgo or The Virgin, and the Lombardic ‘T’ for Thomas (Becket.)

On the subject of Becket pilgrim badges, without a doubt the Holy Grail of pilgrim badge finds, my mudlarking friend Caroline Nunneley (@carolinenunneleymudlark on Instagram) has done spectacularly well. Please check out Caroline’s Instagram site to see photos of a fragment of pilgrim badge, discovered by her a few years ago, featuring Thomas Becket’s leg on a horse. Caroline then found a second piece from the very same badge when she later returned to that exact location where she’d spotted the first.

A relatively big badge (mine is tiny in comparison) the chance of finding two pieces of the same Becket pilgrim badge a few years apart, at the same spot, is nothing short of miraculous. The river works in mysterious ways etc etc.

Caroline’s Thomas Becket pilgrim badge dates to the 14th century and features exquisite detail including some medieval graffiti scratched onto the leg of the horse. The complete badge depicts Becket’s triumphant return from exile in France and his journey home from Sandwich to Canterbury on December 1st, 1170. The Cheapside born lad, and London’s very own saint, was assassinated in Canterbury Cathedral a few weeks later on the 28th December by four knights who believed they were acting on behalf of Henry II.

According to Brian Spencer, the ‘M’ was one of the most popular badges of Our Lady. Pilgrims would often buy more than one badge; to keep as souvenirs once blessed but also, it’s thought, although there is no written evidence anywhere from this period to confirm this, to throw into the Thames as an act of thanksgiving once they’d returned safely home.

The downstrokes of my ‘M’ have curled slightly (I won’t be uncurling them) and the pin is missing from the back though its imprint is still visible if you look closely. The curved letter ‘M’ is crowned with pearl-like pellets above the central fleuron of the crown, pearls symbolising the purity of Mary.

It’s a poignant thought that whoever lost this pilgrim badge all those centuries ago, or threw it in the Thames, was returning from a long tiring journey to Walsingham, Canterbury, Santiago de Compostela or the long forgotten Syon Abbey.

Syon was a dual monastery of men and women from the Bridgettine Order, and one of the most important pilgrimage destinations in Europe, located on the banks of the Thames in Isleworth, South West London. Henry V had laid the foundation stone in 1415 though the building itself was completed during the reign of Henry VI. Governed by an abbess, it was renowned for its library and dedication to reading, learning, meditation and contemplation. This of itself made it a threat to those pushing religious reform, such as Thomas Cromwell, a key driver of the English Reformation. Cromwell closed Syon Abbey down in 1539 on the orders of Henry VIII and it was eventually demolished in 1547. I am currently deeply immersed in learning more about Syon, the bulk of existing documentation that survived the Reformation now held in the University of Exeter archives. I hope to be blogging and writing in greater detail about Syon Abbey soon as it has a story that deserves to be better known.

St Bridget, or St Birgitta, the founder of the Swedish Bridgettine Order that settled at Syon, has her own pilgrim badge which features her sitting at a desk, reading a book. Beautifully appropriate, it would be very special to spot one of these on the Thames Foreshore.

If you’d like to immerse yourself more deeply in the world of the medieval pilgrim then I recommend Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. I studied this at school for English A level and it’s stayed with me all this time, my fondness for the book mercifully unaffected by having to translate it from Middle to Modern English plus the many essays we were made to write about it as students. There are no references to pilgrim badges within its pages but undoubtedly these would have been bought as souvenirs.

The Canterbury Tales tells the story of a group of pilgrims travelling from London to Canterbury to visit the holy shrine of St Thomas Becket, who begin their journey at the Tabard Inn, a tavern in Southwark. Each of the pilgrims takes turns as the main storyteller and a banquet is promised to the best story. The book also provides a colourful picture of daily life and social class in medieval England. I still have my school copy of Neville Coghill’s translation of these tales, heavily marked in pencil, battered and dog-eared, the colourful characters leap from the pages.

Mudlarks are often asked what makes a particular find special and, for me, my pilgrim badge find has made me feel deeply connected with the individual who last held it in their hands all those centuries ago. The badge speaks of long tiring journeys made to far away places in order to ask for Our Lady’s intercession by ancient people who shared the same hopes, fears and dreams we all do today.

