Double Review: Bringlish Landscapes

“That’s a classic,” said the man in the Oxfam shop, tapping the front cover of the little paperback.

I nodded in agreement. “I thought it was about time I bought a copy.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“That’ll be one ninety-nine,” he intoned.

And so it was that I bought a copy of a true classic in the field:

Hoskins, W.G. 1955. The Making of the English Landscape, originally published by Hodder & Stoughton – but my copy is a 1983 reprint of the 1970 Pelican edition.

I’ve finally read it, along with a natural – and much more recent – companion volume, already cited once or twice in previous posts:

Pryor, F. 2010. The Making of the British Landscape, Allen Lane but my edition is the Penguin paperback.

Here they are together, apparently sunbathing.


Bringlish Landscapes old and new: from Hoskins to Pryor

Many readers of this blog will be familiar with one or both of these books – even if only by reputation. Their subject isn’t exactly “farming unearthed”, but nonetheless they make crucial reading for anyone trying to get a handle on the broad sweep of British agricultural history.

It’s the broad sweep, in fact, that made Hoskins’ classic such a pioneering work in its day: examining, apparently for the first time, how the modern landscape(s) of England were shaped not only by parliamentary enclosure acts around the 18th century, but by processes stretching back into medieval times – if not earlier. This is the pioneer world of 1950′s landscape history, focusing very much upon the visible landscape. It is – explicitly – not an archaeological study, and so anything pre-dating the Anglo-Saxons is dealt with in a single, fairly brief chapter. It’s probably the least readable chapter, but the rest of the book sets the bar pretty high. The academic might bemoan a dearth of footnotes, but the narrative is brimming with both erudition and character. Hoskins quotes extensively from the likes of Dickens, Wordsworth, and John Clare, and gets quite literary himself – passionate, even, in a way that you just don’t expect after years of student reading. On 17th century England:

“Few boys lived beyond easy walking distance  of thick woodland, or of wild and spacious heaths, where they could work off freely the animal energies that in the twentieth century lead too many of them in the foul and joyless towns into the juvenile courts.” (p.139)

“No industrial smoke, nothing faster on the roads than a horse, no incessant noises from the sky… how infinitely more pleasant a place England then was for the majority of her people!” (p.139)

Coming to the industrial revolution: “in the Potteries and the Black Country especially, the landscape of Hell was foreshadowed.” (p.222)

And the modern landscape of 1950′s England? “It is a distasteful subject but it must be faced for a few moments.” (p.298)

Half a century later, and Francis Pryor offers a not-too-dissimilar reading experience. Like Hoskins, Pryor is an adept communicator both in print and on-screen; his writing can be passionate and characterful, too. And he’s more sympathetic than Hoskins towards 20th century developments (bungalows notwithstanding). In terms of content, there are differences: Pryor covers Scotland and Wales, for instance, and has much more on recent and maritime landscape history, including e.g. Palmerston forts in the Solent, 20th century wartime defences, and 21st century shopping centres. But the biggest difference, perhaps, is that Pryor is an archaeologist and a prehistorian at that. Add to this the fact, noted already in Hoskins’ 1976 preface, that archaeological research has been (and still is) transforming the subject, and we have Pryor’s narrative progressing in detail from Ice Age to Iron Age before covering the same chronological ground as Hoskins. We finally enter the Anglo-Saxon period on p.209; by the same page, Hoskins has just about finished with parliamentary enclosure. Pryor’s book is more comprehensive in a way, covering a bewildering array of sub-topics (pylons, seaside resorts, “polite landscapes”…); these make for accessible reference points, in articles that can usually be read out of context if desired. Consequently, the overall narrative flows somewhat less smoothly than that of Hoskins, but that’s a very minor point given the ambitious scope of the book.

So I’d say: have them both. Read them cover to cover, and refer back to them, especially if you need to branch into a period/topic that’s unfamiliar.

And pretty soon, British readers at least, you’ll be reaching for your walking boots and loving your local landscape!



