Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age: Essays in Honour of Professor John Collis 1803270063, 9781803270067, 9781803270074

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Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age Essays in Honour of Professor John Collis

Edited by

Wendy Morrison

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age Essays in Honour of Professor John Collis

Edited by

Wendy Morrison

Archaeopress Archaeology

Archaeopress Publishing Ltd Summertown Pavilion 18-24 Middle Way Summertown Oxford OX2 7LG www.archaeopress.com

ISBN 978-1-80327-006-7 ISBN 978-1-80327-007-4 (e-Pdf) © the individual authors and Archaeopress 2022 Cover: Extract from Pilbrow’s original illustration (1871, Plate XXIII) of Roman Antiquities from Canterbury. Hillfort at Berber Hill, Kenn, Devon. Photograph F.M. Griffith, Devon County Council, 29.06.1984.

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Contents Preface������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ iii The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland: a consideration of the coastal and inland promontory forts and enclosures of Scotland�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������1 Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston A long, largely aceramic, period of Devon’s prehistory������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 21 Henrietta Quinnell Deconstructing archaeological databases���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 29 Martin Kuna The Gauls against the State ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 41 Sophie Krausz The European Iron Age. John Collis (1984). London: Batsford. a late review������������������������������������������������������� 49 Chris Gosden Exploring the origins and character of transhumance in England������������������������������������������������������������������� 54 Andrew Fleming Since John left Devon: some unanticipated outcomes of aerial reconnaissance in the county����������������������� 70 F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes Mam Tor, Derbyshire: new plans outlining hill and fort, internal platforms and all��������������������������������������� 79 Graeme Guilbert A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 127 Timothy Champion Some reflections on phenomenology, structure, agency and actancy in medieval pottery studies�������������� 136 C. G. Cumberpatch ‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath������������������������������������������ 143 Lisa Brown Mapping Celticity����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 155 Olivier Buchsenschutz

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Preface Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age is a collection of essays by some of the leading researchers in the archaeology of the European Iron Age, paying tribute to Professor John Collis. Since the 1960s, John has been involved in investigating and enriching our understanding of Iron Age society, and crucially, questioning the status quo of our narratives about the past. He has influenced generations of students and peers alike and has been one the strongest voices in the demystification of the ‘Celtic’ world. John has never held back on his continual questioning of the past, and he has been instrumental in helping us unpick the labyrinthine tapestry of myth and misinterpretation, interrogating the way later prehistory has been traditionally investigated, packaged, and presented, to reveal a much more interesting past, filled with more nuance, possibility, and humanity than the uniformly structured Iron Age of the early 20th century narrative. The idea for this volume was born nearly a decade ago in conversation with my then doctoral supervisor who had been a student of John’s (and one of the contributors to this volume) Chris Gosden. The list of contributors is not an exhaustive cohort of those who would wish to honour John, nor of those to whom he has been a profound guide to their careers and research – indeed that would stretch to many volumes This volume brings together papers from more than a dozen of Professor Collis’s colleagues and students to mark his 75th birthday. The contributions range across later prehistory and the European continent, taking in major themes that have been his prime interests hillforts, how we use archaeological data, socio-political structures of the past, and of course, the ‘Celts’. The volume begins with Strat Halliday and Ian Ralston’s treatment of Scottish promontory forts. Drawing on the wealth of data from the recently published Hillfort Atlas Project,1 they offer a comprehensive treatment of over 500 promontory and coastal sites. They highlight the challenges facing any attempt to classify such a diverse feature type but the challenges are addressed neatly and convincingly. Through careful and rigorous analysis of their data, Halliday and Ralston offer a compelling challenge to previous received scholarship on the siting of these features. Their conclusion invites an exploration of the wider Atlas dataset,2 freely accessible to all, so that multivocality of interpretations will enrich our growing understanding. In the best tradition of Collis, they are continually questioning the status quo, backed up by good evidence and a dedication to making that evidence, and the new interpretations drawn from them, available to wider audiences. In a similar vein, the second paper by Henrietta Quinnell also calls for a ‘reworking’ of prior scholarship based on the potential of not only new excavations but also re-interrogating older assemblages in the study of Iron Age Devon. Opening with a wonderful reminiscence of her first professional interactions with Collis, Quinnell quickly sets the stage for the current thinking about ceramics as chronological markers in archaeology, and the thorny issue of dealing with largely aceramic communities. She makes the excellent point that many groups around the globe have done rather well without ceramics for large swathes of time, and there is no reason to suppose that a paucity of a ceramic assemblage will undermine our understanding of peoples who used different materials for food and drink preparation and consumption. In an age where we are indeed swamped with new excavations and the ability to revisit archived investigations as well, it is fitting to ask some questions about the massive datasets – the embarrassment of riches – we have access to. Martin Kuna explores some of the challenges this presents us with regard to such variables as archaeological visibility, drawing on recent work he has done on the prodigious evidence from Bohemia. Mindful of the reliability of some quantification models, he makes a clear case for why this big data is an important resource, but also why we should be cautious in the conclusions we draw from it. The article is a refreshing antidote to some approaches to ‘Big Data’, which advocate that if there is enough data, we can assume the robust will outweigh the unreliable. Riffing on the title of Pierre Clastres’ anthropological work The Society against the State, Sophie Krausz looks at prehistoric and proto-historic Gaul and the way we have thought about their socio-political systems. Challenging the still-dominant narratives of a Mediterranean-imposed shift in organisation, Krausz invites us to think about things from a point of view that returns more agency of choice to the Gauls, rather than seeing the formation of a Gaulish state as a natural step in the linear progression of societal development. Krausz’s assessment of the stages and influences of urban development in the Iron Age is particularly significance against this refreshing backdrop. 1  2 

Lock, G. and Ralston, I.B., 2022. Atlas of the Hillforts of Britain and Ireland. Edinburgh University Press. https://hillforts.arch.ox.ac.uk

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John’s interest in non-linear forms of complex progression in political and urban development is also referenced in Chris Gosden’s contribution. In what must be the latest review of a publication to be written, Gosden looks at John’s unrivalled publication The European Iron Age, giving it not only its due in being the only major comprehensive attempt at such a geographical and temporal span, but also offering critiques along the way, as any honest review should. That some of the omissions of John’s book were the product of those themes only recently coming into scholarly vogue can hardly be seen as a true criticism; Gosden has written a fitting tribute to a book which has influence generations of archaeologists and pointed out how we can build upon it. Andrew Fleming provides the volume with a call to consider persistence of a tradition often taken for granted in some periods and regions of Britain, and totally overlooked in others. The practice of transhumance, or the seasonal cycle of moving livestock from one grazing region to another, may, as Fleming argues, have much deeper and wider roots on the island. He shows through a range of evidence sources, both scientific and observational, that this sort of movement of people and animals in a landscape needs to be factored into our prehistoric narratives and suggests that some of the patterns of land modification and earthworks building we see in later prehistory may be indicative of transhumant activity. Fleming’s images of modern transhumance in action are particularly compelling. The call to look more closely at patterns in the landscape is reiterated in the chapter by Frances Griffiths and Eileen Wilkes. Acknowledging John’s early interest but subsequent distraction from the prehistory of Devon, the two authors report on four decades of archaeological prospection that have, by looking at the ‘big picture’ of a wide landscape, produced a more densely exploited and settled prehistoric landscape. Drawing on reconnaissance from above and below, both aerial photographic campaigns flown over decades, and geophysical surveys, Wilkes and Griffiths show that not only is their dedication to the archaeology of Devon aiding our understanding of the past, but also preserving it for th e future; they outline how relationships with landowners and farmers are key, and how discovering new archaeological features enables farmers to get support to look after them – a collaboration between researchers and the public that is to be commended and which should be emulated more widely. The lengthiest chapter in the book represent the first in depth treatment of the plan of Mam Tor, a nationally significant hillfort in the Peak District. Graeme Guilbert has been researching Mam Tor for decades, since his first introduction to the site by John Collis in the late seventies, making this contribution a fitting example of the sort of inspiration John’s enthusiasm and passion can lead to in those with whom he comes into contact. Guilbert’s plan is a first, recording comprehensively the myriad features of the site, whilst evaluating what previous attempts have observed. The plans, particularly Figure 11, in this chapter will be beneficial for future researchers of the site. Guilbert also draws our attention to the fact that whilst Mam Tor is on the outer limits of just how high up a hillfort settlement can be placed and thrive, our modern perceptions of what constitutes hardship and comfort (and the ability/luxury to have such considerations) may bear little relation to the lived experiences of the hardy people who chose to modify this landmark hilltop. The macro scale of one of the larger hillforts in Britain if followed by the micro scale of a single assemblage. Tim Champion presents new thoughts on what may be the earliest of the south-eastern Late iron Age ‘richly furnished’ burials. Discovered in the 19th century, and frustratingly reliant on descriptions of that period due to loss of many of the artefacts, Champion nonetheless created a vibrant reconstruction and analysis of the collection of grave goods, and crucially, sets them in their significant context of the development of pre-Roman Canterbury. Staying with the artefactual focus, Chris Cumberpatch writes an insightful paper on the study of medieval pottery, a topic he states that admittedly may seem at odds with a volume honouring someone who has been the voice of the European Iron Age. Inspired by his early research with John’s pottery assemblages from Iron Age Auvergne, Cumberpatch takes us on an exploration of what use may be made of the theoretical approaches more commonly used in prehistoric archaeology when applied to a medieval dataset. It is a fine example of how John’s influence is far ranging across areas of study. In the penultimate chapter, Lisa Brown provides a closer look at a hillfort that has seen much attention, but little examination. Made famous by peter Gabriel’s pop song, Little Solsbury Hill outside of Bath has long relied on the scant evidence from earlier 20th century small investigations and the generation of ceramic and faunal data cast up from animals. Brown puts these finds in the context of new work conducted by the Bath and Counties Archaeological Society and offers a clearer understanding the nature of the site in relation to the early days of pre-Roman Bath.

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Finally, the volume concludes with Oliver Buchsenschutz’s critical assessment of archaeological mapping of ‘The Celts’. Fittingly drawing on John’s body of work and acknowledging the pitfalls and potentials we have available with such multiple data sources as placenames and linguistics, Buchsenschutz offers a way through the labyrinth using data mapping to get the most out of overlapping strands of evidence. His admonition to beware the great swathes of time we are dealing with, encompassed in a single period is a relevant one, and he rightfully calls for mapping to be reflective of this. Together these papers offer readers a cross section of many of the areas John has contributed to and influenced over his decades of dedication leadership in European prehistory. I am grateful to the authors in this volume for their enthusiastic support of the idea, their ready willingness to contribute an article, and crucially, their patience with an editor who was not as alacritous as envisaged. It is a pleasure and privilege to serve as editor for this volume in honour of Professor John Collis. John has been a major influence in the field of prehistoric archaeology and for me personally has been a source of stimulating conversation and challenging debate. Whilst we have not always agreed on everything, I have never come away from a conversation with John without understanding the principles and practices of our discipline better. I am sure that both contributors and readers alike will agree that no work like this can hope to capture all the facets of our subject with which John has engaged, nor will all the conclusions reached in the chapters jibe 100% with how John might interpret things. Yet the strength of our discipline is that we remain flexible to new concepts, always questioning, and that is a philosophy John has always embodied – challenging preconceptions.

John Collis on a visit to Titterstone Clee, Shropshire, during a meeting of the Hillfort Study Group in April 2009; photographed by Daryl Garton.

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The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland: a consideration of the coastal and inland promontory forts and enclosures of Scotland Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston Introduction In this paper, which we are delighted to offer to John Collis, we wish to take stock of a particular subset of the sites included in the Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland, a project funded by the AHRC 2012-16 and published online in 2017 (Lock and Ralston 20171; https://hillforts. arch.ox.ac.uk/). The subset we will focus on comprises the Scottish promontory forts and enclosures, which make up almost 30% of all the entries for Scotland. Some of this material will be incorporated in the Atlas volume to be handed over to the publisher in 2021, but the promontory sites of Scotland highlight many of the issues involved in the wider study of enclosed sites in Britain and Ireland, and the discussion of the sites themselves is worth airing in greater detail. On the one hand they expose such prosaic but important issues as classification and chronology; on the other they extend to more testing topics such as issues of function for sites which can occur in highly exposed locations where routine inhabitation may always have offered considerable challenges. At the national scale Scottish promontory forts have received relatively little attention in recent years. Some of the more unusual examples, such as the coastal sites of Burgi Geos in Shetland [4169] and Burghead in Moray [2925], figure in Harding’s overview (2012) where he rightly stresses that – as is the case for other suites of hillforts – topographic position is not a guide to their chronology (2012, 288). Coastal promontory forts are also a conspicuous component of Toolis’s studies of Galloway (2003; 2007; 2015), but the most recent attempt at a national distribution map, albeit schematic, was that produced by Raymond Lamb (1980,5,fig. 1). In common with all these studies, Lamb focused exclusively on the coastal examples. In several places in this study we have included the promontory forts of Northumberland in the commentary, because in many ways the later prehistoric

enclosed sites of that county – in both numbers and characteristics – much more closely parallel the world to the north of them than that of the counties to their south, where forts of all kinds are altogether rarer. Thus, Northumberland is the southern flank of a region that we here term ‘Greater Tyne-Forth’, which extends eastwards from the North Sea coast of East Lothian and Berwickshire to include Dumfriesshire and southern Lanarkshire.2 Atlas data demonstrate that the counties of this region are in the top quartile in terms of site numbers per unit area, whereas those to the south are in the lowest quartile (Lock and Ralston 2020, fig. 4); this is the starkest such gradient in the British Isles. In Scotland alone, a total of 502 promontory enclosures have been included in the Atlas database (see Fig. 1 and Map 1), and there are a further 19 in Northumberland;3 another 29 fortified enclosures occupy promontory positions in topographical terms, but these enclosures belong to other categories and are not considered here. The Scottish entries are divided between 301 distributed around the lengthy hard-rock coastline and 201 which occupy inland positions. Of the overall total, 399 have been ‘Confirmed’ as forts according to the criteria agreed at the outset of the project (Lock and Ralston 2017 and 2020; see Halliday 2019 for a full discussion of the criteria with respect to Scotland): 236 of these are coastal and 163 inland. These 399 sites represent 41% of all the Confirmed entries for promontory forts in the Atlas database for the whole of Britain and Ireland. While these represent the focus of the paper, it is important to also explore the character of the additional 97 that are deemed ‘Unconfirmed’, and the further six marked as having ‘Irreconciled Issues’. In what follows, these are discussed first, the issues that they raise serving to both sharpen and qualify the definition of those Confirmed. The assessment of the latter then follows, with further sections on the character of their defences and internal features and the related series of scarp-edge forts.

For this study, we have retained the pre-1974 counties as the most convenient and best-known geographical divisions. The regions we have used include Greater Tyne-Forth – by which we designate all of south-east Scotland plus Northumberland. 3  Northumberland includes 12 Confirmed, 4 Unconfirmed and 3 Irreconciled Issues sites. 2 

Individual sites in the database can be accessed by their name and four-digit numbers, here provided in square brackets. The database entries include site bibliographies generally not quoted directly in this paper.

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Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 1–20

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston

Map 1. A maximising view pf the distribution of inland (N= 201) and coastal (N = 301) promontory forts in Scotland drawing on Atlas data (N = 502).

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The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

remains a nagging doubt, which led Alcock to consider the neighbouring and unlikely promontory of Bowduns as a possible alternative. And yet the impregnable character of the conglomerate promontory beneath Dunnottar Castle, rivalled only on this stretch of coast by the tiny sea stack, presumably once a more extensive promontory, at nearby Dunnicaer [3111], renders it almost inconceivable that it was not the location of the sieges referred to in entries in the Annals of Ulster for the years AD 680 and 693 (Alcock 1981, 171-2; Alcock and Alcock 1992, 267). More recently evidence of a timberlaced defence dating from the 3rd-4th centuries AD has been recovered from Dunnicaer (Past Horizons 2015), but it would be surprising if the Dunnottar promontory had escaped occupation in the pre-Roman Iron Age; this, after all, is the premier location for a promontory fort anywhere along this coast. The inclusion of several other castles in the Unconfirmed category is more speculative, such as at Borve Castle, Sutherland [2809], and the Castle of Old Wick, Caithness [2827], where the character of both the promontories and the defences re-creates the form of other promontory sites identified as forts along the coastline of northern Scotland (cf Lamb 1980, 90-2). Another probable castle included under this morphological pretext is the earthwork overlooking the bridge over the River Esk at Gilknockie, Dumfriesshire [1122], and, for completeness, what is probably a late medieval stronghold known as Lady Lindsay’s Castle, Perthshire [3044]. Castle Qua, Lanarkshire [1568], had already been included in the Atlas database when fieldwork recognised traces of the abutments for a bridge crossing the ditch; its status was altered to Irreconcilable Issues.

Defining the Dataset The criteria against which all the entries in the Atlas have been judged rest on three key characteristics, namely physical advantages of the topographical position, scale of the enclosing works, and size of the interior, for which a lower limit of 0.2ha was set (Lock and Ralston 2020). Applied rigorously, however, it was foreseen that numerous well-known Scottish forts would be omitted, and the decision was taken to operate these qualifications to include enclosures that met at least two out of the three criteria. This had far reaching consequences, leading to the inclusion of numerous small fortified enclosures which otherwise would not have qualified. What was not foreseen, however, is that these same criteria also embrace the morphological character of a series of other promontory enclosures that have never been conventionally considered as forts, be that prehistoric or early medieval. To some extent this may be a reflection of the extensive use of Scottish promontories for various purposes at different times, though shades of the same issues are clearly present in Ireland, but we felt it was better to err on the side of caution by including this wider range of ancient promontory enclosures, rather than omitting them and denying the choice of further exploring these sites to the user of the Atlas data. The overall total of 502 entries thus represents all the promontory works in Scotland that appear to be of some antiquity, the principal exceptions being most medieval stone castles exploiting promontory positions. The emphasis here is placed on the word ‘most’, because several castles clearly occupy earlier Iron Age promontory forts, such as Cullykhan, Banffshire [2982], and Dundarg Castle, Aberdeenshire [2983]. In other cases, notably at Greenan Castle, Ayrshire [1289], and Innerwick Castle, East Lothian [3928], cropmarks have revealed ditch-systems that appear eccentric to the visible medieval defences and are thus considered more likely to relate to a different and earlier phase of activity. This contrasts with several castles where early medieval texts indicate the likely site of a promontory fort, but no evidence of any earlier defences is visible and none has been recovered by small-scale evaluation; Dunnottar Castle [3112] on the Kincardineshire coast, examined by the Alcocks (1992), is the prime example, but others might include the rocky outcrop of Dunaverty, Argyll [4309], according to the Annals of Iona besieged in AD 712 (Alcock 1981, 157), and the cliff-girt Castle Rock of Edinburgh Castle [3713], where again a siege is noted for the year AD 638. Excavation on Edinburgh Rock has at least revealed evidence of Late Bronze Age and early medieval occupation, though any trace of earlier defences is entirely lost beneath the castle walls. On balance, Edinburgh Castle has been accepted as a Confirmed fort, but in the case of Dunnottar Castle there

This theme of medieval works occupying promontories that may be the sites of earlier promontory enclosures also runs through the Irish data in the Atlas, for example at Ballyoughteragh South, Kerry [1259], or Downmacpatrick, Cork [0901], this latter where a 15thcentury tower and curtain wall cut off a promontory identified as an earlier tribal stronghold. Reviewing the descriptions of all these Irish sites against satellite imagery, however, also suggests that the ‘promontory fort’ classification has been employed generously in both the Archaeological Survey of Ireland Database of the National Monuments Service and the Northern Ireland Sites and Monuments Record to include a number of sites that are more likely to be post-medieval stock or agricultural boundaries. A 17ha enclosure at Greenane on Bear Island, Cork [0851], serves as one example, while the 58ha enclosure on Innishark, Galway [1104], representing about a quarter of the surface area of this small island, is another. These Irish examples are marked Unconfirmed in the Atlas database, but in Scotland a conscious decision was taken to try to exclude the majority of such works, which are found widely on coastal headlands large and small, notably in 3

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston Shetland and the Outer Hebrides. In some cases they have also previously been mistakenly identified as fortifications and have been included in the Atlas only to avoid confusion. Weinnia Ness, Shetland [4176], for example, was first reported as a fort by Raymond Lamb but later discounted from his synthesis (1980), and yet it still appears in Canmore – the online National Record of the Historic Environment of what is now Historic Environment Scotland – as a fort. Another ‘fort’ recorded at Lambigart, Shetland [4172], was included on a recent distribution map (Halliday and Ralston 2009, 466, fig 5), but a field visit revealed that the thick banks cutting off the promontory are no more than old dykes built of turf stripped from the neck. Likewise visits to a series of large promontory enclosures noted by coastal surveys in the Outer Hebrides showed that the majority were almost certainly agricultural, in some cases with a 19th-century drystone dyke roughly replicating the line of an earlier bank flanked by turfstripping scars (Halliday and Ralston 2013, 224-5). In most cases, the relationship of these boundary banks to the topography at the neck of a promontory is quite unlike that of defensive works, which almost invariably adopt the cliffs and scarps on the seaward or outer side of the neck to enhance the barrier. This sort of promontory enclosure is not entirely restricted to the Atlantic coast, and those at Strath Howe, Aberdeenshire [2984], and Elliot Water, Angus [3080], are possibly no more than post-medieval field boundaries.

identified as a possible promontory fort by Raymond Lamb (1980, 83) but appears to have a row of three rectangular structures midway along its top, might just as easily be monastic and has been marked Unconfirmed. The Landberg promontory fort on Fair Isle [2861] raises many of these issues, for the rectangular building visible within it (Hunter 1996, 89-93) was demonstrated by excavation to be a chapel and there was evidence of an earlier phase of occupation beneath it from which pottery comparable to that from brochs was recovered, along with moulds for copper alloy artefacts. An evaluation carried out on Brei Holm, Papa Stour [4197], recovered evidence of a complex sequence of occupation and two radiocarbon assays returned dates in the 5th7th centuries AD, rather earlier than the date suggested by the rectangular buildings on its summit. This problem of disentangling secular and monastic enclosures is by no means unique to Shetland. The Brough of Deerness on Mainland, Orkney [2840], for example, with its chapel and rectangular and bowsided structures scattered across its interior, has long been regarded as a monastic site, but the supposed vallum monasterii is constructed as a major stonefaced rampart defending the now collapsed neck of the promontory, with its outer face set on the steep landward slope. Its status as a fort has therefore been marked as Confirmed. The Brough of Deerness is a relatively large enclosure of almost 1ha, but at the opposite end of the scale there are several smaller and heavily eroded fortified promontories on Orkney with traces of rectangular structures on them, such as The Brough, also on Mainland [2841], and Castle of Burwick on South Ronaldsay [2813]. The offshore stack known as The Brough of Burgh Head on Stronsay [2844] is another with a stout wall along its landward flank but where there may be some doubt about its original function. The northern coast of Caithness and Sutherland includes further examples, on the one hand with the enclosure of 2.25ha on St John’s Point, Caithness [2833], traditionally associated with the remains of a burial-ground and a chapel dedicated to St John, and on the other two minor promontories characterised by spectacular cliffs and the narrowest of razor-backed necks connecting them to the mainland: the first, Aodann Mhor, Sutherland [2782], is crowded with small rectangular structures, and less-certain traces of similar remains are also visible on the second, An Tornaidh Bhuidhe, Sutherland [2790]. Though unusual in this part of Scotland, St John’s Point meets all the criteria for a major fortification with a massive rampart and ditch, so much so that it is impossible to deny its Confirmed status. The other two are much more problematic, and though An Tornaidh Bhuidhe has a bank facing onto the only access and has been accepted also as Confirmed, in truth there is no way of knowing whether either is secular or monastic.

Another group of sites that are more conventionally considered to be early medieval is a series of what are thought to be undocumented monastic sites, both large and small, mainly situated on coastal promontories and isolated sea stacks. In Shetland these include relatively large enclosures, notably at Blue Mull, Unst [3723; 8.2ha], but also including Outer [4195; 0.74ha] and Inner [4196, 4.4ha] Brough, Fetlar, and Brei Holm, Papa Stour [4197; 0.6ha], and the smaller stacks of Clett [4175], Burri Stacks, Culswick [4177], Kame of Isbister [4182], Aastack, Yell [4198], and Birrier of West Sandwick, Yell [4189]. The presence of small clustered rectangular structures on many such sites, best illustrated by Kame of Isbister and Birrier of West Sandwick, forms the basis for the monastic interpretation, but it is difficult to demonstrate conclusively that any of them is not an early medieval secular settlement, nor, if they are indeed monastic, that their origins did not lie in secular defended enclosures. All other forts in the Northern Isles exploit precipitous promontories and stacks, so it is not unreasonable to suggest that some of these enclosures that have been claimed as monastic were initially secular. The inaccessible Birrier of West Sandwick, for example, has a wall overlooking the razorback neck and though usually identified as monastic has been marked Confirmed in the database. Conversely the promontory enclosure on Burrier Head [4174], also on Shetland, which was first 4

The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

Aspects of the same problem re-surface in eastern and south-eastern Scotland, though these examples have all been accepted as forts, such as the Kirk Hill on St Abb’s Head, Berwickshire [4150]. Whether or not this is the site of the documented monastery of St Aebbe, the place-name Colodaesburg implies a fortified place and Alcock’s excavations uncovered a complex early medieval rampart sequence (Alcock et al. 1986). Elsewhere on this coast at Auldhame, East Lothian [3921], excavations on a promontory enclosure first identified from cropmarks have uncovered a chapel and a long cist cemetery. This has been interpreted as the remains of another Anglo-Saxon monastery, but there is nothing inherently in the character of the ditch, which was not bottomed during the recent excavations and is not closely dated, to demonstrate that its original construction was as a monastic enclosure (Crone et al. 2016, 129). Nor is it alone in the association of long cist burials with a promontory enclosure. In 1831 a long cist cemetery was discovered not far away at Castle Dykes, Dunglass Dean, Berwickshire [0486], and also occupies the site of a multivallate promontory fort, while other cists were said to have been found before 1853 on the neighbouring promontory fort at Castle Dykes, Bilsdean, East Lothian [0487]. Yet another promontory enclosure where cists occur is at Whiting Ness, Angus [3100], which was traditionally the site of a burialground and a chapel dedicated to St Ninian and marked as such by the Ordnance Survey.

prehistoric fort at least for the present configuration of the site. On Geirum Mor [2484], a cliff-bound islet of 1ha in the sound between Mingulay and Berneray at the extreme southern end of the chain of islands, a wall blocks the only access at the north-east end and there is a series of rectangular buildings on its summit. Morphologically this is a fort, but whether prehistoric, early medieval or post-medieval cannot be determined without excavation, and it could yet prove to be monastic. Biruaslum [2483], a tidal islet off the west coast of Vatersay, which extends to 9.8ha – the second largest such site in the Outer Hebrides – poses a similar concern. It is defended by a thick wall facing the main island; its position recalls the monastic site on the Brough of Birsay in Orkney, though at 18ha the latter island is rather larger and there is no evidence of a perimeter wall overlooking the tidal isthmus linking it to the mainland. Another problem found along the Atlantic coasts relates to the interpretation of the outworks of brochs and duns, or Atlantic Roundhouses as they are commonly called, themselves excluded from consideration in the Atlas database on size grounds. The very term outwork assigns primacy to the Atlantic Roundhouse, but in some cases the supposed outworks may have been the primary fortifications, with the Atlantic Roundhouse subsequently set within them. This is a sequence familiar in southern Scotland at Edinshall [4069] and Torwoodlee [3542], and the excavator of the broch at Crosskirk, Caithness [4348], Horace Fairhurst, postulated that the broch there succeeded an earlier promontory fort (1984). No stratigraphic evidence was advanced in support of his case, which largely rests on two radiocarbon dates obtained in the 1970s that purport to predate the assumed chronology of the broch supplied by sherds of Samian ware and late Roman pottery (see discussion by MacKie 2007, 407-26). More recent excavations at Nybster, Caithness [2820], were unable to establish the stratigraphic relationship between the wall across the neck of the promontory and the broch, and radiocarbon dates for samples underlying the wall indicate a phase of Late Bronze Age activity rather than the date of the outwork itself. Four out of nine Unconfirmed promontory works in Argyll fall into this category,4 while for Sutherland and Caithness the figure is 6 out of 16,5 in Orkney 6 out of 10,6 and in Shetland 3 out of 17.7 This uncertainty of the relationship between Atlantic Roundhouses and their supposed outworks is

Another group of Unconfirmed entries in the Atlas database relating to promontories and sea stacks worth drawing attention to is in the Outer Hebrides. In their case, the scope for confusion is not related to the use of such locations by early monastic communities, but rather as post-medieval strongholds. The small and now inaccessible Stac Dhomnuill Chaim at Mangursta, Lewis [2759], is thought to be the remains of a refuge constructed in the early 17th century by the Uig warrior, Donald Cam Macaulay, while Dun Eistean [2772] on the east coast of Lewis is traditionally a stronghold associated with the Morrisons since the 16th century (Burgess 2008, 60-2). The excavations by the Barrowmans at Dun Eistean found no evidence of occupation before the medieval period, but the possibility that this is also the site of an earlier fort cannot be discounted. All the same issues arise at Dun Eorradail [2773], another large and inaccessible stack north of Dun Eistean, where there are traces of at least ten rectangular buildings and the possibilities for its use range from fort to early monastic community or post-medieval stronghold. On reflection, the same could be said of several other examples that have been accepted as Confirmed forts. Rudha Shilldinish near Stornoway on Lewis [2765], for example, carries a suite of large rectangular buildings which suggest a medieval or later date rather than a

Dun Bhronaig [2444], Dun Haunn [2503], Dun Aorain [2546] and Dun Chruban [2550] 5  An Dun, Clachtoll [2793], Altanduin [2806], Poll Gorm [2810], Scarfskerry [2816], Nybster [2820] and Crosskirk [4348] 6  Weems Castle [2811], Yesnaby, Broch of Borwick [2845], Midhowe [2846], Riggin of Kami [2847], Lamb Head [2848] and Broch of Burrian [2849]. 7  [Broch of Aithsetter [4187], Noss Sound [4190] and Sna Broch [4260]. 4 

5

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston not limited to those on coastal promontories and recurs amongst those in other locations inland.

in the top of the headland. The character of several others could be resolved likewise, probably including four relegated to the status of Irreconciled Issues. Three of these, Court Hill, High Skeog, Wigtownshire [0227], and An Fang, Craignish Point [2449] and Creag a’ Chaisteal, Stillaig [2472], Argyll, are where the observations recorded by the archaeologists who first visited the sites have been disputed by subsequent OS surveyors, while the fourth is a site reported in 1993 on the shores of Loch an Iasgaich, Skye [2743], which appears an unlikely candidate to be a fort on the grounds of either its topographical position or the slightness of the supposed defences. In other cases, the only resolution is by invasive evaluation, though as the experience of the Mull of Galloway proved, there is no guarantee of success. Nevertheless, clarifying the date of the Mull of Galloway is evidently vitally important for the interpretation of the Iron Age landscape of south-western Scotland, and the same might be said locally of Dun Evan in Morayshire if this proved to be a fortification of Iron Age date.

The rest of the sites that make up the Unconfirmed promontory enclosures break down into several types of record. Twelve are long-recorded sites that have been so heavily degraded that there is insufficient information to judge their true character with any confidence.8 Twelve others turn on the interpretation of cropmarks, either because a ditch is relatively narrow for a defensive work or the definition of the cropmarks is too diffuse;9 and finally some are simply miscellaneous earthworks on promontories, most of them of uncertain date or purpose. Most spectacular of these is the multivallate earthwork isolating 54ha on the Mull of Galloway [0201], which despite excavation (Strachan 2000) remains undated; it is either the largest fort in any setting in the whole of Scotland or an extraordinary enclosure with some other function that finds its only morphological parallels with several equally large promontory works in southern Ireland, such as the 83.5ha enclosure on the headland at Ballynacarriga, Cork [1970]. Others falling into this category in southern Scotland are inconsequential by comparison. Haly Jo, Lumsdaine, Berwickshire [4092], for example, a slight enclosure on a coastal cliff is probably no more than a small settlement, though others, such as Drummoral, Wigtownshire [0223], appear defensive, here with rock-cut ditches but no evidence of an accompanying rampart. Elsewhere there are: the tiny stone-walled enclosure (claimed as unfinished: MacKie 2016) overlying the broch at Leckie, Stirlingshire [1471]; the enclosure beneath a later medieval burial-ground on Innis Bhuidhe, an island set in the river at Killin, Perthshire [2609]; the slight boundary, undated despite limited excavation, enclosing two rectangular buildings on a low promontory projecting into Loch Kinord, Aberdeenshire [3075]; the precipitous promontory known as Tronach Castle, Banffshire [2944], where there are no visible defences; and Dun Earn, Morayshire [2918], where a ditch 4m-5m in breadth but with little trace of a rampart cuts off about 2.5ha on an inland promontory.

Confirmed Promontory Forts This rehearsal of the range of promontory works found in Scotland and the problems of applying morphological classifications to identify those that are at least potentially prehistoric and early medieval fortifications serves to clarify the definitions that lie behind those that are attributed the status of Confirmed forts. In short, they comprise fortified enclosures where thick walls or earthen ramparts and ditches bar access on one side, usually the easiest line of approach, and the rest of the perimeter is apparently defined by little more than cliff-edges or steep scarps. In this definition the character of most of these forts is synonymous with the description of the topography on which they stand. Originating from its Latin root to describe a raised headland jutting out into the sea, it has been adapted more generally to describe other projecting landforms and raised spits of ground, and in archaeological terminology further extended to embrace inland enclosures set on interfluves and thus often exploiting angles formed in escarpments along streams and rivers, usually where a tributary has cut down at its confluence with the main flow. They are thus largely defined by natural declivities on at least two sides, often creating a roughly triangular plan in which the artificial defences form the third side.

In some cases a visit would solve issues raised by the existing records, as for example at Lambigart discussed above, or Hynish, Tiree, Argyll [2486], where fieldwork (by SH) since the completion of the database clearly demonstrates that this is not a promontory fort as such, though there are traces of a fortified enclosure taking

This basic format, however, has also led to the term being applied to the plans of forts that are in hilltop positions, or on the ends of ridges, where the defences were apparently constructed only on one side, complemented by abrupt or at least steep descents elsewhere. Scottish examples of these tend to be located in prominent elevated positions, such as Dumglow, Kinross [3203], Ben Effrey, Perthshire [2648],

Grennan, Grennan Point [0180], Killantrae Bridge [0217], Port o’ Warren [0311], Gunnerton Crag Camps [0520], Ebb’s Nook [0920], Salter’s Nick [1977], The Heugh [2038], Machrihanish [2222], Keir, Easter Tarr [2617], Firbush Point [2619], Coldstream [4079] and Siccar Point [4115] 9  Clanyard Bay [0196], Leffnoll [0342], Loch Quien [1152], Rousland [1838], Wester Tullynedie [3046], West Lindsaylands [3230], Milton Mill [3782], Bara [3859], Nether Hailes [3883], Lumsdaine Dean [4098], Coveyheugh [4101] and Ayton [4142]. 8 

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The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

Craik Moor, Roxburghshire [3453], An Sgurr on the island of Eigg [2527] or Sithean Buidhe, Argyll [2292]. All told, there are only thirteen in this type of setting in Scotland and they are better analysed with other hilltop forts.10 Much more problematical in this sort of morphological classification driven by topographical descriptors is the exclusion of scarp-edge forts where the circuit was evidently left incomplete along one side and the interior simply backs onto the lip of a cliff or escarpment, and where the distinction between these and some promontory forts is one of degree. This issue is discussed further below under the heading of Scarp-edge Forts. At least 97 other Confirmed forts share this feature, eight of them in coastal locations, and their entries in the Atlas database are variously labelled Contour Fort (40), Hillslope Fort (12), and Level Terrain Fort (45). While these terms serve as topographic descriptors, it is unwise to apply any of them too prescriptively in terms of their archaeological significance.

in the Inner Hebrides. This is perhaps a reflection of the longer hard coastlines in relation to the surface areas of the islands and probably aspects of their geology too. Islay (about 600 sq km and 165 km of coast), for example, has 38 forts all told, of which no fewer than 26 are promontory works (68%), and 24 of them coastal, whereas Mull (about 880 sq km and with 250 km of coast) has equivalent figures of 22, 10 (45%) and 10. Skye (1650 sq km and 650 km of coast), the northernmost of the Inner Hebrides and formerly part of Inverness-shire, has figures of 31, 15 (48%) and 12 respectively. It is worth noting in this context that the 9 Confirmed forts on Orkney, and 15 on Shetland, are all promontory forts and are all coastal. Other regions show similar patterns of variation within them. Thus, while promontory forts make up 34 % of all forts in the South-West, in Wigtownshire, again with its relatively long coastline, the figure rises to 65%. The lowest regional percentage is in the Greater Tyne-Forth region, where it is no more than 11%, and here exceptionally 87 of the 98 promontory forts occur inland. In the hillier inland landscapes of Peeblesshire, where forts typically stand on spurs along the sides of valleys, the figure is only 1%, representing a single fort at Castlecraig [3636]. In Roxburghshire and neighbouring Northumberland only 7% of Confirmed forts are on promontories, but for Berwickshire, with its long predominantly rocky coastline, it rises to 25%. Without the 8 coastal examples known there, however, the percentage would be no more than 18%, a figure more akin to the 17% in Dumfriesshire, or 15% in Lanarkshire.