Finally, if you’re looking for a Christmas present for the mudlark in your life, or if you’re interested in learning more about mudlarking yourself, this beauty ‘Mudlarks: Treasures From The Thames’ by Jason Sandy has just been published.

A celebration of the mudlarking community, the book also includes many fascinating artefacts found in the Thames over the years, and also the stories of mudlarks themselves. It was a huge privilege and honour to be included in Jason’s book along with many larking legends and FLO Stuart Wyatt, who have taught me so much over the years and shared their mudlarking knowledge and tips with me.

I am forever grateful for the many friendships that have been made on the banks of the river Thames during my years wading through the mud searching for snippets from the past; these friendships have enriched my life enormously.

The book is also a visual treat and beautifully put together, a four year labour of love and tribute to the river and its mudlarks. It is over 300 pages long and contains more than 500 colour photos, illustrations and art work by people such as Coral Pierce (@coral.pearce54 on Insta) and Tom Harrison (@tom.harrison.photos)

Available to buy from Barnes and Noble, Blackwell’s, Book Depository, Kobo, Waterstones, Amazon and many other online bookstores.

Thank you also to all those who have subscribed to my Thames warblings over the years – I always enjoy reading your comments and am happy to answer any mudlarking queries and questions. WordPress have just informed me that this blog has now had over 50,000 all-time views and this has made me very happy.

On that pleasing note, wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful and healthy New Year, 2023.

The last six weeks or so since my most recent blog have been incredibly busy – birthdays, anniversaries, and a variety of Thames-related activities. I was chuffed to be invited to join a group of Thames mudlarks asked to appear on Channel 5’s ‘Digging For Treasure Today’, with archaeologist Raksha Dave and presenters Michaela Strachan and Dan Walker, which was great fun.

September’s mudlarking exhibitions for the annual Totally Thames Festival have also now come to an end. Unfortunately, the mudlarking exhibition where I was scheduled to exhibit (St Paul’s Cathedral) had to be cancelled due to the official mourning period for the late Queen Elizabeth II. I was sad not to be able to take part in this but it couldn’t be helped; sometimes world events overtake everything else. And there will always be next year. Although the mudlarking exhibitions at St Paul’s had to be cancelled, there were well attended mudlarking exhibitions at the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, Waterman’s Hall and the Guildhall Art Gallery in the City of London, once the site of the Roman amphitheatre in Londinium.

After all the September excitement, I needed a break away so we booked a welcome holiday to Amsterdam, one of my favourites cities in Europe. If you’ve never been here, Eurostar now does a direct link from St Pancras to Amsterdam Centraal Station, via Brussels and Rotterdam.

The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam is a great place to visit. We were last here in 2014 and there have been a lot of changes. It’s particularly good for those of us who mudlark as we can see complete examples of the pottery and glass we usually find in broken sherds and fragments on the Thames Foreshore.

Amsterdam originated as a fishing village around the 12th century and developed quickly after the building of a dam on the River Amstel. It was granted city rights in the 1300s.

In the 14th and 15th centuries, Amsterdam underwent further rapid development which laid the foundation for its famous Golden Age, 1585-1672. During this period, it became one of the most prosperous trading centres in the world and its characteristic cityscape began to develop. This included buildings such as the Town Hall in Dam Square, the Westerkerk (the church is located at Prinsengracht 281 and is where Rembrandt is buried), as well as a large number of the ubiquitous, gabled townhouses overlooking canals, so firmly associated with ‘the look’ of Amsterdam today.

Amsterdam’s Golden Age came to an end in 1672 when both the French and English attacked, though the city managed to cling on to its prosperity and business reputation as the financial centre of Europe. An even greater number of canal townhouses were built during this period, reflecting the wealth of many of its citizens. It was considered a stable, safe and tolerant place to live. During the 17th and 18th centuries, Amsterdam was a city where immigrants formed the majority of the population. Most of these new arrivals were either Lutheran Protestant Germans, French Huguenots, Portuguese/Spanish Jews and Flemish refugees who no longer felt safe in Antwerp.