Yes, corn-dryers! There, I’ve said it, and there’s no going back.

Familiarity, as the old saw goes, breeds contempt – or at least indifference. I think that sometimes that holds true for archaeology as much as anything else: there are certain topics that feel done, perhaps even overdone. Topics with which you feel you’ve spent as much time as is useful. Topics which you probably encountered in your youth, and feel – at best – nostalgic about, but not nostalgic enough to delve into.

And so, corn-dryers. If, like me, you visited Romano-British villas as a child, you’ve probably seen the foundations of a classic Romano-British corn-dryer: big, stone-built, T-shaped and – let’s be honest – winning no beauty contests. Very possibly, it was the boring adjunct to a tour of the hypocausts and mosaic-flaunting bath chambers. By comparison, a bit dry.

Here’s one courtesy of Wessex Archaeology, posted under the Creative Commons licence:

Surveying the location of a corn dryer using a Total Station Theodolite

Even for the student/researcher in British archaeology, corn-dryer literature has been rather quiet for a few decades (full references provided at the end of this blog post). In the 1970′s, we find Rickett’s undergraduate dissertation on “post-Roman and medieval drying kilns” – unpublished but still at Cardiff University library – and a chapter in Morris’ Agricultural Buildings in Roman Britain. There was also a practical experiment by the late Peter Reynolds  and co. at Butser Ancient Farm, involving the reconstruction and operation of a Roman-style corn-drying structure, whose results were usefully published. In the 1980′s, we find a paper by Monk on post-Roman drying kilns, and one by van der Veen on the charred plant remains from Romano-British corn-driers. All very good stuff indeed – but not much else in last 25 years, although hopefully a little paper of my own will find its way into print soon (watch this space).

By contrast, Irish archaeology has benefited from some very good recent publications by Monk and his colleagues. Surely progress can be made in British archaeology too? The Roman-period evidence alone must be worth another look.

So I’m taking the plunge. No research grant (yet), no institutional setting (yet), but enough enthusiasm to give it a bash in my spare time. It might not be fashionable. It might generate more interest if I called the project something like, “Being Human, Being Grain: concepts of cereality in antiquity (a phenomenological approach)”. But really, it’s about the corn-dryers, those chunky items of agricultural technology that deserve another look – and a few blog posts too. I’m interested in shapes, sizes, dates and distributions; contents, contexts, and composition. I’ll be stacking up evidence and looking for patterns, particularly in terms of form and function (I am an archaeologist, dash it).

Here goes.



Select References (with apologies for omissions of obvious key texts that have slipped through my sieve-like mind)

Goodchild, R.G. (1943). “T-shaped Corn-drying Ovens in Roman Britain” The Antiquaries Journal 23, pp. 148–153.

Monk, M. & Power, O. (2012). “More than a grain of truth from a rash of corn-drying kilns?” Archaeology Ireland 26 (100), pp. 38–41.

Monk, M.A. (1981). “Post-Roman Drying Kilns and the Problem of Function: a preliminary statement”, in Ó Corráin, D. ed. Irish Antiquity. Essays and Studies presented to Professor M.J. O’Kelly. (Cork: Tower Books), pp. 216–230.

Monk, M.A. & Kelleher, E. (2005). “An Assessment of the Archaeological Evidence for Irish Corn-Drying Kilns in the Light of the Results of Archaeological Experiments and Archaeobotanical Studies” The Journal of Irish Archaeology 14, pp. 77–114.

Morris, P. (1979). Agricultural Buildings in Roman Britain. Hands, A. R. & Walker, D. R. eds. (Oxford: British Archaeological Reports).

Reynolds, P.J. & Langley, J.K. (1979). “Romano-British Corn-Drying Oven: An Experiment” The Archaeological Journal 136, pp. 27–42.

Rickett, R.J. (1975). Post-Roman and Medieval Drying Kilns. (unpublished BA thesis – University College, Cardiff).