Whereas Lamb’s schematic map suggested that Scottish promontory forts formed discrete concentrations in Shetland, Orkney, Caithness, Angus and Galloway (1980, 5, fig 1), the Atlas data reveal that they are much more widespread and occur along virtually every coastline where there is some form of normally rocky escarpment or cliff-line. Furthermore, this same defensive format is equally widespread in inland locations. Nevertheless, the new map hides some general trends. Reference to the regional and county table (Fig. 1) shows that the proportions of promontory forts to other forts alter from region to region. The largest single regional group of promontory forts is in the western and northern Highlands, which includes the whole of the mainland Atlantic coast from Argyll northwards, and the Inner Hebrides and Outer Hebrides. Across this region as a whole 159 of the 370 Confirmed forts are promontory forts, representing 43%, and 32 of them occur inland. The pattern within this region, however, varies widely. In the three northernmost counties of Ross-shire, Sutherland and Caithness, where there are relatively few forts, the percentages rise to 59%, 64% and 69% respectively. Locally within them, some of the figures are even higher. In the Outer Hebrides, for example, which were formerly split between Rossshire and Inverness-shire, of the 26 Confirmed forts, all bar 3 are coastal promontories or tidal islands (88%); the exceptions are all islands in inland lochs. In Argyll, too, where the overall number of promontory forts forms 38% of all Confirmed forts there, no fewer than 50 of the 68 promontory forts occur on islands

In passing, it is worth taking brief note of the distribution of Unconfirmed promontory works, which are also recorded in Fig. 1. At a regional scale, these form between 17% of all promontory works in Greater Tyne-Forth, but only 2% in comparison to the total number of forts in the region. The equivalent figures for the South-West are 13% and 5% respectively, in Central Scotland 17% and 4%, and in the North-East 15% and 7%. In the northern and western Highlands, these figures appear to rise overall to 20% and 10% respectively, but this masks wide regional differences between Argyll at 14% and 6%, and Caithness at 53% and 76%. The Northern Isles calculations are even more extreme, with 54% and 116%. A significant proportion of these are the supposed outworks of brochs (supra). In themselves, these figures are of little significance, but they confirm the general pattern that the proportions of promontory forts to other forts not only increases on the islands of the Atlantic seaboard, but also more generally northwards through the mainland, and that whereas the alteration of the status of a few of the Unconfirmed category in the south makes little difference to the overall proportions of promontory forts to other types, in the far north it exaggerates the contrast already observed still further.

The full list comprises Dumyat [1593], Sithean Buidhe [2292], An Sgurr [2527], Skirley Craig [2633], Ben Effrey [2648], Dun Vallerain [2715], Phoineas Hill [2887], Dumglow [3203], Little Trowpenny [3378], Craik Moor [3453], Earn’s Heugh NW [4094], St Abb’s Head [4150] and An Dun, Cornhill Wood [4381].

10 

7

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston Figure 1. Table of promontory enclosures by region and county. Percentages of Confirmed Promontory Forts are calculated as a ratio of All Confirmed Forts regionally and locally. Sizes column totals include multiple measurements from individual sites; for six others there is no data. Region

% Conf Prom Forts

Coastal

Inland

Sizes

13%

11

24

41

15%

3

21

54

17%

-

21

103

18%

8

76

116

25%

11

10%

-

All Prom Encls

Unconf Proms

Irrec Issues

Conf Proms

All Conf Forts

100

12

1

87

667

Dumfriesshire

22

1

-

21

Lanarkshire

10

1

1

8

Historic County Greater Tyne-Forth Berwickshire

East Lothian Midlothian

Peeblesshire

Roxburghshire Selkirkshire

SW Scotland Ayrshire

Kirkcudbrightshire Wigtownshire

Central

Clackmannanshire

Dunbartonshire

36

17 4

1

7

3 -

-

-

29

-

14

-

4

-

1

117 81

91

1%

-

-

148

7%

-

10

12

68

8

1

59

172

34%

49

10

61

12

1

-

11

80

14%

8

3

11

42

7

-

35

30

42

-

9

47 1

-

-

-

-

7

1

-

-

-

-

-

1

-

-

Perthshire

21

Stirlingshire

9

39 1 -

19

32

60

-

28%

-

4

65%

37

1

100%

-

164 4

21% -

5 -

26%

4

5

-

16

75

21%

7

1

-

6

25

24%

40

6

-

34

83

Angus

15

1

-

14

36

Kincardineshire

8

1

-

7

Banffshire

Morayshire

N & W Highlands Argyllshire

Buteshire (Arran & Bute)

Caithness

Inverness-shire Ross-shire

Nairnshire

-

2

7

7

3

2 1

1

11

2

79

6

-

2

3

160

-

9

-

24

3

3

8

9

23 8

9

7

371

5

2

1 -

-

9

41 1 -

6

13

-

16

20

-

6

6

41%

20

14

42

39%

8

6

15

4

7

33% -

11%

22%

75%

78%

29%

-

-

1

3

5

3

1

1 -

-

2

1

1

1 -

1

5

9

6

43%

127

33

159

47%

3

6

9

68

179

38%

9

13

69%

19

-

58 8

10 1

69 9

7

1

42

102

41%

31

11

40

-

-

-

6

-

-

-

-

6

-

17

-

9

9

1

33

17

1

97

35

11

27

10

21

-

52

502

5

-

10

19

1

-

19

-

-

-

2

50

1

-

9

Orkney

Totals

1

37

17

Shetland

-

200

Sutherland

Northern Isles

-

-

39

Aberdeenshire

1

10

10

NE Scotland

4

-

-

West Lothian

1

8

-

10

Renfrewshire

4

19

10

Fife

Kinross-shire

8

35

24

15

6

399

8

24

15

1481

60% 65%

18

2

10

9

-

10

24

100%

15

27%

22

9

100%

100%

3

236

-

-

163

23

13

430

The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

The 399 that are Confirmed include 12 coastal and 17 inland forts with eccentric or wide-spaced lines of ramparts, taken here to represent separate structural arrangements probably belonging to successive phases of construction. In another six cases no size data are available. This provides a total of 430 measured internal sizes, which are plotted on a single graph (Fig. 2) in increments of 0.1ha up to 2ha, and 2ha increments thereafter, the latter in orange. This shows that almost half (48%) fall below 0.2ha. The profile of the graph falls away steeply from 119 (28%) examples below 0.1ha to about 0.7ha, sites below this threshold representing 87% of all promontory forts. In all, 24 lie between 1ha

and 2ha, and 13 are over 2ha, the largest being two coastal forts on Vatersay and Mingulay in the Outer Hebrides enclosing 9.8ha and 10.4ha respectively [2483, 2480]. By breaking this graph (Fig. 2) down into the two datasets, however, different patterns can be detected between those in coastal and inland positions. The profile of the coastal graph of 247 sizes from 236 forts (Fig. 3) falls away much more steeply to about 0.4ha, and there are almost twice as many sizes below 0.1ha as there are in the 0.1ha-0.2ha increment. A total of 185 fall in the four increment classes below 0.4ha, representing

Figure 2. The Confirmed promontory forts of Scotland by enclosed area. Steps are 0.1 ha to 2ha, thereafter by 2ha divisions. N=430.

9

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston

Figure 3. The Confirmed coastal promontory forts of Scotland by enclosed area. Steps are 0.1 ha to 2ha, thereafter by 2ha divisions. N=247 from 236 sites.

Figure 4. The Confirmed inland promontory forts of Scotland by enclosed area. Steps are 0.1 ha to 2ha, thereafter by 2ha divisions. N=183 from 163 sites.

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The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

75% of this group. In contrast, the inland graph (Fig. 4) of 183 sizes from 163 forts does not show this peak in the smallest size band (i.e. below 0.1ha), and falls steadily from a high point at 0.1ha-0.2ha down to 0.7ha, beyond which a thin scatter extends to four larger enclosures over 2ha in extent, the largest of them being the hilltop fort of Sithean Buidhe, Argyll [2292], at 7ha. The 168 falling below 0.7ha however represent 92% of this group (compared with 83% for the equivalent range in the coastal group).

no fewer than 88 of the very smallest forts under 0.2ha have only a single line of defence, be it a stone wall or a rampart and ditch. Even allowing for heavy erosion of promontories, it would appear that the function of the majority of these small enclosures could be serviced by a relatively modest investment in artificial works. Nevertheless, there are also 31 bivallate examples below 0.2ha, and their graph displays a similar profile, while 19 multivallate works occur in the size bands below 0.2ha. The profile of bivallate examples in Fig. 5 is altogether flatter, petering out with works below 1ha. Above this size the only possible bivallate promontory forts are Meall Lamalum on Colonsay, Argyll [2162], though with its wide-spaced walls this could also be treated as two successive univallate works respectively enclosing 1.3ha and 1.6ha (cf Yesnaby, Brough of Bigging, Orkney [2837]), and Sumburgh Head in Shetland [4184], where the records of the character of the defences are not particularly satisfactory.

Two main areas of difference can be identified in these patterns, the first relating to the incidence of very small examples, and the second to the forts between 0.2ha and 0.4ha. In respect to the first, some 56% of coastal examples (Fig. 3) fall below 0.2ha, compared with 37% of inland examples. The significance of this observation is uncertain. Possibly the high incidence of diminutive coastal sites is little more than an impact of differential erosion. The exposed Atlantic coasts, for example, are undoubtedly subjected to far more extreme erosion than the majority of inland promontories, but the incidence of small inland examples perhaps indicates that erosion has not been the unique determining factor in the overall pattern of relatively small interiors.

The larger multivallate works are less contentious. They comprise Dun a’ Bheirgh (1.2ha) on the rocky Rudha na Berie [2762], a storm-lashed promontory on the north-west coast of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, and the remarkable Burghead, Moray [2925], where at its maximum extent the substantially-demolished outer ramparts cut off some 3.2ha on this sandstone headland. With these exceptions, the rest of the larger Confirmed promontory forts are univallate, 14 falling between 1ha and 2ha, these including the outermost rampart across Isle Head on the Isle of Whithorn, Wigtownshire [0226], the earliest, outer, defences at Cullykhan, Banffshire [2982], both walls across Yesnaby, Brough of Bigging, Orkney [2837] and Mas na Buaile, Sutherland [2784]. In the Outer Hebrides univallate sites include a’ Bheirghe, Port of Ness [2771] on Lewis, and the defended stack of Geirum Mor [2484] in the sound between Mingulay and Berneray, as well as a series of coastal promontories on Islay in Argyll, namely Dun Mor Ghil on the Oa [2071], and along the north-west coast of the Rhinns, four such promontory forts: Beinn a’ Chaisteal [2128], Allt nan Ba [2120], Am Burg Coul [2067], and Lossit Point, Dun na Faing [2062].

The second difference is more clearly defined, and it is that a greater proportion of the slightly larger band of promontory forts between 0.2ha and 0.5ha occur in inland locations. The relative percentages are 21% of the coastal group, and 43% of the inland group. Unsurprisingly, 48 out of the 78 forts in this band in the latter come from Greater Tyne-Forth, and the general profile of the inland graph is consistent with the wider pattern of internal sizes in this region. Character of Promontory Defence Works Of the 236 Confirmed coastal promontory forts, at least 246 separate defensive schemes can be identified; size data are also available for all bar four. These schemes can be broken down into 158 univallate defences (64%), 50 bivallate (20%) and 38 cases of multivallation (16 %), based on the maximum number of ramparts occurring in a single sector of the defences. These percentages can be compared with the overall figures for Confirmed Scottish forts of 37% univallate, 37% bivallate and 26% multivallate. Evidently the figure of 64% for promontory forts is well above the general proportion of univallate forts in Scotland, while the combined bivallate and multivallate percentage of 36% is well below the national trend of 63% for all Scottish forts.

There are another seven examples of coastal promontories over 2ha to consider. In Shetland, Hog Sound [4191], where the interior has been severed from its multivallate defences by marine erosion to form an island still of 2ha; on the north coast of mainland Scotland, St John’s Point, Caithness [2833], and a rocky hammerhead in excess of 4ha on Eilean nan Caorach, Sutherland [2779]; on the Rhinns of Islay, Dun Bheolain [2117]; and in the Outer Hebrides the spectacular hammerhead of Gob a’ Chuthail on Lewis [2761], the 9.8ha promontory of Biruaslum [2483] on the west coast of Vatersay (supra), and the precipitous 10.4ha Dun Mhiughlaigh on Mingulay [2480], where a short wall little more than 20m in length at the neck comprises

The pattern of vallation is displayed against size on the graph (Fig. 5), which also shows the ghost of the coastal promontory fort sizes. What may be skewing the percentages is revealed in the pattern of sizes, since 11

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston

Figure 5. Univallate, bivallate and multivallate coastal promontory forts mapped against the ghost of the total population of Confirmed coastal promontory forts in Scotland

the sole artificial defence of an otherwise inaccessible promontory with cliffs up to 145m high jutting into the Atlantic (Halliday and Ralston 2013, fig. 3). It should also be remembered that the 54ha enclosure on the Mull of Galloway [0201] is multivallate. This last apart, it is striking how, with relatively few exceptions, these large coastal promontory forts are found in the North-West and far North, many of them on islands, and many in places that are spectacular in their own rights, fringed by sheer cliffs and looking out across open seascapes.

the construction of the defences of these sites is largely driven by the adjacent geology. Ditches are relatively uncommon along the Atlantic coasts from Kintyre to Cape Wrath, and elsewhere are mainly found where there is a covering of till or the rock is relatively soft and easily quarried. Thus 35 out of 50 promontory forts in Wigtownshire and Kirkcudbrightshire are equipped with ditches, whereas in Argyll it is only 1 out of 68. Here the majority of defences comprise walls, some of which have evidently been timber-laced and burnt, resulting in vitrifaction. There is no particular pattern to the sizes of the forts where vitrifaction occurs, and the examples qualifying as promontory forts include the diminutive enclosures of no more than 0.07ha defended by three walls at Dun nan Gall [2169] and Trudernish Point [2170] on Islay, and the 0.09ha site of An Dun, on the mainland at Gairloch [2727]. In north-eastern Scotland, the early medieval timber-framed – and very locally vitrified – rampart at Green Castle, Portknockie [2945], cuts off 0.28ha, but the larger timber-laced ramparts

The positioning of some of the smaller works is certainly no less spectacular in terms of the adjacent cliff scenery, irrespective of the character of the artificial defences. Dun Athad, on the Oa peninsula of Islay [1877], which was evidently occupied in the medieval period but where a single piece of vitrified stone has been recovered from the wall above the narrow and challenging neck, soars sheer above the foreshore about 100m below. Unsurprisingly, the choice of materials for 12

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at Burghead [2925] and Cullykhan [2982] are likely to have been designed to form complete enclosures that happen to exploit the natural strength of promontories and should perhaps be discounted from this reckoning.

Internal Features Of the 236 Confirmed coastal promontory forts, 148 are entirely featureless, and of the rest it is reasonable to suppose that many of the structures that are visible, as often as not rectangular rather than circular, probably relate to later occupations. Some of the rectangular buildings recorded on coastal promontory forts are substantial structures, at least four being the remains of churches or chapels – Brough of Deerness, Orkney [2840], St John’s Point, Caithness [2833], Landberg, Fair Isle [2861], and St Abb’s Head, Berwickshire [4150]. Others include buildings associated with later castles – Castle Feather, Wigtownshire [0232], Dun Athad, Islay, Argyll [1877], and possibly Rudha Shilldinish, Lewis [2765] and Dun na Muirgheidh, Mull, Argyll [2511]. The Brough of Deerness is also latterly a monastic site with numerous traces of rectangular buildings within the interior, and monastic use possibly accounts too for the rows of buildings visible on Birrier of West Sandwick, Yell, Shetland [4189], Castle of Burwick on South Ronaldsay, Orkney [2813], and An Tornaidh Bhuidhe, Sutherland [2790], which have all been accepted for the Atlas as Confirmed promontory forts. The problems of separating the remains of secular fortifications from monastic sites occupying precipitous locations that were almost impregnable before the addition of any artificial works has already been aired.

As already observed, the general size graph for inland promontory forts (Fig. 6) is rather different to that for coastal promontories, but the pattern for univallate enclosures is similar. This displays a peak of 17 examples below 0.1ha that upsets the general trend of the inland graph, which shows a gentler gradient declining from the 0.1ha-0.2ha increment down to 0.8ha. Bivallate enclosures, however, climb from the smallest size category to the biggest cohort of 18 at 0.1ha-0.2ha, descending relatively evenly to three at 0.5ha-0.6ha before a spike of eight at 0.6ha-0.7ha, while the multivallate systems peak with twelve cases in the 0.2ha0.3ha size band before descending to only one at 0.6ha0.7ha. Notably there is a dearth of univallate systems enclosing between 0.8ha and 2ha, the exception being a cropmark recorded at Hatchednize, Berwickshire [4077], but three out of the four sites over 2ha are univallate – White Isle, Dumfriesshire [0302], An Sgurr, Eigg [2527], and Sithean Buidhe, Argyll – the latter two being conspicuous hilltop enclosures. The fourth site over 2ha in extent is the multivallate Double Dykes, Sodom Hill, Lanarkshire [0841], set between the Cander Water and Avon Water valleys. The seven other promontory works with more than one rampart and enclosing between 0.8ha and 2ha are mainly cropmarks scattered across south-east and north-east Scotland, but one, unusually for a cropmarked site, is at Bridgend, Islay, Argyll [2155]. This set also includes the multivallate fort of 1.6ha on the summit of Dumglow, Kinross [3203], the commanding northward-facing summit of 379m OD towards the western end of the Cleish Hills.

Elsewhere, some of the other rectangular buildings visible within the defences on coastal and inland promontory forts are probably the remains of medieval or post-medieval settlements, though without excavation such remains cannot be dated with any certainty. In Greater Tyne-Forth examples are Ogle Linn, Dumfriesshire [3206], and Wrunklaw [4039],

Figure 6. Univallate, bivallate and multivallate inland promontory forts mapped against the ghost of the total population of Confirmed inland promontory forts (cf Fig. 4) in Scotland

13

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston the latter set on a spur deep into the Lammermuir Hills in Berwickshire and one of the few where map evidence shows that some of the overlying buildings and yards were still occupied in the late 18th century. Nevertheless, in Argyll the building recorded on Am Burg, Coul, Islay [2067], appears to have been long deserted by the time of a visit by Thomas Pennant in July 1772, while the depiction on the 1st edition of the OS 6-inch map of Dun Mhic Laitheann [2673] in the Outer Hebrides, on a small tidal islet off Groatay, North Uist, indicates the buildings there were abandoned by the late 19th century.

Berwickshire [3947], while the stone-founded hutcircles at Earn’s Heugh, Berwickshire [4094], almost certainly relate to a Roman Iron Age reoccupation, a common sequence in neighbouring Northumberland and the eastern Borders. In Dumfriesshire the platforms visible within Auchencat Burn [3213] may be contemporary with the twin ramparts with a medial ditch, but the stone-founded hut-circles at Dalmakethar [1015] are most unusual in this county and their relationship to the defences is thus uncertain. Equally unusual for its district is the hut-circle at Mull Glen, West Tarbert, Wigtownshire [0200], but not far away on The Machars at Carghidown Castle [0229] one of two scooped platforms within the interior of a small univallate work was excavated to reveal a complex sequence of round-houses probably dating from the late 1st millennium BC (Toolis 2007). Only one other Wigtownshire promontory fort has surface traces of round-houses within its interior – Dinnans [0235]. The interiors of a series of other forts on the coastal edge around the Rhinns of Galloway comprise little more than bare rock, and it is notable that the tiny promontory at Dunorroch, West Cairngaan, Wigtownshire [0199], barely has any occupiable space amongst the jagged outcrops behind the line of its single wall, so much so that it seems unlikely that this curious spot tucked away at the foot of the coastal cliffs was ever intended for permanent occupation. The excavator of Carghidown Castle suggested that the round-houses there had been occupied but fleetingly (Toolis 2007) and the site may have served as no more than a refuge.

In at least 14 other cases footings of smaller buildings, huts and pens can be seen on coastal promontories. Such structures appear widely on all types of fort, particularly in the North and West Highland region. Generally they are thought to be the remains of bothies associated with post-medieval grazing and pasturage, rather than contemporary buildings within the defences. This interpretation is to some extent sustained by at least five instances where the structures appear to butt against, or overlie, the defences of promontory forts – Eilean nan Caorach, Sutherland [2779], Dun Channa, Small Isles [2688], Dun Briste, Berneray [2481], Caisteal Odair, North Uist [2669], and Ardmenish, An Dunan, Jura [2185]. Those on Eilean nan Caorach are typical of local shielings, as are those overlying the inland promontory forts at Annait, Bay River, on Skye [2692], and Dunmore, Angus [3067]. At Port Ellen, The Ard, on Islay, Argyll [2177], little more than three shallow oval or sub-rectangular hollows mark the probable positions of structures, but whether these are simply the remains of heavily degraded post-medieval bothies, or much older buildings is quite unknown. Traces of drystone sub-rectangular structures at Gob Eirer on Lewis [2760] are presented by the excavators (Nesbitt et al. 2011) as Late Bronze Age / Iron Age in date and associated with the construction of a wall across the neck of the promontory, but the contexts of the radiocarbon dates, centred on the 9th – 4th centuries BC, are not supplied and the chronological sequence here is most uncertain. In North-east Scotland, however, on the southern shore of the Moray Firth, the rectangular building excavated at Green Castle, Portknockie, [2945], was set parallel to the early medieval timber-framed rampart and was probably broadly contemporary with it; Gordon Noble’s current field project is identifying further instances of first millennium AD rectilinear architecture within Burghead, Moray [2925] (Anon 2017).

A similar picture emerges northwards up the Atlantic coast of Argyll and the Inner and Outer Hebrides. Traces of contemporary structures are unusual in any fort here, and there are no more than eight coastal promontory forts containing platforms or stony ringbanks – in the Inner Hebrides, Dun Uragaig [2161] and Meall Lamulum [2162] on Colonsay, and Eilean na Ba [2487] and Nun nan Gall [2488] on Tiree; in the Small Isles, Shellesder on Rum [2695] and Poll Duchaill on Eigg [2524]; and in the Outer Hebrides Gob a Chuthail [2761] and Creag Dubh [2770] on Lewis. In addition there are two platforms in Sithean Buidhe, Argyll [2292], though, like Craik Moor, this is best categorized as an inland hilltop fort. With the exception of Poll Duchaill, which contains about six circular platforms, most of the rest are either ring-banks or, in the cases of Dun nan Gall and Creag Dubh, oval and circular hollows with traces of stonework around their edges, a description that also recalls the structures at The Ard, on Islay, Argyll [2177]. Elsewhere there is a clear mismatch between the visibility of internal structures and the size of the fort. The single ring-bank at Gob a Chuthail, for example, lies within an isolated precipitous headland extending to about 2ha with a huge and spectacular bight eroded into its western flank. The row of three

The distribution of visible traces of round-houses within promontory forts follows the general pattern for all forts in Scotland. In the Greater Tyne-Forth region the complex hilltop fort on Craik Moor, Roxburghshire [3453], has traces of ring-ditch and ring-groove roundhouses, as does the newly identified fort at Kirktonhill, 14

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conjoined hut-circles at Meall Lamulum appears equally disproportionate to its interior of at least 1.3ha, while at Dun Uragaig the greater part of the interior of 0.8ha is bare rock. At this latter, there are four or five structures built immediately behind the wall, though whether they are contemporary with or butted against it is unclear. At Shellesder, however, a fort of 0.3ha, one of the three possible hut-circles overlies the defences and with numerous shieling huts also in the vicinity the antiquity of these structures cannot be guaranteed.

wider cultural or functional differences is difficult to determine. Nevertheless, such a pragmatic approach to construction does seem likely for most of the 40 scarp-edge forts that have been also labelled contour forts, including those already cited on Earn’s Heugh or Dunman. In these cases the absence of any visible rampart around a side with a particularly steep slope is merely an extension of the same reasoning that led to the construction of two or three outer lines on gentler slopes elsewhere, either because of the greater status accrued by being more visible from the easiest lines of approach, or because tactically these sectors represented the weaker flanks.

Scarp-edge Forts Scarp-edge forts, where one sector of the circuit is completed by the lip of a natural escarpment or cliff, share many similarities with promontory forts. As observed already, for some it is simply a matter of degree as to which category they have been attributed. The two forts on Earn’s Heugh, Berwickshire [4094, 4095], scene of one of the first of Gordon Childe’s excavations of Scotland’s later prehistory (Childe and Forde 1932), have been classified in the Atlas as promontory forts, but they might just as easily be described as scarp-edge forts, and while the south-eastern example cuts off an angle formed where a gully forms a nick in the cliff-edge on the south-east, the defences of the north-western enclosure effectively contour around a hilltop position backing onto the merest stub of a promontory on the north-east. On the other hand, the fort on Dunman, Wigtownshire [0177], a hillock backing onto the coastal cliffs of the Rhinns of Galloway, where a single rampart has been drawn around three sides, has no claim to be a promontory topographically, yet on its southwest flank the interior opens onto a rocky escarpment falling away to the sea in much the same way as any other promontory fort. In essence, promontory forts and scarp-edge forts represent a continuum extending from D-shaped enclosures backing onto cliff edges and escarpments, such as Sron Uamha, Argyll [2198], overlooking the North Channel at the southern end of Kintyre, or Lour, Peeblesshire [3569], through relatively shallow projections from a cliff-line seen at the cropmarked multivallate Barns Mill, Fife [3172], or the broad triangle of ground at Aytonlaw West, Berwickshire [4133], to narrow precipitous fingers with tightly constricted necks, such as Skirza Head, Caithness [2819].

Excluding this subset of contour forts leaves 57 cases where the distinction between a cliff-edge or promontory location is more blurred, representing 59% of those with incomplete circuits in scarp-edge positions identified in the Atlas database.11 No more than two of these are in coastal locations – Barsalloch Point, Wigtownshire [0219], and Kilspindie Golf Course, East Lothian [3820] – and the rest are located inland. Furthermore, no fewer than 43 of the 57 are in the Greater Tyne-Forth region, contrasting with four in the South-West, six in the Central region (with another three in neighbouring Angus) and only a single example – Balmachree [2903] just east of Inverness – in northern Scotland. Overwhelmingly, these forts are a feature of south-eastern Scotland, occurring within the area with the densest concentration of forts and other enclosures in the whole country. Broadly speaking, the graph of the 55 sites with measurable sizes (Fig. 8) is an extension of that described in the inland promontory forts. What is perhaps more surprising is that, including the two for which there is no size data, no more than eleven are univallate, and that bivallate (29) and multivallate (17) defences make up 81% of this subset; this is significantly greater than the national figure of 63% in these two categories for all forts in Scotland. The univallate examples are concentrated at 0.1ha-0.3ha in the size range, whereas an admixture of univallate and bivallate forts include the rest of the range up to 1.1ha. The largest is the multivallate cropmark above the River Tyne at East Linton, East Lothian [3870], where the defences also overlay an earlier palisaded line. By way of comparison, the 40 contour forts of the overall scarpedge group break down into 13 univallate, 15 bivallate and 12 multivallate, and the combined percentage for the bivallate and multivallate examples is 68%, quite close to the overall figure for Scotland.

To generalise about the character of this continuum, it extends from locations where the whole of the interior of an enclosure lies in front of, and thus landward of, the general line of the cliff-edge, to those where the whole of the interior lies beyond – often seaward of – the cliff-edge. The latter are clearly more isolated in a physical sense, and indeed require less investment in the construction of their defences, but whether this is any more than a pragmatic approach to the economy of construction of a fortification or translates into

A search of the Atlas will reveal a total of 132 Confirmed forts in scarp-edge positions, but 16 of these are also annotated as coastal and inland promontories and are included in the analysis of promontory forts, and another 19 have complete circuits of artificial defences and are therefore also discounted for the purposes of this discussion. This reduces the total of what are termed here ‘scarp-edge forts’ to 97; 40 of these are also labelled contour forts, and of the remaining 57 no measurable sizes are available for two (see Fig. 8 and Map 2)

11 

15

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston

Map 2. The distribution of scarp-edge forts in Scotland (N = 97) as defined on p. 15

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The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

Figure 7. The Confirmed scarp-edge forts by enclosed area, including 40 also identified as contour forts. N=95.

Figure 8. Subset of those univallate, bivallate and multivallate scarp-edge forts with measurable size data; the ghost excludes those identified also as contour forts. N=55.

a wall, on a promontory was a normal local adaptation wherever suitable topography occurred.

Discussion In writing about promontory forts almost 40 years ago, Raymond Lamb contended that they were a tradition in their own right and not simply a local adaptation of fort construction to a particular coastal setting (1980, 6). Even then, the case was hardly compelling, but in the light of the new data collected in the Atlas the limitations of his schematic distribution are starkly exposed. Promontories of all descriptions were exploited throughout Scotland, notably in inland settings too, and their natural attributes were merely one set of locational choices open to the builders of fortified enclosures. As we have seen in the varying proportions of promontory forts to other types of fort in Argyll and its islands, a longer hard-rock coastline of suitable type in proportion to the interior seems to have driven more extensive use of precipitous coastal promontories for forts. This reaches its extreme in the Northern Isles where all the known forts are in locations of this type. In effect, the new data turns Lamb’s argument on its head, to suggest that the establishment of fortifications, whether earthworks or

That said, we should be wary of assuming that the construction of all forts are expressions of the same drivers. This paper has only referred to chronology obliquely, if only because the chronological data for promontory forts is slender at best and hardly sufficient to construct a detailed chronology at either a national or regional scale. Nevertheless, it is clear from the few reliable radiocarbon dates and artefacts from promontory forts that they range widely in date, for example, from the mid 1st millennium BC at Cults Loch, Wigtownshire [0343] (Cavers and Crone 2018, 143-8), to the late 1st millennium BC at nearby Carghidown [0229], and from the Roman Iron Age at West Mains of Ethie, Angus [3093], to the early medieval period at Burghead [2925] or Green Castle, Portknockie [2945], both in Morayshire. It is likely that others, such as Cullykhan [2982], enjoyed longer, or at least recurrent, use. It would be a mistake to assume that the reasons lying behind the construction of these fortified enclosures remained uniform across such a huge span of time, or 17

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston indeed space, let alone that they necessarily mirror the construction of all other types of fort.

occupied refuge (Toolis 2007, 310). It may be that other explanations should be sought for tiny enclosures such as Dunorroch, Wigtownshire [0199], set at the foot of the main cliff-line and entirely overlooked, and with jagged outcrops taking up most of its interior.

Indeed, the morphological observations recorded in the Atlas might lead to the very opposite conclusion. While some of the coastal promontories are in spectacular situations, the imposing nature of their settings does not necessarily equate with the character of their defences. Whereas some contour forts on hills and hillocks are prominently visible from the surrounding landscape, creating a commanding impression of strength in depth by stacking serried banks and ditches or walls on the slope, this is not an opportunity afforded many promontories. In this respect, a promontory fort like Kemp’s Walk, Meikle Larbrax, Wigtownshire [0122], is quite unusual; an enclosure of 0.37ha with a belt of three ramparts and ditches at its neck, it can be seen from over 1km away from across the valley to the east. The Unconfirmed enclosure on the Mull of Galloway [0201] would be another exception to the general pattern of more limited visibility from landward. Elsewhere along this stretch of coast, however, the view from the natural lines of access is more confined. Approached from along the cliff-line, for example, a series of promontories and inlets will often obscure a fort until the visitor is quite close by. In other examples, the approach may be from inland across relatively level ground or a convex slope, and the fort itself will remain invisible until the visitor is dropping down towards the very neck of the promontory. These are common characteristics of coastal promontories, and where they jut out into the sea there may be no lateral viewpoints on land from which to see the defences from any distance. Consequently, coastal promontory forts may be relatively intimate places that are only encountered when the visitor is already close at hand, rather than being locations that appear to command the landscape and attention from afar. In this sense, any visual impact of the defences upon the visitor is only achieved in the last few metres of the approach, and in some cases only when passing through the entrance. These same characteristics can also be found at some inland promontories, though the patterning of the size ranges of inland promontories in the Greater Tyne-Forth region, allied with those of the scarp-edge forts, would suggest that they are merely the extension of the settlement organisation represented by the mass of other forts and enclosures present there.

Some insights into the alternative uses of promontories is provided by a small group of northern promontory forts that incorporate structures known as blockhouses. This terminology not only implies a military function, but is taken directly from military vocabulary, though whether this is truly appropriate is debatable. Three are included in the Atlas, all on Shetland – Ness of Burgi [4180] and Tonga, Scatness [4181], on Mainland, and Burgi Geos on Yell [4169] – and have been marked as Confirmed. Each occupies a promontory with an isolated rectangular block of masonry set squarely across its axis and fronted by ditches and other features across the neck. Taken into Care in 1934 and excavated in 1936, Ness of Burgi is the archetypal example, measuring some 23.8m in length by between 5.6m and 6.4m in breadth and standing behind two ditches with a medial wall. The blockhouse is pierced by a central entrance passage furnished with door-checks and a bar-hole, and there are mural cells built into the thickness of the wall to either side; there was also a third mural cell, though it is not known how, or if, this was accessible. More recent excavation of the surviving west half of a second blockhouse nearby at Tonga likewise revealed a central checked entrance-passage and two mural cells, though the only access to the inner was by means of a creep no more than 0.2m high. In contrast to Ness of Burgi, this blockhouse, which had been extensively rebuilt in a second phase, stands eccentrically behind a broad ditch with an external bank; indeed the projection of the arc of the ditch into the eroded east sector implies the blockhouse was set across the centre of the interior when it was constructed. The third of this trio, Burgi Geos, is now one of the most remote forts anywhere in Britain. The ruinous blockhouse stands astride a narrow promontory immediately beyond a torturous approach, which drops down into the neck via a path lined with stones down one side, and a mound studded with upright slabs on the other; the latter are interpreted as the remains of a chevaux de frise. While at first sight these curious structures appear to be, and have been interpreted as fortified gatehouses, this explanation is less than entirely satisfactory. Unlike the walls and ramparts of other promontory forts, these blockhouses appear to have stopped short of the cliff-edges to either side of them, leaving unimpeded alternative access around their ends. Taken with the presence of inaccessible chambers within the walls, this perhaps suggests they were not strictly speaking fortifications. Possibly they reference other more esoteric symbolic practices connected with these places,

Having made the case that the selection of a promontory was a natural choice for a fort in many landscapes, this sense of intimacy, particularly in the locations of some coastal promontory forts, hints that perhaps not all these enclosed sites served the same functions, nor were they all normal building blocks in the contemporary settlement pattern. The excavator of Carghidown suggested that it had been an intermittently and briefly 18

The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland

located at the hem of the land and the sea. This might accord with the spectacular character of the natural world as viewed from many coastal promontories set at the interface between land, sea and sky. This is a theme that might also be pursued in examining the distribution of early monastic sites on the coastal edge. The superficial similarity between, for example, the Inner Brough [4196] on Fetlar, Shetland, likely to have served a monastic community for at least some of its lifespan as an occupied site, and what is generally accepted as a substantial promontory fort at Dun Mhiughlaigh [2480] on Mingulay in the Outer Hebrides, is noteworthy. The latter, located on the exposed south-western side of Mingulay and out of all proportion to the size of the island, stands sentinel over the Atlantic with precipitous cliffs on virtually every side – a place that must always have been challenging for any habitation.

of this data and to reconfigure it as they judge fit. With what is in some regards such fuzzy data, this is only appropriate.12

At present only five blockhouses are known for certain, all of them in Shetland, the additional examples being on small islands in lochs at Clickhimin and Whalsay, Loch of Huxter. Others have been claimed rather less convincingly in Orkney and Caithness, where Raymond Lamb (1980) raised the possibility that some of the promontory forts with thick inner walls may be hiding equivalent structures. There was certainly a mural chamber in the walls of the ‘outworks’ at Nybster [2820], and another at Crosskirk [4348], both in Caithness, but elsewhere at Dun Mhairtein, Sutherland [2788], the impression of a possible blockhouse is partly created by a central entrance and two successive phases of construction in which a wall about 4.2m thick has been superimposed on a massive dump rampart with an external ditch. A more likely possibility is the inaccessible Stac a’ Chaisteil on Lewis [2763]. No comparable structures have been identified any further south, but that is not to say that the philosophy behind their construction was not more widely rooted in Iron Age society.