Amsterdam entered a period of recession and decline during 1795-1813 when the French temporarily occupied the country, followed by further periods of economic recovery and recession. In the 20th century, it suffered during two world wars and economic depression that had far-reaching affects on many countries around the globe.

The influence of the Golden Age of Amsterdam is reflected in its culture and extensive trade networks. The large number of artefacts that mudlarks retrieve from the Thames are evidence of the reach of Dutch impact.

The Rijksmuseum has a number of spectacular examples of Westerwald, a type of salt-glazed stoneware, a common sight in the townhouses of wealthy Dutch citizens. Originally produced in German towns such as Grenzau and Grenzhausen, in the area known as Westerwald, it originates from the 15th century to the present day. It is moulded, stamped with dyes and sometimes incised.

Westerwald pottery comes predominantly in shades of white and bluish grey, also decorated in contrasting black, dark purple and dark blue. High status Dutch homes would have owned many pieces of this colourful stoneware, the jugs used as containers for beer and wine.

By sheer coincidence, I spotted two lovely pieces of Westerwald on my first mudlarking session after returning home from Amsterdam. The rim of a jug in grey and dark blue stripes, and a moulded decorative circular design in dark blue on grey. It was a joy to see complete items of this type of stoneware in the museum and compare them with my broken fragments. An intact example of Westerwald would be a rare Thames find indeed.

I’ve blogged about Thames pottery before but it’s worth repeating that, for mudlarks, Bartmann pottery sherds hold a particular place in our hearts. Bartmann faces are particularly highly prized and almost certainly in the top ten of ‘things we would quite like to find’, thank you very much.

Bartmann jugs were commonly made in the Rhineland region of Germany in the 16th and 17th centuries, the name taken from the German word ‘Bartmann’, meaning ‘bearded man.’ You can see some fine examples of cheerful and sometimes rather grumpy bearded men in the glorious examples held in the Rijksmuseum collections as seen in the photos below.

Also a type of salt-glazed stoneware, these jugs have round, squat bodies with shortish necks and loop handles and are covered in a brown, sometimes reddish brown glaze. The bearded man is on the front of the neck while beneath is a cartouche showing the crest of a city, eg Amsterdam, or one belonging to a wealthy family. (Some of the smaller Bartmann jugs don’t have the cartouche.)

The image of the bearded man is believed to originate with the myth of the wild man, a figure popular in medieval art and literature of Northern Europe. They were used predominantly for storing food and drink and for decanting wine. They were also used as ‘witch bottles’, and some have been found containing pins, iron nails, fingernail clippings, hair and even human urine – all thought to be an indication of their use as a charm against witchcraft.

I’ve found some very nice pieces of Bartmann stoneware during my years mudlarking, including the highly prized complete grumpy face ( see photo below.) Though it can be quite unnerving when you spot a partial fragment showing a dismembered grimace or part of a snarling bearded mouth with big teeth, poking out of the Thames mud.

But the best artefacts from our visit to the Rijksmuseum had to be the displays of ancient glass which shimmered and shone in the display cabinets. Berkemayer shaped goblets, stems with pointed prunts extending into a funnel-shaped bowl, the perfect example of the 16th century glassmakers’ skill. Some of these beautiful objects looked as fresh as if they’d been made yesterday.

I am proud to say I have two green glass raspberry prunts in my collection, so it was a particular treat to see examples of Roemer glass circa 1650-1660. The Roemer, like the Berkemayer, also became fashionable during the 16th century, though its overall look was slightly different. It had an ovoid bowl more reminiscent of our current wine glasses, the stem decorated with raspberry prunts (prunt is SUCH a gorgeous word) to help fat, greasy fingers cling on to the vessel when drinking.

Most green glass was initially imported from Germany but a few centres producing glass of this colour began to emerge in the Netherlands towards the end of the 16th century.

One of my favourite still life paintings hangs in the Rijksmuseum. By William Claesz, painted in 1635, it features the perfect tableau of drinking vessels, including a Roemer, pictured in front of a rather ostentatious gilt cup. I’ve placed my own two glass prunts, which closely resemble boiled sweets, on a postcard of this still life, bought in the museum gift shop.

It would be too much to hope to find a complete Roemer in the Thames and I don’t think anyone will ever find one. We have to be grateful for the broken fragments of this beautiful glass that still occasionally turn up on the foreshore at low tide.