Van der Veen, M. (1989). “Charred Grain Assemblages from Roman-Period Corn Driers in Britain” The Archaeological Journal 146, pp. 302–319.

Farming on the Emerald Isle

Welcome back to Farming Unearthed! Regular visitors may notice that I’ve redecorated – after more than two years of blogging, it seemed like time for some sprucing up. It seems like time, too, to revisit one of my pet topics: agricultural change in early medieval Europe. Previous posts have touched upon Spain, Italy,and my own province of Anglo-Saxon England (on which, more to come). Today I set my sights upon Ireland, and an excellent new(ish) publication:

O’Sullivan, A., McCormick, F., Kerr, T.R. & Harney, L. (2013/2014). Early Medieval Ireland, AD 400-1100. The Evidence from Archaeological Excavations. Royal Irish Academy Monographs: Dublin.

Early Medieval Ireland AD 400-1100

This hefty and impressive monograph is something that could easily make other countries envious: a synthetic account of life and death in 5th-11th century Ireland using archaeological evidence from excavations spanning 1930-2012. It’s a handsome and well-illustrated tome of nine chapters, covering:  the background to early medieval Irish archaeology; dwellings and settlements; the church; farming; crafts and technology; trade and exchange; death and burial; and, of course, a conclusion. Naturally, it’s the agricultural Chapter 5 in the spotlight here.

The volume is one result of the elegantly-entitled “Early Medieval Archaeology Project” (or EMAP, to its friends), based at University College Dublin, which since 2007 has been working to synthesise, analyse and interpret data from early medieval sites in Ireland. This is no mean undertaking because, as the introduction makes clear, that’s an awful lot of sites (p.1):

“Nowhere else in Europe, and arguably perhaps in the world, is it possible to view early medieval settlement landscapes of such quality and preservation. In no other European country is there anything like 47,000 identified early medieval settlements.”

Much of this abundance is due to a boom in development-led excavation during the so-called “Celtic Tiger” years, circa 1995-2008. This aspect is important for our purposes here, because such recent excavations will often have employed good modern sampling strategies for the recovery of plant and animal remains – crucial for a better understanding of farming practices. The dataset (p.7) comprised plant remains from 60 sites and animal bones from >130 excavations, and the results were originally published in 2011, in a project report available online here. The chapter in this new volume presents the findings in a more digested – and digestible – form, and incorporates parallel work by other scholars, e.g. Monk & Power 2012. It should also be noted that, unlike its counterpart across the sea in Anglo-Saxon England, early medieval Irish farming is comparatively well-documented, mostly in law texts. Indeed, there’s an authoritative book on the mass of textual evidence, to which the EMAP work provides an archaeological counterpart (Kelly 1997).

 So, down to business, what’s the story in McCormick et al. 2014? The chapter leads us through seven sections discussing (1) social and economic organisation; (2) field boundaries, enclosures and roadways; (3) tools and tillage; (4) cereals and cultivation, including watermills and corn-dryers; (5) livestock farming; (6) natural food stocks, i.e. gathering, hunting and fishing from the wild; and (7) a conclusion. It’s a lengthy discussion, with some key points arising:

  • (p.193) There’s little archaeological evidence for a “permanent and organized pattern of fields”, but rather “open landscapes, with areas for cultivation and livestock rearing being secured by temporary wattle or brushwood boundaries.”
  • (p.195) Although there’s no firm evidence for coulters being added to ploughs before the 10th century – as previously argued by Brady – two possible examples have recently been discovered that appear to date from the early/mid 7th century. However, since one is apparently suspiciously small and the other hasn’t been fully published, the authors remain sceptical and plump for the 10th century date.
  • (p.197) There’s a shift in cereal cropping around the 8th century, characterised by diversification: earlier assemblages tend to be dominated by a single crop, whereas later assemblages are more heterogeneous.
  • (pp.198-209) Numbers of corn-drying kilns declined from the late eighth century onwards, after a 6th/7th century peak; confusingly, as the kilns decline in number, watermills increase in number (perhaps initially concentrated at ecclesiastical sites). A nuanced interpretation is offered, based on the changing morphology of the ovens over this period (emphasis added): “The evidence for fewer but more sophisticated larger kilns is a convincing indicator of a growing shift of economic power to a small noble class as arable farming develops from subsistence to producing surpluses.”
  • (pp.209-211) Cows were “a basic unit of wealth” and dominated animal husbandry until c.AD 800 when, in some parts, livestock diversified and cattle lost their predominance.