Alcock, L. 1981 Early historic fortifications in Scotland. In Guilbert, G. Hillfort Studies: Essays for A. H. A. Hogg, 150-80. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Alcock, L. and Alcock, E A. 1992 ‘Reconnaissance excavations on Early Historic fortifications and other royal sites in Scotland, 1974-84; A, Excavations and other fieldwork at Forteviot, Perthshire, 1981; B, Excavations at Urquhart Castle, Inverness-shire, 1983; C, Excavations at Dunnottar, Kincardineshire, 1984’, Proc Soc Antiq Scot 122, 215-87. Alcock, L., Alcock, E. A. and Foster, S. M. 1986 ‘Reconnaissance excavations on early historic fortifications and other royal sites in Scotland, 197484:1, excavations near St Abb’s Head, Berwickshire, 1980’. Proc Soc Antiq Scot 116, 255-279. Anon 2017 ‘Pictish longhouse unearthed at Burghead fort?’, Current Archaeology 331, 12. Burgess, C. 2008 Ancient Lewis and Harris. Lewis: Comhairle nan Eilean Siar. Cavers, G. and Crone, C. 2018 A Lake Dwelling in its Landscape: Iron Age settlement at Cults Loch, Castle Kennedy, Dumfries and Galloway. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Childe, V. G. and Forde, D. 1932 ‘Excavations in two Iron Age Forts at Earn’s Heugh, near Coldingham’, Proc Soc Antiq Scot 66, 152-183. Crone, A. and Hindmarch, E. 2016 Living and dying at Auldhame. The excavation of an Anglian monastic settlement and medieval parish church. Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. Fairhurst, H. 1984 Excavations at Crosskirk Broch, Caithness. Edinburgh: Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Monograph Series 3.

Acknowledgements The Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland Project was funded by the Arts and Humanities Research Council (2012-16). The Co-I was Professor Gary Lock (Institute of Archaeology, University of Oxford); and data collection for Ireland was undertaken with assistance from Professor William O’Brien, University College, Cork. For this paper, Dr Val Turner (Shetland Amenity Trust) provided assistance with data on promontory forts in Shetland. The maps were prepared by Dr Paula Levick. Reference list

Conclusion We hope that the foregoing selective treatment of the promontory forts of Scotland offers some useful insights into the diversity of the evidence that needs to be taken into consideration in attempting to impose some order on these records. Sifting these examples from within the multifarious records of somewhat cognate sites that have been built up primarily since the nineteenth century has been shown recurrently to need the deployment of professional value judgement. This also impinges on the operation of particular thresholds for inclusion or exclusion. Amongst the series of sites included in the Atlas database, promontory forts are far from unique in posing these kinds of issues.

12  All calculations in this study were made in 2016 before the Atlas was published online. They are based on spreadsheets derived from the initial Filemaker Pro database employed on the project. Although the overall numbers for forts in these spreadsheets have been crosschecked against comparable searches of the online Atlas, datacleaning associated with the transfer to the online format may have led to some minor discrepancies in searches for points of detail.

What the online database allows however, is for anyone to extract the data we have employed in the building of our interpretations of the meaning of components 19

Stratford Halliday and Ian Ralston Halliday, S. P. 2019 ‘Forts and fortification in Scotland; applying the Atlas criteria to the Scottish dataset,’ in Lock and Ralston, 2019. Halliday, S. P. and Ralston, I. 2009 ‘How many hillforts are there in Scotland?’ in Cooney, G., Coles, J., Ryan, M., Sievers, S. and Becker, K. (eds) 2009 Relics of old decency: Archaeological studies in later prehistory. Festschrift in honour of Barry Raftery, 455-467. Dublin: Wordwell. Halliday, S. P. and Ralston, I. 2013 ‘Major forts and ‘minor oppida’ in Scotland: a reconsideration’, in Krausz, S., Colin, A., Gruel, K., Ralston, I. and Dechezleprêtre, T. (dir.) L’Age du Fer en Europe: mélanges offerts à Olivier Buchsenschutz, 219-234. Bordeaux: AUSONIUS Editions Mémoires 32. Harding, D. W. 2012 Iron Age hillforts in Britain and beyond. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hunter, J. R. 1996 Fair Isle: the archaeology of an island community. Edinburgh: HMSO. Lamb, R. G. 1980 Iron Age promontory forts in the Northern Isles. Oxford: Brit Archaeol Rep Brit Ser 79. Lock, G. and Ralston, I. 2017 Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland. [ONLINE] Available at: https://hillforts. arch.ox.ac.uk Lock, G. and Ralston, I. (eds) 2019 Hillforts: Britain, Ireland and the Nearer Continent: Papers from the Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland Conference, June 2017. Oxford: Archaeopress. Lock, G. and Ralston, I. 2020 ‘A new overview of the later prehistoric hillforts of Britain and Ireland’ in Delfino, D., Coimbra, F., Cardoso, D. and Cruz, G. (eds) Late Prehistoric Fortifications in Europe: Defensive, Symbolic and Territorial Aspects from the Chalcolithic to the Iron Age. (= UISPP Metal Ages in

Europe Commission international conference, Sociedade Martins Sarmento, Guimaraes, Portugal, November 2017). Oxford: Archaeopress. MacKie, E. W. 2007 The roundhouses, brochs and wheelhouses of Atlantic Scotland c. 700 BC – AD 500. Architecture and material culture Part 2, the northern and southern mainland and the western islands. Oxford: Brit Archael Rep Brit Ser 444. MacKie, E. W. 2016 Brochs and the Empire. The impact of Rome on Iron Age Scotland as seen in the Leckie broch excavations. Oxford: Archaeopress. Nesbitt, C., Church, M. J., and Gilmour, S. M. D. 2011 ‘Domestic, industrial, (en)closed? Survey and excavation of a Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age promontory enclosure at Gob Eirer, Lewis, Western Isles’, Proc Soc Antiq Scot 141, 31-74. Past Horizons. 2015 ‘Earliest Pictish fort yet discovered was situated on sea stack’. Past Horizons. http://www.pasthorizonspr.com/index. php/archives/07/2015/earliest-pictish-fortyet-discovered-was-situated-on-sea-stack. Last consulted 9th August 2018. Strachan, R. 2000 ‘Mull of Galloway linear earthworks’, Discovery and Excavation Scotland 1, 21. Toolis, R. 2003 ‘A Survey of the Promontory Forts of the North Solway Coast’, Trans Dumfries Galloway Nat Hist Antiq Soc 77, 37–78. Toolis, R. 2007 ‘Intermittent occupation and forced abandonment: excavation of an Iron Age promontory fort at Carghidown, Dumfries and Galloway’, Proc. Soc. Antiq. Scot. 137, 265–318. Toolis, R. 2015 ‘Iron Age settlement patterns in Galloway’, Trans Dumfries Galloway Nat Hist Antiq Soc 89, 17-34.13

13  This paper was revised for submission in 2018 and has only been slightly updated thereafter. The final Atlas has now been published and is supported by online data as outlined on p. xvi of that volume. Lock, G. and Ralston, I 2022 The Atlas of the Hillforts of Britain and Ireland. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

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A long, largely aceramic, period of Devon’s prehistory Henrietta Quinnell I first met John Collis in the summer of 1963 when we were both excavating Urnfield cemetery sites near Xanten for the late Laurence Barfield, then working for the Landesmuseum at Bonn. The excavations themselves were rather unexciting, just variations on cremations in pottery vessels. The English group of excavators included the late Alan Carter, Ros Nisbett, Jeff Davies and the late Eric Talbot, and we used the excavations as the base for exploring much of the adjacent Rhineland. The Deutschmark was then ten to a pound, enabled travelling, and we only worked a five day week. At weekends we explored the area by Rhine ferry, down to Bonn, Cologne, Koblenz and Trier and up across the border for a night in Arnhem in Holland. Despite all this John found time to learn to read Russian. After both John and I had completed our university studies, we met again at Exeter University in 1970. At the beginning of that year I was appointed as Archaeology Lecturer in the Department of Extra-Mural Studies, and John came in the autumn as the prehistorian and third archaeologist in the Department of History. Both new posts were planned by, and campaigned for inside the University, by Aileen Fox. She envisaged appointees to both posts engaging with local archaeological work, and especially in the rescue excavations increasingly necessary at a time of urban renewal and road building. She saw this involvement by University staff benefitting archaeological research in its region. For myself, this provided a channel of interests which I would develop through my career and I remained at Exeter until the millennium. John was firmly directed to running some of the excavations in Exeter, for which the recently founded Exeter Museums Archaeological Field Unit had been set up. He spent the summer vacation of 1971 directing excavations on Guildhall Shopping Centre site: for background see Fox (2000, 140). This site began with barrack blocks of the Roman fortress whose presence at Exeter was rapidly being established, and continued through the subsequent town and its phases of medieval and later activity. John moved to Sheffield at the end of the year, its Department having a more prehistoric focus. John continued to research aspects of Devon’s prehistory well after his move to Sheffield (Collis 1979; 1983; Fleming and Collis 1973). When I first became involved with the Iron Age in Devon, directing excavation of a long trench right through Woodbury Castle in advance of road widening (Miles 1975), the sparsity of its ceramics in the County

was already well recognized. Hillfort excavations by the Devon Archaeological Society before and just after WWII at Okehampton (Brailsford 1938) and Stoke Hill (Radford 1937) had produced few or no ceramics. At Hembury in East Devon the ceramic sequence appeared to start in what would now be termed the Middle Iron Age, despite the hillfort having an obvious long structural history (Liddell 1935, summarising the five seasons’ work). One wonders whether the excavations would have been run for so many seasons had the underlying Neolithic causewayed enclosure with its rich ceramic assemblage not been found: the subsequent history of the Archaeological Society could have been very different. Particularly in preradiocarbon days, a prefusion of potentially dateable artefacts was a prerequisite of prehistoric excavation. Only at Blackbury in East Devon was there a moderate ceramic assemblage ascribed to Iron A or B (Young and Richardson 1954-5), and at Milber Down a small Iron Age B assemblage (Fox et al. 1949-50). At Woodbury Castle in 1971 there was only one sherd of distinctive form (Miles 1975, Fig 11, 1) ascribed to the ‘initial phases of the Iron Age’. In the decades since then, and particularly in the last two decades, I have been studying the whole sequence of ceramics in Cornwall and in Devon, from their inception in the Neolithic until the arrival of Roman influence, and have for both counties seen most significant assemblages as they were discovered and examined those nearly all those published before 1970, a diachronic study of regional prehistoric ceramics. In general ceramics of all periods were more common in Cornwall than in Devon, and the study of the one has fed into the other. From time to time this research benefits a short piece of synthesis. This volume of papers for John allows me to offer him this synthesis for the period between the Middle Bronze Age and the Middle Iron Age, broadly from 1100 to 300 BC, a small building block in the developing chronology of the region. It seems timely, when so many archaeologists are still unaware of the absence of storage pits in this region, with their time capsule potential for artefact study, and of the apparent sparsity of ceramics for much of the Devon Iron Age. Scholars involved in the study of prehistoric Europe generally have taken the use of pottery as normal, from antiquarians in the eighteenth century to those of the present generation. Ceramics, especially drinking cups,

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 21–28

Henrietta Quinnell

Figure 1. Locations of principal sites in Devon referred to in the text.

figure frequently in accounts of classical civilisations on which the former were reared, and it is surely no co-incidence that the vessels still known as ‘Beakers’ were first so named back in the nineteenth century (eg Thurnam 1871), bringing with the appellation all the connotations of imbibing then current in Europe and learnt by every schoolboy with a classical education. Pottery, because of its enormous potential variations of shape and decoration, has played a central role in constructing chronologies for prehistoric Europe and of Britain and in identifying past communities. Even after some 70 years of increasingly reliable scientific dating, ceramic chronology is still extremely useful in providing initial spot dating for sites under excavation.

When pottery is sparse or absent from sites or areas, the normal processes of modern analysis are slowed, leading sometimes to the implication that archaeological data is proving inconvenient (eg Todd 1987, 156)! There are many parts of the world where communities have developed successful and often long lived societies without any use of ceramics, notably in Polynesia and New Zealand. Here societies thrived until ‘discovery’ by the European world. The consequent written record of aceramic behaviour could be linked through observation with successful ways of cooking and eating without pottery. An excellent account of aceramic Maori communities in New Zealand is given 22

A long, largely aceramic, period of Devon’s prehistory

by Davidson (1987). Reminding ourselves that pottery was not used by many human groups prompts us not to take its presence amongst past communities in Europe for granted. By and large, most prehistoric European communities since the development of agriculture did use pottery, some for a while before this. Its absence or scarcity at various times and places will have had good and sufficient reasons which can not (yet) be provided. But variation in the use of ceramics, despite our lack of understanding, can still have things to tell us about the times and places this occurred.

is sometimes assumed. There have been comparatively few ‘modern’ excavations published of Moorland settlements. It is worth recalling that activity at Shaugh Moor has radiocarbon dates which continue down to the 9th century cal BC (Balaam et al 1982, Table 3). Reexamination of the ceramics at Kestor, dug by Aileen Fox in 1951/2 (Fox 1954) has shown that the large hut circle structure was built and used in the Middle Bronze Age, with some re-occupation in the Early Iron Age; the now classic iron working is now radiocarbon dated to the early post-Roman centuries (Quinnell 2016). The nearby hut circle at Teigncombe, with the most careful excavation and record ever to take place on Dartmoor, has been shown to have a phase with minimal Early Iron Age ceramics subsequent to its main Middle Bronze Age phase (Gerrard 2016). This type of re-use evidence would not have been detected on most earlier excavations and may be more frequent than is generally supposed. If for then good reasons, pottery was ceasing to be used in any quantity during the Late Bronze Age, it provides some background for its sparsity locally in the Early Iron Age.

In general the pattern of ceramic use in Devon matches that found in most other parts of Britain from the Early Neolithic down to the Middle Bronze Age. And in general through these three millennia, more ceramics on sites in Cornwall were used, or at least discarded, than on those on sites in Devon. This may be due, in part, to the early discovery and use of the excellent gabbroic potting clays of the Lizard. (Modern counties are used here as convenient handling blocks for geographical data). The same appears to be broadly true of the adjacent parts of Dorset and Somerset lying to the East and North of Devon. In the Middle Bronze Age the Trevisker style was in use across this whole area, with some subregional variations which are still being disentangled. This regional Middle Bronze Age use of similar ceramics comes to an end at a date around the eleventh century BC, a date which still needs closer definition (Quinnell 2012a). The use of profusely decorated Trevisker ceramics is then replaced by ‘Late Bronze Age Plain Ware’, a generally undecorated style with simple forms, not recognised until the 1990s at Brean Down (Woodward 1990) and on Lundy Island (Quinnell 2010). This style broadly lasts until the tenth/ninth centuries BC, profuse on some sites in Cornwall such as Higher Besore near Truro (Gossip 2021), in Somerset at Brean Down and in Dorset at Tinney’s Lane (Best et al 2013), less so in Devon. The replacement of Trevisker ceramics by LBA Plain Ware appears broadly contemporary with the now classic abandonment of much of the profuse hut circle settlement on Dartmoor and its shrinkage on the other granite landscapes of the South West: this decrease in ceramics was first highlighted some forty years ago by Bob Silvester (1979). Are the two to be linked?

In review of data from Dartmoor and its periphery written some 25 years back, the author (Quinnell 1994) suggested a simple term ‘Post-Trevisker’ to cover ceramics after the Middle Bronze Age and before the decorated styles of the Middle Iron Age. Late Bronze Age Plain ware can now be seen as the first of three successive ceramics styles which were used in this period, the second and the third Earliest and Early Iron Age described below. LBA Plain Ware (Figure 2) has been published from sites on Lundy (Quinnell 2010) and from Dainton (Sylvester 1980). It is almost certainly present at Hembury (Honiton) hillfort (see below), and assemblages of various sizes await publication from Stowford Rise, Sidmouth (AC Archaeology ACD145); from Strathculm Road, Hele (AC Archaeology ACD1158); from Shortlands, Cullompton (SW Archaeology) and from a site at Hill Barton, Exeter (Quinnell 2019). In Cornwall the sequence of ceramics, because they generally survive in greater quantities, is now fairly well understood (Quinnell 2011), but even in here ceramics from the 9th to 7th centuries are few in quantity. The report on Enclosure 1 at Tremough, Penryn, demonstrates that by the 10th/9th century BC LBA Plain Wares widen in range to include the earliest shouldered and carinated forms (Quinnell 2015, 75). These shouldered and carinated, generally large, vessels continue to become the main types of the Earliest Iron Age c 800-600 BC. A range of simpler, often smaller and generally necked jars follow in the Early Iron Age Plain Jar Group c 600-300 BC (Figures 3 and 4). Both groups have little decoration. Earliest Iron Age ceramics generally occur in smaller quantities than do the preceding LBA Plain Ware or the succeeding Early

Trevisker vessels come in a variety of sizes, and had presumably a variety of uses. They are almost always decorated and therefore easily recognised. The subsequent plain ware tends to have smaller vessels, with virtually no decoration, and could easily have been passed unrecognised in all but very recent excavations and examinations. Obviously there were changes in Bronze Age societies we cannot detect which underlie these ceramic changes. It may also be that movement of settlement away from Dartmoor was less abrupt than 23

Henrietta Quinnell

Figure 2. Late Bronze Age Plain Ware forms, c. 1100-800 BC, based on Cornish examples.

Iron Age Plain Jar group. This sequence and broad chronology apply well to the more limited Devon material, with division between Earliest (c 800-600 BC) and Early Iron Age (c 600-300 BC).

Age to Earliest Iron Age date. Previously the ceramics at Hembury were thought to start in the Middle Iron Age. The Gathering Time programme of dating fortuitously produced two pairs of dates from early features spanning the 8th to 5th centuries cal BC, which should relate to early structural phase(s) (Whittle et al 2011, 478-93). Excavations at Raddon hillfort, Stockleigh Pomeroy, produced a a small assemblage of Earliest Iron Age material related

A recent review by the author of the entire assemblage from Hembury (Honiton) hillfort has identified a small but previously unrecognised assemblage of Late Bronze 24

A long, largely aceramic, period of Devon’s prehistory

Figure 3. Earliest Iron Age pottery forms, c. 800-600 BC, based on Cornish examples.

Iron and Middle Iron Age vessels. The Iron Age material long known from Kestor, east Dartmoor, and that from the recently excavated Teigncombe hut circle close by, both referred to above, are clearly Early Iron Age Plain Jar Group (Quinnell 2016). Digby Site 2 just east of Exeter has a single Plain Jar Group vessel from a ditch (Quinnell and Farnell 2016,130) and the moderate g assemblage at Hayes Farm 4 km east (Wood 2014) are also of this Group. Most of the small assemblage associated with structures predating the south east part of Honeyditches Roman villa can now be confidently assigned to this period (Silvester 1981, 61-3, Fig 11). The minimal sherds of pottery from Holworthy, Parracombe on Exmoor are likely to belong to the Plain Jar Group: there are also C14 dates from this enclosure site which indicate fourth or early 3rd century BC activity (Green 2009, 73, 93).

to dates within a C14 range 800-400 cal BC: Early Iron Age material has not be recognised but activity without surviving ceramics continued through the period 40050 BC (Quinnell 1999, 52-3). The recently excavated Hill Barton earthwork and roundhouse just east of Exeter, with use centring on the 9th century cal BC, had no associated ceramics. A roundhouse at Blackhorse a little to the east has no ceramics but a single radiocarbon date of 770-330 cal BC (Fitzpatrick et al 1999, 191). Woodbury hillfort, in east Devon, produced only a few sherds from limited excavations despite the earthworks having a complex history (Miles 1975). Most of the assemblage from the 1939 excavations at Dainton is probably Early Iron Age (Willis and Rogers 1951), although the unpublished excavations of 1986 may extend the range of material (Smith and Humble 1986). Foal’s Arrishes on Dartmoor has a vessel which almost certainly belongs here (Radford 1952, Fig 13, No 6). The promontory site Mount Batten, at the mouth of the Plym, has Early Iron Age material but, unusually, appears to have an apparently unbroken sequence extending down through to the Roman period (Cunliffe 1988, passim), as apparently does the assemblage from Kent’s Cavern (Sylvester 1986, Fig. 2).

The fabrics throughout this period are generally locally sourced and there is no record of any gabbroic pottery, unlike the Middle Bronze Age when it appears to have been relatively common and the Later Iron Age when it is also regularly present in small quantities. Generally ceramics are poorly made, but with inclusions more comparable in size to those that succeeded than those that preceded them. It is doubtful how much use and movement most would have withstood.

The assemblage from Blackbury hillfort (Young and Richardson 1954-5) can now be seen as a mixture of Early 25

Henrietta Quinnell

Figure 4. Early Iron Age pottery forms, c 600-300 BC, based on Cornish examples.

Scarcity of pottery implies the use of other types of container and wood and leather containers are likely to have been used (Earwood 1999, Chapter 1). It is relevant here that there was a long aceramic period in Devon between Roman and late Saxon - although Cornwall maintained a continuous use of local ceramics throughout. Ceramics were not used in Wales throughout most of this period and, as in Devon, were used sparsely in the first millennium BC (Lynch et al. 2000, 199-202). The sparsity of ceramics in Wales in these periods is generally accepted, perhaps because the tenth century Law Code of Hywel Dda describes with authority and in some detail the minutiae of property which did not involve ceramics (Jenkins 1986).

they lacked sub-soil features which contained archaeologically detectable material. This period coincides with the beginning of sparse Dartmoor settlement, even if a few sites can now be seen to have been in use there. As Mudd and Joyce point out, the (some-what sparse) pollen evidence does not support woodland regeneration which might be expected to accompany a long term drop in population. There is over half a millennium in which traces of former inhabitants are elusive and, when these are present, do not always demonstrate the use of ceramics. While the post-Roman period for some 600 years can be described as aceramic, this longer prehistoric period may be described as ‘largely aceramic’, for which reasons can be only speculation, something of a paradox for the period when hillforts are thought to be have become established. We need to understand much more about the ways in which ceramics related to variations in diet and cooking. Recent rich finds of organic containers, as at Must Farm, together with the developing analytical techniques for identifying foodstuffs, should provide new pathways of understanding and surely, after a quarter century, a reworking of Earwood’s (1993) Domestic Wooden Artefacts.

Recent work on a long pipeline route across South Devon, from the Otter Valley to Langage west of Ivybridge revealed a wide range of prehistoric sites, but none from the period under consideration here (Mudd and Joyce 2014, 187) despite a number with radiocarbon dates from the long post-Roman aceramic period referred to above. The authors suggest that either settlements were genuinely sparse, or that

26

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Liddell, D. M. 1935. Report on the Excavations at Hembury Fort (1934 and 1935). Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society II:3: 135-175. Lynch, F., Aldhouse-Green, S. and Davies, J. L. 2000. Prehistoric Wales. Stroud: Sutton Publishing. Miles, H. 1975. Excavations at Woodbury Castle, East Devon, 1975. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 33: 183-208. Mudd. A. and Joyce, S. 2014. The Archaeology of the SouthWest Reinforcement Gas Pipeline, Devon. Investigations in 2005-7. Cirencester: Cotswold Archaeology Monograph 6. Quinnell, H. 1994. Becoming Marginal ? Dartmoor in Later Prehistory. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society 52: 75-84. Quinnell, H. 1999. Pottery, in T.H. Gent and H. Quinnell, Excavations of a Causewayed Enclosure and Hillfort on Raddon Hill, Stockleigh Pomeroy, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 57: 38-53. Quinnell, H. 2010. Prehistoric and Roman material from Lundy. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 68: 1960. Quinnell, H. 2011. A summary of Cornish ceramics in the first millennium BC. Cornish Archaeology 50: 231240. Quinnell, H. 2012a. Trevisker Pottery; Some Recent Studies, in W. Britnell and R.J. Silvester (eds.) Reflections on the Past. Essays in honour of Frances Lynch, 147-71. Welshpool: Cambrian Archaeological Association. Quinnell, H. 2012b. Prehistoric Sherds from Shortlands, Cullumpton. Report to South West Archaeology, South Molton. Quinnell, H. 2015. The prehistoric ceramics, in A.M. Jones, J. Gossip and H. Quinnell, Settlement and metalworking in the Middle Bronze Age and Beyond, 5380. Leiden: Sidestone Press. Quinnell, H. 2016. The Pottery, in S. Gerrard, Archaeology and Bracken: the Teigncombe Prehistoric Roundhouse Excavationn 1999-2005. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 74: 30-43. Quinnell, H. 2019. Prehistoric pottery, in Mudd, A., Garland, N. and Brindle, T. 2019. A Late Bronze Age Ringwork and other Prehistoric, Roman and later occupation at Hill Barton, Exeter, Devon. Excavations 2012–2015, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 77, 174-178. Quinnell, H. and Farnell, A. 2016 Prehistoric Sites in the Digby area of Exeter. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 74: 65-206. Radford, C. A. R. 1937. Stoke Hill Camp. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society III:1: 24-32. Radford, C. A. R. 1952. Prehistoric Settlement on Dartmoor and the Cornish Moors. Proceedings Prehistoric Society 18:1: 55-84. Silvester, R. J. 1979. The relationship of First Millennium BC Settlement to the Upland Areas of

References Balaam, N. D., Smith, K. and Wainwright, G. J. 1982. The Shaugh Moor Project: fourth report-environment, context and conclusion. Proceedings Prehistoric Society 48:203-278. Best, J., Woodward, A. and Tyler, K. 2013. Late Bronze Age Pottery Production: Evidence from a 12th to 11th Century BC Settlement at Tinney’s Lane, Sherborne, Dorset. Dorchester: Dorset Natural History and Archaeological Society Monograph 21. Brailsford, J. W. 1938. Excavations at the Promontory Fort near Okehampton Station. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society III:2: 86-91. Collis, J. 1979. Cranbrook Castle Revisited. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 3: 191-4. Collis, J. 1983. Field Systems and Boundaries on Shaugh Moor and at Wotter, Dartmoor. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 41: 47-62. Cunliffe, B. 1988. Mount Batten, Plymouth. A Prehistoric and Roman Port. Oxford: Oxford Committee for Archaeology Monograph 26. Davidson, J. 1987. The Prehistory of New Zealand. Auckland: Longman Paul. Earwood, C. 1993. Domestic Wooden Artefacts in Britain and Ireland from Neolithic to Viking Times. Exeter: University Press. Fitzpatrick, A. P., Butterworth, C. A. and Grove, J. 1999. Prehistoric & Roman Sites in East Devon: the A30 Honiton to Exeter DBFO Scheme, 1996-9. Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology Report 16. Fleming, A. and Collis, J. 1973. A Late Prehistoric Reave System near Cholwich Town, Dartmoor. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 31: 1-22. Fox, A. 1954. Excavations at Kestor. Transactions Devonshire Assocation 96: 21-62. Fox, A. 2000. Aileen – A Pioneering Archaeologist. Leominster: Gracewing. Fox, A., Radford, C. A. R., Rogers, E. H. and Shorter, A. H. 1949-50. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society IV:2: 27-66. Gerrard, S. 2016. Archaeology and Bracken: the Teigncombe Prehistoric Roundhouse Excavationn 1999-2005. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 74: 1-64. Gossip, J, 2021. Life Outside the Round: Bronze Age and Iron Age Settlement at Higher Besore and Truro College, in Jones, A M and Kirkham, G (eds.), Later Prehistoric Settlement in Cornwall and the Isles of Scilly: Evidence from Five Excavations, 149-282. Oxford: Archaeopress Green, T. 2009. Excavation of a Hillslope Enclosure at Holworthy Farm, Parracomber displaying Bronze Age and Iron Age activity. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 67: 39-98. Jenkins, D. 1986. The Law of Hywel Dda: law texts of medieval Wales. Llandysul: Gomer. 27

Henrietta Quinnell Whittle, A., Healy, F. and Bayliss, A. 2011. Gathering Time. Dating the Early Neolithic Enclosures of Southern Britain and Ireland. Oxford; Oxbow Books. Willis, L. and Rogers, E. H. 1951. Dainton Earthworks. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society. IV:4: 79-101. Wood, I. 2014. Ceramic and Petrographic report, in J. Hart, I.Wood, A. Barber, M. Brett., and A. Hardy, Prehistoric Land Use in the Clyst Valley: Excavations at Hayes Farm, Clyst Honiton, 1996-2012. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 72: 16-25. Woodward, A. 1990. Bronze Age Pottery, in M. Bell, Brean Down Excavations 1983-198: 121-145. English Heritage Archaeological Report 15. Woodward, A. and Cane, C. 1991. The Bronze Age pottery’, in J. Nowakowski, Trethellan Farm, Newquay: the excavation of a lowland Bronze Age settlement and Iron Age cemetery. Cornish Archaeology 30: 103-31. Young, A. and Richardson, K. M. 1954-55. Report on the Excavations at Blackbury Castle. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Exploration Society V:2 & 3: 43-67.

the South-West. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 37: 176-90. Silvester, R. J. 1980. Excavations at Honeyditches Roman Villa, Seaton. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 38: 17-48. Silvester, R. J. 1981. The Prehistoric Open Settlement at Dainton, South Devon. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 39: 37-88. Silvester, R. J. 1986. The Later Prehistoric and Roman Material from Kent’s Cavern. Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 44: 9-38. Smith, G. H. and Humble, J. 1986. Excavation at the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age Settlement and Field System at Dainton, South Devon, Central Excavation Unit Site 414. A Preliminary Report. London: English Heritage. Taylor, R. 2016. Neolithic to Early Iron Age fabric, in Quinnell and Farnell: 120-1. Thurnam, J. 1871. On Ancient British Barrows, especially those of Wiltshire and the adjoining counties, Archaeologia 43: 285-552. Todd, M. 1987. The South-West to AD 1000. London: Longmans.

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Deconstructing archaeological databases Martin Kuna European archaeology has recently started to employ largescale databases of field data for a purposeful research of settlement history in the long-term perspective. Projects of this kind target topics like the demography of past populations, regional differences in settlement density, environmental impact of settlement, etc. The results of these efforts are mostly very beneficial casting new light on some general aspects of historical development of various parts of Europe; they are not, however, without risks. The present paper points out some of the pitfalls hidden in straightforward generalizations of data sets like the national ‘sites and monuments records’, registers of 14C dates and similar ‘big data’. Particularly, the varied visibility of archaeological remains from different periods (caused mainly by secondary cultural factors in combination with post-depositional processes) and the course of archaeological fieldwork itself are among the key issues to be thoroughly considered.1 Introduction During the last decade, Czech and European archaeology saw a number of efforts to make use of the national archaeological databases of field data to create general models of settlement development in the past. Here belong the attempts, for example, to use the Archaeological Map of the CR to model demographic trends from the Neolithic to the Early Middle Ages in Bohemia (Dreslerová 2011; Pokorný 2011, pp. 245–51; Dreslerová – Demján 2015; Demján – Dreslerová 2016) and Moravia (Kolář et al. 2015). On a European scale, the study of the demographic trends in the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods in Western or Southern Europe by means of large series of radiocarbon dates (Collard et al. 2010; Shennan et al. 2013; Porčić et al. 2016) has been carried out during the last decade introducing new theoretical perspectives and valuable methodological contributions. The common basis of all these attempts show a general trust in the quantity of data reflecting some relevant parameters of the past, such as, in this case, the changing settlement density and population size. The authors of the cited projects mostly believe that the large amounts of data can suppress the individual and accidental variability of the archaeological record and, Work on this paper has been supported by the Ministry of Education, Youth and Sports of the CR within the EU Operational Programme Research, Development and Education (‘Archaeological Information System of the CR – second generation’ project; ID: 16_013/0001439-01).

1 

as a whole, reflect general trends with appropriate reliability. This was explicitly formulated, for example, by the British team, according to which a ‘relationship between the number of dated archaeological sites falling within a given time interval in a given region… and population density’ exists (Shennan et al. 2013, p. 3). P. Demján and D. Dreslerová (2016, pp. 101–2) basically agree on this, and also assume that the density of archaeological evidence may be understood as proxy data for the study of the demographic development in the past. The authors of these projects are of course aware of the fact that secondary factors may influence the archaeological record and pay considerable attention to the statistical processing of their data (namely Timpson et al. 2014; Demján – Dreslerová 2016, p. 102). Statistical methods are, of course, appropriate to prove that the resulting values (e.g. graphs) represent archaeological data correctly and reliably describe their spatial and chronological distribution. Does it mean that all potential problems have been solved and the results may be without any doubt taken as relevant? According to my opinion, not entirely; to my mind, the key problem is not whether the quantitative results reliably represent the available archaeological record, but mainly, whether the archaeological record (and the available data on it) reliably represents past reality. In this respect, not even the most sophisticated statistical methods can help us; what has to be done, is a thorough critique of the available record (data) based on a sound archaeological theory. The following contribution aims to present some comments and suggestions on this subject. The data, which will be used here as an example, come from the Archaeological Map of the CR (AMCR), which after more than 20-year work has been implemented into a publically accessible research infrastructure (Archaeological Information System of the CR; Kuna et al. 2015). Today, the AMCR contains information on about 90,000 fieldwork events on the territory of Bohemia (the western part of the CR) from the beginning of archaeology until today. The data we are using here come from before 2011 when their final revision started; this, however, does not lessen their potential for our purposes. Anyway, the AMCR data, processed even more accurately and added by thousands of new

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 29–40

Martin Kuna entries every year, create a source of information ready to be exploited in various other research attempts in the future.