My last Rijksmuseum treat was to see complete versions of examples of medieval pottery. These (see photo below) are known as Siegburg jugs, a type of early, crude attempt at stoneware from the 14th and 15th century.

Also known as Jacoba jugs because in the 17th century they were found in the moat of the hunting lodge of Teylingen, once the home of the 15th century Countess of Holland, Jacoba van Beieren. It was said that she made these jugs herself because she was often bored. And why not.

Although thought to have originated in the Netherlands, their real place of origin was Siegburg in Germany, hence the name.

I recently had a bit of a clear out of ‘stuff’ from our loft and came across an old box of pottery finds from my early days of mudlarking when I would often bring things home and not have a clue what they were. Thanks to the visit to Amsterdam, the trip to the Rijksmuseum must have triggered an ancient memory regarding Siegburg jugs. Opening up the the old box of finds, I was thrilled to find the base of a Siegburg, sad and forgotten, in all its pie-crust splendour. Here it is pictured with the complete version for comparison. I’m so pleased my ‘bottom’ is now seeing the light of day again.

If you’re new to mudlarking, I hope this brief run-through of a few examples of Thames-found pottery and their complete versions in the Rijksmuseum, has given you inspiration to keep searching. And, if you’ve never been, I recommend a visit to the glorious city of Amsterdam and all it offers.

Walking round its museums, streets and canals, I felt a strong connection between this vibrant and ever-changing city and the fragments of glass and pottery I’ve found in the Thames over the years. A deep sense of the interweaving of European history through its artefacts and shared culture that still bind us together today.

How are you all doing? If you’re anything like me, you’ll be relieved to see the back of the recent heatwave. I love the sunshine but excessive temperatures are too much and, coupled with a lack of rain for weeks on end, are definite signs that the climate is changing. Thankfully we’ve now had some extremely welcome rain in London, its gardens and green spaces looking uncharacteristically parched and dry for some while now. And, of course, we’re now braced for Thames Water (who waste so much of our precious water themselves by not repairing millions of gallons of leaks promptly) bringing in a hosepipe ban this week. Tant pis, as they say in France.

But, in spite of this, August has been busy and I’ve been grateful to have had the opportunity to go mudlarking a few times this month. In addition to this, another highlight of my summer was the visit of the stunning ship, The Götheborg of Sweden.

The largest ocean-going wooden sailing ship, this is a replica of the original Swedish East Indiaman Götheborg I, launched in 1738, and which tragically sank just off Gothenburg, Sweden, on 12th September 1745 while approaching the harbour. Mercifully, all the crew on board were rescued.

The Götheborg is currently undertaking a long expedition to Asia, recreating her original 18th century voyages and sailing to various destinations in Europe before reaching the Asian continent in 2023. En route she’ll be stopping off at various ports and docks to give the public a rare opportunity to come on board.

This ship is a wonderful example of maritime wood carving as seen in the figurehead, quarter galleries and stern decorations. The two-galleried stern measures over 20 feet across and is decorated with a variety of carvings including a cockerel (bottom left), plus central crest, fish and sea nymphs blowing conches. These are in French Baroque style, as commonly seen in Swedish ships of the period.

My favourite carving though was the magnificent beast of a lion at the bow (see my photo above). Figureheads are meant to make a statement, and this one definitely does. Standing 15 feet tall, the lion started out as three tons of timber before the expert hands of a master wood carver gave him shape and form.

The Götheborg of Sweden spent nearly five days docked at Canary Wharf before sailing to Bremerhaven, from where she’ll be setting sail on the next stage of her voyage on Monday 22nd August. I wish her and her crew Godspeed and a fair wind.

I’ve avoided the foreshore during the extreme temperatures we’ve had this month – there isn’t anywhere to shelter on the river when it’s baking hot – and when I’ve gone out to the Thames it’s been either early morning or when the temperatures have dropped. It’s been a great month for some lovely finds.

As you can see from the image above, marble finds have featured quite majorly, from Victorian striped chinas (used in games of carpet boules), to mocha swirls, codd bottle marbles and a large clay marble that might have been used for industrial purposes but may also have been played with by a Victorian/Edwardian child before tossing it naughtily into the river.