From all this, a synthetic model of change is proposed: in the 8th-9th centuries, livestock rearing diversified and became less important to the agricultural economy, while arable husbandry also diversified but became more important – and perhaps more closely controlled by lordly elites, who were perhaps responsible for the larger corn-dryers and watermills that appear around this time.

It’s a complex addition to the complex emerging picture of agricultural change in 7th-9th century Europe. Should we be viewing this as an international phenomenon? And what can it all mean?



Additional references

Kelly, F. (1997). Early Irish Farming: A study based mainly on the law-texts of the 7th and 8th centuries AD (Dublin).

Monk, M. & Power, O. (2012). ‘More than a grain of truth from a rash of corn-drying kilns?’, Archaeology Ireland 26 (100), pp.38-41.


Makin’ hay

OK, so there I was, strolling leisurely through the Tyrolean countryside in Austria on a beautiful sunny day, when out pops a bit of striking agricultural heritage.

“Hello,” thought I, “this could be a little something for the ol’ blog back home.”

And so it proves. Ladies and gentlemen, meine Damen und Herren, meet the Stannger, here demonstrated with and without hay.

Demonstration of Stannger: hay-drying poles in North Tyrol, Austria, July 2014

Demonstration of Stannger: hay-drying poles in North Tyrol, Austria, July 2014

As you can see, it’s a simple bit of kit: a wooden pole of around 2m, tapered at each end, with 3-4 cross pieces inserted at different angles. A nearby information board helpfully explains how these are driven into pre-made holes in the ground (created by “Stannger irons”), and the cross-braces laden with hay, plus a final hay “cap” on top. Thus, the gathered hay is left to dry – rain running clean off the outer surface. While industrial drying methods have largely replaced the Stannger, the Tyrol is a region clearly proud of its traditions, and you can still see a few of these devices in active use around the countryside.

Given the apparent simplicity and effectiveness of Stannger, one could imagine a long history behind them, which naturally leads me to wonder: could something like this show up in excavation, at a site with good waterlogged preservation of wood? And if a piece of Stannger did show up, would we necessarily recognize it? Might it not appear more like, say, a fragment of ladder? Off the top of my head, the best typological distinction of Stannger seems to be the jaunty angles at which the cross-braces are set, which would be odd (to say the least) in your average ladder.

I leave you with that thought, and with a fence of traditional type from the same Tyrolean village – included here purely for aesthetic reasons!

A traditionally-built fence in North Tyrol, Austria, July 2014.

A traditionally-built fence in North Tyrol, Austria, July 2014.


Farming Electrified

Why, hello there again. Welcome back to Farming Unearthed!

Talk about about a hiatus – I haven’t blogged for something like three months.

But there are good reasons for this, not least the penultimate stages of my DPhil project which, just to remind you, is entitled “Agricultural Development in Mid Saxon England”. I’ve long since submitted, have now been examined, and I’m currently waiting/hoping for the final approval of my minor corrections. Fingers crossed.

Besides this, I’ve also been involved with a rather different project: assisting in the digitization of the massive archive of Southern Electric – now part of SSE, the British energy company. Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that this has absolutely nothing to do with Farming Unearthed.

But, in fact, there is a link.

Just pop over to the SSE Heritage website and try entering some farm-related search terms. I’d particularly recommend trying “agricultural” and “plucking machine”.

It’s certainly a far cry from my usual territory of mouldboard ploughs and the like, but a fascinating field all the same, and one that I’d be tempted to revisit in the future.


Origins 5 – Domesticated Bliss

Happy February, readers! I hope you’re not too wet.