3. site (activity area) specialization: number of activity areas simultaneously managed by a community; • properties of the past culture and the formation processes influencing survival and visibility of sites in the archaeological record: 4. rate of reduction of the site numbers by postdepositional transformations; 5. methods used in archaeological excavations and surveys; 6. visibility (preservation) of the distinctive parts of activity areas (activity remains)

Counting sites from archaeological data sets Research projects following up the settlement development in long-term intervals usually do not work with individual movable objects, but rather with larger units of archaeological record. These units are called ‘sites’ or ‘site phases’ (Collard et al. 2010), ‘components’ (e.g. Kolář et al. 2015 and all other authors adopting the terminology of the ‘settlement area theory’ of E. Neustupný – e.g. 1998; 2010) or ‘evidence’ (cf. the ‘evidence density estimation’ [EDE] method used by Demján – Dreslerová 2016). All these terms are derived from the idea that a certain group of finds can be viewed as the remains of one human community in a certain time interval. Under this condition, the observed number of such units can be used as a ‘proxy’ figure for the number of communities (the population size) at a given time.

The impact of the first group of factors is obvious. Populations of the same size may have inhabited a small number of large settlements or a larger number of small ones in dependence on their economic strategies and social structure, environment, relations between individual populations etc. At the same time, activity areas (sites) may have been relocated in short time intervals (by which the resulting number of sites grows); while in other periods the activity areas may have been long-living (producing a smaller number of sites). Necessarily, the number of sites may also be influenced by the number of activity areas simultaneously used by one community: if, for example, a community buried their dead within its residential area, the settlement and cemetery grew into one site; if for the burials another place was used, the same community may have left two sites; something similar can also develop in the case of seasonal camps, transhumance etc.

Considering a particular model of a past society, the site/site-phases units are usually defined in a formal way, namely by their spatial and temporal extent. Usually, if the spatial and temporal distance between specific finds is smaller than the defined limits, they are understood as evidence of one and the same community (as one site/site phase). If in some respect the distance is larger, we have to understand these as various ‘sites’, i.e. evidence of non-identical human communities. Hence, we can rephrase the relevance of archaeological databases as a question of the reliability of the number of sites classified to assigned periods and regions. Since nobody is expecting to capture all original sites in the landscape, archaeology usually understands the available data as relative figures, as samples from which, under specific conditions, the original number of sites can be estimated and which can be used to compare the changing density of a population in various periods and areas.

In principal, all these factors can be studied, but there is a long way to go to be able to describe them with an acceptable probability. By now, some methods are suitable to describe some of these factors by, for example, a more accurate dating of individual sites using radiocarbon dates (Shennan et al. 2013; this concerns factor 2). However, most of the other aspects of the prehistoric settlement patterns (factors 1 and 3) yet remain poorly explored. On the other hand, it is legitimate to assume that the settlement structure and dynamics of agricultural societies from the Neolithic to the Early Middle Ages was in most basic aspects very similar, therefore fundamental differences in the quantity of sites based on the first group of factors need not be expected. At least, if chronological demographic trends within one and the same region are studied, this assumption may, to a high degree, be justifiable.

But is the composition of the available archaeological databases really so reliable that we may take the numbers of sites as representative samples and interpret them this way? I tend to believe that the distortion contained in the data is much larger than admitted in most of the cited contributions. In my view, the patterns observable in our data are influenced (apart from the actual size of the population in the past) by two groups of other factors:

Nevertheless, it would be premature to derive too much optimism from this conclusion. Apart from the factors of the first group, the composition of archaeological data is influenced by those of the second group, too. They include the reduction of the number of sites by post-depositional processes, the uneven sensitivity of

• properties of the past culture influencing the quantity of sites in the archaeological record: 1. average community size; 2. average lifetime of a site (activity area); 30

Deconstructing archaeological databases

various fieldwork methods towards different types of sites and the variable archaeological visibility of the remains from different periods.

registered more likely than deeper inhumations) and large-scale excavations preceded by a coarse topsoil removing (in which case the resulting image may be complementary to the field walking evidence). Since cultural habits differed in various periods of the past (for example, the preference of inhumation or cremation), differing methods of fieldwork enable us to capture sites from various periods with varying probability.

The influence of factor 4 (post-depositional reduction) is widely known. In the course of time, many sites have been destroyed by erosion, agricultural activities or timber extraction and therefore are lacking in our databases. Such destructive processes, however, mostly affect sites from all periods in a similar way and need not necessarily have produced false patterns on the chronological axis. In this case, ‘false’ patterning is rather to be expected in space than in time, since various regions differ in the landscape type and, consequently, in the differing types and intensity of post-depositional processes.

Apart from the methods of fieldwork, our data is also influenced by the intensity of fieldwork. In the case of Bohemia, for example, the question remains unclear of whether the concentration of sites of all periods of the past around Prague (Figure 1) is rather the result of the intensity of settlement of this favourable environment of Central Bohemia in the past, or whether it is the consequence of the later status of Prague as the capital town leading to more intensive fieldwork in the last century, more intensive building activities (and the following rescue excavations), a higher number of archaeologists (leading to a larger share of

Fieldwork methods (factor 5) obviously affect the composition of available data, too. Apparently, different data is usually obtained by field walking (for example, settlements and shallow cremation graves will be

Figure 1. Map of Bohemia showing the summary of the archaeological record from the Palaeolithic up to the Early Middle Ages. The colour scale differentiates the number of the main archaeological periods (maximum = 10) recorded per one square of 3000 × 3000m. The source map has been submitted to a low-pass filtering in 3x3 cells kernel. The position of Prague is marked by a white cicrcle.

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Martin Kuna recorded information) and/or the lower willingness of archaeologists from more remote regions to submit information to central databases (latent tensions between the capital town and regions may have penetrated many layers of social life in the CR; cf. Kuna 2015).

substantially functional difference in the past culture adequate to the effect they set up in the archaeological record. On the contrary, even marginal functional differences in the original culture may very often have had decisive impacts on the archaeological record composition (quantity). In the following, we will discuss several cases of characteristic data patterning in the archaeological record from Bohemia exactly pointing to the varying archaeological visibility of some specific types of data and warning us of being too much confident to the data sets being currently at hand.

The core of my message, however, is to point out the importance of the last mentioned factor. The varying archaeological visibility of the remains of various periods of the past (factor 6) afflicts the probability to record a site by fieldwork and may probably account for the largest distortion of the available data sets. The differing archaeological visibility of sites represents a specific consequence of such properties of artefacts and activity areas, which are responsible for the number, state of preservation and probability of identification of archaeological remains by fieldwork. This factor was also mentioned by Green et al. (2017, pp. 256–62), who referred to ‘differences in past settlement type and use of material culture.’

Residual finds In large excavations, archaeologists often concentrate on the interpretation and dating of larger features (houses, storage pits, graves etc.) while analysing movable finds not of its own but only in relation to this goal. Therefore, very little attention is usually paid, for example, to the individual dating of thousands of common pottery fragments. A certain share of these artefacts need not, however, necessarily have any original (functional, chronological) relation to the context where they were found in; it may be residual items or later intrusions. If carried out, analyses of these finds usually surprise us with evidence of further, otherwise non-attested archaeological components (site-phases).

The understanding of these factors is, among other things, hindered by the complexity of their operation. Actually, the archaeological record (data) is rarely influenced by just one of the factors of the second group, but rather by a specific combination of all of them. For example: prehistoric burial mounds covering shallow cremation graves (a typical expression of the Middle Bronze Age in Bohemia) are preserved and easily detectable in traditional forest areas, while on intensively cultivated land they were destroyed without any evidence long before archaeological recording started. ‘Flat’ inhumation burials with deeper grave pits (e.g. those typical of the La Tène period) are the opposite case: they are often being found in agricultural and industrial areas with frequent subsurface interventions, while mostly missed in forests with little building activity and few interventions into the terrain. Hence the existing differences in archaeological data in different regions may be caused by a joint effect of various factors: specific properties of artefacts (shallow vs deep graves), different post-depositional processes (preserving vs removing past surfaces) and different fieldwork methods (excavations vs survey). In other words, post-depositional processes and fieldwork methods amplify the effects of the original artefact (site) variability and produce archaeological records where individual periods and regions may be represented in a very unequal way.

The excavations at Roztoky (Central Bohemia), for example, uncovered tens of larger sunken features of seven archaeological cultures (from the Neolithic to the Early Middle Ages) on an area of about 6,000 m2. A detailed analysis of the content of 35 features of the Final Bronze Age (26,000 pottery fragments; Kuna 2002; Kuna – Němcová et al. 2012) yielded pottery fragments from nine more archaeological periods that were otherwise not attested at the site by any of the larger structures! Often it was only individual pottery fragments among hundreds of sherds from the ‘main’ periods; their dating, however, was unequivocal. Obviously, these were remains of settlement phases, the evidence of which has not been ‘properly’ preserved because, in these periods, no sunken features would have been dug, and the remains of activities disintegrated on the surface and/or were washed away by erosion (processes of this kind can, in fact, be assumed on most prehistoric and early medieval sites in Central Europe). This would not necessarily affect the composition of archaeological data in a fatal way, if the discrepancy between the evidence conveyed by sunken features and residual finds were only coincidental: one site would show sunken features of only certain periods, while on another site these would be missing. This, however, is not the case, since some archaeological periods are generally (non-randomly) characterized

Indications to be worried about Varying formal properties of past artefacts and activities are always at the beginning of the process of ‘archaeological visibility differentiation’. Such properties, however, did not originally mean any 32

Deconstructing archaeological databases

by the absence or a small number of sunken features; therefore, the missing evidence is reoccurring and systemic.

Field walking evidence A very similar message is contained in the results of larger field walking projects. For example, in the course of the ALRB project, about 6,000 sectors (one-hectare squares) were walked in Central Bohemia, a territory with permanent occupation since the Neolithic (Zvelebil et al. 1993; Kuna 1998; 2001). This area yielded more than 30,000 fragments of prehistoric pottery, but the representation of individual periods within this set was very unbalanced. While, for example, the La Tène period was recorded in 248 sectors, the Migration Period only in two and similarly low was the occurrence of several other periods (Table 1).

Even then, the distortion of our data would not need to be so great, if residual finds were systematically analysed and registered. In most cases, however, this is not the case. The amount of pottery fragments in cultural layers and sunken features of prehistoric and early medieval sites tends to be large in Central Europe (tens to thousands of pieces per cubic metre; see Kuna 1991) and their detailed analysis is lengthy, expensive and demanding special skills. It is therefore normal to leave out these data from excavation reports, which necessarily leads to a systematic neglect of a large portion of relevant information and a proportional misrepresentation of some parts of the record.

Obviously, this image is inaccurate from the point of view of past reality. This may have several causes, such

Table 1. Number of finds of prehistoric pottery and stone tools from the ALRB landscape survey project in Central Bohemia (cf. Zvelebil et al. 1993; Kuna 2001). Finds of the same category in one traverse of field walking survey are understood as one ‘event’ since their origin from one and the same sunken feature cannot be excluded. FIND CATEGORY LINEAR POTTERY C.

STROKE POTTERY C. (LATE NEOLITHIC)

DATE 5600-4900

4900-4200

Neolithic unsp. PROTO-ENEOLITHIC

4200-3800

MIDDLE ENEOLITHIC

3400-2800

EARLY ENEOLITHIC

LATE ENEOLITHIC (CORDED WARE & BELL BEAKERS)

MIDDLE BRONZE AGE

FINAL BRONZE AGE

‘EVENTS’

FINDS

35

41

67

87

129

214

3

3

4

26

42

60

31

35

37

2800-2300

12

12

12

65

78

90

30

41

54

74

109

155

117

174

296

198

384

703

106

183

311

371

866

1559

400-0 BC

248

421

798

400-600

2

2

7

2300-1600

1600-1300

Early to Middle Bronze Age LATE BRONZE AGE

SECTORS

3800-3400

Eneolithic unsp. EARLY BRONZE AGE

NUMBER OF

1300-1000 1000-800

Late to Final Bronze Age HALLSTATT P.

800-400

Bronze Age to Hallstatt P. unsp. LA TÈNE P. ROMAN P.

0-400 AD

MIGRATION P. prehistory unsp. PREHISTORY TOTAL

33

5

17

127

81

5

17

210

146

8

20

407

374

--

--

25166

2106

4764

30342

Martin Kuna as the different amounts of pottery in the original activity areas (which seems, except for the beginning of the Early Middle Ages, less probable) and different amounts of distinctive pottery attributes (e.g. the La Tène pottery can be distinguished by technology, visible on all vessel parts; pottery of other periods, however, can be identified mostly by decoration, which may be restricted to small parts of the vessels and, therefore, visible only on a small number of fragments).

individual phases. For example, of the Knovíz-culture settlement in Kněževes 22 pits fall into the ‘Knovíz 2’ phase, while phase ‘Knovíz 4b’ is marked by 122 pits, although both phases lasted for approximately the same time and occupied almost the same area (with allegedly the same number of households; Kuna – Němcová et al. 2012, p. 219). Although the size of the original community most probably was the same, the number of archaeological remains differs considerably. Anyway, this fact has a deep impact on the probability of the site discovery by excavations or field surveys. Most of the several thousands of rescue excavations carried out in Bohemia every year consist of small (or longer but linear) trenches. The probability of finding a site by a small excavation directly corresponds to the number of the features that can be hit by the trench.

The strongest factor, in my view, is the original number and size of sunken features in the settlements influencing the quantity of pottery fragments in surface scatters. What I believe is that the surface find scatters contain only those pottery fragments that were recently ploughed out from sunken features and layers. Pottery fragments (at least what prehistory concerns) that were originally left on the surface have decayed long ago, disintegrated by ploughing and weathering or fallen prey to erosion.

High numbers of sunken features in some prehistoric periods not necessarily have to represent a very peculiar cultural trait. They can be just the consequence of the habit to renew storage pits more often, perhaps annually (out of ritual reasons?), and therefore to produce a large number of them during the lifespan of a settlement. In other periods or phases, the pits may have been in use for several years or even replaced by some above-ground storage facilities.

Frequency of pit digging Both above-mentioned examples point to the importance of the same cultural trait: the occurrence (density) of sunken features on prehistoric and early medieval sites. A high degree of variability of this kind among individual periods of the past can be proven directly, for example, on the results of large-scale excavations. It is obvious that some periods are characterized by a large number of sunken houses, workshops, storage pits, clay pits etc., while sites from other periods show only few such features. The extreme case is represented by the Late Eneolithic Corded Ware culture without any single known settlement feature at all from Bohemia! Were it not for the cemeteries, Bohemia would appear as being unoccupied at the end of the Eneolithic. But it is the cemeteries that witness the contrary, a dense settlement network, well comparable with the situation in other parts of prehistory.

The number of sunken features on a site also varies among different regions. In this case, we may consider the influence of variously attractive subsoils. For example, South Bohemia generally shows fewer pits: this may be connected with less favourable properties of the local subsoils (T. Šálková, pers. comm.). Nonetheless, a larger number of features per site influence the probability of their recording, both in the case of field walking and smaller excavations. Selective activity representation Any larger set of archaeological data from Bohemia shows another suspicious fact: a rather varied representation of different kinds of past activities. In Figure 2, we see the number of fieldwork events in the AMCR registering residential and domestic production features (houses, pits, ovens etc.) on the one hand and funeral structures (graves and mounds) on the other. Even though there are many entries, in which their authors did not refer to any specific type of activity, it is improbable that the sample would not represent a kind of non-random variability.

The reasons for sunken settlement features not being built in some periods do not have to be based on economics or the environment; they may have been purely symbolic. According to E. Neustupný (1997), the vertical aspect was loaded with heavy symbolic connotations in prehistoric cultures, which in some periods may have prevented people not only from digging settlement pits, but even post holes for aboveground buildings. Therefore, the only occasion when it seems to have been appropriate in the Corded Ware culture to intervene into the ground was burying.

These differences are really remarkable. While finds with a domestic function come in the majority from the period from the Neolithic to the Middle Eneolithic, the ratio between the residential and funerary remains in the Beaker cultures from the Late Eneolithic is reversed. The following Bronze Age (with the exception

The opposite may have been the case in some other periods of prehistory. There are considerable nonrandom differences in this cultural trait not only between various cultures, but also between their 34

Deconstructing archaeological databases

of the Final Bronze Age) is characterized by a relatively balanced share of both types of evidence, but in the following periods the share of both types of activities is varied again. Since – according to a wellknown archaeological quip – it is impossible for humans to have only lived in some periods and only died in the others, we have to admit that different societies built their features for living and burying in such a way that they differ in their archaeological visibility. In theory, there may be a reason for their reciprocal manifestation (cf. the opposition of domus vs agrios mentioned by Hodder 1990), but we are still lacking clear arguments for such an interpretation. It rather seems that apart from periods characterized by a good visibility of one or the other type of activity, there are periods with a good visibility of both (Early and Final Bronze Age, Hallstatt period). This, however, makes us suspicious: could in such a case there have been periods characterized by a bad visibility of both basic activity types (e.g. Early Eneolithic, Early Middle Ages 1–2)? If this is the case, is it possible to take the numbers of sites in available data sources as a reliable base for the reconstruction of demographic trends? Regional variability archaeological record

of

Figure 2. Frequency of archaeological events registering settlements (residential and domestic production activities) vs. burial activities in Bohemia by archaeological periods. After AMCR (2011).

the Figure 3. Frequency of archaeological events registering main types of archaeological features from all prehistory and early Middle Ages. Split by the main geographical regions of Bohemia. After AMCR (2011).

The situation is even more complicated. The composition of archaeological data sources differs not only chronologically, but also regionally. The graph in Figure 3 summarizes the AMCR entries from the whole prehistory and Early Middle Ages. We can see that individual parts of Bohemia differ not only in the total amount of sites, but also in the shares of the basic sorts of archaeological remains (the graph differentiates between four categories of features: settlement pits, ‘flat’ inhumation graves, cremation graves and barrows). The varied composition and total figures in

these categories can be read as follows, namely, from the view of factors, which are here discussed: • Central Bohemia: a region intensively cultivated on the long term, with a long tradition of archaeological fieldwork and systematic registering of archaeological finds (hence high amount of entries); research conducted by various methods including field walking; 35

Martin Kuna • North-West Bohemia: likewise intensively cultivated, but since the 1970s subject to largescale surface coal mining; consequent extensive (but often rough) archaeological excavations yielded mainly sites with larger and deeper sunken features (hence a relatively large number of inhumation graves that would have escaped field walking surveys); • East Bohemia: an intensively cultivated area with lower intensity of fieldwork and/or evidence of activities; since the Late Bronze Age occupied by the Urnfield cultures, which are characterized by a high density of large cremation cemeteries easily detectable through field walking (due to shallow urn graves); • West Bohemia: cultivated with lesser intensity; lower intensity of fieldwork and/or archaeological evidence; larger woodland areas (hence a high percentage of burial mounds); • South Bohemia: similar to West Bohemia, with even more woodland areas (hence an even larger share of barrow cemeteries).

An experiment undertaken with the AMCR data understood a square of 250 m with finds from one of the examined archaeological periods as one site. We reckon more than 28,000 such sites; their classification according to periods is shown in Table 2. It is, after all, not clear whether the amount of sites defined in this way really represents the final and optimal result for our goals. The past thirty years saw the adoption of the settlement area theory by Czech archaeology (Neustupný 1986; 1998; 2010). In brief, according to this theory, every find and every site is to be understood as a part of a ‘settlement area’ (also called ‘community area’, i.e., an inhabited by one community) composed of a number of ‘activity areas/components’ of various functions. We should assume various activity areas even if some of them may be hardly visible in the archaeological record. The size of average settlement areas is usually estimated about 3–10 km2. Without being explicitly formulated, the settlement area theory leads to the idea that the growth of a population in prehistory and the Early Middle Ages was met with settling new territories, i.e. by increasing the number of settlement areas rather than by increasing the population density (the settled land was totally covered by settlement areas, but there was still enough free land around it). Such a model was, according to the overall view, valid until the exhaustion of agricultural land in the High Middle Ages and until a fundamental restructuring of the settlement network at that time (foundation of towns and colonization in the 13th century).

It is obvious that the composition of archaeological data in different parts of Bohemia differs considerably. These discrepancies are not always determined by the past development or the types of past communities; at least not in their basic characteristics (e.g. barrow cemeteries must have been originally spread over the whole of Bohemia with comparable density). On the contrary, most of the observed differences are rather to be explained by formal variability of cultural manifestations of different periods of the past, varying post-depositional processes, uneven research intensity and variability of fieldwork methods used.

Based on this view, we would be able to quantify prehistoric and early medieval populations not only by the number of recorded sites but also by the total extent of the inhabited land. For that, we could rather use

Relation between settlement density and its extent The demand for quantification of archaeological record poses specific methodological and theoretical questions. First of all, basic units of quantification are to be defined as proxy data for the population size. In this respect, there seems to be hardly any more suitable means than to define a space-temporal unit of ‘site’ and to understand it as a correlate of a past human group – a community. This approach eliminates some parts of the secondary discrepancies in the density of archaeological finds and transforms them into better quantifiable data. To some degree, this also solves the problem of the variable archaeological visibility; however, the question remains of whether this would be a definite solution.

Figure 4. Frequency of spatial units of two sizes (squares of 250 and 4,000 m) with evidence for activities in individual periods. After AMCR (2011).

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Deconstructing archaeological databases

Table 2. Number of spatial units of different size recorded by the Archaeological Map of the CR for individual periods. DATE

FIELDWORK EVENTS

SQUARES 250×250m

SQUARES 4000×4000m

LINEAR POTTERY C.

5600-4900

1824

1087

395

STROKE POTTERY C. (LATE NEOLITHIC)

4900-4200

1891

1128

413

PROTO-ENEOLITHIC

4200-3800

252

184

120

EARLY ENEOLITHIC

3800-3400

630

442

232

MIDDLE ENEOLITHIC

3400-2800

586

377

203

CORDED WARE C.

2800-2500

695

487

223

BELL BEAKER C.

2500-2300

392

289

148

EARLY BRONZE AGE

2300-1600

2080

1245

428

MIDDLE BRONZE AGE

1600-1300

1119

779

388

LATE BRONZE AGE

1300-1000

4796

2647

831

PERIOD

FINAL BRONZE AGE

1000-800

1260

839

385

HALLSTATT P.

800-400

4026

2392

855

LA TÈNE P.

400-0 BC

3408

2092

743

ROMAN P.

0-400 AD

2218

1333

503

MIGRATION P.

400-600

177

121

90

EARLY MEDIEVAL 1

600-700

173

129

90

EARLY MEDIEVAL 2

700-800

222

168

123

EARLY MEDIEVAL 3

800-950

901

513

303

EARLY MEDIEVAL 4

950-1200

1822

1067

520

28472

8531

1490

TOTAL

Therefore, could it not rather be the other way round, sites of some periods being more visible and therefore ‘more frequent’, which would also mean a greater probability of their recording in a coarser grid, i.e. on the level of ‘settlement areas’?

larger spatial units than individual sites, for example, squares of 4 × 4 km, by which we would approximate the units of the settlement area type. Table 2 and Figure 4 demonstrate that the relative numbers of settled squares of this size (an approximation of the ‘settlement areas’) follow the curve of the number of ‘sites’ with comparable peaks. Both curves correspond to the generally accepted idea of the changing population density in Bohemia, i.e. of the demographic growth culminating in the Neolithic and Bronze Age to the La Tène periods, as well as its decline in the Eneolithic and the Migration period up to the beginning of the Early Middle Ages.

Is there any solution? It may seem that the effort to solve the above mentioned questions is principally futile. We want to compare the intensity of original activities in various periods without knowing the variable probability with which their remains occur in the archaeological record. In other words, we are unable to decide whether more or less data means a more or less intensive settlement, or whether it is only a result of the change of probability, with which their traces appear in the archaeological data.

The following consideration can, however, shed doubts on the correctness of this conclusion. The comparison of the number of settled squares of 4 × 4 km (‘settlement areas’) with the density of 250 × 250 m squares shows a strong correlation (Figure 5). This means that the density of sites generally grows with the extent of the settled territory (with the number of settlement areas). At first sight, this may seem correct: the population growth may have lead both to a larger amount of settlement areas and to a larger intensity of land use within them. At second sight, however, something seems suspicious. The increasing density of land use within settlement areas in some periods does not correspond neither to the general model of the population growth (number of settlement areas), nor to the empirical data from archaeological fieldwork.

One of the possibilities is to completely resign over the correction of available data and to process them in the way ‘as if ’ they were reliable (Cooper – Green 2015 explicitly subscribe to this, the other cited contributions proceed in a similar way, though not mentioning it). To some extent, we may arrive at interesting conclusions, but only by assuming that the results will be sufficiently ‘robust’ and supported by further independent arguments (e.g. the spatial arrangement of the data: cf. Collard et al. 2010). If the quantity of data from various periods differs less significantly, it would be very risky to formulate general inferences. 37

Martin Kuna our data from all investigated periods will be complete. Even with a small probability of making a find from a certain period, we may expect to come to a point when all possible spatial units will display all periods in which the given area was inhabited. The main difficulty is that this moment has not come yet. For every period of the past we not only know just a part of its settlement areas, but for every period this part is most probably different. The attempt to estimate the missing part of the record has been carried out elsewhere (Kuna 2015). The changing Figure 5. Relation between the density of ‘sites’ (squares of 250 m) in ‘settlement areas’ shares of newly discovered settlement (squares of 4,000 m) and the total number of ‘settlement areas’ in individual periods. areas (compared to the re-examined After AMCR (2011). ones) in the last decades of fieldwork in Bohemia was followed. Even though this was only a first and rather tentative attempt (not Still there seem to be ways to come by the current based on high-quality data), we should not overlook situation, though they do not offer a solution here and differences between individual periods that do not seem now. The available approaches are still partial and can coincidental. In particular, periods with an apparent mainly only identify the factors of data distortion and lower population density show permanently some avoid premature generalizations. The possibility to higher evidence increase; this concerns, for example, remove distorting factors completely seems remote but some parts of the Eneolithic (Proto- to Middle). This theoretically possible. may mean, if this process is extrapolated, that in the A way to lower the impact of varying data density future we may expect the amount of evidence from produced by secondary factors is the use of a coarser individual periods to become more balanced. grid of data recording while sticking to the principle Comparison of data from various spatial grids enables of presence/absence of data description. For example, to some other observations. Figure 5, for example, instead of ‘sites’ of the size of 250 × 250 m we can account shows that in some periods the average density of for ‘settlement areas’ of 4 × 4 km. In theory, this approach sites per ‘settlement area’ is quite similar (e.g., the Bell would be correct since the ‘pars pro toto’ principle should Beaker culture, the Early Eneolithic, Middle Bronze Age work here: if a single pottery fragment is found, we may, and Early Middle Ages 4 show equally about 2 sites per in principle, assume a whole ‘site’, and a ‘site’ presupposes ‘settlement area’), but the total number of ‘settlement a whole ‘settlement area’. The objection, of course, may areas’ is different (from 148 to 520). From this, we can be raised that the population density within settlement cautiously conclude that the difference between the areas could have differed from period to period. On the given periods in the number of ‘settlement areas’ does other hand, do we make a bigger mistake if we leave out not depend mainly on archaeological visibility (since considering such a variability or if we stick too tightly to the site density is similar), but on the real population what empirical data present? size (i.e. the extent of the settled territory). On the In the future we should complement the work in a coarse other hand, we have to ask whether we can by right grid with an intensive survey of samples of individual compare, say, the Early Middle Ages 4 with the Late ‘settlement areas’ in order to see what they looked like Bronze Age. On the one hand, the latter of these in detail. We will also need to exploit the available data periods shows substantially more settlement areas maximally, including, for example, information hidden but, on the other hand, also a much higher density in residual finds and the results of different kinds of of sites in settlement areas, which must have led to fieldwork. Many kinds of information have until now a higher probability of sites to be discovered. This often been neglected, which can systematically distort warning can be further supported by another simple the quantitative representation of some periods. argument: is it likely that the population in the Late Bronze Age (831 known ‘settlement areas’) was really Theoretically, a larger grid would bring us closer to so much larger than in the 12th century AD (520 the time when, in the frame of chosen spatial units, areas)? 38

Deconstructing archaeological databases

Some of these comments are also suitable for the explanation of regional differences. Archaeological record in individual regions is characterized by varying site densities which may be possibly correlated with the variable intensity of fieldwork activities. In principal, the annual number of construction and mining interventions in the landscape, number of archaeological fieldwork events, share of fieldwork that produced finds or did not, number of archaeologists per region, number of reports submitted to the central database can be compared with the data in available databases. Even though we would probably not be able to carry out a simple ‘calibration’ of these data, potential correlations can play the role of supporting arguments for otherwise detected trends.

Green, C., Gosden, C., Cooper, A., Franconi, T., Harkel, L. ten, Kamash, Z. and Lowerre, A. 2017. Understanding the Spatial Patterning of English Archaeology: Modelling Mass Data, 1500 BC to AD 1086. Archaeological Journal 174:1, 244-280. Hodder, I. 1990. The domestication of Europe : structure and contingency in neolithic societies Oxford: Blackwell. Kolář, J., Macek, M., Tkáč, P. and Szabó, P. 2015. Spatiotemporal modelling as a way to reconstruct patterns of past human activities. Archaeometry 58, 513–28. https://doi.org/10.1111/arcm.12182 Kuna, M. 1998. The memory of landscapes, in: Neustupný, E. (ed.), Space in prehistoric Bohemia, Praha (ARÚ), 106-115. Kuna, M. 1991. Archeologický průzkum povrchovými sběry [Archaeological survey by field walking]. Praha: Zprávy ČAS, Supplément 23. Kuna, M. 2001. Povrchový sběr a intenzita využití krajiny v pravěku, in: Kozłowski, J.K. and Neustupný, E. (eds.), Archeologia przestrzeni. Metody i wyniki badań osadniczych w dorzeczach górnej Łaby i Wisły, Kraków 27-54. Kuna, M. 2002. Intruze jako doklad „nenalezených“ fází pravěkého osídlení (Intrusions as information on the “unfound” settlement phases). In: Neustupný, E. (ed.), Archeologie nenalézaného. Sborník přátel, kolegů a žáků k životnímu jubileu Slavomila Vencla. Plzeň: Dept. of Archaeology, University of West Bohemia. Kuna, M. 2015. Past settlement of Bohemia according to archaeology. A critical view. In: Kuna, M. et al., Structuring archaeological evidence. The Archaeological Map of the Czech Republic and related information systems. Prague: Institute of Archaeology CAS, 163-193. Also available at http://www.archeologickamapa. cz/?page=book. Kuna, M. et al. 2015. Structuring archaeological evidence. The Archaeological Map of the Czech Republic and related information systems. Prague: Institute of Archaeology CAS. Also available at http://www. archeologickamapa.cz/?page=book. Kuna, M., Němcová, A. et al. 2012. Výpověď sídlištního odpadu. Nálezy z pozdní doby bronzové v Roztokách a otázky depoziční analýzy archeologického kontextu [The evidence of settlement discard. Finds from the Final Bronze Age at Roztoky and the depositional analysis of archaeological context]. Praha: Institute of Archaeology ASCR. Neustupný, E. 1986. Sídelní areály pravěkých zemědělců [Settlement areas of prehistoric farmers], Památky archeologické 77, 226-234. Neustupný, E. 1997. Šňůrová sídliště, kulturní normy a symboly, Archeologické rozhledy 49 [2], 304-322. Neustupný, E. (ed.) 1998. Space in Prehistoric Bohemia. Prague: Institute of Archaeology CAS. Neustupný, E. 2010. Teorie archeologie. Plzeň: Aleš Čeněk. Pokorný, P. 2011. Neklidné časy. Kapitoly ze společných dějin přírody a lidí. Praha: Dokořán.

Conclusion The exploitation of ‘big data’ information sources represents an attractive research approach for the future. This data, being unavailable until recently, can bring new views of some general characteristics of the past development. In my opinion it is, however, not advisable to judge prematurely and to interpret the data prima facie. Criticism is indispensable, particularly regarding the processes that have created the data itself during the deeper past as well as during the course of archaeological fieldwork in the last century. English by Tomáš Mařík and Martin Kuna References Collard, M., Edinborough, K., Thomas, M. G. and Shennan, S. J. 2010. Radiocarbon evidence indicates that migrants introduced farming to Britain. Journal of Archaeological Science 37 [4], 866-870. Cooper, A. and Green, C. 2015. Embracing the Complexities of “Big Data” in Archaeology: the Case of the English Landscape and Identities Project. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, online publication. Demján, P. and Dreslerová, D. 2016. Modelling distribution of archaeological settlement evidence based on heterogeneous spatial and temporal data, Journal of Archaeological Science 69, 100-109. Dreslerová, D. 2011. Přírodní prostředí a pravěké zemědělské společnosti na území Čech (Environment and prehistoric agricultural societies in Bohemia). Ph.D. thesis, Charles University, Prague. Dreslerová, D. and Demján, P. 2015. Application of AMCR data in the study of prehistoric settlement patterns. In: Kuna, M. (ed.), Structuring archaeological evidence. The Archaeological Map of the Czech Republic and related information systems. Prague: Institute of Archaeology CAS, 141-161. Also available at http:// www.archeologickamapa.cz/?page=book. 39

Martin Kuna Porčić, M., Blagojević, T. and Stefanović, S. 2016. Demography of the Early Neolithic Population in Central Balkans: Population Dynamics Reconstruction Using Summed Radiocarbon Probability Distributions. PLOS ONE 11(8): e0160832. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0160832. Shennan, S., Downey, S. S., Timpson, A., Edinborough, K., Colledge, S., Kerig, T., Manning, K. and Thomas, M. G. 2013. Regional population collapse followed initial agriculture booms in mid-Holocene Europe. Nature Communications 4 (2486). doi:10.1038/ncomms3486.

Timpson, A., Colledge, S., Crema, E., Edinborough, K., Kerig, T., Manning, K., Thomas, M. G. and Shennan, S. 2014. Reconstructing regional population fluctuations in the European Neolithic using radiocarbon dates: a new case-study using an improved method. Journal of Archaeological Science 52, 549-557. Zvelebil, M., Beneš, J. and Kuna, J. 1993. Ancient landscape reconstruction in north Bohemia, Landscape and settlement programme - Projekty rekonstrukce krajiny v severních Čechách - Krajina a sídla, Památky archeologické 84, 93 - 95.

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The Gauls against the State Sophie Krausz As I was opening the Proceedings of the AFEAF conference in Aschaffenburg in 2012, before taking a look at the article I had written with Laurence Augier on Berry, I came across John Collis’ introduction to the volume which was on protourbanisation in Europe in the Iron Age (Collis 2012). John discusses a comparison between Mediterranean city-states and what he calls the tribal states of temperate Europe. He also discusses the notion of power in Iron Age societies and emphasizes the particular identity of protohistoric societies, which are not the wild barbarians described by the Greeks and Romans but’... developed enough to articulate their own versions of urbanization and state organizations; quite simply, they were not the same as those of the classical world’. For me, this article is a reference to understand John’s thoughts and I would like to pay tribute to our dear colleague by offering him a contribution on the political ideology of the Gauls. The title of my article echoes the famous book by French anthropologist Pierre Clastres La société contre l’État. This book made a great impact at the time of its publication in 1974, initially in the field of anthropology and then rapidly into other fields, with resonances in all disciplines of the social sciences and humanities interested in the study of political systems. Pierre Clastres states in this book that there are no societies without a state but societies against the state. This original idea implies that the State can only appear in societies that deliberately evolve their organization towards this political form. On the other hand, it implies that some societies intentionally maintain themselves in political models that are not state models. And if these societies are against the state, it is because they refuse and reject this political system. Pierre Clastres developed this theory following his ethnological research in South America. Between 1963 and 1968, he lived among the Guayaki (Clastres 1972), the Yanomami of Venezuela, and then with the Guarani of Brazil. The data acquired in the field made it possible for him to forge his theory, which he consolidated by comparing the social structures of the North American Indians, particularly the Apache (Clastres 1974, 179). Outside the Amerindian context, the idea of la Société contre l’État is a formidable metaphor for addressing the issue of political systems in protohistoric societies. For it is precisely during or at the end of the Protohistory that the State appears in different parts of the world, in the Bronze Age or the Iron Age in Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Aegean world, Asia Minor, Rome or even in temperate Europe. What happened in these societies

to cause this upheaval? Where and when is the tipping point to a state organization? These questions are an enigma for historians on all continents of the world because the conditions required for the genesis of the state are obscure. In temperate Europe, the advent of the state was long attributed to the Romans. But thanks to the archaeological advances of recent decades, it can be said today that there were indeed states during the Iron Age - states contemporary to those of the Greeks and Romans. However, archaeological data also show that protohistoric societies have favoured other political systems and the state has been only one option among many. Do these choices refer to societies against the state? The point of view I propose in this article is the opposite of the traditional 19th century historians’ vision that had confined protohistoric societies to an evolutionary perspective for over a century. Indeed, it was once thought that ‘primitive societies’ were deprived of many benefits, an iniquitous expression attributing to them a ‘subsistence economy’, as if men could only exist or survive in a hostile environment, without a state, without writing, without history (Clastres 1974, 162). In this primitivist construct, the state was seen as the supreme form of political complexity, with other systems being only intermediate levels to achieve it. Today, there is a clear recognition of a conceptual framework forged in the context of colonization, an ethnocentric vision that sought to affirm the superiority of the Western State and its institutions. Of course, there is no longer any need for it today, but the Protohistorians have not yet finished with this image. Fortunately, it is gradually fading away, but has not completely disappeared. Based on archaeological evidence and textual sources on Gallic Iron Age societies, and also based on anthropological models, the political history essay I propose will attempt to show that there may be an evolution of state ideology during the Iron Age. While Gallic societies came into contact very early with Greeks and Romans who had been organized into states since the 8th century BC, it seems that they were not as seduced by their political systems as by their commercial products! Whether in the First or Second Iron Age, the Gauls firmly preserved and maintained their political identities and made their own choices about urbanization and the state. If we can demonstrate today that the State is taking shape in the Middle or Late La Tène in some Gallic civitates, we will have to ask ourselves about the internal processes that may have led to this political system. How did the Gauls finally become ‘for the State’?