I’ve also found some early medieval shell-tempered ware pottery fragments (which might even be Saxon), a fragment of medieval floor tile covered in moss green glaze, a Charles I rose farthing, an 18th century bone button form and a lot of bullets. (NB: important health and safety note regarding bullet finds on the river. The Thames has an abundance of rogue military material that often gets washed up on a low tide – much of it is World War Two ammunition but some of it, like my recent bullet finds, are reasonably modern, possibly dumped as a result of criminal activity. If you find bullets of any description, don’t take them – they might still be live and therefore dangerous if allowed to dry out. It’s recommended that you put them carefully in the river where they will remain stable. On no account take them home with you, however tempting.)

But this beauty below is my favourite find of the summer.

Spotted with the base sticking out of Thames mud was this mint condition Hooper Struve mineral bottle. When I pulled it out, I was sure it would be smashed but, praise be, it wasn’t. It’s only the third complete vintage bottle find I’ve made on the foreshore in seven years of mudlarking. The river flows fast in London and many old bottles are inevitably unable to withstand being tossed about over the centuries, emerging chipped and broken at low tide. A complete one, such as this, is a rare treat and an added bonus is that it makes a very cool little vase too.

Beautifully embossed with the words ‘TO H.I.M THE KING -BY APPOINTMENT’ and the name ‘HOOPER STRUVE & Co LTD’ on the other side of the bottle. It’s not clear precisely which King it refers to but the style of bottle dates from 1901-1936 so it’s likely to be either Edward VII or George V. It would also have had a vulcanite-style screw top to keep the fizz in.

I’m indebted to the Brighton Argus for providing some backstory to the history of the company that made this bottle, and the link to Brighton itself.

In the early part of the 19th century, spas became fashionable all over Europe. In 1825, Friedrich Struve, a German chemist from Dresden, invented a machine that reproduced the characteristics of natural mineral water using chemicals. This enabled him to set up the Pump Room of his German Spa in Brighton, which had no natural spring of its own.

His curative waters received huge patronage from the fashionable and wealthy classes, including King William IV, who flocked to Brighton to ‘take the waters’ for the benefit of their health.

As often happens with fashions, they quickly become unfashionable, and by the 1850s the practice of taking the waters had begun to decline resulting in the closure of the Pump Room. Brighton could not compete with the more established natural spa towns of Bath, Cheltenham or Baden-Baden in Germany.

After his death in 1840, Struve’s family continued to sell his mineral water and in 1891, a soft drinks firm established by London chemist William Hooper, merged with Struve’s. The new company took the name Hooper Struve & Co Ltd. They continued production in Brighton until approximately 1963, after which the original Pump Room becamed derelict and a magnet for vandals.

It was eventually demolished by Brighton Council leaving only the neo-classical frontage. A nursery school now exists on the site.

On a sadder note, searching the Company’s records on the GOV.UK Companies House website this week while digging into its history, I found this recent entry, dating from just a few weeks ago. It seems that whatever had existed of the original Hooper Struve business was now no longer trading, and going through the legal process of being struck off the Companies House Register.

A sad end for the makers of my Thames-found mineral water bottle. But I’m grateful that spotting this on the foreshore opened a door to a piece of social history I knew nothing about. This is why I love mudlarking; the sheer pleasure of discovering the story behind an artefact spotted on the foreshore.

On a final note, as August grinds slowly to an end, I’m looking forward to September and this year’s Totally Thames Festival, a month long celebration of the river organised by The Thames Festival Trust.

There’ll be mudlarking exhibitions, walks, talks and so much more throughout the month, click on the link below for the full schedule of events. I’ll be displaying some of my favourite medieval and post-medieval finds at St Paul’s Cathedral on Saturday 17th September, entry is free.

Do come!

https://thamesfestivaltrust.org/whats-on/#search=&pp=12&p=1

June has been a busy month with not much time for mudlarking as I’ve been away on holiday in France and having a wonderful time in the Provençal sunshine with my family. This blog is going to be a bit of a mishmash but still finds-related because that’s what my passion is. The searching bug is always there, no matter where I am, so please welcome to the world of vinelarking.