Now, I was lucky enough to receive as a Christmas present this excellent volume:

Cunliffe, B. (2012). Britain Begins (Oxford University Press; Oxford).

The prolific and erudite knight Professor Sir Barry Cunliffe probably needs no introduction for the readership of this blog but, for the curious, here’s a link to his departmental page, and to his rather more up-to-date Wikipedia entry.

So, this is a great book, as well-written and scholarly as you’d expect, with splendid production values (lots of maps and photographs, full colour throughout). It tells the story of Britain and Ireland between 10,000 BC and AD 1100. The book sets itself up as the successor to the ages-long tradition of ‘origins myths’ – the latest answer to the general question, Where do we come from?

“Like the myth-makers of the distant past, we are creating stories about our origins and ancestors conditioned by the world in which we live.” (p.vii)

With this in mind, there’s some fascinating introductory, historiographical matter about the stories that have been told about British origins throughout history, from ancient Greek allusions, all the way through to cutting-edge DNA research.

So, from a Farming Unearthed point-of-view, what’s inspired me to blog about this book?

Well, oddly enough, it ain’t agriculture. At least, not as we know it. I’m only up to the Mesolithic so far, in Chapter 4. The Neolithic, with all its new-fangled farming technologies, awaits me in Chapter 5. So, with this in mind, what do we make of the Mesolithic site at Oakhanger in the Weald with its unusually high percentages of hazel and ivy pollen? The interpretations cited by Cunliffe are thought-provoking (p.109):

“…there may have been deliberate felling of other trees such as alder, lime, and oak around the camp to allow hazel to flower  more freely and thus to produce a greater yield of hazel-nuts…”

“…one suggestion is that ivy was collected and brought to the periphery of the camp as fodder to attract deer during the winter months [i.e. to hunt them], when food was in short supply…”

Now, while it would perhaps be playing semantic games to call these practices “agriculture”, nonetheless to my mind this is something rather more than hunting-gathering: it seems like a kind of environmental management, to enhance local access to wild foods. I suppose the difference is that the productive environment isn’t being entirely managed by human hands. The encouragement of hazel growth isn’t quite arboriculture; but if you started planting and nurturing hazel saplings in your own specially-grown plants, would that count? And, crucially, how could we identify such a subtle difference in the archaeological record?

One archaeological clue, at least for some species, in at least some circumstances, is domestication. The emergence of domesticated varieties, distinct from their wild progenitors, implies that “environmental management” had passed a tipping point, that human intervention had effectively disrupted the process of natural selection: domestic traits are those which offer little or no advantage in the wild, but are selectively favoured (consciously or otherwise) by farming.

Here’s a nice example: the shattering and non-shattering of wheats. Put simply, wild wheats shatter; domesticated wheats don’t shatter. That is to say: wild wheats have a brittle rachis, which allows spikelets to disarticulate spontaneously, thus shattering the reproductive units (grains) over the ground and helping the plants to reproduce themselves; barbs on the spikelets help them to stick in the ground, and to deter hungry animals, to increase chances of germination. Domesticated varieties, by contrast, don’t shatter: the spikelets stay put, all the better for harvesting by hand.

So, a simple indicator of the division between “gathering” and “farming”?

Well, no, as it happens, because you could sow and harvest a shattering variety of wheat, just so long as you harvest the spikelets before they start spontaneously disarticulating. It would not be a domesticated crop, in this case, but it would be a cultivated crop: an important distinction, and one central to the debate about when and how agriculture began.

But that’s another story.

Some references:

Cappers, RTJ & Neef, R (2012). Handbook of Plant Palaeoecology (Barkhuis, Groningen): pp.380-387.

Renfrew, C & Bahn, P (2012). Archaeology: Theory, Methods and Practice (6th ed., Thames & Hudson, London):pp.273-292.

Tanno, K-I & Willcox, G (2006). “How fast was wild wheat domesticated?”, Science 311 (no.5769): p.1886.