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 41–48

Sophie Krausz an egalitarian order that prevents the emergence of a stable centralized power. In this, he carefully maintains a model of society against the state. However, this principle remains theoretical and ideal, because following Evans-Pritchard, anthropologists who have studied African societies have shown the complexity and diversity of segmentary political systems and the existence of relationships of domination despite the intrinsic properties of the lineage system1.

Stateless Societies and Societies against the State The repercussions of the decidedly modern approach to Clastres in different disciplines of the social sciences and humanities make it possible to affirm today that there was one before and one after the publication of La société contre l’État. Critics of Clastres wondered how a society could be defined by opposition to a thing, in this case, a political system. But the question cannot be asked in this way because Clastres has shown that primitive societies did not reject the state after having known or been around it; rather, they rejected it because their entire social system refused a model which introduced a division between the dominant and the dominated. The anthropologist also showed that the State’s refusal is in no way a refusal of politics, because non-state societies are highly politicized. For them, it is precisely the whole social body that determines policy. Since La société contre l’État, the absence of a State in human societies can no longer be considered as a deficiency, an archaism, a kind of zero level of politics. The absence of a state is a political choice, or, more precisely, the choice of a different political system. The idea of society against the State emerged in the mid-1970s, a time when European archaeology was in the midst of processual reflection. Archaeologists were rethinking this concept and therefore integrating broader issues that opened up to anthropology. This was a particularly dynamic and exciting period for archaeology, an irreversible intellectual process that continues to this day.

In addition to segmented organizations, political systems with centralized power exist and have existed in different parts of the world. Since the work of the American anthropologist E.R. Service, they have been called chiefdoms. This term is often considered ambiguous because in the evolutionary approach of Service, chiefdom corresponded to a stage of evolution of the tribe (local political structure) but also a march towards the State (Service 1962). If we move away from the evolutionist paradigm of Service’s theory, the concept of chiefdom remains very useful to describe a particularly frequent political model, both in past and present societies (Krausz 2016, 297-300). Unlike segment societies, chiefdoms are stratified communities and are distinguished from the state by the absence of a coercive apparatus. In systems with centralized power, political action corresponds to a type of relationship that is established between those who hold power and those who do not; in other words, those who govern and those who are governed. If power is imposed, then the political arrangements are based on a relationship of subordination (Levi-Strauss 1958) and involves the use of coercive means. On the other hand, if power is granted, it is based on the acceptance of the governed and the political relationship is based on reciprocity, despite its asymmetric nature. Often considered a political enigma, this idea was proposed by E. de la Boétie in a famous speech in 1549, La servitude volontaire des dominés face aux dominants (La Boétie 1549 2007). Indeed, what are the mechanisms that lead men to submit and resign themselves to others? How do some men, indigenous or foreign, manage to transgress the fundamental principle of undivided society, to divert and then to monopolize the power relationship? And what are the drivers that push the dominated to recognize the legitimacy of the dominant, sometimes without any counterpart? The enigma of the emergence of the state begins with these questions (Testart 2004a; Testart 2004b).

Human societies cannot be classified in a binary way, as if there were on the one hand societies with power and on the other hand societies without power. Indeed, political power is universal, it is inherent in the society, whether that society is defined by blood ties or by social stratification. In the early 20th century, British functionalists, led by Edward Evan Evans-Pritchard and Meyer Fortes, showed that the segmentation of society prohibits any concentration of power in the hands of a single person (Fortes and Evans-Pritchard 1940). The segment model is a political system in its own right, the most famous example of which is the Sudanese Nuer studied in the early 20th century by E.-E. EvansPritchard. Taking up an idea of Émile Durkheim (1893), the British anthropologist demonstrated that the acephalous segmental organization of the Nuer is just as powerful as a state model, despite the fact that there is neither a hierarchical authority nor a coercive force in this nilotic society (Evans-Pritchard 1937). Among the Nuer, political life is punctuated by the alternation between alliances and fissioning amongst lineage segments (Sahlins 1961). The Nuer segment system allows thousands of men to be quickly mobilized in the event of conflict and demobilized just as quickly when the conflict is over. The segmental organization model is a powerful means of social regulation. It determines

According to Clastres, consent is a key concept in the establishment and exercise of power. In the Amerindian chiefdoms he studied in the field, he found that the exercise of power excluded any recourse to coercive means and remained subject to permanent control 1  Cf. in particular on this subject the work of E. Gellner on the Berber tribes of the Moroccan Atlas (Gellner 2003).

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by the governed. He deduced and contrasted two theoretical types of societies: on the one hand, state societies characterized by the centralization of power and the right of rulers to use coercive means; on the other hand, societies characterized by the limits that the governed impose on the exercise of power. These limits are complemented by resistance by the governed to any form of coercion or violence. This idea of Clastres fits perfectly into the model of sacred royalty. Indeed, as in the Amerindian chiefdoms, political power remains subordinate to the consent of the governed. The king is sacred and sometimes he is the incarnation of a divinity. It is a particular characteristic that allows him to control natural forces such as women’s fertility or the fertility of fields and more generally the prosperity of his group. This supernatural power is cannot be separated from the royal person and it withers as soon as his physical strength weakens. The ritual regicide that characterizes sacred kingships allows the governed to have total collective control of the social order, which is also symbolic of the natural order. The divine king is therefore not free to exert violence against the governed, but on the contrary, it is the governed who exert it against him.

chiefdom a dispute is settled privately and personally, the fundamental difference is that in the State, one is subject to laws that apply to all its members. The State is a higher-level political system that differs from the chiefdom in at least two ways: the institutionalized use of violence and the existence of an administrative body that makes it possible to control the territory in a homogeneous and permanent manner. What clearly distinguishes a state society from a chiefdom is the institutionalization of coercion, monopolized by public power and legitimized by governments. The State can be defined by these minimum factors, common to various forms of State, of more or less complex design. And beyond these criteria, like all other political systems, states affect variable forms, with countless hierarchical and structural ramifications. Hallstatt Society against the State? The princely tombs at the end of the Hallstatt period are undoubtedly one of the most spectacular aspects of the European Iron Age. Even if the specialists’ interpretations diverge on the reasons for the emergence and subsequent fall of princely complexes, all seem to agree today on the diversity of forms that prevail within this concept initially proposed by W. Kimmig (1969). It was during Hallstatt D that the first princely complexes emerged north of the Alps, while others only appeared at La Tène A. They correspond to a new model of society that was becoming more complex socially, economically and politically. Social complexity is perceptible through the forms of housing, particularly at the Heuneburg, which is undoubtedly the most successful model of this series of sites. We can see the emergence of craft activities that take place in specialized districts within a real urban area. These neighbourhoods reveal different levels of social stratification, accentuated by the presence of sumptuous burials on the periphery of the acropolis. In Heuneburg and Vix, the promontory houses buildings are of such exceptional size and architecture that they could be described as palaces. Economically, the northern Alpine communities maintained contacts with the Etruscans from the first half of the 6th century onwards, then with the Mediterranean world and northern Italy (Orchard 2015, 108). These relations were not new and existed since the 7th century BC, but two criteria distinguish them from previous periods: firstly, the intensity and durability of contacts, and secondly, the fact that these links are reserved for the Hallstatt elites who offer their precious minerals, ingots, salt and perhaps slaves in exchange for the luxury products of the Mediterranean people. The interest in exoticism is not limited to material products, it is also expressed at the Heuneburg in the Greek rampart of Phase IVb (c. 570 BC). This monument of raw brick, exceptional in the heart of Baden-Württemberg, expresses the

The distinction between societies with power and societies without power is ultimately irrelevant. Indeed, the relevant differentiation is between societies with coercive power and those without coercion. Political power as coercion, the one that characterizes state societies by its very nature, is not a universal model but a special case that appears in some cultures at certain times in their history. The political model of the state is only one model among many and political systems are not destined to reach the state as an ultimate stage representing a kind of perfection. While it is difficult, if not impossible, to give a conclusive definition of what a State is, given the many variations in time and space, the most common criterion for States is the existence of powerful means of constraint and coercion, internal and external, both administrative, legal and technical. This implies that the State must acquire the necessary means to control equally the individuals on its territory and must be able to intervene at all points and at all times through a regulatory apparatus implemented at the territorial level (i.e. an administration and a police force). For Testart, ‘a State worthy of the name is a State that has such a force that no other State from private powers or particular groups can seriously oppose it’ (Testart 2005, 83). The authority and coercion that one community may exercise over another are two criteria that characterize a state society, but they can also be found in state-less societies. Indeed, coercion also exists in chiefdoms and is often even considered an institution, such as vendetta (feud), since the use of violence is legitimate for anyone who considers himself wronged (Lapierre 1977, 124). While in 43

Sophie Krausz attraction of Hallstatt elites for the Greek culture in the 6th century BC. Finally, on the margins of social and economic changes, there is the question of the political systems that have caused or accompanied these transformations in northern Alpine societies.

number of these complexes seem to have coexisted in the northern-alpine domain over a very short period of time, possibly at the end of Ha D3 or the HaD3/LTA transition. While it is clear that the political change did not occur at the same time for each of them, it did not occur in the same social context, and perhaps not for the same reasons. These are differences that must be taken into account because the political systems of the princely complexes may not have been homogeneous, let alone identical within the northern Alpine domain. In any case, it is probably an exceptional and strong component that has led or encouraged a number of aristocratic entities to switch to another political model. This component could result from a powerful economic network, built up as early as Ha D1 around an entity that is particularly well placed geographically, such as the Heuneburg. This network is said to have gradually expanded, inviting peripheral territorial entities with control over rich mineral and agricultural resources, also well located on strategic transport routes. For the new entities joining the economic network of long-distance trade, the enrichment of the elites has been very rapid. Conurbations such as Heuneburg or Bourges were then able to develop very quickly thanks to sustained agricultural and/or artisanal production, combined with a substantial increase in the extraction of iron ore (Augier and Krausz 2021). Such a stimulation of production implies an exponential increase in human resources. If qualified human resources are lacking in a community, they require external recruitment in different forms, slavery not being excluded. The introduction of new populations into the community, in this case for reasons of economic productivity, is a possible scenario for the formation of a state system (Krausz 2016, 306). Indeed, in different parts of the world and at different times (Egypt, Mesopotamia, China, Mesoamerica), it can be observed that where urban nucleons are developing rapidly, their growth cannot only be explained by the demography of the pre-existing village population (Campagno 2008; 2012). If it is not demography, it can only be an influx of people settling individually or in larger or smaller groups. If newcomers do not have kinship relationships with indigenous populations, this implies that there are social processes for adopting or certifying foreigners in order for them to settle. These processes can lead to very different outcomes: either indigenous people integrate newcomers as if they were parents (simpler, if they are individual migrants), or they place them in a situation of dependence. Alternatively - and more likely when large groups of immigrants are concerned, - the established inhabitants may set up subordinate and/or patron-client relationships, to which the newcomers must agree. Social hierarchies can then appear, differentiating or even challenging groups that are not related to each other. Social relationships between groups may or may not become confrontational. If one

In all known cases, princely complexes are formed on sites already occupied at the beginning of the Iron Age, or even as early as the Late Bronze Age. In most cases, sumptuous tombs under burial mounds reveal the presence of well-established aristocratic elites. The emergence of the princely phenomenon is therefore not linked to the sudden emergence of foreign populations following territorial conquests. Rather, it is a change in political system brought about by communities that were already established, sovereign over their territory and with a clear aristocratic component. In the Heuneburg and Bourges (Ralston 2010, 2020), these communities were known from the Late Bronze Age and the system that governed them before the political transfer could correspond to that of the tribe (local group) or chiefdom (Service 1962; Johnson and Earle 2000). The difference between the two systems is the lack of centralized power in the tribe, which is very prominent in the chiefdom. In this political system, the priest king symbolizes the inseparable nature of political and religious powers. To identify the political models that preceded the emergence of princely complexes, we would need to be able to recognize the presence of these priest kings, perhaps this is possible by examining funeral practices and taking into account armament, the presence of a ceremonial chariot, ornament or clothing. For example, through armament, the image of war is very concrete in male graves since the Late Bronze Age and if it is not only symbolic, it can refer to the fundamental function of protecting a king or more generally to the political elite of the community. On the other hand, in the absence of texts, the symbols of religion are not decipherable and their identification is particularly problematic. As a result, the emblematic figures of potential chieftaincies, in this case the priest kings (or queen priests), are not formally identifiable with certainty in societies of the Late Bronze Age and Early Iron Age. Politically, it is very likely that not all princely complexes emerged under the same conditions and in the same context. It is therefore necessary to take into account the specific history of each of them within their particular environment. We are now well aware of the chronological differences in the appearance of these princely complexes, an essential argument in favour of the existence of different conditions of emergence and variable political preconditions. The oldest complexes appear at Ha D1 (Heuneburg), others emerge at Ha D2 (Breisach), then at Ha D3 (Ipf, Bourges, Vix, Lyon-Vaise), finally some extend to La Tène A (Glauberg, Bourges). A 44

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social group permanently dominates over the others, or regulates conflicts between groups, then conditions become socially favourable for the emergence of the State. This model explains the formation of cities by the convergence of groups from different backgrounds (different parental backgrounds) resulting in a heterogeneous social composition.

suggests that subservient populations may have been recruited from princely complexes to rapidly and cheaply increase the production of agricultural, mining or industrial wealth. In addition to the subservient populations, the princely complexes had to attract other categories of populations who worked for the princes or for themselves, as is suspected in Bourges at La Tène A. These populations could be of local origin, with a close relationship to princely or other lineages. They could have specific skills in agricultural or industrial production, perhaps even land power within the territory of the complex. We do not have enough archaeological evidence to estimate the degree of integration of these population segments into princely societies (slaves and other nonservant populations): highly integrated, the political relationship between rulers and the governed is close to acceptance. Less integrated, the governed live under the domination of the rulers, a hold that may have finally led to the implosion of the system. Indeed, the episodes of fires recorded at the Heuneburg could reveal the unrest and attempts to uprising populations maintained in a state of dependence by autocratic princes. In what context could these revolts have taken place? It is possible that the elites found it impossible to politically manage their new agglomerations, which developed too quickly, with too many and ungovernable populations. Their rapid development may not have enabled them to set up an effective political and administrative structure to manage communities that are socially too heterogeneous. The princes’ mode of government may have led to ever greater social inequalities, in an increasingly rigid totalitarian system. This would have become intolerable for the exploited and dependent populations (Brown 2015, 52; Krausz 2016, 337).

The Glauberg is currently the only princely complex that provides arguments in favour of this scenario. Indeed, the DNA and multi-isotope analyses published in 2014 by Corina Knipper and her team provided new and fundamental data on the social composition of the Glauberg populations (Knipper et al. 2014). The researchers studied the human remains of the princely graves of the Glauberg (Tumulus 1) but also those of 27 individuals buried in the conical pits at Klause II. The objective of this study was to determine possible social differences between individuals in the tumulus and pits as well as the location of their geographical origin. The researchers were able to establish that the prince of Tomb 1 (tumulus 1) enjoyed a high-quality diet during his lifetime, particularly rich in protein. The isotopic composition of his dental enamel is characteristic of the study area, however, strontium isotope data show that he was probably born not in Glauberg but rather in a different region. The DNA of individuals buried in the conical pits of Klause II - men, women and children - shows no relationship to the prince of Burial Ground 1. Unlike the prince, these individuals had a diet low in animal protein and based mainly on millet. Their skeletons have many joint injuries, revealing an intense and physically stressful lifestyle. Isotope ratios of strontium suggest that these individuals had links to the western Wetterau region. They were therefore not from the Glauberg, but came from a nearby region to the north of the princely complex. These individuals from outside the Glauberg, who have physically suffered, can be considered as persons of inferior status, in other words slaves. Their burial in these conical pits, outside conventional burials, is an additional argument in favour of their death far from their community of origin, far from their relatives who could have normally organized their burial. We thus have at the Glauberg a serious indication of the presence of slaves in the service of the elites at La Tène A. The existence of a servile workforce in the Iron Age, often suspected but rarely demonstrated, opens new perspectives on the political systems that may have existed in princely societies. It is well suited to the reality of a social stratification, in this case, social levels without kinship relationships that may have co-existed within the princely complex. The identification of social stratification would also explain the existence of housing districts that partition populations of different levels (by trade, family lineages or ethnic origin, for example). The recent discovery made at Glauberg is fundamental because it

In the event of a revolt or revolution, the extinction of the princely system could therefore be partly linked to internal causes and would amount to a refusal of the current regime and its mode of functioning, with society clearly expressing itself against the State. But how could a revolt phenomenon have spread throughout the northern Alps, in kingdoms independent of each other and especially out of time? The collapse is in fact dated to c. 540 BC at the Heuneburg, but to around 450 BC at Vix, whereas it happened c. 420 BC at Bourges. The slaves did not have the means to consult each other from one end of the northern Alps to the other; as for the craftsmen, could they form a more powerful class, integrated into a network capable of feeding and maintaining contacts between them? A combination of internal and external factors is frequently mentioned in an attempt to explain the causes of the collapse of princely complexes (Brun 2015, 55). Among the external factors, a weakening of economic activity and the long45

Sophie Krausz distance network may have affected the fragile princely entities, destabilizing production and deteriorating the living conditions of the populations living in the princely complexes. Economic decline may have fanned the flames of insurgency in long-smoldering populations. As the princes were weakened, the revolts would have led to the abolition of the various systems that could exist in the northern Alps. This hypothesis makes it possible to suggest the involvement of an external factor, in this case the breakdown of the economic network, which would have affected all the princely complexes in a relatively short period of time. But while all complexes would have been affected to the extent that they were integrated and dependent on the same economic network, the causes of their collapse may vary in form. Their decline is distributed through time depending on how the elites were able to manage the crisis. In some princely complexes, this crisis may have represented an opportunity to abolish the princes’ political system and set up another one. While some territorial entities in the northern Alps were governed by a system of sacred royalty, the aristocratic elite associated with society was able to dismiss the prince, carry out the regicide and then take over the community’s reins by establishing a new sovereign. The destruction, even the decapitation of the two statues of Vix discovered in the cult enclosure of the Herbues could characterize an act of destitution of the elites, both symbolic and real, within the framework of a sacred royalty. According to excavation data, the abandonment of this enclosure occurred in the middle of the 5th century BC, which corresponds well to the phase of disaffection of the princely residence located on Mont-Lassois (Chaume, Reinhard and Wustrow 2007, 343-67; Chaume and Reinhard 2011). The destruction of several statues bearing the effigy of the La Tène princes of the Glauberg can reveal a similar ritual and political phenomenon emanating from a sacred monarchy. Indeed, with the exception of the almost complete statue with the same ornaments and headdress as the prince buried in mound 1, four other statues of the same type were reduced to pieces at the end of La Tène A (Frey and Herrmann 1997).

on an economic network that could be activated and controlled by one of them. At the time of the collapse of this network, each community resolved its internal problems as best it could, whether through violence or by newly-configured collaborations among the population present, some perhaps taking the opportunity to return to the previous political situation, thereby favouring a less unequal social model and above all marked by a return to the control of the elites by the mass of the community. The system of princely complexes was only a brief attempt at political change, a sudden and violent experiment that did not have time to succeed. This outline can be identified as that of a state process that the Hallstatt elites tried to put in place, perhaps against models of which they were necessarily aware and with which they were in more or less direct contact, in northern Italy and Greece. This attempt at political change has led to the equally ephemeral appearance of urban forms, perhaps not in all princely complexes but certainly in some of them (Brun et Chaume 2013, 342). But society against the State seems to have been stronger than the power of the elites. Indeed, after this episode, no state form reappeared in continental Europe until the 3rd century BC. The Development of a State Ideology The aristocrats did not disappear after the collapse of the princely centres because they can be found, for example, in Berry (Bourges, Indre Valley) or Touraine (Sublaines) through their rich agricultural holdings, sometimes with large storage pit complexes (Krausz 2016, 282). Why do these populations not build urban centres? Did the population movements of the 4th and 3rd centuries BC affect the demography and population density in temperate Europe, throughout Gaul or in certain areas more particularly involved in conquests and mercenarism? In the Gallic communities of the 4th and 3rd centuries, although rich and dynamic, it would seem that political systems did not allow or require the emergence of urban forms. The powerful aristocratic lineages, strongly rooted in rich agricultural lands, needed neither cities nor states. Perhaps they were even against the State, fiercely maintaining their traditional way of operating and curbing any attempt to seize individual power. The princely complexes constituted an episode in history, engraved in the memory of the Celtic communities, a model that was definitively rejected and never again retained. However, it was in the interval between the 4th and 3rd centuries that the conditions for the emergence of a new form of agglomeration in continental Europe were gradually put in place. At the turn of the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC, large plain settlements of several dozen hectares appeared. They first emerge in Central Europe, such as Němčice nad Hanou in Moravia, Roseldorf in Lower Austria (Salač 2012, 325) or Manching in Bavaria for the most famous of all known examples (Sievers

Whatever the way to regain control of the hands of power, this is where the return of corporations against the state can take place in some princely complexes. This may be the case in Bourges where craftsmen may have regained control of the complex at La Tène A after the fall of the princes (Krausz 2016, 334; Augier and Krausz 2021). The situation of Bourges, as indicated by the archaeological data available for La Tène A, cannot be considered as a general case applicable to all princely complexes. It is more likely that each aristocratic centre held a total political independence, autonomy and territorial sovereignty that they already had before the appearance of the princely phenomenon. On the other hand, they were all dependent, to varying degrees, 46

The Gauls against the State

2007). Němčice and Roseldorf do not seem to have fortifications, nor does Manching, for a large part of its existence, especially during its most active phase. Sites of the same nature and similar morphology appeared in Gaul a little later, at the turn of La Tène C1/C2. Some were abandoned at the end of La Tène D1 to create an oppidum nearby (Levroux, Aulnat, Basel, Breisach for example), others were fortified on the spot like Manching or Châteaumeillant, others continued until the Roman conquest without being fortified (Saumeray, Lacoste). The time of the oppida corresponds to the second episode of La Tène urbanization, the first being that of the establishment of the plain agglomerations at La Tène C. Between the two episodes, economic activities remained the same while strengthening and intensifying. The creation of oppida is a political solution to the stabilization of diverse populations working in cities. Indeed, the diversification and increase in artisanal production in the course of La Tène C2 and D1 have led to a greater complexity of social categories, while stimulating urban development. In a particularly dynamic economic context, the territory has become the basic political entity in Gaul, the one that Caesar recognizes and calls civitas. The territories of the Late la Tène probably result from the federation of former previously independent entities, chiefdoms or autonomous kingdoms. Civitates are territorial states with internal sovereignty, where the majority of the population speaks the same language and shares the same culture. The civitas centre is a capital that does not exclude the development of other cities within the territory. The oppida then emerged in territorial subdivisions of the civitas, probably the pagi to which Caesar refers. Each pagus is controlled by a princeps (magistrate or king), who administers economic, political and military activities (Krausz 2016, 322-325). The citizenship of the Gauls is attested by Caesar’s mention of taxes and military service (Caes. BGall., 6.14) as well as the population census and public accounting (Caes. BGall., 1.39). These references confirm the existence of an administration and the Gallic civitas model could be part of a state system such as the citystate. This concept underlies the existence of a mosaic of autonomous city-states covering Gaul. Caesar noted that each civitas had chosen its own political system: while some have retained a traditional monarchical model, others have adopted a senatorial system. Finally, the political autonomy of civitates makes it possible to form leagues or federations. Several literary references confirm the existence of these political and military leagues, and the first example is the rescue army set up to rescue Vercingetorix in Alesia (Caes. BGall., 7.75). In addition to literary mentions, there are new archaeological data that support the existence of standing armies at the civitas level. Indeed, in some civitates, such as those of the Bituriges, the Gauls equipped all the great oppida in the same way, raising the old murus gallicus by huge massive ramparts

during the Gauls war (Krausz 2014). The architectural complexity and specific organisation of these gigantic construction sites reveal the existence of military architects and engineers working within a specialised section of an army controlled at the level of the civitas (Krausz 2018). The existence of a standing army is an essential fact because it symbolizes the monopoly of violence at the State level. I have tried to show in this contribution that the ideology of the State is present throughout the Iron Age. From the moment that protohistoric communities are in contact with state societies, first with the Phoenicians and then with the Carthaginians, the Greeks, and the Italics, they cannot ignore this political form. But the State remains one of many political systems and protohistoric communities have clearly not regarded it as either an ideal or a political perfection. Otherwise, state systems would have emerged throughout continental Europe from the beginning of the Iron Age. This did not happen, not because the protohistoric communities were not ready or too archaic, but because their ideology and representation of the world did not lead them to such centralized and unequal political systems. The history of the European Iron Age shows that a step in the complexification was taken at the end of the Hallstatt in the northern Alps, but the state experiment was not pushed to the very end, and was probably rejected by the social body. The society against the State chose another political system and the princely model could never return to continental Europe. It took several generations following this ephemeral and violent attempt for the State to be permanently established in Gaul. It is the result of an ideological change that is embodied in some civitates at La Tène D, but probably not in all. In the 1st century BC, the Latin States included economic and political levels of control, the fundamental link in the network being the oppidum. Many grey areas remain to be explored, in particular the driving role of economic networks that may have been made and broken, causing or precipitating the collapse of complex political systems several times during the Iron Age. Bibliography Augier, L. and Krausz S. 2021. Le complexe princier de Bourges : nouvelles perspectives sur la chronologie et le territoire in Brun, P., Chaume, B., and Sacchetti, F.,eds, Vix et le phénomène princier, Actes du colloque de Châtillon-sur-Seine, 2016. Pessac: Ausonius = DAN@ 5, 2021, 77-94, [ONLINE AT] https://una-editions.fr/ le-complexe-princier-de-bourges/ [last consulted on 23 July 2021]. Brun, P. and Chaume B. 2013. Une éphémère tentative d’urbanisation en Europe centre-occidentale durant les VIe et Ve siècles av. J.-C.? Bulletin de la Société préhistorique française 110, no. 2, 319-349. 47

Sophie Krausz Brun, P. 2015. L’évolution en dents de scie des formes d’expression du pouvoir durant l’âge du Fer en Europe tempérée. In Belarte, M. C., Garcia, D. and Sanmartí, J. (eds) Protohistorical social structures at the Gàllia i a Ibèria Homenatge a Aurora Martín i Enriqueta Pons, Proceedings of the VII Reunió Internacional d’Arqueologia de Calafell (Calafell, del 7 al 9 de març de 2013), 4959. Barcelona. Campagno, M. 1998. Pierre Clastres and the emergence of the state. Twenty years later. American Anthropology Bulletin 33 (1998), 101-113. Campagno, M. 2012 Pierre Clastres et le problème de l’émergence de l’État. Revue du MAUSS permanente, 3 janvier 2012 www.journaldumauss.net/./?PierreClastres-et-le-probleme-de. Chaume, B., Reinhard, W. and Wustrow G. 2007. Les dépôts de l’enclos cultuel hallstattien de Vix ‘les Herbues’ et la question des enceintes quadrangulaires. Bulletin de la Société préhistorique française 104, no. 2, 343-67. doi:10.3406/bspf.2007.13561. Chaume, B. and Reinhardt, W. 2011. Les statues du sanctuaire de Vix-Les Herbues dans le contexte de la statuaire anthropomorphe hallstattienne. In Gruat P. and Garcia, D. Stèles et statues du début de l’âge du Fer. Documents d’Archéologie méridionale 34. Clastres, P. 1972. Chronique des indiens Guayaki: ce que que savent les Aché, chasseurs nomades du Paraguay Paris: Plon. Clastres, P. 1974.   La Société contre l'État. Recherches d’anthropologie politique. Paris: Les éditions de Minuit. Collis, J. 2012. Centralisation et urbanisation dans l’Europe tempérée à l’âge du Fer. In Sievers, S. and Schönfelder, M. (eds.) Die Frage der Protourbanisation in der Eisenzeit / la question de la proto-urbanisation à l‘âge du Fer : Akten des 34. internationalen Kolloquiums der AFEAF vom 13. - 16. Mai 2010 in Aschaffenburg 1-14. Dr. Rudolf Habelt, Bonn. Durkheim, E. 1893. De la division du travail social Paris: F. Alcan. http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?dir ect=true&db=h7h&bquery=(HJ+OG2)&type=1&site= ehost-live. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 1937. Les Nuer: Description des modes de vie et des institutions politiques d’un peuple nilote. Paris: Gallimard. Fortes, M. and Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 1940. African Political Systems. London: Pub. for the International Institute of African languages & cultures by the Oxford University Press. Frey, O.-H. and Herrmann, F.-R. 1997. Ein frühkeltischer Fürstengrabhügel am Glauberg im Wetteraukreis, Hessen. Bericht über die Forschungen 1994—1996 Germania 75, 459-550. Gellner, E. 2003. Les Saints de l‘Atlas. Saint-Denis, France: Bouchène. Hansen, M. H. 2008. Polis. Une introduction à la cité grecque. Les Belles lettres. Paris. Johnson, A. W. and Earle, T. K. 2000 The evolution of human societies : from foraging group to agrarian state. 2nd ed. Stanford University Press.

Kimmig, W. 1969. Zum Problem späthallstättischer Adelssitze. In Otto, K. H. and Hermann, J. (eds.) Siedlung, Burg und Stadt : Studien zu ihren Anfängen, Festschrift für Paul Grimm, (Schriften der Sektion für Vor- und Frûhgeschichte), 95-113. Knipper, C., Meyer, C., Jacobi, F., Roth, C., Fecher, M., Stephan, E., Schatz, K. et al. 2014. Social differentiation and land use at an Early Iron Age ‘princely seat’: bioarchaeological investigations at the Glauberg (Germany). Journal of Archaeological Science 41, no Supplement C, 81835. Krausz, S. 2016. Des premières communautés paysannes à la naissance de l’État dans le Centre de la France : 500050 a.C. (Vol. 86. Scripta antiqua). Bordeaux: Ausonius Éditions. Krausz, S. 2018. L’art de la fortification celtique : architecture et ingénierie des systèmes défensifs. In Villard-Le Tiec A. (ed.) : Architectures de l’âge du Fer en Europe occidentale et centrale, 243-259. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Lapierre, J.-W. 1977. Vivre sans État ? Essai sur le pouvoir politique et l’innovation sociale. Paris, France: Éd. du Seuil. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1958. Anthropologie structurale Paris: Plon. Ralston, I 2010. Fragile States in Mid-first Millennium BC Temperate Western Europe? The View from Bourges ., Social Evolution & History, 9, 2, 2010, p. 70‑92. Ralston I. 2020. Bourges-Avaricum: a western example of a princely complex of c. 500 BC in the heart of France ., in Zamboni L., Fernandez-Götz M., MetznerNebelsick C. (dir.), Crossing the Alps: early Urbanism between Northern Italy and Central Europe (900‑400 BC), Acts of the International Conference of Milan (29‑30 March 2019), 361-276. Salač, V. 2012. Les oppida et les processus d’urbanisation en Europe centrale. In Sievers, S. and Schönfelder, M. (eds.) Die Frage der Protourbanisation in der Eisenzeit / la question de la proto-urbanisation à l‘âge du Fer : Akten des 34. internationalen Kolloquiums der AFEAF vom 13. - 16. Mai 2010 in Aschaffenburg. Koll. Voru. Frühgeschichte. 321-347. AFEAF RGK Frankfurt, Bonn. Service, E. R. 1962. Primitive Social Organization: an Evolutionary Perspective. New York: Random House. Sievers, S. M. 2007. Die Keltenstadt. Führer zu archäologischen Denkmälern in Bayern. Oberbayern ; 3rd ed. Stuttgart: Theiss. Testart, A. 2004a La servitude volontaire. I, Les morts d’accompagnement. Paris: Editions Errance. Testart, A. 2004b. La servitude volontaire. II, L’origine de l’État. Paris: Editions Errance. Testart, A. 2005. Éléments de classification des sociétés. Errance. Paris: Editions Errance. Verger, S. 2015. La polorisation de l’Europe .... politiques. In Buchsenschutz, O. ... 127. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Collection Nouvelle Clio. 48

The European Iron Age. John Collis (1984). London: Batsford. a late review Chris Gosden An argument can be made that any book of some substance should be reviewed at a decent length of time after its publication, so that it can be put in the context of its time and some thought given to its impact. Whether thirty five years is too long a period between publication and review is a moot question. John has not attempted another synthesis of Iron Age material at a European scale since 1984, but, more remarkably, no one else has either. The only syntheses of the European Iron Age are by multiple authors and even these are few. For this, if no other reason, The European Iron Age is still a staple on many undergraduate reading lists. It is hard to think of many other books of which this is true after such a long period of time.

almost never travelled to the west and not that many westerners went east. John not only learned for himself on his travels, but also kept up an interchange of ideas and literature that benefitted many. If John had not existed it might have been necessary to invent him. I did my PhD in what was then Czechoslovakia due to conversations John had had in various Czech pubs. It is interesting to wonder in these days of open borders, cheap flights, EU funding and the existence of the European Archaeological Association how far people are able to think about European prehistory in a more joined up way, especially for the Iron Age. There has, of course, been an explosion in evidence across Europe and we will come back to this.

Books hide the circumstances of their production. Because I knew John well in the years leading up to the writing of this book I was privy to some of them. As an undergraduate at Sheffield from 1974-77 I first encountered the Iron Age through John’s lectures on the British and the European Iron Ages. These lectures, in turn, constitute the prehistory of the book. Commentators on the book then and now are most likely to focus on the theoretical structure of the work – this is important, and more on theory below. Two key factors also underpin John’s work – his understanding and grasp of the material evidence, in terms of pots, metalwork, bones, seeds and so on, married with his skill as an excavator which gave him an appreciation of the circumstances of recovery and analysis. John was forty when this book came out and at that time had as good an overview of material and sites across a large swathe of Europe from Bulgaria to Ireland as anyone then (or possibly since). John was a great traveller on small budgets and mainly by car, who had come to know French, German, Swiss, Austrian, Czech and British sequences firsthand when putting together his doctoral work on oppida (submitted in 1974). He had the languages necessary to engage and read across the Romance, German and Slav languages. He has kept up these contacts ever since, building on and changing his understanding of sequences and landscapes.