I was recently talking to a mudlark who, on a walk through some fields near where he lives, found a small number of Mesolithic worked flints. Which just goes to show that you don’t have to be near the river to find artefacts, or even metal detecting on someone’s land (but please make sure you’ve asked permission first.) Beaches, gardens, even the humble pavement can be a source of something interesting if you keep your eyes peeled.

I’ve always spent a lot of time with my head bent down, staring at the ground, searching for bits and pieces. This has become my default position, even on holiday. So it was that on a walk a few weeks ago I found myself strolling through literally acres of vines owned by the famous Châteauneuf-du-Pape and even here I managed to find a few bits and pieces to keep me happy.

The vines in the area of Provence where we stayed are planted on top of land that was once part of the Roman Empire, and the Romans grew vines in this locality too. Sadly, no Roman pottery sherds to be found on my walks but I did spot a few interesting items, among them this fragment of local Provencal terracotta roof tile.

Made by the famous Monier company of Marseille who’ve been producing roof tiles since the 19th century, the tile is instantly recognisable by their symbol, the bee.

This particular tile fragment is likely to be 1950s/1960s.

The ground all around these vineyards is full of rocks, stones and broken sherds of pottery as well as tiles. I initially thought this was to keep moisture in the ground but later found out that it’s more to keep the soil around the vines warm and also to stop wild boar from digging holes and ruining the planting.

The forests round here are still full of boar, destructive creatures that would lay waste to every vineyard in the area if the vines weren’t protected.

In the autumn the boar are hunted to keep their numbers down otherwise the area would be overrun by them. And, as I was told many times, if they get into your garden you’ve had it.

So of course I’ve been knee-deep in books about Roman Provence since we got back and this is one of many tomes I’ve been engrossed in. Until I read this book I had no idea that there are more Roman monuments in Provence than anywhere else in the Roman occupied world, including Italy itself.

In Provence, the Romans have left behind bridges, aqueducts, amphitheatres, baths, temples, triumphal arches and roads that still bisect the countryside all around. I’m determined to return soon to visit areas such as Orange, Vienne, Arles, St Remy and Aix-en-Provence, just a few of the towns and cities here worth visiting that are full of Roman remains.

One of my favourite areas of Provence with a well-documented Roman history is Nîmes. I last visited here in the autumn of 2018 and was pleased to see the long awaited Musée de la Romanité was open. I thoroughly recommend it as it’s one of the best Roman museums I’ve ever seen, beautifully curated and with a stunning range of artefacts.

The Roman museum is also slap bang next door to the Arena de Nîmes, or old amphitheatre, so if you time your visit perfectly you can get to see two Roman attractions together.

In addition to books on Roman Provence, I really want to recommend a new mudlarking book that has just hit the shelves.

Written by fellow mudlark Malcolm Russell (please follow him on Instagram @mudhistorian) this beautifully written tome is called ‘Mudlark’d: Hidden Histories From The River Thames’, published by Thames and Hudson. I’ve blogged about mudlarking books before and this is the latest in what is promising to be a real golden age for new authors writing on this subject.

Malcolm’s book is perfect for anyone who loves the history of London and the Thames, telling vivid stories of forgotten people through objects found on the foreshore.

Each chapter introduced me to a great many facts that, even as a seasoned mudlark and historian, were completely new to me. Malcolm covers a comprehensive range of fascinating objects revealing the stories and voices of criminals, prisoners, enslaved peoples, immigrants, traders, queer folk, entertainers, smokers, gamblers, firefighters and many more. The book is a perfect people’s history, a welcome addition to what we tell ourselves about our past. I read Malcolm’s book in one weekend and can’t recommend it highly enough.

Last but not least, summer is definitely here and London is about to showcase a range of exhibitions and activities celebrating the Thames. Kicking off is a Mudlarking Day at Southwark Cathedral on Saturday 16th July, from 10.30am to 5pm, this being part of the National Festival of Archaeology 2022 and well worth supporting.

I’ll be at Southwark that day exhibiting some of my favourite finds along with other mudlarking friends, so do please pop along if you can and say hello. The event promises to be great fun and the Cathedral is a stunning venue.

