excavations centred on a spot further down the river,’ he says. ‘You don’t mind a short walk, do you?’
Ruth wonders how short a short walk is. She likes walking only in moderation. Something Max and Nelson have in common is that they are always striding off without looking back to see if she is following. One day she won’t be.
She is also worried about getting back to Kate. She rang Cathbad from the university, saying she was going to be longer than she’d thought and he’d been unconcerned. ‘I’ll take Kate out for a bit, explore Lytham,’ he’d said. ‘Take your time.’ Cathbad really is the king of the walkers, covering miles in a day, sometime walking all night, across dark fields and through shuttered towns. He used to be a postman, he explained once, and that taught him the value of exploring places on foot. ‘You see more,’ he says, ‘At eye level.’ Ruth hopes he won’t take Kate too far.
But Clayton Henry does not look like much of a rambler. He looks essentially urban, dressed in a pink shirt and freshly ironed chinos with distinctly unhikerish shoes, pointed and highly polished. Ruth doesn’t imagine that he will drag her miles over fields and stiles. In fact, he seems out of breath by the time they reach the river.
‘Not far now,’ he pants.
The river is obviously on its last lap before the sea, looping extravagantly across the fields, dotted with little islands and crescent-shaped pools. Sheep graze on the flat ground between the loops and, in the distance, Ruth can see a black shape, half lost in the clouds.
‘Is that Pendle Hill?’ she asks, thinking that she knows the answer.
‘Yes,’ says Henry. ‘Have you been up there? There’s a grand view, but it’s a bit spooky, to my mind.’
‘I went there yesterday. I’ve got a friend who lives near Fence.’ She hesitates, aware that ‘friend’ doesn’t really cover her tenuous connection with Pendragon.
‘Sooner him than me,’ says Henry. Ruth thinks it’s interesting that he assumes the friend must be male.
Birds swoop low over the water, reminding Ruth once again of the Saltmarsh. She wonders what this area was like in Roman times. The river would still have been here, though its course may well have changed; it would have been a valuable link in the supply chain, carrying goods inland, and back out to sea towards other parts of the great Empire. When the Roman troops left, the ships would no longer have come into port, laden with wine, olive oil and pottery—that distinctive orangey-red Samian ware found on the site at Swaffham. Was this where Arthur made his last stand, abandoned by Rome, beset on all sides by invading Picts and Celts?
‘Here we are,’ says Henry.
They are on slightly higher ground, a field just outside the wall of the church. The excavation, which is about ten feet across, includes walls and some tesserae, which could have formed part of a mosaic. In one corner a tarpaulin covers what is obviously a deeper hole. Ruth wonders how long ago it was that Dan dug here. The excavation has a lonely look, outside the city walls. Sheep are cropping the grass near the exposed stones.
‘The Roman Road was near here,’ says Henry. ‘Funny how place names survive. There’s a village nearby called Street and the road across the bridge is still called the Roman Road.’
Ruth knows that the word ‘street’ comes from the Latin ‘strata’, meaning layer, and refers to the many layers that went into constructing a Roman road, one of the wonders of that empire.
‘So the temple would have been on the road to the port?’ she says.
‘It looks like that, yes,’ says Henry. ‘There’s another temple at Ribchester with altars dedicated to Apollo and Victory. Just what you’d expect. But Dan thought this was later. Mid to late 400s, he reckoned.’
Ruth looks down at the ancient walls, exposed to the wind and the air. It is generally thought that the Romans left Britain between 383 and 410 AD,
Ruth wonders how short a short walk is. She likes walking only in moderation. Something Max and Nelson have in common is that they are always striding off without looking back to see if she is following. One day she won’t be.
She is also worried about getting back to Kate. She rang Cathbad from the university, saying she was going to be longer than she’d thought and he’d been unconcerned. ‘I’ll take Kate out for a bit, explore Lytham,’ he’d said. ‘Take your time.’ Cathbad really is the king of the walkers, covering miles in a day, sometime walking all night, across dark fields and through shuttered towns. He used to be a postman, he explained once, and that taught him the value of exploring places on foot. ‘You see more,’ he says, ‘At eye level.’ Ruth hopes he won’t take Kate too far.
But Clayton Henry does not look like much of a rambler. He looks essentially urban, dressed in a pink shirt and freshly ironed chinos with distinctly unhikerish shoes, pointed and highly polished. Ruth doesn’t imagine that he will drag her miles over fields and stiles. In fact, he seems out of breath by the time they reach the river.
‘Not far now,’ he pants.
The river is obviously on its last lap before the sea, looping extravagantly across the fields, dotted with little islands and crescent-shaped pools. Sheep graze on the flat ground between the loops and, in the distance, Ruth can see a black shape, half lost in the clouds.
‘Is that Pendle Hill?’ she asks, thinking that she knows the answer.
‘Yes,’ says Henry. ‘Have you been up there? There’s a grand view, but it’s a bit spooky, to my mind.’
‘I went there yesterday. I’ve got a friend who lives near Fence.’ She hesitates, aware that ‘friend’ doesn’t really cover her tenuous connection with Pendragon.
‘Sooner him than me,’ says Henry. Ruth thinks it’s interesting that he assumes the friend must be male.
Birds swoop low over the water, reminding Ruth once again of the Saltmarsh. She wonders what this area was like in Roman times. The river would still have been here, though its course may well have changed; it would have been a valuable link in the supply chain, carrying goods inland, and back out to sea towards other parts of the great Empire. When the Roman troops left, the ships would no longer have come into port, laden with wine, olive oil and pottery—that distinctive orangey-red Samian ware found on the site at Swaffham. Was this where Arthur made his last stand, abandoned by Rome, beset on all sides by invading Picts and Celts?
‘Here we are,’ says Henry.
They are on slightly higher ground, a field just outside the wall of the church. The excavation, which is about ten feet across, includes walls and some tesserae, which could have formed part of a mosaic. In one corner a tarpaulin covers what is obviously a deeper hole. Ruth wonders how long ago it was that Dan dug here. The excavation has a lonely look, outside the city walls. Sheep are cropping the grass near the exposed stones.
‘The Roman Road was near here,’ says Henry. ‘Funny how place names survive. There’s a village nearby called Street and the road across the bridge is still called the Roman Road.’
Ruth knows that the word ‘street’ comes from the Latin ‘strata’, meaning layer, and refers to the many layers that went into constructing a Roman road, one of the wonders of that empire.
‘So the temple would have been on the road to the port?’ she says.
‘It looks like that, yes,’ says Henry. ‘There’s another temple at Ribchester with altars dedicated to Apollo and Victory. Just what you’d expect. But Dan thought this was later. Mid to late 400s, he reckoned.’
Ruth looks down at the ancient walls, exposed to the wind and the air. It is generally thought that the Romans left Britain between 383 and 410 AD,
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