The European Iron Age (EIA from now on) was written from the point of view of what was then called New Archaeology and now Processual Archaeology, but tempered with hints of post-processualism. First of all, John replaced a stress on culture, as it came out of culture history, with an emphasis on the social. Invasions and the big arrows designating them had gone, and this derived in part from his Cambridge training where Grahame Clark and John Alexander had argued against the mass movement of people as a regular causative element of change in the past. After this book came a concerted critique of the Celts as a coherent ethnic (and still less racial) group, but there are hints here of what is to come. Instead of mass movements, there was an analysis of more subtle movements of ideas, people, techniques and materials. It was clear what analytical role such movements played – ‘Diffusion is only a description, it does not tell us why’ (EIA: 14). Collis and others moved away from culture in another sense, a move which stressed social structure. Here there was definite influence from the evolutionary anthropology of Sahlins, Service and Fried, which looked at how tribes and chieftains worked. But more important was archaeological work that showed how social differences might show up archaeologically, using points made by Binford (1972) for other archaeological times and places, but also the work of Hodson (1968) on the finds from the cemetery at Münsingen, near Bern in Switzerland. So-called flat cemeteries are found from France to Romania occurring in Switzerland, France and western Germany in La Tène A (possibly even starting in Hallstatt D), spreading east in La Tène B and

While The European Iron Age was being written there was much less interchange across Europe, due primarily to the divisions between east and west, which meant that archaeologists from central and eastern Europe

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 49–53

Chris Gosden beginning to decline in La Tène C. Münsingen ran from the beginning of La Tène A, finishing at the end of La Tène C. Here the graves were relatively well furnished, especially with fibulae, but accompanied by a range of other forms of personal ornament. The 230 graves at Münsingen were spread along a narrow ridge, with early graves at one end and late examples at the other. This horizontal stratigraphy allowed a comparison with changing brooch types, which informed on chronology, but also issues of social standing and gender (and these have been brought out more in later analyses by others). In one of the earliest studies of its kind, Hodson coded up the brooches in terms of their attributes and then carried out a computer seriation of the graves and their contents (EIA: 134-5). This was the New Archaeology at its best, looking for broad patterns in the data using statistical techniques and the then novel computer technology. As well as chronological conclusions, it became obvious that this was a community with good access to metalwork, but without very much hierarchy evident in the graves. Such a result also chimed well with John’s suspicion that many Iron Age communities were not particularly hierarchical prior to the late period. The work of Hodson and other seriation studies had a profound on understandings of Iron Age chronology, particularly in a period when mass radiocarbon dating was rare and dendrochronological sequences less well developed. An important element of EIA was concerned with a developing a reliable and simply described chronology, which has remained a key factor of John’s work since then.

Given the acuteness of some of John’s observations on art, it is a shame these were not further developed in EIA or elsewhere. While one cannot criticize a book for lacking themes that only became prominent after its publication, I only found one mention of the deliberate deposition of hoards (EIA: 26) – the nature of both so-called ‘special’ deposits within pits or settlement features and the overall balance between hoards, watery finds and grave goods is not explored. Geographically and culturally, EIA was structured around the relationships between the Mediterranean and Europe north of the Alps, especially for the early and late La Tène periods. For John the eastern Mediterranean was initially crucial, but it was Greek, Etruscan and later Roman developments that had a crucial impact on central and western Europe. The more substantivist economics of Polyani (Polyani et al. 1957) allowed for an understanding of trade and exchange in non-market terms, and questions of the development of price-fixing markets were always to the fore in John’s work, not least in his thoughts on oppida. Renfrew’s (Renfrew 1975) work was influential on two counts: first by showing that it was possible to develop models of exchange ranging from direct access through various forms of central people and places to market exchange and how these various modes might show up in distributions. Renfrew then said, other things being equal, we should expect regular fall-offs of amounts of material with distance. Using sourcing studies of obsidian, Renfrew was able to pick out the existence of important people or centres which showed up as higher amounts of material than the decline by distance model would predict. As a result of this work, people were starting to source other materials when EIA was written, notably pottery and metal, which unfortunately turned out to be a lot more complicated chemically than obsidian. Some of these more complex results were in the future. When John wrote EIA there was an excitement about the possibility of really understanding trade and exchange in archaeological terms and a feeling that evidence for long-distance exchange would soon be complemented by an understanding of more local relations.

One further strand to bring out in our consideration of EIA is the importance of metalwork in the book. Metal in the form of large Greek kraters, such as that at Vix, the enigmatic Gundestrup cauldron, the more humble fibulae and later Iron Age coins make up many of the illustrations of the book (the next most common category of illustration was maps and site plans). This is partly due to the archaeology of the times. Burial evidence was still then much larger than that from settlements and most metal came from burials. A major preoccupation in EIA but also Iron Age archaeology more generally, as we have seen, was chronology. Changes in metalwork provided the most sensitive index of change over time. Metalwork also evidenced of long-distance contacts with the Mediterranean, but also local and further flung links through fibulae. Such links were demonstrated not just by the movement of some objects, but also the reworking of forms (Etruscan beaked flagons remade in La Tène styles) and the travel of individual motifs. Here so-called Celtic art was important, as lotus, palmettes and so on became staples of northern styles, but in a manner transformed from the prototypes. These motifs occur first in the Egyptian world, but then move through Greece and Etruria into central Europe (EIA: Figure 34 and caption).

Interests in long-distance exchange were bolstered by Frankenstein and Rowlands’ (1978) article which combined core-periphery theory with various anthropological analyses of so-called prestige goods systems, to show how European colonial trade in west Africa from the late 15th century AD had given increased power to chieftainships through control of trade. An attractive analogy was then made with places like southern Germany in the early Iron Age which received both Greek and Etruscan goods, some of which ended up in rich so-called chiefly burials around the Heuneburg and elsewhere. Such work contributed 50

The European Iron Age. John Collis (1984). London: Batsford. a late review

to the broad model of interaction underpinning EIA, which saw an emerging complex of gift and market exchange in the world of Greek and Etruscans cities and colonies, then having a very considerable effect on Europe north of the Alps. Raw materials, food and slaves headed south exchanged for fine pottery and rich metalwork. The northern result was rich graves and large centres north of the Alps. John argued a more egalitarian world emerged in La Tène B and C, with flat cemeteries such as Münsingen with little evidence of hierarchy, with small farmsteads replacing larger centres. If anything, in this period arrows of influence were reversed, with some migration of people from central Europe into Anatolia and the Mediterranean world. Things changed again, partly due to the rise of Rome, in later La Tène C, when settlement starts to agglomerate becoming oppida in some areas at least in La Tène D. The oppida, especially those across France, Germany and Bohemia, were engaged in large-scale production and exchange, but there was still a question as to how far social forces inhibited anything like a full-blown market principle. Concomitant with this question was how far the world of the late Iron Age produced emerging states. John was always equivocal about the role of cities and states in Iron Age Europe. Commenting on the situation amongst the Arverni and the late development of Gergovie, he wrote ‘Urbanism was not necessarily a sign of civilization and power, it was more a sign of weakness.’ (EIA: 157).

at British oppida, many of which show large enclosed areas but little evidence of dense interior settlement. Conversely, somewhere like Manching did have areas of dense settlement within the defences, but John noted that some of the interior dwellings looked like individual farms. The coin evidence played into these questions and John has had a lasting interest in coinage. Once again the evidence is not straightforward. Stradonice, the best-connected of the Bohemian oppida, which sent painted pottery it produced across Bohemia, also minted small silver coins, which are only found in a 30 km radius around the site. To increase the complication, the Stradonice silver coins seem to be modeled on those of the Aedui at Mont Beuvray and thus had a long-distance inspiration. They were never used for long distance trade (EIA: 154). In such statements we have an important further clue to John’s overall approach. As is well known and we have seen, he reacted against culture history and particularly mentions of ethnic groups, such as the Celts. John’s enthusiasm for the New Archaeology was often at the level of individual insights into social structure, production and exchange and the methods developed to look at such issues. Lying behind the New Archaeology was often a story of progress from band to tribe to chiefdom and then state. John’s account of the Iron Age was not straight-forwardly progressive. In John’s telling a degree of accumulation of wealth and power is found in the late Hallstatt and early La Tène worlds to dissipate somewhat in the middle Iron Age. In the late Iron Age oppida might well have been towns, but not as we know them from other times and places. The variation of urban forms across Iron Age Europe is considerable. Quite a number of areas across Europe had no towns. It is also interesting to speculate what the continental experiment in towns and hierarchy might have produced if not cut short by the Romans in so many areas. Whatever was happening economically and politically in late Iron Age Europe, it was very different from the Mediterranean story and varied a lot across Europe. Given that our broader notions of the early state in Europe are so influenced by images of Greece and Rome, to have a complex counter-balancing story is important. It was a complex story that John sought to provide and many of his frustrations of other peoples’ work are due to what he saw as overly simple interpretations and understandings. Theory from anthropology, economic history and geography has been important in shaping John’s work. What has been really formative, however, is the evidence and its complexity which continually undercuts any simple story of ethnicity, progress or contact. A commitment to complexity is also coupled with John’s innate egalitarianism, which has resisted seeing social hierarchy except where it can be obviously demonstrated in the evidence.

Although difficult categories to define, towns and urbanization have laid at the heart of John’s work throughout. While synthesizing and making sense of the evidence, John has never rushed to easy conclusions or synthetic statements. Instead, the variety of types of towns has always been recognized, as well as basic uncertainties over how production and trade were organized within and between large sites, or the nature of power lying behind the oppida. Slightly surprisingly, the chapter on oppida (Chapter Six) is one of the shortest in EIA, perhaps because John’s book on this topic – an updated version of his doctorate came out the same year as EIA (Collis 1984b). By the time both these books were published John had been influenced by his work in the Auvergne on the baffling site of Aulnat, where black features were cut into black earth, but produced a staggering range of more local finds and those from further afield, with considerable numbers of imports from the Mediterranean. Aulnat was not a large primary centre like Mount Beuvray or Manching, but probably three big village complexes in close proximity, with sequences that started in La Tène B, with evidence emphasizing production and exchange. Chronological sequences of change leading to larger settlements varied across Europe, as did the nature of these larger settlements themselves. Such conclusions could only be amplified by looking 51

Chris Gosden The passage of time allows us to think how both the evidence for the Iron Age has changed since 1984 and the narratives we construct of it. EIA was published a few years before the explosion of developer-funded archaeology took off. The Valletta Convention was adopted by the Council of Europe in 1995 and has led to massively varied forms of developer-led archaeological work across the continent. Such work is hard to summarise (see Bradley et al. 2015 for the areas around the North Sea) because working practices, legislation and curatorial practices differ, as did the forms of prehistoric life being investigated. However, what we are now gaining overall is a much better sense of small-scale rural settlements, field systems and the broader landscape. If it is possible for one person to synthesize much of this (and it may well not be), in any rewriting of EIA rural evidence would provide a new and vital underpinning, rebalancing the story further from one of wide-spread links, burials and large settlements to an even more nuanced picture of local developments. Such a local view is very congenial to John’s own approach, chipping away further at any easy generalizations across the continent. Absolute dating sequences through radiocarbon and dendrochronology are becoming more common, although surprisingly much still remains to be understood. Even where sequences are good, they are often only constructed locally and much still needs to be done through linking various areas. Artefacts still bear a considerable burden in sustaining our understanding of change and continuity.

The evidence has changed a lot over the last 35 years, but perhaps its main impact is still to be felt. How far have the broader narratives of the Iron Age shifted? I suspect much work across Europe still takes place within the broad political-economic framework John used, focusing on production and exchange. This is not necessarily a bad thing. There is still also a fair amount of culture history around and it is harder to see the positives in this framework of interpretation. Many have gone backwards and forwards on the importance of links between the Mediterranean and continental Europe; possibly southern links seem less formative certainly for the earlier Iron Age. No new models of the prestige goods type have been proposed recently. Urbanization looks very different indeed, with early agglomerations in large centres of Hallstatt D and La Tène A indicating something like towns some centuries before the oppida, but vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Although not known when John wrote EIA this certainly fits his broad picture of non-linear and complex forms of change, especially if we now see urban forms coming and going. Interests in the Iron Age have shifted from the large to the small scale. We now often focus on local settlements or landscapes, the role of the individual, the nature of the community, as well as the emotional and phenomenological dimensions of life. Art and aesthetics have re-emerged as important, looking not so much now at styles and workshops, as on the social and cultural impacts of items we deem to be art. Many of us have an urge to pluralize – the Romans were not just one culture, but many; as is the process formerly known as Romanization. Such scaling down is both a product of more detailed forms of local evidence, but also shifts in theory generally stemming from postprocessualism. The Iron Age was somewhat late to embrace post-processual thought, but is now one of the more convincing archaeological arenas in which such discussions are held. This may be at some cost to the bigger picture. In more recent writings, John has warned us that small is not always beautiful, advocating the usefulness of some larger terms if treated critically ‘Concepts like ‘state’ and ‘centre-periphery’ are not givens to impose on ancient societies, they are heuristic devices that allow us to explore the archaeological data and ask questions of them’ (Collis 2007: 524). In the same piece, he goes on to introduce a distinction between ‘the tribal state’ which might have occurred in a number of variants in Europe north of the Alps and the ‘city state’ in the Mediterranean (Collis 2007: 524-5). Where the latter has a sense of ethnos, so that coinage bears the name of the city, for instance, the nature of the former still remains to be elucidated, as do its histories, structures and variations, but is not easily understood in ethnic terms. The distinction between tribal and city state opens up the possibility of a mosaic of varied, but possibly related, forms of

Although it still seemed very unlikely in 1984, just five years later the Berlin Wall fell, opening up all sorts of connections and conversations. Again such developments chime very much with John’s internationalism, with such links building on those John and others were able to sustain during the hard times. Other changes are also evident. The evidence for EIA came mainly from work in museums, universities and government-funded institutes. In some parts of the continent, large-scale university research is at a lesser level, partly because funds are difficult, but also due to the scale at which commercial practices are now able to operate. In France and Germany government funded research is long-term and extremely productive, but this by no means the case everywhere. Long-term research, for instance at Mont Beuvray or the Heuneburg, provides a picture of well-understood and extremely important local developments with a large hinterland of less well excavated, analysed and published material. The narrative of EIA was based around a series of flagship sites and projects, a surprising number of which would also feature in any new edition, although now nuanced by a broader pattern. How far is it possible to shift the balance to a background of small sites and landscapes against a foreground of large sites, increasing the emphasis on the former, is still a question. 52

The European Iron Age. John Collis (1984). London: Batsford. a late review

power and settlement across Iron Age Europe, with some areas seeing the centralization of effort, materials and power while others do not. A rewrite of EIA around such a structure would provide a nuanced and nonprogressive history of both the earlier and later Iron Ages incorporating new evidence. Such an analysis of larger power structures could easily be complementary to how local landscapes worked and felt, rather than in contradiction to these.

References Binford, L. 1972. Mortuary practices: their study and their potential. An Archaeological Perspective: 208243. New York: Academic Press. Bradley, R., Haslegrove, C., vander Linden, M. and Webley, L. 2015. The Later Prehistory of Northwest Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Collis, J. 1984a. The European Iron Age. London: Batsford. Collis, J. 1984b. Oppida: Earliest Towns North of the Alps. Sheffield: University of Sheffield, Department of Prehistory and Archaeology. Collis, J. 2007. The polities of Gaul, Britain and Ireland in the late Iron Age, in Haselgrove, C. and Moore, T. (eds) The Later Iron Age in Britain and Beyond: 523-528. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Frankenstein, S. and Rowlands, M. 1978. The internal structure and regional context of early Iron Age society in south west Germany. Institute of Archaeology, London, Bulletin 15: 73 - 112. Hodson, F. 1968. The La Tène Cemetery at Münsingen-Rain. Bern: Stämpfli. Polanyi, K., Arensberg, C. and Pearson, H. W. (eds). 1957. Trade and Markets in the Early Empires. Glencoe: The Free Press. Renfrew, C. 1975. Trade as action at a distance: questions of integration and communication, in Sabloff, J. and Lamberg-Karlovsky, C. (eds) Ancient Civilization and Trade. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.

Above all, John has shown that the Iron Age is good to think with and to argue about. Over the last millennium BC, from Ireland to the Black Sea and indeed beyond, existed a series of social and cultural forms different from the Mediterranean world to the south, but also from any groups documented by anthropology. None had a simple or singular history. An extraordinarily rich history exists of this millennium, which will elude the ability of any one author to synthesize. John’s work has been only partly about synthesis: he has been more concerned to argue from and about the evidence. Like any conversation of substance this will never lead to final agreement (John would be appalled by a situation in which everyone agreed), but rather to a broadening of our understanding of the range of human lives, past and present, as well as an ability to use the past to throw light on the concerns of the present. We can only thank John for many years of substantial conversations and look forward to those that are to come.

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Exploring the origins and character of transhumance in England Andrew Fleming Although the custom of transhumance in England largely died out relatively early, scholars tend to believe that it is of greater antiquity than has so far been demonstrated in the ‘Celtic’ nations, where it survived longer. Landscape archaeologists often postulate early medieval transhumance on the basis of place-names, documents, detached parts of estates or parishes, and patterns of coaxial droveways and boundaries apparently heading towards seasonally-used resource zones. These studies bring substantial areas of central and southern England into the reckoning. However, the practice of transhumance has not been incorporated into mainstream narratives of agrarian history. It is argued here that transhumance had an inherent stability; it should be seen as a complex, multi-facetted cultural institution, a persistent, relatively stable cultural practice. Coaxial landscape patterns, developing organically, may bear witness to its (perhaps intermittent) continuity from the Bronze Age onwards into the early historic period. Isotopic studies are beginning to demonstrate the ‘mobility’ of both humans and livestock from the early Neolithic onwards, providing a new impetus for the exploration of transhumance’s deep roots.

Anyone who explores the literature on the history of transhumance in Britain and Ireland cannot fail to be struck by the contrast between England and the ‘Celtic’ nations. In Ireland, Wales and Scotland, lifeways associated with transhumance are quite welldocumented - historically, ethnographically, and in the archaeological record (for Scotland, see e. g. Bil 1990; for Wales, Ward 1997). There are abundant physical traces of the exploitation of hill and mountain pastures, represented by booleying sites (in Ireland), hafodydd (in Wales) and shielings or àirighean (in Scotland). Often visible from a distance, picked out by the bright grass of their immediate surroundings, they exhibit the footings of stone-built or turf huts, perhaps with traces of small enclosures, or signs of intermittent cultivation. These sites are usually assumed to date from recent centuries, no earlier than the early second millennium AD. Where they have been archaeologically investigated this general picture seems to be confirmed (Piers Dixon, pers. comm.). In places the custom of transhumance was still flourishing in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries,

Figure 1. Summer and weekend accommodation, Nis (Ness), Isle of Lewis, Western Isles of Scotland, AD 2007 (Mireille Fleming)

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Exploring the origins and character of transhumance in England

Figure 2. Summer house, Nis. Note the lawnmower (Mireille Fleming)

Figure 3. A well-appointed ‘summer house’, Nis. For landscape context, see figure 1 (Mireille Fleming)

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Andrew Fleming to be observed and recorded, along with associated songs, stories, and reminiscences. In the Western Isles of Scotland the practice survived into the early twentieth century. On the hills of Lewis, in the early 21st century, it now persists as transhumance without livestock, one might say, represented in the landscape by a scatter of summer houses made of corrugated iron, often brightly painted and sometimes associated with tiny, carefully mown ‘lawns’ (Figures 1-3).

fattening of pigs on acorns in the Middle Ages (Witney 1976). In Essex, coastal salt-marshes on offshore islands are implicated (Banham and Faith 2014: 179). There are also areas where patterns of roughly parallel lanes (and often field boundaries) suggest regular movements along ‘droveways’ leading to long-established zones of woodland (or former woodland). Some of the areas approached by such routeways were on relatively high ground, and were known as ‘wolds’ to English speakers. The late Harold Fox (1989) proposed that wolds once had a ‘parkland’ appearance, carrying small, scattered areas of woodland in otherwise open country. Fox and others have argued that such zones would at an early stage have contained ‘shielings’, temporary huts occupied for the summer grazing season, and that they were colonised in the later medieval period by more permanent settlements. In some areas of England, there is a ‘hub and spokes’ pattern of parish boundaries radiating out from the edge of what was evidently once a shared zone of common land, or converging on a point which was evidently once located at the centre of such a zone (Fox 2000: 55). Such patterns are often interpreted as evidence for relatively local transhumance, although this does not necessarily exclude long-distance livestock movements, as Fox demonstrated in his important work on Dartmoor (Fox 2012). In some places, the existence of detached portions of parishes, or of estates whose boundaries were set out in AngloSaxon charters (that is, pre-1066), is taken to imply the former practice of transhumance, especially where such outliers are situated in zones already believed to have been seasonally used (e. g. Ford 1979, Hooke 1985, Fox 2012). Fox’s study of the relationship between medieval estates in the Torbay area of south Devon and outlying tracts of land on the edge of Dartmoor (2012) may find an echo in Parker Pearson’s work (1990) on Bronze Age pottery, where one fabric found on four or five Dartmoor sites also occurs in two Torbay caves, Kent’s Cavern and Ash Hole. Intensive landscape history studies have been carried out in chalk upland zones by Peter Fowler (2000; Fowler and Blackwell 1998) in North Wiltshire and Chris Fenton-Thomas in East Yorkshire (2003, 2005); each has argued for alternating phases of transhumant pastoralism and arable, on a long term cycle involving several centuries – roughly the same centuries in each region, as it happens. Fowler has made a good case that the linear earthwork known as the Wansdyke was furnished with designed gateways for pre-existing routeways used for moving livestock over long distances. The Wansdyke has often been taken to date from c. A. D. 500, although Reynolds and Langlands (2006) have made a good argument for a mid to late Saxon origin.

The contrast with what has been written about transhumance in England could hardly be greater. Here, the custom rarely survived to be recorded in the eighteenth century. Furthermore, although in England there are plenty of archaeological sites evidently associated with the exploitation of upland pastures, it is often unclear how far they reflect the practice of transhumance, and they are rarely the subject of archaeological excavation. Nevertheless, the custom of transhumance is quite frequently postulated by landscape historians, who deploy rather different evidence from that used in ‘Celtic’ regions - documents, place-names, detached portions of estates or parishes, and maps showing striking patterns of roughly parallel roads and tracks all heading in the same direction. It is often suggested, on the basis of this kind of evidence, that transhumance originated well before the Norman Conquest, as far back as at least the midfirst millennium AD. Some scholars – perhaps most recently Susan Oosthuizen (2013) – see no reason why the custom should not have had a continuous history stretching back into later prehistory. However, British prehistorians have not had very much to say about transhumance. Evidence is usually ‘indirect’ or comes in proxy form, so we have often preferred argument. It often seems reasonable, on climatic or ecological grounds, to suggest that in prehistory the uplands were occupied or visited mostly between spring and autumn; in the ‘Celtic’ calendar the beginnings of Bealtaine and Samhain coincided with the start and the end of the transhumance season. Where an area was subject to transhumance in the medieval period (conventionally AD 410-1485 in England) it seems natural to postulate earlier origins. Thus in upland regions of England transhumance tends to become a component of models of prehistoric ‘economies’, as in my own work on Dartmoor (e.g. Fleming 1984). However, not much effort has been made to validate these models or take them further. Models of historic transhumance in England do not only involve upland heaths. Arguments have been made for the seasonal use of fens and marshlands, such as the East Anglian Fens in the Bronze Age (Pryor 1998: 93-4), and also of wood-pasture, the most celebrated case being the ‘dens’ of Sussex and Kent, in southeast England - a scenario mostly involving the autumn

For landscape historians, the transhumance model mostly represents an interpretive response to patterns of lines or names on maps, and has been inspired by a 56

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complex of related ideas developed most persuasively by Ford (1979), Witney (1976), Everitt (1977, 1986), Fox (1989), Hooke (1985) and Williamson (2013). However, in more general treatments of early medieval history, early English transhumance has remained a peripheral topic. It is not much discussed in works dealing with economic, agricultural or settlement history, such as Banham and Faith’s Anglo-Saxon farms and farming (2014), The Oxford handbook of Anglo-Saxon archaeology (Hamerow, Hinton & Crawford 2011) or The fields of Britannia (Rippon, Smart & Pears 2015). Transhumance rarely makes an appearance in work on the political geography of Anglo-Saxon England. This may be because landscape history and ‘local’ history have been traditionally ‘below the salt’ in relation to more ‘mainstream’ versions of early medieval history. And it’s also likely that transhumance, as a ‘folk’ custom often involving traditional rights in terms of common law, was itself largely ‘below the salt’ in its own day. Even for the relatively well-documented later Middle Ages, Harold Fox (2012) had to work hard to document transhumance on Dartmoor; for the medieval aristocracy, the uplands were more interesting as hunting grounds than as locales for transhumance.

the era of document- and etymology-aided landscape history. It is dedicated to my old friend and former colleague John Collis, with whom I share an interest in (amongst other things) studying ‘summer farms’ and enjoying summers in France. John wrote a little about transhumance in my own festschrift (2008); I hope this repays the compliment! I have chosen to accompany this piece with a selection of ethnographic images mostly from twenty-first century France, which I hope John and others with an interest in transhumance will enjoy. Landscape history and coaxiality The cluster of evidence and argument for early medieval transhumance takes in quite a number of English regions. Let us start in the south-west. Oliver Padel (1985: 129) has pointed out that the Welsh and Cornish languages share the place-names which indicate a ‘summer dwelling’ (hafod, gwavos) and the permanently occupied lower-lying farm associated with it (hendre). He has argued that this common terminology pre-dates the Anglo-Saxon occupation of south-west England, which cut off Cornwall from Wales - after which Cornish and Welsh developed as separate languages. These place-names, therefore, and the custom to which they relate, should pre-date the late 7th century. Peter Herring (2009) has discussed the landscape evidence. For Dartmoor, Fox assembled a range of documentary and onomastic evidence that long-distance transhumance was in place by the time of the earliest relevant documents, namely the middle of the 10th century (2012). North-east of Dartmoor are the Somerset Levels; the very name of the county implies seasonal movement. The fens and bogs of the levels themselves were presumably mostly exploited in summer. Further north-east, the work of Hooke (based in part on that of Ford), has demonstrated links between estates and their detached portions dating from the time of the Domesday Book (AD 1086) and before, covering a zone stretching roughly from Bristol to Birmingham, including the Cotswold Hills, and a well-known area around Stratford-on-Avon where droveways apparently led from the open country of Felden to the old-established woodland known as the Forest of Arden (Hooke 1985: figure 22). Also included is an area to the west of Worcester, where a set of roughly parallel droveways lead to the eastern fringes of the Malvern Hills. Hooke has noted that in Gloucestershire 17 names ending in ‘ley’ (that is, leāh (wood-pasture)) carry suffixes referring to domestic animals – cattle, pigs, horses and sheep (2012: 186). In the east Midlands, Fox (1989) has identified four extensive areas of ‘wold’ mostly in Leicestershire and Northamptonshire. To the east lie the Cambridgeshire Fens, their seasonallyavailable pastures recently well-documented by Oosthuizen (2017, chapter 4 and passim) on the basis

Despite all this, the concept of ancient and long-lived transhumance lurks in the literature of quite a number of physiographically diverse regions. The student who wishes to examine the case for its continuity in England must find a way of segueing convincingly from textaided archaeology (or archaeologically-illuminated history), represented by the Romano-British, subRoman and early medieval centuries, back into the more purely archaeological world of later prehistory. Such a journey involves engaging with three longestablished and largely separate specialisms within British archaeology – prehistory, Roman Britain and the early medieval period (AD 410-1066), with their distinct scholarly traditions. In a general, sometimes ‘romantic’ sense (Johnson 2006), W. G. Hoskins was quite absorbed by the idea of ‘continuity’ (e. g. 1973: 113-6). Nowadays, we may be more selective and dispassionate in our attitudes to stability or change, varying our approaches according to context. In The fields of Britannia, for example, Rippon et al (2015) carried out a systematic study of excavated Romano-British field boundaries and contemporary pollen sequences. Fields is, however, a direct investigation of archaeological and palaeobotanical evidence, a study of correlations and statistical trends, and its dismissive comments on Oosthuizen’s treatment of ‘continuity’ (pp 321-2) certainly do not foreclose discussion of transhumance as a persistent cultural practice. This essay is intended as a challenge to archaeologists and prehistorians to explore the likelihood that transhumance practices – embracing various distances, cycles in time, personnel, economic structures, and kinds of livestock - pre-date 57

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Figure 4. Transhumance, May 29th, 2010: approaching the town of St Geniez d’Olt, Aveyron, France. Several herds of cattle will enter the main square in sequence, where they will jostle for position before settling down to hear speeches about the quality of the Aubrac breed and the families who breed them

of much earlier work by Neilson (1920). To the east of Cambridge, Richard Mortimer has recently identified a pattern of lanes going back to the Iron Age, their alignment partially perpetuated by the Cambridgeshire Dykes, leading to grazing grounds on the chalk uplands (in talk at ‘Dykes through Time’ session, Theoretical Archaeology Group, Cardiff, December 19th 2017). In the southern Midlands, pre-Conquest estates stretched from the lowlands into the Chilterns, with corresponding patterns of communications (Emery 1974: 64-8). Further west is the Forest of Wychwood, the wood of the Hwicce, another focus for transhumance apparently before the eighth century (Hooke 1981: 4858) In eastern England, there are coaxial field boundary patterns in Hertfordshire, Suffolk and Norfolk (Williamson 2000; Warner 1996; Williamson 1993).

concomitant, and then the remnant, of a custom of regularly driving livestock through lands already claimed and quite densely occupied. One could envisage an ‘early’ stage with roughly parallel corridors running through more wooded, less settled landscapes, and a ‘later’ phase of fixed property boundaries and more open landscapes, in which drove-ways and field boundaries – or some of them - became more rectilinear and more recognisably coaxial (cf Fowler 1983, fig. 42). In a recent discussion of coaxial landscapes in southern Essex, just east of London, Rippon et al (2015: 14364) identify ‘a series of blocks with slightly different morphologies; whose ‘major axial elements started as droveways running off the high grounds to the north’; ‘by the early medieval period’, they argue, ‘there were a series of droveways that linked these summer grazings [the Thames-side marshes] with year-round pastures on the hills to the north’. At Hunts Hill Farm, Upminster, there were ‘successive rectilinear complexes of enclosures dating to the late Bronze Age, Iron Age and Roman periods that share exactly the same orientation to the early medieval field system to the south, all of which conform to the orientation of the historic landscape’. Rippon et al present five scenarios for the development of these coaxial landscapes, all of which, they suggest, may have been applicable in different areas and contexts.

Thus the transhumance interpretation tends to be applied to patterns of lanes and field boundaries whose orientation leads towards a zone of pasture on high or relatively high ground, an extent of lowlying marshy ground or fenland, or an area known or strongly suspected to have been wood pasture, perhaps a ‘wold’, occupying higher ground. Understanding the origins and development of these ‘coaxial’ landscapes will require a great deal of work. It seems difficult to avoid concluding that they are what they seem - the 58

Exploring the origins and character of transhumance in England

There is little doubt that these coaxial layouts developed at a relatively early stage in terms of the landscape which has evolved during the last fifteen hundred years or so. Tom Williamson, who has considered them recently (2013), no longer argues that if coaxial boundaries are intersected at an angle by a Roman road they are necessarily at least late Iron Age in date. As he admits, ‘the ‘slighting’ of coaxials by Roman roads actually involved not a dense network of fields but the relationship between the road and a widely spaced network of parallel lanes and boundaries. These could have been imposed on the Roman road just as easily as the other way around’. For Williamson, ‘co-axial field systems are not the much-altered remains of vast planned landscapes of prehistoric date; indeed in one sense they have no date at all. They developed organically, and represent many centuries of development, involving phases of expansion and abandonment, infilling and alteration, all structured by the extensive use of the landscape within particular topographic frameworks…there seems little doubt that the majority of their principal elements were fixed in the course of the early and middle Saxon period, however much they owed to earlier centuries’ [my italics in both cases].

be integral, original elements’. His model postulates an early network of relatively sparse, loose-knit coaxial boundaries, especially where woodland was a significant feature of the landscape. The pattern developed ‘organically’, in piecemeal fashion, with a good deal of infilling in the late Saxon period, as the population grew and the rights of sub-groups required closer definition. Large communities might well be subject to some fissioning tendencies, and a major ‘territory’ might be sub-divided in conformity with the prevailing axis of its boundaries. However, like most other commentators, Williamson does not favour the idea that the coaxial layout defined ‘allotments’ laid out at right angles to different ecological zones in order to provide ‘fair shares’ for their occupants. The term ‘transhumance’ does not occur in the index of his book, but he does accept that co-axial landscapes ‘appear to have developed as a consequence of this enduring contrast between river and wold. The parallel tracks developed because there was a recurrent direction of movement between lower and higher ground’. Following Williamson’s thoughtful perspective, then, we would probably be justified in taking coaxial patterns of lanes and dominant field boundaries as fairly good evidence for transhumance dating from at least the mid-Saxon era - especially where they head for, or lie beside, resource areas likely to have been exploited seasonally. In this scenario, the absolute

Williamson recognises the size and scale of the coaxial patterning, and notes that ‘in most “relict” coaxials, roads run for long distances and appear to

Figure 5. St Geniez: a pause for lunch. Note the lopped trees. Most of the cows’ decorations are now removed and put in the back of a van

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Figure 6. A child’s view of transhumance, St Geniez

livestock, whether happening daily or twice a year, over lands occupied and sometimes tilled by others, must have been a matter governed by widelyunderstood rules and conventions, operating at a ‘regional’ level, and with the acquiescence (at least) of the political elite. As Őstrom (1990) pointed out, users of commons are perfectly capable of creating and maintaining effective management structures. In a British context, there is no reason why this should not apply to large commons/intercommons and the routes leading to them; we may need to think on a ‘tribal’ scale, implicating all or most levels of society, so that the field evidence reflects the consequences of both ‘top down’ and ‘bottom up’ decision-taking. If the accumulation and management and of large flocks and herds was an essential element of socio-political power, it is hard to avoid postulating elite involvement at a regional scale. (This view, incidentally, seems impossible to reconcile with the ‘projects of value’ approach (see Wickstead 2008) to the creation of what have traditionally been called ‘land boundaries’). There is, I suggest, an argument for thinking of ancient transhumance as a practice implicating both patterning in cultural landscapes and pervasive, persistent customary expectations and traditions – as, I would argue, in the case of ancient routeways. In southern England there are coaxial boundary patterns (or ‘field systems’) going back to the later Bronze Age, that is, the second half of the second millennium cal bc or sometimes a little earlier (Yates 2006). Most belong to the sub-surface archaeological record, taking the form of patterns of ditches picked up as crop-marks, on geophysical surveys, or on excavations. Morphologically, these are very comparable to the ‘relict’ patterns discussed by Williamson - sometimes relatively rectilinear and gridlike, sometimes more sinuous; both of these tendencies may be on show within an individual layout. They may include lanes or ‘droveways’ following the major axis of the pattern – sometimes at frequent intervals, sometimes much less so. Often we do not know the full extent of these patterns, so that it may be difficult to see if they are ‘behaving’ like the relict or perpetuated examples discussed by Williamson, in respect of their size and relationship to potential transhumance zones. On Dartmoor, however, where several of these coaxial

length of such directional axes should indicate the minimum distance which transhumants travelled. If we accept Williamson’s view of these landscapes, the implication is that we should not be using terms such as ‘field system’, ‘layout’ and ‘planned’ to refer to them; it may be best to talk of coaxial patterns, or patterning (and see Johnston 2005). Looking back at our interpretations of coaxial boundary patterning, both in the context of Williamson’s ‘relict’ boundaries in the recent or contemporary landscape and in relation to ‘archaeological’ cases from later prehistory (Fleming 2008), it is interesting to note a certain tension, which is explicit in my own writing about the Bronze Age coaxial fields of Dartmoor. This relates to the idea of ‘top-down’ ‘planning’ (which tends to be postulated in connection with ‘large scale’ patterning and straight lines or grid patterns) versus more ‘organic’ landscape patterns, which may evoke ‘bottom-up’ or relatively informal modes of decision-making and action. However, this distinction may be overdrawn. Regular transits of 60

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Figure 7. St Geniez, journey’s end: after a day of some 16 hours, during which they have covered about 40 kilometres, the cows are re-united with their calves (transported in the trucks)

thoughtful analyses of Rippon et al and Williamson, one is tempted to agree that coaxial patterns ‘have no date at all’, in the sense that once a ‘direction of travel’ has become established in a landscape, there will be fluctuations in the longer term between ‘organic’ and ‘planned’ development, between maintenance of the overall pattern and its fragmentation, between neglect of embanked, ditched and hedged boundaries and their re-instatement, and indeed between arable and pastoral use of the fields. The archaeological visibility of what is happening will also vary, especially when ditches have silted up, or in periods when people unhelpfully fail to dress their land with manure containing potsherds. What may be said at present is that when a coaxial pattern of boundaries and routeways is set at right angles to a resource area which can only be exploited seasonally, or has been used seasonally within the period of documentary records, there is a good case for the relatively early establishment of transhumance in the region. Further work may demonstrate more archaeological ‘continuity’ between prehistoric and late Roman/medieval coaxial patterning. It is quite possible that ‘relaxed’ transhumance movements through areas of extensive land use alternated with, or simply preceded, more strictly managed livestock journeys through more intensively used fields defined by more grid-like patterns of rectilinear boundaries. We also need to consider the prehistorians’ idea that the axes

boundary patterns are well-preserved in the form of the upstanding remains of walls (locally, ‘reaves’), it is clear that in the Bronze Age such ‘field systems’ could be a) very large, b) set at right angles to a probable zone of open pasture, and c) ‘perpetuated’ by still-extant field boundaries following the Bronze Age axis. Just below the edge of the Dartmoor heathland there are modern field boundaries which conform to an axis which is three and a half thousand years old, and is continued onto open heathland on the hills by upstanding coaxial reaves. On Shovel Down (east Dartmoor) it is possible to follow a probable medieval droveway, defined by fairly recent walls, to the lower edge of the moorland, and to notice that it lines up quite well with an apparent droveway of prehistoric date which is integral to a coaxial reave system (the ‘upper droveway’ of Curwen’s (1927) much reproduced plan). At Fengate, in Cambridgeshire, there are Bronze Age coaxial ditched field boundaries, with drove-ways, set at right angles to the Fens (Pryor 2005 and references). Rippon et al (2015) have recently noted that around two-thirds of excavated Romano-British boundaries have been perpetuated in more recent fieldscapes, continuing in use either as later field boundaries or as the edges of furlongs in later medieval open fields. Some of these Romano-British field systems had antecedents in later prehistory. After reading the 61

Andrew Fleming of coaxial boundary patterns may have represented propitious or supernaturally sanctioned directions of movement (Fleming 2008: 192-9). As contexts for a persistent direction of travel, cosmology and transhumance are not mutually exclusive; it’s highly improbable that early transhumance, and the dairying often closely associated with it, was an exclusively ‘economic’ pattern of behaviour.

change] of deliberate human intervention’. O’Connor suggests that past landscapes may themselves have been ‘living monuments’ – ‘managed to some social consensus and maybe therefore conserved to an unnatural degree of stability’. Thus, ‘the continuity of the living monument becomes a matter of continuous negotiation between the culturally-desired outcome and the complex ecology and behaviours of the organisms that make up that living monument’. O’Connor argues that people of the past had a sense of how particular landscapes should look, or at any rate what resources they should contain, and knew how to maintain them in their desired state. He argues that long periods of apparent stasis in the environmental record (in land snail and pollen sequences, for example) may well reflect such cultural attitudes. To quote one example, the Neolithic landscape at Kilmartin (Argyll, Scotland) was described by palaeo-environmentalists as ‘completely managed’ with oak woodland being selectively encouraged for six centuries or so before it was eventually felled (Jones et al 2011: 175). Picking up on O’Connor’s argument, Oosthuizen has noted various cases where the pollen record indicates long-term ecological stability, and adduces them as evidence for enduring traditions of both transhumance and effective commons management, which are often closely linked. She also notes transhumance’s dependence on ‘social order, large-scale investment, and the establishment of safe and recognised routes’ (2013: 21-31).