There will also be a range of other activities at Southwark on that day including medieval tile making, foreshore walks, lectures, finds ID and an opportunity to see the casting of medieval pilgrim badges. Literally something for everyone so please put the date in your diaries.

À bientôt.

I haven’t been out mudlarking as much as I’d like during the last month or so but, when I’ve been able to make the time, I’ve been finding some splendid artefacts, some of which have been on my lengthy wish list of ‘Things I’d Love To Find On The Foreshore’ for quite some time. On one of my most recent trips the finds included three stunning Roman objects, which makes them very special. So, thank you, River Thames. I’m extremely grateful.

Londinium, or Roman London, was the capital of Roman Britain during the period of Roman rule in Britain. Early Londinium was established on the current site of the City of London in approximately 47-50 AD, or mid-1st century, and was roughly half the area of the current City of London.

Archaeologists are still arguing about the precise date but it’s believed that in 60 AD a rebellion by Boudicca (or Boadicea), leader of the Iceni, resulted in newly established Roman London being torched to the ground. Excavations show clear traces of burnt soil from this period at a layer synonymous with Roman London, indicating how savage Boudicca’s assault was. The Roman response to her revolt was typically brutal and she was eventually defeated by the Roman governor Gaius Suetonius. It’s not clear whether Boudicca then killed herself, as thought by Tacitus, or died of severe wounds, as documented by Cassius Dio. Nonetheless, archaeological evidence is clear that this was a horrifically violent period of early London’s history.

After this grim period the City of London had to be rebuilt and it expanded rapidly. Its location on the Thames, at a key crossing point over the river, contributed to it becoming a major port enabling it to trade easily with the rest of the Roman Empire and further afield. The rebuilt Londinium was provided with large public buildings, most of which have sadly long since disappeared, such the forum and amphitheatre, and also a London Wall to define the landward side of the city, some of which can still be seen today near the Museum of London.

Roman London was at its height during the second century AD but then the population began to shrink again. By the 5th century, with very few Roman troops left in Britain, Londinium and other Romano-British towns began to decline drastically, buildings and infrastructure falling into ruin and decay. Trade broke down as the Roman Empire began to collapse, for reasons still argued about by historians, but attacks by barbarian tribes and famine were clear contributory factors. Over the next century Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Frisians arrived from Northern Europe and began to establish tribal areas and Kingdoms while Londinium fell further into decay.

It wasn’t until the Viking invasions of England in the 9th century that King Alfred the Great resurrected the settlement within the old Roman London Walls. At its height, Roman London had been a very ethnically diverse city with inhabitants from across the entirety of the Roman Empire – as well as Britons, there were folk from Continental Europe, the Middle East and North Africa.

When considering its relationship with the river as it is today, the embankment during the Roman period was located on Lower Thames Street, much further back than it is now. For those interested in the history of the Roman Port of London the evidence is still there to be seen, and to this end I highly recommend a visit to the beautiful old church of St Magnus the Martyr on Lower Thames Street. Not only does it contain an archway that was once one of the pedestrian entrances to the Medieval London Bridge, but attached to one of its ancient stone walls as you enter is a nearly 2,000 year old piece of timber that gives me the shivers every time I come to see it.

It’s a segment of an old Roman Wharf dating from 75 AD, and found on Fish Street Hill in 1931. Many visitors to the church just walk straight past it but, if you happen to be in the area, please stop and give it a stroke. You are literally touching a piece of Roman London. If you’d like to read about this in greater depth I recommend a book called ‘The Port of Roman London’ by Gustav Milne. Gustav is a MOLA and Citizan archaeologist who first introduced me to this timber when a group of us did our FROG (Foreshore Recording and Observation Group) training with the archaeologists at Thames Discovery Programme (TDP) in 2018. Prior to this I didn’t even know the wharf timber existed. It’s a beautifully tactile piece of wood and very special.

Roman era artefacts from the river are very special and I recently made an absolute dream find on the Thames Foreshore; a Roman hair pin made of bone. On a day when the low tide wasn’t particularly good due to an unexpected storm surge in the Thames Estuary, I wasn’t expecting to discover anything of consequence. Which is absolutely fine; it’s what sometimes happens. But that then made it even sweeter when I spotted this beauty poking out from the gravel and stones, trapped in their rocky embrace.