Transhumance as a persistent cultural practice The wide geographical distribution of medieval transhumance (which includes Cornwall and Devon) makes it look very unlikely that the practice was introduced to England by a recently-arrived Germanic elite. It seems that early speakers of English had a name for a characteristic type of landscape – ‘wold’ – which was evidently widespread enough to be recognised and appropriately named across a swathe of central England when it was encountered by incomers. It is unlikely that ‘wold’ landscapes - encompassing open areas and scattered zones of woodland in mosaic, as Fox envisaged - developed by random processes of vegetational succession alone; their distinctive character would have reflected the impact of grazing and browsing animals. As O’Connor (2009) has noted, ‘environmental stability is the exception rather than the rule’ and ‘long periods of environmental stasis may be more indicative [than

Figure 8. L’Aubaret, Mont Lozère, France, June 14th, 2008: sheep nearing their destination, hurried along a well-defined narrow droveway. They belong to several owners, distinguished by painted marks. A few goats are included in the flock

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From this perspective, ecological stability is not a matter of natural entropy; wolds, woods and moorlands are quite deliberately conserved and maintained in particular states by human communities. They are ‘cultural landscapes’, often forming a major component of a distinctive pays. The word ‘wold’ is unlikely to be the only early English toponym which implied a distinctive form of managed landscape; one cannot help noticing the number of different words for woodland, for instance, or for routeways (almost by definition a ‘common property resource’, in Őstrom’s terminology). What I am arguing here (the point is not new: see Gelling and Cole 2000) is that early Germanic invaders named particular kinds of landscape which they encountered (including seasonally-occupied land or transhumance zones), and that these landscapes, as seen by early speakers of English, are likely to have been the product of collective, well-ordered management.

in the autumn). There may well have been further regulations concerning the use of other resources, such as fuel, or construction materials such as timber or stone. In intensively-used wood-pasture commons, woodland grazing and browsing were integrated with the sustainable use of deciduous trees (Rackham 1980: chapter 12); trees were lopped or pollarded, with, in some places, certain areas fenced off as coppices to be cut in rotation. It is also clear from the work of Őstrom (1990), and from surviving documentation, that if commons regulations were to be generally respected they had to be policed (so there were roles for commons officials) and there had to be a mechanism for keeping their effectiveness under review (a commons council). The collective interest lay in minimising and managing conflict and competition, and in preventing overstocking. Rules and regulations would have gone with the grain of accepted custom and practice, thus safeguarding their general observance on a day-to-day basis. The transhumance routine itself would presumably have varied little from year to year, and would have been remembered by the animals themselves. For each group of transhumants there would have been traditional routes, accepted stopping-places to rest, feed and water the livestock, or to count them and perhaps transfer them to the care of local holders of common

At a minimum, there would have been regulations defining those who had rights to use the commons and how many animals they were permitted to send there, with conventions about livestock units (for example, how many sheep were equivalent to one cow). Rules governed the time bracket during which the commons were open; in terms of the ‘Celtic’ calendar this was effectively from Beltaine to Samhain, 1st May to 1st November (though not for pigs being fattened on acorns

Figure 9. La Vialasse, Mont Lozère, June 12th, 2010: removing collars, bells and pom-poms shortly after arrival. The dung in the enclosure will be carefully swept up with a prongless wooden rake and bagged in plastic sacks

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Andrew Fleming rights. Each group of livestock used a traditional area (or areas), centred on the more open areas (‘lawns’ or ‘plains’ in wood-pasture), or, on upland heaths, zones of better grazing which had to be stocked at a certain level if their quality was to be maintained or improved. (On Dartmoor, the name ‘plain’ also occurs, and it has nothing to do with a large expanse of level ground). Doubtless the activities of each group of livestock custodians would have been affected by working beside their (usual) neighbours, whose co-presence would have stimulated a variety of memories and expectations. Stake-holding on the commons would have had numerous social, personal, and economic implications - a complex web of relationships and ingrained beliefs, practices and expectations, especially those focussed on associated social gatherings and country ‘markets’ (often known as ‘fairs’ when they enter the documentary record).

results ‘could be compatible with routine movement of individuals during childhood and adolescence between two communities living in different areas. Alternatively, the array …. could be consistent with a system of cyclical transhumance in which members of the community routinely moved between pastures with their livestock….as the animals sampled possess 87Sr/86Sr values comparable to those exhibited by the human group’. Long-distance movements across the lower Severn basin evoke earlier times, when Mesolithic people are likely to have ranged widely across the Severn plains, the mouth of the Severn then being situated much further west, and raw materials such as Greenstone chert and beach flint were distributed over considerable distances (Lillie 2015: 122). It may be that in some regions the foundations of Neolithic transhumance were laid in the Mesolithic, when people visited resource zones separated by considerable distances at different seasons, presumably using customary routeways; they had large hunting, gathering and collecting ranges, involving raw materials as well as food. Mobility was a core feature of their lifeways. It is debatable how far people abandoned the mindset and the cultural matrix of seasonal mobility, or the concomitant geographical knowledge, once they had begun to control and domesticate animals in ‘the Neolithic’. For Barrett (1994:147) the landscape of Neolithic farming in England was ‘held together by movement across its surface between a constellation of places each of which was loaded with social and religious significances’.

It is not difficult, then, to understand how the habit of transhumance and of exercising common rights in large areas of seasonally available resources might have persisted for a very long time. It would not have been a straightforward matter to extinguish these customs and practices, given their cultural ‘embeddedness’, the multiplicity of stake-holders involved, and what actually was at stake. In the long run, however, the collective use and management of land was negotiated and bargained away in piecemeal fashion, unable to withstand the stratagems of the predatory and the powerful. Despite this, a good deal of common land has still survived in some parts of England and Wales (Hoskins & Stamp 1964).

Long before the isotope work, Ray and Thomas (2003), on the basis of the contexts of cattle bones found mostly at Neolithic causewayed enclosures, long mounds and Cotswold-Severn long cairns (mid 4th millennium cal bc), in relationships of association, equivalence and interchangeability, have discussed the possible curation of cattle bones, as well as the idea that Neolithic people might have created ‘a fictive kinship with cattle’, the latter constituting ‘a powerful resource for the articulation of human social relations’. They have also suggested that monument complexes may have marked seasonal gathering points for herding communities.

Prehistoric origins? The term transhumance has been used to describe a considerable range of practices. As with ‘landscape’, the word’s very generality may justify its usefulness as a portmanteau term for some and its studied avoidance by others. Now that isotopic studies are demonstrating the apparent geographical range of human and animal movement in the prehistory of England, Alasdair Whittle’s alternative phrase ‘tethered mobility’ (1997: 21) may perhaps be heard more frequently. Neil et al (2016) have worked on human teeth from the SevernCotswold chamber tomb of Hazleton North, some 12 km ESE of Cheltenham, which carry a date estimate of c. 3710-3655 cal bc, in the Early Neolithic. They have discovered a shift in strontium values between consecutively mineralizing teeth which is ‘consistent with regular movement backward and forward between at least two different geographical locations’, whilst the values themselves imply links with geology/ies at least 40 km to the west or south-west, in Gloucestershire, Herefordshire or Worcestershire (though areas further afield could not be ruled out). Apparently these

In this context, some interesting discoveries have been made at Irthlingborough, in the Nene valley, northeast of Wellingborough in the East Midlands (Harding and Healy (2007). Here, intensive archaeological and environmental studies have suggested that human communities occupied the sides of the valley, overlooking ‘unoccupied’ river plains and meadows, which were grazed by livestock and embellished with increasing numbers of ceremonial monuments. Examples from a broad zone of eastern England stretching roughly from the middle Thames valley to modern Norwich 64

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suggest that open grassland was effectively the usual setting for Bronze Age burial mounds. By the later second millennium cal bc there were evidently large areas of open pasture on the chalkland of Salisbury Plain, which seem to have been roughly contemporary with large coaxial field systems (McOmish et al 2002). In 1999, Barclay and Hey, citing work by Robinson and Lambrick, argued that Neolithic cursus monuments and related ‘ritual’ sites in the middle Thames valley were placed in meadows on the river plain which had been cleared for herds of cattle. At Irthlingborough, the proposed sequence starts with a corridor of grassland among the woods, within which the earliest ceremonial monuments were placed in the Early Neolithic (mid fourth millennium cal bc). There was evidently some scrub regeneration (which was more marked in the Late Neolithic), but ‘the alignment [of monuments] was never entirely lost’. The Early Bronze Age (early second millennium cal bc) saw more extensive clearance, with an open landscape in the Middle Bronze Age, now embellished with burial mounds (‘barrows’). Such a characterisation recalls my own visualisation of burial mounds in Wessex (Fleming 1971). Then, around 1200 cal bc, monument construction fell out of use; at right angles to the river, two sets of ditched coaxial boundaries were created, each on a slightly different axis, including at least one integral droveway. Parallels were drawn with the well-known Bronze Age site of Fengate, some 30 km downstream (Pryor 2005 and references). There were some interpretational problems at Irthlingborough. It is unclear whether the coaxial boundaries were hedged or fenced, and also whether ‘the parcelledup terrace served as densely stocked winter pasture for large numbers of animals, in which the boundaries made it possible to “rest” some areas by keeping animals out of them, or rather as a zone of organisation and control, through which stock were moved between winter pasture close to settlements on the valley sides and summer pasture on the flood plain’. The second interpretation recalls the idea proposed by Pryor

in connection with Fengate (1996) – that livestock (in this case sheep, in very large numbers) may not simply have been driven through these coaxial land parcels, but were ‘managed’ within them in various ways, the ‘droveways’ acting as ‘crushes’ for handling the stock and sorting them into holding areas delineated by the ditched ‘boundaries’. With the exception of this last idea, and leaving out the ceremonial monuments, the Neolithic/Bronze Age model for Irthlingborough is similar to that outlined earlier in this paper, developed (surely independently) by Williamson six years later for the early medieval period – including the idea that increasing pressure on resources may at certain times have led to increasing sub-division (coaxial ‘land divisions’). For Harding,

Figure 10. La Vialasse, Mont Lozère: sheep bells and collars after removal

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Andrew Fleming Healy and their co-authors, ‘land use may have changed far less than methods of land division’; perhaps in a gesture towards Pryor’s model of stock management, they claim that ‘the uneven distribution of [coaxial] field systems highlights the likelihood that they would have served as communal gathering places’ (p. 283). Thus – counter-intuitively and ironically, I suppose – the late second millennium coaxials, effectively the earliest substantive ‘field systems’ in England, have become the object of discussions about the movement, management and assembly of significant numbers of livestock, seasonal movement, and the enduring use (and sustained management) of permanent zones of pasture in the Neolithic and Bronze Age. To judge from the pronouncements of landscape historians, the chronological gap between the prehistoric coaxials and those discussed by Williamson consists of some ten to fifteen centuries. Are we seeing unacknowledged longterm continuity here? Should we be arguing for two major episodes of transhumant pastoralism? Or are we seeing the intermittent flowering of a practice that may have waxed and waned but never quite disappeared? Perhaps zones whose seasonal potential and value are widely recognised never quite lose their allure, as Harold Fox might have put it. The natural silting of the ditches of coaxial systems, or their energetic re-cutting, might well seriously affect the possibility of obtaining archaeological evidence for the continuity which might close the gap between prehistoric and early historic coaxiality.

age as Barrow 1 at Irthlingborough, both being dated by radiocarbon. In the ditch of a Barrow 2 were cattle bones representing at least 102 individuals; since only one third of the ditch was opened, it was reasonable to assume that the original number deposited had been around 300. To bring about what was evidently a symbolic feast for the dead, rather than a real one, cattle of all ages had been slaughtered, in a ratio of four females to one male; because of the distribution of the body parts, it was deduced that the killings had taken place elsewhere. Most of the cattle had not been systematically skinned or dismembered; their carcasses were left to decay naturally (although protected from dogs and scavengers), until, in a skeletal state, they were brought to the burial mound. From the presence of both ‘robust’ and ‘gracile’ bones at Gayhurst, it was suggested that these cattle might have been drawn from several herds (which might also be implied by the large numbers involved). From this perspective, the isotope work from Gayhurst is interesting. Carried out by the team which processed the Irthlingborough material, it suggested that one member of the sample, GAY 1, had an isotope ratio consistent with origins on Cretaceous chalk, some 25 km to the south and east of the burial site. It was suggested that another animal, represented by GAY 3, had been born in the west of Britain, brought onto the Gayhurst geology in the second year of its life, and slaughtered several years later. The isotope results from these two sites from the south-east Midlands are hardly likely to result from ‘down the line’ livestock exchanges. If these findings do not necessarily imply transhumance, they do at least suggest that livestock transactions were conducted over significant distances, that people (and livestock) may have come from far afield in order to attend the prehistoric equivalent of cattle fairs, and possibly that some cattle may have been reared in northern or western hills before being fattened up on the lusher pastures of the Nene and Ouse valleys. In the case of Irthlingborough, isotope work has widened perceptions of a landscape whose regional dimensions had already been recognised. At the Late Neolithic settlement at Durrington Walls, just north-east of Stonehenge, eleven out of thirteen samples of cattle bones did not come from the local chalkland (Albarella et al 2010), and some are believed to have come from much further afield. It remains to be seen how far these findings represent ad hoc responses to the pull of building projects on Salisbury Plain (and associated ceremonial activity), and how far they reflect more enduring regional transhumance traditions.

We have not yet finished with Irthlingborough. One of the burial mounds there contained the primary burial of a young man within an oak-lined chamber, dating from the end of the third millennium cal bc. On the fringes of the mound (and mostly in the ditch) were the remains of at least 185 mostly young cattle - represented almost exclusively by defleshed skulls – implying the consumption of some 40 tonnes of prime beef. Only a limited number of cattle had been butchered on site. Most had evidently been allowed to lose their flesh naturally over a period of several weeks or months, probably in the open air but protected from scavengers. Isotope work on a sample of these bones (Towers et al 2010) suggested that most of the cattle had spent all or most of the first two years of their lives on the Jurassic geology which is local to the site. However, one, IRTH 6, had started life much further to the west or north (no nearer than the west Midlands, some 65 km distant) but the particular strontium value obtained suggested that it had ‘come to the Irthlingborough area on the hoof well before it was slaughtered’ (in its second year), rather than that its skull had been brought as a token from its place of origin.

For those interested in the potentially prehistoric origins of transhumance in England, these discoveries and perceptions from the Neolithic and Bronze Age are encouraging. But what of the Iron Age, the second half of the first millennium BC, potentially a vital period

Some 25 km to the south, in the neighbouring river basin of the Great Ouse, lies Gayhurst Quarry (Chapman 2007). Barrow 2 was effectively the same 66

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both for the ancestry of early medieval transhumance and for the potential persistence of comparable Neolithic and Bronze Age traditions? It is, of course, possible that early medieval transhumance goes no further back than the late Roman period. Perhaps the custom developed or intensified as part of a commercial and increasingly specialised industry responding to the growth of urbanism and markets, the continuing needs of the military, and high population numbers. We may be permitted to doubt this, however; early medieval transhumance seems to have been distributed across a range of zones which differed considerably - not only physiographically but also in the degree to which they were Romanised, militarised, or urbanised (for a recent summary, see Rippon et al 2015: 19-30, 47-56). It is also worth remembering, if it is relevant, that some patterns of coaxial land boundaries, especially in the north of England, apparently date from the Iron Age or Roman times.

term resilience which encouraged continuity (however ‘intermittent’) – the same kind of continuity which has been postulated for the coaxiality with which the practice has been associated. This is a cultural practice with complex ramifications for both people and landscape, whether it was the core activity of an elite whose power depended on the management of their flocks and herds, or a humble ‘folk tradition’, beneath the radar of the rich and powerful. Whether there was an unbroken tradition of transhumance in England stretching from late prehistory to the late medieval period is as yet unproven. Perhaps, as is evidently the case with the fields of Britannia, there was both continuity and discontinuity, varying from place to place. I hope I have shown that, in England at least, investigation of the possibility of ancient ‘transhumance’, for want of another word, deserves a higher priority than it has hitherto achieved. References

Although Iron Age specialists often write as if their subjects of study would fit naturally into a world where the breeding, accumulation and exchange of livestock came naturally (along with cattle raids), they do not seem to have concerned themselves over-much with the custom of transhumance, despite the questions posed by high-altitude hillforts. Recently, Giles (2012: 56-62) has presented a dynamic picture of the role of linear earthworks on the East Yorkshire Wolds in the Iron Age, in which she sees these dykes in relation to the movement of flocks and herds, and especially to the scarce resource of drinking water, in competitive contexts; following Fenton-Thomas, she is prepared to contemplate the possibility of transhumance. Perhaps in due course palaeobotanical evidence will have its say; apparently ‘recent work on pollen profiles from around Rye, Sussex…shows… that the Wealden transhumance system originated in the Iron Age’ (Waller and Schofield 2007).

Albarella, A., Evans, J., Viner, S. and Parker Pearson, M. 2010. Cattle mobility in prehistoric Britain: strontium isotope analysis of cattle teeth from Durrington Walls (Wiltshire, Britain). Journal of Archaeological Science, 37(11): 2812-2820. Banham, D. and Faith, R. 2014. Anglo-Saxon farms and farming. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barclay, A. and Hey, G. 1999. Cattle, cursus monuments and the river: the development of ritual and domestic landscapes in the Upper Thames valley. In: Barclay, A. & Harding, J. (eds) Pathways and ceremonies: the cursus monuments of Britain and Ireland: 67-76. Oxford: Oxbow. Barrett, J. 1994. Fragments from antiquity. Oxford: Blackwell. Bil, A. 1990. The shieling 1600-1840: the case of the central Scottish Highlands. Edinburgh: John Donald. Chapman, A, 2007. A Bronze Age barrow cemetery and later buildings, pit alignments and enclosures at Gayhurst Quarry, Newport Pagnell, Buckinghamshire. Records of Buckinghamshire, 47(2): 83-211. Collis, J. 2008. Parallel lives: landscape archaeology in Britain and France. In: Rainbird, P. (ed.) Monuments in the landscape: 99-113. Stroud: Tempus. Collis, J. 2016. Summer farms: an introduction. In: Collis, J., Pearce, M. & Nicolis, F. eds. Summer farms: seasonal exploitation of the uplands from prehistory to the present. Sheffield: J. R. Collis Publications. Curwen, E. C. 1927. Prehistoric agriculture in Britain. Antiquity, 1: 261-89. Emery, F. 1974. The Oxfordshire Landscape. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Everitt, A. 1977. River and wold: reflections on the historical origins of regions and pays. Journal of Historical Geography, 3(1): 1-19.

Conclusion This exploration has been necessarily inconclusive, and, as a survey of the literature, anecdotal rather than comprehensive. For archaeologists, transhumance is hard to disentangle from related themes - notably the use of seasonally available resources (of varying kinds), the sharing of common property resources, the degree of pastoral specialisation, exchange transactions at seasonal gatherings, and even ritual associations between people and livestock. Nevertheless, archaeologists’ difficulties in ‘disentangling’ these and other interpretive possibilities may occur in part because these behavioural patterns and mindsets were often closely associated with one another in the past. I have already noted the likelihood that transhumance and its associated practices had an inherent stability and long67

Andrew Fleming Everitt, A. 1986. Continuity and colonization: the evolution of Kentish settlement. Leicester: Leicester University Press. Fenton-Thomas, C. 2003. Late prehistoric and early historic landscapes on the Yorkshire chalk. BAR British Series 350. Oxford: Archaeopress. Fenton-Thomas, C. 2005. The forgotten landscapes of the Yorkshire Wolds. Stroud: Tempus. Fleming, A. 1971. Territorial patterns in Bronze Age Wessex. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 37: 13864. Fleming, A. 1984. The prehistoric landscape of Dartmoor: wider implications. Landscape History, 6: 5-19. Fleming, A. 2008. The Dartmoor Reaves: investigating prehistoric land divisions. Oxford: Windgather Press. [second edition]. Ford, W. J. 1979. Some settlement patterns in the central region of the Warwickshire Avon. In: P. H. Sawyer (ed.) English medieval settlement: 143-63. London: Edward Arnold. Fowler, P. J. 1983. The farming of prehistoric Britain. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fowler, P. J. 2000. Landscape plotted and pieced: landscape history and local archaeology in Fyfield and Overton, Wiltshire. London: Society of Antiquaries. Fowler, P. J. & Blackwell, I. 1998. The land of Lettice Sweetapple: an English countryside explored. Stroud: Tempus. Fox, H. S. A. 1989. The people of the wolds in English settlement history. In: Aston, M., Austin, D. and Dyer, C. (eds) The rural settlements of medieval England: studies dedicated to Maurice Beresford and John Hurst: 77-101. Oxford: Blackwell. Fox, H. S. A. 2000. Wolds: the wolds before c. 1500. In: Thirsk, J. ed. Rural England: an illustrated history of the landscape. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 50-61. Fox, H. S. A. 2012. Dartmoor’s Alluring Uplands: transhumance and pastoral management in the Middle Ages. Exeter: Exeter University Press. Gelling, M. & Cole, A. 2000. The landscape of place-names. Donnington: Shaun Tyas. Giles, M. 2012. A forged glamour: landscape, identity and material culture in the Iron Age. Oxford: Windgather Press. Hamerow, H., Hinton, D., & Crawford, S. (eds) 2011. The Oxford handbook of Anglo-Saxon archaeology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harding, J. & Healy, F. 2007. Raunds Area Project: the Neolithic and Bronze Age landscapes of West Cotton, Stanwick and Irthlingborough, Northamptonshire. Swindon: English Heritage. Harrington, S. & Welch, M. 2014. The early Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of southern Britain AD 450-650: beneath the Tribal Hidage. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Herring, P. 2009. Early medieval transhumance in Cornwall, Great Britain. In: Medieval rural settlement in marginal landscapes – Ruralia 7: 47-56.

Hooke, D. 1981. Anglo-Saxon landscapes of the west Midlands:the charter evidence. BAR British Series 95. Oxford: Archaeopress. Hooke, D. 1985. The Anglo-Saxon landscape: the kingdom of the Hwicce. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Hooke, D. 1989. Pre-Conquest woodland: its distribution and usage. Agricultural History Review 37: 113-29. Hooke, D. 2012. Place name hierarchies and interpretations in parts of Mercia. In: Jones, R. & Semple, S. eds. Sense of place in Anglo-Saxon England: 180-95. Donnington: Shaun Tyas. Hoskins, W. G. 1973. English landscapes. London: BBC. Hoskins, W. G. & Stamp, L. D. The common lands of England and Wales. London: Collins. Johnson, M. 2006. Ideas of landscape. New York: Wiley. Johnston, R. 2005. Pattern without a plan: rethinking the Bronze Age coaxial field systems on Dartmoor, south-west England. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 24(1): 1-21. Jones, A. M. et al. 2011. An animate landscape; rock art and the prehistory of Kilmartin, Argyll, Scotland. Oxford: Windgather Press. Lillie, M. 2015. Hunters, fishers and foragers in Wales: towards a social narrative of Mesolithic lifeways. Oxford: Oxbow. McOmish, D., Field, D. & Brown, G. 2002. The field archaeology of the Salisbury Plain Training Area. Swindon: English Heritage. Neil, S., Evans, J., Montgomery, J., and Scarre, C. 2016. Isotopic evidence for residential mobility of farming communities during the transition to agriculture in Britain. Royal Society Open Science 3 (1): 150522. Neilson, N. 1920. A terrier of Fleet, Lincolnshire. London: British Academy. O’Connor, T. P. Culture and environment: mind the gap. In Allen, M., Sharples, N., & O’Connor, T. eds. Land and people: papers in memory of John Evans: 11-18. Oxford: Oxbow. Őstrom, E. 1990. Governing the commons: the evolution of institutions for collective action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Oosthuizen, S. 2013. Tradition and transformation in AngloSaxon England. London: Bloomsbury. Oosthuizen, S. 2017. The Anglo-Saxon Fenland. Oxford: Windgather Press. Padel, O. 1985. Cornish place-name elements. Nottingham: English Place-name Society, Parker Pearson, M. 1990. The production and distribution of Bronze Age pottery in south-west Britain. Cornish Archaeology 29: 5-32. Pryor, F. 1996. Sheep, stocklands and farm systems: Bronze Age livestock populations in the Fenlands of eastern England. Antiquity 70: 313-24. Pryor, F. 1998. Farmers in prehistoric Britain. Stroud: Tempus. Pryor, F. 2005. Flag Fen: life and death of a prehistoric landscape. Stroud: Tempus. 68

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Rackham, O. 1980. Ancient woodland. London: Edward Arnold. Ray, K. & Thomas, J. 2003. In the kinship of cows: the social centrality of cattle in the earlier Neolithic of southern Britain. In: Parker Pearson, M. ed. Food, culture and identity in the Neolithic and Early Bronze Age: 37-44. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1117. Oxford: Archaeopress. Reynolds, A. & Langlands, A. 2006. Social identities on the macro scale: a maximum view of Wansdyke. In: Davies, W., Halsall, G. and Reynolds, A. eds. People and space in the Middle Ages: 13-44. Turnhout: Brepols. Rippon, S., Smart, C., & Pears, B. 2015. The fields of Britannia: continuity and change in the late Roman and early medieval landscape. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Towers, J., Montgomery, J, Evans, J, Jay, M. & Parker Pearson, M. 2010. An investigation of the origins of cattle and aurochs deposited in the Early Bronze Age barrows at Gayhurst and Irthlingborough. Journal of Archaeological Science 37: 508-13. Waller, M. and Schofield, J. 2007. Mid to late Holocene vegetation and land use history in the Weald of south-eastern England. Vegetation history and Archaeobotany 16: 367-384.

Ward, A. 1997. Transhumance and settlement on the Welsh uplands: a view from the Black Mountain. In: Edwards, N. ed. Landscape and settlement in medieval Wales: 97-111. Oxford: Oxbow. Warner, P. 1996. The origins of Suffolk. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Whittle  A. 1997  Moving on and moving around: Neolithic settlement mobility. In  Topping, P. ed. Neolithic landscapes: 15-22. Oxford, UK: Oxbow. Wickstead, H. 2008. Theorizing tenure: land division and identity in later prehistoric Dartmoor, South-West Britain. British Archaeological Reports no 465. Oxford: Archaeopress. Williamson, T. 1993. The origins of Norfolk. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Williamson, T. 2000. The origins of Hertfordshire. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Williamson, T. 2013. Environment, society and landscape in early medieval England: time and topography. Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer. Witney, K. P. 1976. The Jutish forest: a study of the Weald of Kent from 450 to 1380 AD. London: The Athlone Press. Yates, D. 2006. Land, power and prestige: Bronze Age field systems in southern England. Oxford: Oxbow.

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Since John left Devon: some unanticipated outcomes of aerial reconnaissance in the county F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes John’s first academic appointment was in Devon in 1970, as Assistant Lecturer to Lady (Aileen) Fox and Martin Biddle in the small but growing Archaeology section of the University of Exeter’s History Department (Fox 2000, 144). He stayed for less than two years before leaving for Sheffield, the university where he was to spend the rest of his academic career. While he was at Exeter, apart from teaching, one of his principal roles, at Lady Fox’s behest, was to start the major excavations prior to redevelopment on the Guildhall site in the centre of the town, where he excavated the fabrica and other elements of the Roman fortress of the Second Augustan legion (Collis 1972a). He therefore at that time engaged relatively little with Devon’s prehistory, and his first prehistoric publications relating to Devon in fact both originate from a period later than his working time here. These are the first of his two papers on Cranbrook Castle (Collis 1972b; see also Collis 1979), which resulted from the meeting of the Hillfort Study Group in Devon that year, and the very important paper on the Cholwichtown reaves, which built on the earlier work of Elizabeth Gawne and John Somers Cocks in establishing the prehistoric date of these major Dartmoor field systems (Fleming and Collis 1973), which emerged from Sheffield’s regular student field trips to Dartmoor. Although John only spent a few years in Devon, he has always maintained a lively interest in both the Iron Age and Roman periods here. It is pleasing to report that both in Exeter and more widely in the county the archaeological picture has changed substantially since his time. In the centre of Exeter, much work has been done on elucidating the layout of the legionary fortress (Henderson 1988; 1991) and that of its bath house, one of the most important first-century stone military buildings in northern Europe (Bidwell 1979; Henderson 1999). We now know a great deal more both about the large number of first-century military structures around the city of Exeter itself (Salvatore and Steinmetzer 2018; Rippon and Holbrook 2021a and b) and an increasing number of forts and other establishments in Devon and Cornwall (Griffith 1995; Fitzpatrick et al 1999; Smart and Allan 2014; Bidwell 2021). It is interesting that despite the substantial volume of rescue archaeological work carried out in Exeter over the last forty years, it is only very recently that any

traces of pre-Roman occupation have begun to emerge. Professor Hoskins maintained, in Two Thousand Years in Exeter, (Hoskins 1960, 3) that the city had its origin in a pre-Roman hillfort on or near the Rougemont hill, but no evidence for this has ever been identified, and it is somewhat unclear why he believed this so strongly (Wiseman 2016). No excavations in the area have ever borne this out. It is only really since 2004, with the excavations on the site of the new Crown Courts in Exeter, that significant Iron Age settlement evidence has been found within the city, in the form of a round house and other features which have produced South West Decorated ware (= ‘Glastonbury Ware’), bearing residues that have given dates around the mid-3rd century BC (Quinnell 2017). John’s work on Dartmoor, together with that of Andrew Fleming, resulted in the important series of studies on the reaves, and also coincided with a period of very active rescue archaeology on the edges of Dartmoor. In the 1970s, a series of major excavations were carried out by Geoffrey Wainwright and the Central Excavation Unit on south-west Dartmoor in advance of quarrying for china clay, providing almost for the first time sound dates for a number of elements of Dartmoor’s prehistoric archaeology (summarised in Balaam et al. 1982), while on the north side of the Moor the expansion of Meldon quarry meant the loss of a large part of the mediaeval settlement deserted at the creation of Okehampton Park, and hence the opportunity for relatively large-scale excavation (Austin 1978). It is true to say that archaeology in Devon in the early and middle 1970s largely concerned itself with Exeter and with Dartmoor. Since that time there has been a great expansion in both the study and the understanding of the lowlands of Devon, which now look a lot less blank and impenetrable than was once suggested (e.g. Simmons 1969, Fig. 3). In these lowland areas of Devon, in the last forty years we have seen the same trajectory of discovery as in many other parts of lowland Britain, through both aerial prospection and larger-scale rescue excavation and its concomitant geophysical work, and as a result our plough-ravaged lowlands have been shown to have been considerably more occupied in prehistory than had previously been supposed, showing evidence both of a wide range of ceremonial sites and of settlement occupation. One of the principal elements

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Since John left Devon: some unanticipated outcomes of aerial reconnaissance in the county

of this activity in Devon has been the Devon Aerial Reconnaissance Project, and in this very brief offering we would like to present to John a couple of aspects of our own work in diverse areas to which the results of the project have led.

many sites when threatened with development, whose existence had formerly been unknown (e.g. the Iron Age site at Black Horse, east of Exeter: Fitzpatrick et al. 1999, 6-8; 160-76). In Devon, as in many other areas previously under-surveyed for archaeological sites in the form of cropmarks, the 1980s and 1990s were a golden age for the discovery of hundreds of ‘new’ sites, mainly enclosures but with a number of Roman forts, prehistoric ceremonial sites and even a couple of hillforts, one of which (Raddon) proved also to be the site of a causewayed enclosure (Figures 1 and 2; Griffith 1984; Gent and Quinnell 1999).