Pins during the Roman period, whether Romano-Britain or elsewhere in the vast Roman Empire, were an essential part of a high status woman’s coiffure, especially as hair styles during this period of history were highly elaborate and complicated. The idea of ‘Wash’n’Go’ would have given a wealthy Roman woman a fit of the vapours. Natural hairstyles were associated with barbarian tribes who the Romans believed hadn’t the money or culture to style their tresses properly.

A Roman woman’s hair was twisted and coiled, then pinned to keep the complicated, elaborately curled shape. Hair pins from this period have been found in a wide range of materials, from wooden pins for poorer women to ones made of gold, bronze, glass or decorated bone for high status women.

Some pins were hugely ornate in design while others were simpler and plainer.

Bone pins came in a variety of different lengths from short to very long. I suspect a small bit of my pin find might have broken off at some point as it seems to be missing a possible half to one centimetre at the tip, yet it still remains functional.

The importance of highly elaborate hairstyles for wealthy Roman women came with a very dark side. Wigs and other hair pieces were very popular and fashionable – blonde hair from females of conquered Germanic tribes being highly prized as was black hair from India.

The photo below shows a marble bust featuring a typically ostentatious hairstyle worn by a wealthy woman from the Flavian period, 69 -96 AD. The bust is thought to be Julia, daughter of Emperor Titus, and it shows a literal beehive of dramatic curls stacked high on Julia’s head. Her hair would have taken hours to style.

Another recent dream find, and which might not appear to be that extraordinary on first viewing but is special to me, is this sherd of Samian ware pottery. Sherds of Roman Samian always bring a smile to my face, especially as they turn up much less frequently on the foreshore these days. Decorated fragments are a particular bonus.

Samian ware, or Terra Sigillata, was a fine tableware characterised by a vibrant glossy-red slip that was fired in both plain and decorated forms. The decorative Samian ware often shows a range of designs from flowers and foliage to hunting scenes, created by moulding onto the main body of the bowl.

Samian ware was mass-produced, the finished pieces often showing manufacturers’ stamps which help identify date and distribution. It was found throughout the Roman Empire, originally manufactured during Augustine’s reign in Arretium (Arezzo) in Italy before production moved elsewhere, particularly to Gaul, modern day France. Eventually, by the second century, Samian pottery was being produced in Roman Britain itself, principally in Pulborough in Sussex, Colchester in Essex and also in London itself. But it was generally of a poorer quality than its Gaulish counterpart.

I am grateful to fellow mudlark, artist and architect Ed Bucknall (please follow Ed on Instagram @edjbucknall) for his huge knowledge of Roman finds from the river. Ed immediately recognised that my piece of found Samian ware is from a more unusual type than is normally spotted in the Thames, ie, an Antonine period import.

The Antonine era of the Roman Empire spanned from 96-192 AD during which time a total of seven emperors ruled – Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus and Commodus. The first five were known as the ‘Five Good Emperors’, although the murder of the last of them, the feeble Commodus in 192 AD, is thought to have signalled the beginning of the decline of the Roman Empire.

And this sherd is different when compared with other, more common types of Samian ware found at low tide. It has a pattern of incised leaves, produced in a similar style to etching on glass, and it’s likely the complete item would have shown roundels featuring floral motifs and tendrils, flanked by leaves, such as in my example.

Last but not least, the final item in my trio of recent Thames Roman finds is this tiny, pale green/yellow bead, made of glass. Foreshore beads are notoriously difficult to date. On land, archaeologists analyse the order and position of layers of archaeological remains to help them place artefacts in an accurate historical context. This is known as stratigraphy. But in the mud of the river it’s much harder (though not impossible) to pin down the precise provenance of an artefact because the movement of the tides will wash items in from further afield. Nonetheless, it’s perfectly appropriate to assume that when a find is spotted in an area of the Thames where Roman artefacts routinely turn up at low tide, and we know was busy with activity during the peak of Londinium’s importance, the chances of it being Roman are high.

The colour, irregularity and general rough feel of this small glass bead definitely indicate Roman to me.