The Aerial Reconnaissance Project was born in 1983 through a happy meeting between FMG and her late pilot Dickie Dougan (Griffith 1984; 2009). In the great drought year of 1984 it became an ‘official’ project of Devon County Council (her employer) and work in that year was made possible by a large and timely grant from Geoffrey Wainwright at what was then the Department of the Environment (later English Heritage). From then until the late 1990s, aerial reconnaissance was carried out by Devon County Council every year, initially by FMG and from 1992 also by her colleague Bill Horner. (For the sad circumstances of the gradual but almost complete demise of regionally-based flying in England and Wales, see Griffith 2009, 107.) The impact of the reconnaissance programme on the expansion of our understanding of the archaeology of Devon away from Dartmoor and Exmoor has been substantial (e.g. Griffith 1994; 1999), and its conservation benefits are clear, as are the results of rescue investigation of

EMW has carried out geophysical work on known archaeological sites for research and conservation purposes throughout Devon (for example, Cadbury, (Wilkes and Griffith 2012); Boringdon Camp, (Wilkes 2006a; Griffith and Wilkes 2011, Fig.10.12), Hembury (Wilkes 2016; Griffith and Wilkes 2021); Holbury (Wilkes 2007; Griffith and Wilkes 2011, 124-6; Fig. 10.5) and Burleigh Dolts, (Wilkes 2006b, Griffith and Wilkes 2011, 130-1; Figs 10.10, 10.11)), which has in every case substantially added to our understanding of the monuments. In addition, the authors have also been able to carry out a range of geophysical

Figure 1. Previously unknown hillfort at Berber Hill, Kenn, Devon. The curving hilltop bank shows the surviving rampart, and cropmarks show the remainder of the circuit and two annexes. Photograph F.M. Griffith, Devon County Council, 29 June 1984.

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F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes

Figure 2. Previously unknown hillfort and causewayed enclosure at Raddon Hill, Stockleigh Pomeroy, Devon. Photograph F.M. Griffith, Devon County Council, 7 June 1990.

surveys on some of the sites newly identified in aerial reconnaissance. At the henge at Bow, discovered by FMG in 1984, magnetometry by the authors, funded by the Leverhulme Trust, shows a series of ring ditches surrounding the henge, which measures c. 60 x 70m., has two entrances and an ovoid setting of large post-pits within it (Figure 3; Griffith and Wilkes forthcoming).

be seen to overlap with other structures which cannot have been contemporary with the ditch of the enclosure itself. The centre of the principal enclosure is occupied by a large circular feature, probably a complex round barrow but perhaps a large round house, while to the north west of the enclosure a circular feature in an irregular outer ditch has so far defied both adequate description and identification.

The identification in 1989 of two enclosures overlooking Bigbury Bay in South Devon has given rise to a long-term research project carried out by EMW with volunteers from the Devon Archaeological Society. Geophysical survey here has identified more enclosures set within an articulated series of enclosures and trackways (Figure 4) while the enclosures themselves have provided evidence of occupation from the Late Bronze Age to the later Roman period, with well-preserved structural evidence of a succession of large round houses set within a terrace in one of the enclosures. The finds have included a previously unknown Iron Age fabric originating, on petrological evidence, from very close to the site, as well as imports from both southern Britain and further afield on the continent, reinforcing EMW’s early estimation of the site as a place of coastal exchange, as at Bantham on the opposite side of the river Avon (Wilkes 2004; forthcoming; Henrietta Quinnell pers. comm.).

The work of an aerial surveyor does not cease when the plane lands. After reconnaissance, each ‘new’ site was initially located on the 1:25000 map prior to plotting, and given a name in relation to a nearby placename. (It will be appreciated that these skills of site location, and those of navigation in the air to know where one is, are now almost wholly redundant, since most aerial reconnaissance now has the benefit of GPS for both navigation and site recording purposes.) Subsequently sites were accurately transcribed and entered into the (then) Sites and Monuments Register. After this, a further stage of work followed, which as far as we know is unique to Devon. This was the ‘Devon Post-Reconnaissance Fieldwork Programme’ (DPRFP), which was carried out principally by the late Rosemary Robinson, funded largely by Devon County Council. For each ‘new’ site, altitude and geology were recorded, the field name on the Tithe Map ascertained, and a site visit made. This had several purposes: to record the site and its topographic location on the ground, but perhaps most importantly to find out the landowner or occupier and to let them know they had the site on their land. This has had excellent results – one cannot expect an owner to look after a site on their land if they do not know it is there. In Devon we found the response from farmers varied from amused toleration to great enthusiasm, and, with earlier versions of Environmental

Other geophysical surveys by EMW have demonstrated the complexity and time-depth of sites for which aerial reconnaissance on most Devon soils can only record major features such as their perimeter ditch. Magnetometry can provide far more detail. At Thornberry, Chivelstone, in South Devon, for example (Figures 5 and 6; Wilkes 2005) the principal enclosure – which interestingly has no observable entrance – can 72

Since John left Devon: some unanticipated outcomes of aerial reconnaissance in the county

Figure 3. Geophysical survey of the henge and surrounding area at Bow, Devon. E.M. Wilkes and F.M. Griffith, 2005-6.

Stewardship schemes, they could often apply to receive financial support for the wellbeing of the site, making it an asset rather than a liability for them. A further benefit of examining every site in this way, usually in the company of the farmer, was that it soon became possible to appreciate topographical preferences in the siting of the enclosures, and very often the farmer would explain from intimate knowledge of the field exactly why it was the right place for it to be. We have found this engagement with an enclosure on the ground, and the consideration of the choices made by preceding farmers on the same land, to have been a way in which the information value contained in the site has become meaningful to the present-day occupiers of the land. Figure 4. Geophysical survey of enclosures and other features at Mount Folly, Bigbury, Devon. Surveys by E.M. Wilkes and Mount Folly project team, composite plot.

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Another delightful result has been rather unexpected. In the initial

F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes

Figure 5. Enclosure at Thornberry, Chivelstone, Devon. Photograph F.M. Griffith, Devon County Council, 19 July 1984.

stage of locating sites on the 1:25,000 map, a name was given to each one from a nearby farm or mapped feature, simply to allow easy reference to them. Thus, ‘ring ditch north of Pitt Farm’ or ‘enclosure at Hayden Wood’. Even at an early stage, working simply from farm names, it quickly became clear that there was a non-random correlation between the newly-discovered sites and archaeologically suggestive placenames. The study of placenames in relation to archaeology is a longstanding and fascinating one, perhaps best summarised by the late Margaret Gelling in her Signposts to the Past, first published in 1978 (2ed. Gelling 1988). It has always been recognised that many archaeological sites are reflected in the placename ‘-berry’ or ‘-bury’: in fact probably more Devon hillforts contain a -bury suffix than do not, but the number of significant names identified during the course of this work has been both surprising and absorbing. As soon as site-naming from the 1:25,000 map began, names such as Bagborough, Mouseberry, Burrow, Frogberry, Milbury, Glazenbury, and so on started to emerge with great frequency (Griffith 1986).

However, the present project has made it possible to take the consideration of such names a stage or two further than is usually done. The enclosure at Thornberry, mentioned above, had, at the photo-siting stage, originally been given the sitename ‘Cousins Cross’, referring to the nearby crossroads. But we were later able to refine the name of this particular enclosure, and many others. Rosemary Robinson’s work, in the DRFFP phase, had explored the Tithe Map and Apportionment for each site, and also recorded from the farmer the present-day fieldname. On the Tithe Apportionment the name of the field containing the enclosure was ‘Thornberry’. As time went by, we were able to add literally hundreds of other new site names to those we had originally found on the 1:25,000 map. This does not just apply to enclosures: the hillfort at Berber Hill (above, Figure 1), is ‘Berberry Hill’ on the Tithe Apportionment, and the Roman fort discovered in 1989 at Cudmore Farm, Clayhanger (Frere and Tomlin 1991, 281; pl. XXXI), was also in a ‘Berry’ field. 74

Since John left Devon: some unanticipated outcomes of aerial reconnaissance in the county

Figure 6. Geophysical survey of enclosure at Thornberry, Chivelstone, Devon. E.M. Wilkes, 2005.

However, the berry/bury/borough/burrow placenames mentioned above derive from Anglo-Saxon origins and must represent naming at the time the new language came into use. One of the excellent results deriving from this project is that this actually gives us dating evidence. By relating placenames to actual archaeological sites with some confidence we can understand that these sites - now only visible in their below-ground form to the aerial observer or to the geophysical surveyor or excavator – were actually surviving upstanding landscape features of sufficient significance to be given their own names by Anglo-Saxons coming into a new piece of land, and that in due course these names came to be used for the settlements or to the land on which they sat. This provides a terminus post quem for their physical survival: they cannot have been flattened or erased until after they had been seen and named. (We may observe in passing that, in respectable placename circles, the use of names only recorded in recent times - for example in Tithe Apportionments of the mid 19th century – is regarded as somewhat unsound. Obviously early forms, for example from Anglo-Saxon charters or Domesday Book, can be used with much more confidence to propose the origin and earliest form of a placename. However, we would argue that the sheer lack of meaning to subsequent generations in a placename like ‘Mouseberry’ should give us some confidence in its innocent transmission over time, as this seems more likely than a late and meaningless origin for a large number of such names for perfectly flat fields.)

Nor are the discoveries limited to sites of enclosure type. Sites recorded in cropmark form as ring ditches, representing ploughed-out barrows, are recorded variously as ‘burrow’; ‘borough’; ‘hill/hylle’ and so on. For example, a ring ditch close to Peadhill Farm, Tiverton (Pedehael in Domesday Book) suggests the survival of an earthen round barrow at the time of the establishment of the settlement, while the henge and ceremonial complex, discovered at Bow, mid Devon (above), can be related to a concentration of ‘nymet’ placenames surviving to the present day, which extend for some distance around the site. (Griffith 1985, including location map of ‘nymet’ names; Gelling 1988, 243). The ‘nymet’ names derive from the Celtic root *nemet-, meaning a sacred or numinous place, a sacred grove or ‘artificial construction’ (Rivet and Smith 1979, 254-5), and it is recorded in the Roman placename Nemetotacio/Nemetostatio recorded in the Ravenna Cosmography. This represents the survival of a pre-existing Celtic *nemet name in use in the area at the time of the Roman conquest, taken over by the incoming Romans and used for a Roman installation (statio) which is interpreted as the major Roman military complex at nearby North Tawton (ibid., 4245). The discovery of the henge provides an explanation of the ‘nymet’ names that had previously been lacking in this area. In this case a pre-existing Celtic name has been used and taken over by the incoming Romans, whether or not the significance the original placename was understood. 75

F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes At this point the acute observer will have noticed that the forms of ‘bury’, ‘berry’ and so on crop up in the terms relating both to mounds such as barrows, and to site-types of an enclosing nature. This is due to the confusion, of very long standing, between Old English beorg, the usual term in Devon for a barrow, and burh (dative byrig), the usual Old English term for a stronghold, fortified place or defended settlement (Gelling 1988, 131-48). Now that the results of aerial reconnaissance allow us to determine whether the monument that gave rise to the placename was originally a barrow or some form of enclosure, hillfort or Roman fort, it is possible for us to suggest its original form. From this it has been possible to discover roughly when the confusion between the two words of Anglo-Saxon origin occurred. In the case of names recorded in Anglo-Saxon charters, or in Domesday Book, the spelling used generally indicates an origin as either burh or beorg which is in keeping with the nature of the archaeological site that has been recognised. But in Devon, it would appear that a state of inextricable confusion between the two had occurred by about the 13th or 14th century, which suggests that by then these were simply ‘names’ without intrinsic meaning, as barrows, hillforts etc., any more. (The case of Malborough, a manor and parish first recorded as Malleberg in 1249, is a good example. Here, the dominant presence until the 1940s of Burleigh Dolts, a large multiple-ramparted hillfort strongly suggests that this must originally have been a burh name (Griffith and Wilkes 2006, 85), although even the first, late, record indicates beorg.) To summarise: the name of the site can tell us roughly when it was still visible above ground, and from the character of the site we can identify whether the placename was originally of burh or beorg type, and it is really only the detailed comparison of archaeological and toponymic evidence together that can achieve this (Griffith 1986).

integration of the results with local fieldwork through the Historic Environment Record, the expansion of the initial discoveries through the Post-Reconnaissance Fieldwork Project and through geophysical surveys, and the exploration of the resulting discoveries through both research and rescue excavations, whose number continues to increase, have been consistently enlightening and stimulating. The fact that it has also led one of us down the highways and (sometimes hazard-strewn) byways of placename interpretation has been an unforeseen but delightful outcome, which has made some contribution to the study of Devon placenames, as well as to the wider study of the evolution of some names relating to archaeological sites. We very much hope that John may find some of our results entertaining and we offer this small paper to him with affection. Acknowledgements FMG would like to thank her former employer, Devon County Council, and all those individuals and institutions who have supported the Devon Aerial Reconnaissance and Post-Reconnaissance projects over the years; her late pilot Dickie Dougan and the late Rosemary Robinson, and Oliver Padel and the late Dr Margaret Gelling for their help in her placename enthusiasms. She would also like to thank John for bringing the late Chris Henderson to Exeter in 1971. Chris served for many years as the Director of Exeter’s Archaeological Field Unit, and in this capacity was responsible for the elucidation of much of Exeter’s archaeology (Anon 2001). More significantly for her, he was to become FMG’s husband. EMW would like to thank the landowners of the survey sites mentioned in the text and all the individuals who have helped with those surveys and the investigations at Mount Folly; also her employers, Bournemouth University and University of Wales. She also thanks John for his discussions and support from the first time they collaborated in 1999 to the present day.

We have the sense that so far we have only scratched the surface of the range of ways in which the integration of the study of placenames with that of the archaeology of our area can shed light on the understanding of both, but the range of ‘new’ sites deriving from aerial reconnaissance certainly provides fertile ground for further work, in the fields of geophysics, excavation and placename study. The aerial reconnaissance programme started as a way of exploring those parts of Devon that in the 1970s were rather under-appreciated by archaeologists in the county. Our location in South West Britain, with its predominantly wet climate and high local variations of rainfall, has made it an entertaining and challenging area to work in, with different parts of the region yielding results for the aerial observer in different years. The results have been of greater substance and number than one could have dreamed of in 1983 (see for example, for enclosures alone, Griffith and Quinnell 1999, Map 7.4), and the

Bibliography Anon 2001. Christopher George Henderson: An Appreciation, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 59, 1-10. Austin, D. 1978. Excavations in Okehampton Deer Park, Devon, 1976-8, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 36, 191-240. Balaam, N. D., Smith, K. and Wainwright, G. J. 1982. The Shaugh Moor Project: Fourth Report – Environment, Context and Conclusion, Proceedings Prehistoric Society 48, 203-78. Bidwell, P. T. 1979. The Legionary Bath-House and Basilica and Forum at Exeter. Exeter: Exeter City Council. 76

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Bidwell, P. T. 2021. The Legionary Fortress and its Landscape Context in Rippon and Holbrook (eds), 2021a, 127-66. Collis, J. 1972a. Exeter Excavations: Guildhall Site. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Collis, J. 1972b. Cranbrook Castle, Moretonhampstead. A New Survey, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 30, 216-221. Collis, J. 1979. Cranbrook Castle Revisited, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 37, 191-4. Fitzpatrick, A. P., Butterworth, C. A. and Grove, J. 1999. Prehistoric and Roman Sites in East Devon: the A30 Honiton to Exeter Improvement DBFO Scheme 1996-9. Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology Report 16. Fleming, A. and Collis, J. 1973. A Late Prehistoric Reave System near Cholwich Town, Dartmoor, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 31, 1-21. Fox, A. 2000. Aileen – A Pioneering Archaeologist: The Autobiography of Aileen Fox. Leominster: Gracewing. Frere, S. S. and Tomlin, R. S. O. 1991. Roman Britain in 1990, Britannia 22, 221-312. Gelling, M., 1988. Signposts to the Past 2 ed. Chichester: Phillimore. Gent, T. and Quinnell, H. 1999. Excavations of a Causewayed Enclosure and Hillfort on Raddon Hill, Stockleigh Pomeroy, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 61, 1-220. Griffith, F. M. 1984. Aerial Reconnaissance in Devon, 1984, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 42, 7-10. Griffith, F. M. 1985. A Nemeton in Devon? Antiquity 59, 121-4. Griffith, F. M. 1986. Burh and Beorg in Devon, Nomina 10, 93-103. Griffith, F. M. 1994. Changing Perceptions of Dartmoor’s Prehistoric Context in The Archaeology of Dartmoor: Perspectives from the 1990s: Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 52, 85-100. Griffith, F. M. 1997. Developments in the Study of Roman Military Sites in South West England in Roman Frontier Studies 1995: Proceedings of the XVIth International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies. Oxford: Oxbow Monograph 91, 361-9. Griffith, F. M. 1999. The Impact of Aerial Reconnaissance in Devon in Actes du Colloque International d’Archéologie Aérienne d’Amiens 1992. Revue Archéologique de Picardie numéro spécial 17, 205-15. Griffith, F. M. 2009. The Joys of Enclosures: aspects of aerial reconnaissance in Devon and Somerset in James, H. and Moore, P. (eds), Carmarthenshire and Beyond: Papers in memory of Terry James, 107-22. Carmarthen: Carmarthenshire Antiquarian Society. Griffith, F. M. and Quinnell, H. 1999. ‘Settlement c. 2500BC to c. 600AD in Kain, R. and Ravenhill, W. (eds) Historical Atlas of South-West England, 62-8. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Griffith, F. M. and Wilkes, E. M. 2006. The Land named from the sea? Coastal archaeology and place-names

of Bigbury Bay, Devon, Archaeological Journal 163, 6791. Griffith, F. M. and Wilkes, E. M. 2011. In the Footsteps of Pioneering Women in Pearce, S. (ed.) Recent Archaeological Work in South-Western Britain: Papers in Honour of Henrietta Quinnell. Oxford: BAR British Series 548, 121-37. Griffith, F. M. and Wilkes, E. M. 2021. Expanding the Neolithic of Hembury, East Devon in Last, J. (ed.) Marking Place: New Perspectives on Early Neolithic Enclosures. 103-118. Oxford: Oxbow. Neolithic Studies Group Seminar Papers 18. Griffith, F. M. and Wilkes, E. M. forthcoming. The Ritual Complex at Bow, Devon. Henderson, C. G. 1988. Exeter (Isca Dumnoniorum) in (ed) Webster, Graham, Fortress into City: The Consolidation of Roman Britain, First century AD, 91-119. London: Batsford. Henderson, C. G. 1991. The Planning of the Roman Fortress at Exeter in Maxfield, V. A. and Dobson, M. J. (eds) Roman Frontier Studies 1989: Proceedings of the XVth Congress of Roman Frontier Studies, 73-83. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Henderson, C. G. 1999. The Design of the Neronian Fortress Baths at Exeter in DeLaine, J. (ed.) Roman Baths and Bathing. JRA Supplementary Series 37, 164-83. Hoskins, W. G. 1960. Two Thousand Years in Exeter. Exeter: Townsend. Quinnell, H., 2017. Prehistoric Sites and Finds beneath Central Exeter, Proceedings Devon Archaeological Society 75, 1-25. Rippon, S. and Holbrook, N. (eds) 2021a. Roman and Medieval Exeter and their Hinterlands. Oxford: Oxbow. Rippon, S. and Holbrook, N. (eds) 2021b. Studies in the Roman and Medieval Archaeology of Exeter. Oxford: Oxbow. Rivet, A. L. F. and Smith, C. 1979. The Place-names of Roman Britain. London, Batsford. Salvatore, J. P. and Steinmetzer, M., 2018. The Recently Discovered Roman Military Supply Base at St. Loye’s College, Exeter, Devon. South-West Britain in Proceedings of the 23rd International Congress of Roman Frontier Studies, Ingoldstadt, 2015, 793-802. Mainz: Nünnerich-Asmus Verlag. Simmons, I. G. 1969. Environment and Early Man on Dartmoor, Devon, England, Proceedings Prehistoric Society 35, 203-19. Smart, C. and Allan, J. P. 2014. A Roman Military Complex and Medieval Settlement on Church Hill, Calstock: Survey and Excavation 2007-10. Oxford: BAR British Series 603. Wilkes, E.M. 2004. Iron Age Maritime Nodes on the English Channel Coast. An investigation into the location, nature and context of early ports and harbours. Unpublished PhD thesis, Bournemouth University. Wilkes, E. M. 2005. Report on geophysical survey at Thornberry, south Devon. Unpublished client report (DCC) available at Devon HER. 77

F.M. Griffith and E.M. Wilkes Wilkes, E. M. 2006a. Report on geophysical survey at Boringdon Camp, south Devon. Unpublished client report (SHDC) available at Devon HER. Wilkes, E. M. 2006b. Report on geophysical survey at Burleigh Dolts, south Devon. Unpublished client report (SHDC) available at Devon HER. Wilkes, E. M. 2007. Report on geophysical survey and targeted excavation at Holbury Camp, south Devon. Unpublished client report (SHDC) available at Devon HER.

Wilkes, E. M. and Griffith, F. M. 2012. Cadbury Castle, Devon, Reconsidered, Archaeological Journal 169, 23780. Wilkes, E. M. 2016. Hembury (Payhembury) Fort, Devon. Unpublished client report (Hembury) available at Devon HER. Wilkes, E.M. forthcoming. Mount Folly Enclosures Project: Survey and Excavation. Wiseman, T. P. 2016. How old is Exeter? Divining the Distant Past with W.G. Hoskins. Exeter: Mint Press.

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Mam Tor, Derbyshire: new plans outlining hill and fort, internal platforms and all Graeme Guilbert1 Mam Tor has long been renowned as a striking local landmark, initially for wondrous landslips scarring its towering mass, so too for an imposing bivallate contour-fort crowning its exposed summit. As seen today, with lengthy inturned entrances, the hillfort seems best attributed to the Iron Age, while artefacts from excavation in the 1960s have prompted suggestions that it originated in, or was preceded by, lightly enclosed or unenclosed settlement of the Late Bronze Age. With appropriate caveats, an enhanced case for that broad sequence can be framed around critical assessment of excavated particulars together with fresh surface recording and interpretation of the hilltop. Mapping both natural and artificial features, the new plans include landslips around the fort, a perennial spring rising within it and, most notable because here depicted for the first time, a dense distribution of more than 200 platforms recessed into sloping ground over much of the 5.9ha enclosed by it, which is not to say that all were contemporary with the hillfort. Need Perceived 1 The top of Mam Tor is home to a handsome hillfort and, it so happens, my introduction to it was in the company of John Collis (JC), during an excursion of the Hillfort Study Group, on 21 April 1979. That weekend, led by JC and Jeffrey May, offered brief sight of a dozen forts scattered in and around the Peak upland, meaning the southern tongue of the Pennine spine of northern England, with Mam Tor at its midst. And that first experience of Mam Tor made a lasting impression. Not the least of this came from confronting an interface of different landscapes: on the one hand, there is the northern ‘feel’ of an outlook over rough pasture on adjoining slopes, leading down into fertile My thanks are due to several bodies for help in defraying costs incurred in production of a photogrammetric plot of Mam Tor (undertaken at University College, London), including Derbyshire Archaeological Society, National Trust, Peak National Park and Sheffield City Museum ― decades ago, but money well spent, initially to facilitate recording of erosion, and now put to equally serious use academically. A grant from CBA East Midlands towards my more recent costs is also gratefully acknowledged. Among the many individuals who have been supportive through providing information, comments or assistance, so serving to promote my intermittent engagement with Mam Tor, the following should be singled out as contributing particularly on aspects relevant to the present account: Brian Atkin, Andy Barnard, Pauline Beswick, Philip Claris, Peter Crew, Joan D’Arcy, Mel Giles, Steve Malone, late Jeffrey May, late Derrick Riley, Ken Smith, David Walters, Ernie Wickens and, especially, Daryl Garton, both for her ministrations to the illustrations and for commenting on drafts of the script. Finally, thanks go to Wendy Morrison for the invitation to contribute and for patiently awaiting the outcome.

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dales, and up again on to gritstone moorland beyond; on the other, a bigger southern prospect reaches out across ‘champian’ limestone lands to a distant horizon (though I suspect the best of it was not on show on that rather overcast day in 1979). Even more striking, however, was the spectacle of the lofty hill itself, rising out of an undulating, winding ridge, scarred by massive landslips in several directions, with summit straddled by sinuously contouring earthworks (Figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 24). For me, this evoked a vivid image of the very essence of a classic hillfort, one of strength created with subtlety and operating in tandem with a dynamic landscape. From that day, I recall opinions about the order of hillfort and landslips, seeming particularly pertinent as we peered down some 150m upon the distorted tarmac of the A625 road, repeatedly broken by fresh, localized slippage, and finally closed to traffic in 1979 (having been built early in the 19th century as an ‘improvement’ to a hilly stretch of turnpike, here constrained to snake its way across unstable land long since tumbled from the south-east corner of the hill). There was also discussion of issues that remain debatable today, including the age of the fort, whether of the Late Bronze Age or later, and its sequence relative to the many dozens of so-called ‘hut-platforms’ congregated over the upper slopes of the ridge, all within the ring of earthworks ― did platforms and hillfort belong together? ― or, as had come to be conjectured increasingly through the 1970s, did the fort succeed some or all of the platforms? We lamented too the lack of a comprehensive plan, fit not only for relating earthworks to underlying topography but also, and above all, for depicting the internal platforms, themselves seeming redolent of dense and prolonged occupation, and hence of a settled community. Moreover, if encouragement were needed for that explanation, even at such high altitude (with Mam Tor attaining well over 500m above sea-level, hereinafter OD), then it seemed to come from the rare sight of a spring situated inside a hillfort. In hindsight, much of this has come into sharper focus, not least in that our frustration at the want of adequate mapping of this magnificent monument in its arresting setting is now more readily seen to have involved a fair degree of naїvety, for much the same could then, and still can, be said of far too many well-preserved hillforts across the length and breadth of Britain.

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Figure 1. Mam Tor: aerial view from west, with earthworks of the hillfort astride the sinuous ridge extending from Rushop Edge in the foreground to the summit of Lose Hill at nearly 3km beyond the fort, rising high between heavily ‘improved’ land covering the floors of the broad vales of Edale (upper left) and Castleton/Hope (upper right), with extensive hummocky, slumped ground of the Mam Nick landslip under Rushop Edge (lower left). Photograph of 1980s by R. Manley (© Peak District National Park Authority, 2017).

over the hilltop, inextricably entangled with natural topographic intricacies, was an unrealistic expectation for what had been essentially a student-training exercise, its capacity restrained by shortage of time and know-how. Besides, a separate surveying project at the hands of Sheffield-based amateur archaeologist Leslie Butcher, aiming to plan platforms as well as earthworks, had then been in progress ‘for some time’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 11; Beswick and Merrills 1983, 16-17) — but his efforts were never to reach completion.3 In those days, and even for an accomplished fieldworker

Later that same year brought the appearance of a final report on excavations conducted upon Mam Tor during the 1960s. This did nothing to appease, not just because, understandably, it left intriguing questions of chronology unresolved but because, disappointingly, it neglected any attempt at insightful surface survey (Coombs and Thompson 1979).2 In part, the latter omission will doubtless have arisen from its authors’ appreciation that compilation of a detailed plan of the extensive complex of man-made features sprawling 2  The excavations were part of a University of Manchester programme of fieldwork undertaken during five successive summer seasons at Mam Tor together with neighbouring monuments of differing character. In 1965-66, work at Mam Tor was directed by Hugh Thompson in conjunction with Barri Jones, continuing in 1967-69 under the direction of David Coombs, generating several interim accounts, those cited most often being Coombs 1971, Coombs 1976, and the final report published as Coombs and Thompson 1979. Each of those individuals has died, but the present writer is grateful to have had the benefit of discussing various aspects of Mam Tor with David Coombs in the 1970s and 1980s.

Butcher’s planning of Mam Tor was well under way before the excavations began in 1965 — where dated, his piecemeal records range from 1963 to 1969. They are held by Museums Sheffield, where repeated scrutiny (first in 1984, hoping they might prove serviceable, and again in 2015-16, as my own plans were finally taking shape) has shown them to be frustratingly intractable, partly because of apparent incompletion and partly because it is not always clear how various fragments relate one to another. Butcher died in 1975, by which time each of the 1960s excavators (note 2) had inevitably progressed to other projects.

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(Butcher had been trained in surveying), there is no denying that meticulous recording of this hilltop would have been a demanding task, perhaps especially when undertaken intermittently as recreation. This is a very three-dimensional hill, exposed to the full force of fickle elements, and these factors surely go some way to explain why so fundamental a gap in the documentation of so celebrated a site, so much visited and so often illustrated in other manners, has persisted for so long.

the hill. So it is that, in paying tribute to JC for his contributions to the study of hillforts generally, as also to other areas of Derbyshire’s archaeology, prehistoric to Anglo-Saxon, it is now possible to present new plans, as of 2018, portraying the noble hill and its fine fort, internal platforms and all (Figures 4 and 11 — latter with extended caption explaining content). As the largest scale practicable here is 1:2000, the 2018 plans are best expressed in elementary outline, nevertheless supplying a significant improvement in appreciation of various facets of Mam Tor. A more particular account of the means of production of these plans will be better set out as an adjunct to a more detailed version. For the moment, it can suffice to state that good overall metrical accuracy has been ensured through foundation of the 2018 plan of the hilltop in a plain and prosaic plot of contours, prepared photogrammetrically. For interpretative purposes, the crucial complement has been time in the field, gradually developing a close familiarity with the site through countless days and hours spent on the ground, chiefly during the past decade, visiting frequently and in all seasons, so as to view the hill under varying conditions of light and vegetation, as much around as within the fort.

It is well to reflect that 240 years have elapsed since a first flush of local antiquaries, in truth budding fieldarchaeologists, started to inch forward on the lengthy road to shaping a useful plan of this hillfort. Hitherto, twenty-five different plans of it have appeared in print, very few of which can claim to have resulted from independent survey in the field. Inevitably, those few include the first (Bray 1783, pl. IV, reproduced as Figure 7 here), which, anyhow, deserves foremost billing because, in its day, it was one of the better plans of any hillfort in Britain. There is also incidental mapping of earthworks for separate editions of Ordnance Survey (OS) 1:2500 sheets, particularly 1880/Derbyshire IX-8 and 1973/SK1283; while a fourth, produced by an individual researcher (Gould 1902, opp. 27, revising Gould 1901, opp. 21), is seemingly based upon OS 1880/1898, though evidently supplemented extensively with ‘detail … added on the spot’ (Gould 1901, 16). Fuller appraisal of the more informative, and the more engaging, of the previously-published plans must await another occasion, as the primary purpose here is to move closer to meeting the need perceived, one might almost say ambition conceived, when standing on the summit of Mam Tor over forty years ago.

Natural Strengths and Weakness Quite apart from the general steepness of its sides to west, east and south, nature’s hand has shaped this conspicuous hill in two ways that may have helped make it peculiarly suited to selection by those minded to occupy and fortify a summit ― i.e. precipitous landslips, which might be turned to good effect in the laying out of a grand and/or defensible enceinte, and an unusually high-level spring, which might beneficially be incorporated in the enclosure. In seeking to comprehend the array of man-made features across the hilltop, it is essential to take full cognizance of each of these substantial natural assets. The major landslips and the stream-channel issuing from inside the hillfort are therefore shaded with equal weight in the new plans (Figures 4 and 11). Beyond the coverage of the photogrammetric plot (meaning much of the area outside the fort in the two drawings, and especially Figure 4), the convoluted outlines of these natural features are shown as mapped in the field with handheld GPS, obtaining readings to within an accuracy of, say, 5m, often closer (a measure of potential discrepancy that should prove tolerable at any scale likely to be employed in depicting such detail outside the fort).

It should be said that the present writer has also known the frustration of working on Mam Tor without freedom to address the most palpable of shortcomings in its archaeological record, simply because more pressing matters were then (1980s-90s) demanding attention and consuming funds — i.e. the charting and treatment of erosion caused by an abundance of daytrippers, bringing undue wear and tear to overused footpaths both inside the hillfort and passing over its earthworks, a relentless pressure that is clearly counter to the long-term interests of such a venerable and vulnerable monument (Guilbert 2001; and see Figures 5, 10 and 17). This involvement with the hill also required some small-scale excavation (working for Trent & Peak Archaeological Trust and with National Trust), providing helpful glimpses but nothing that could be expected to elicit more than modest advance in understanding this place at the time of the hillfort (Guilbert and Vince 1996 ― see note 27). Since then, greater headway has been made with mapping the many features of the fort as well as those of other periods that have left their mark on the surface of

Landscape Littered with Landslips Geological formations and geomorphological processes are fundamental to understanding the natural configuration of any prominent hill, and more obviously so here than in many another case. The composition and arrangement of the solid rocks 81

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Figure 2. Mam Tor: hillfort from west, viewed between hummocks of slumped ground on the Mam Nick landslip. Photograph by G. Guilbert, August 2014.

Variable use of names can be perplexing here, so requiring brief explanation. Nowadays, ‘Mam Tor’ is applied not only to the hill as a whole and to the earthworks of its fort but also to the south-east landslip; and it once referred to each of the slips now generally known as ‘Mam Tor’ and ‘Mam Nick’, or at least to their head-scars. The ‘tor’ element, locally ‘expressing any craggy eminence’ (as Charles Cotton put it in 1681; cf. Cameron 1959, 698; Broderick 2009), is certainly more fitting for the c.90m height of bold, bare scar at the south-east angle of the hill than for the largely-vegetated c.65m of that at its south-west. Hence, the south-east scar earned a ‘Great’ prefix in the 18th century, with the other dubbed ‘Little’ (as seen in Figure 7; Bray 1783, 2023, quoted below; cf. Britton and Brayley 1802, 467), albeit the extent of the mass of slipped debris to west of the hillfort, c.70ha, is roughly double that to the east. Just to add to the potential for confusion, from some point early in the 19th century, the ‘Little’ prefix has been applied to one of the bigger hummocks of displaced ground below the south-east scar, rather than to the south-west scar (Lewis 1831, 390).

— with eponymous ‘Mam Tor Beds’ of alternating sandstones, siltstones and shales lying over ‘Bowland/ Edale Shale’ comprising dense, weak and relatively impervious mudstones/shales — are recognized to be an underlying cause of many of the substantial massmovements, or landslips, occurring in this part of the Peak; and the landscape about Mam Tor is littered with such slips large and small, some active, some dormant but ever threatening renewal, and some relict.4 One or more sizeable landslips dominate prospects of this hill from most directions, either disfiguring or enhancing the view, according to personal perception, with irregular hummocks of slumped ground, displaced by rotational movement, standing below steep, sometimes stark, upslope scars, each gouged deep into undisturbed bedrock. The extensive impact upon this landscape of the three largest of the surrounding slips is evident from their simple shading in Figure 4 (so too in various of the photographs — Figures 2, 3, 5 and 24), showing how two of them (labelled ‘Mam Tor’ and ‘Mam Nick’ in Figures 4 and 11 — cf. Cooper and Jarman 2007, fig. 5.25) have bitten sufficiently far into the hillsides to remove small portions of the summit.

At any rate, it is the scar of the south-east slip that has given identity to this hill for so long and for so many, because this is among the most awe-inspiring and eye-catching of all landslips in the region. So it was that Mam Tor came early to participation in historical popularizing and politicizing of nature (e.g. Brighton 2004; Edwards 2012), affording travellers an encounter with untamed landscape, good for viewing and sketching from the nearby small town of Castleton. From early in

4  The wider pattern of major landslips in the area around Mam Tor is conveniently illustrated in Guilbert 1996, fig. 1, along with wider mapping of both surface topography and its geological underpinning. Local geology and landslips have received much cover in geological literature, including a selection of works also cited in this paper for more particular reasons: Skempton et al. 1989; Doornkamp 1990; Cripps and Hird 1992; Waltham and Dixon 2000; Ford 2002; Cooper and Jarman 2007.

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Figure 3. Mam Tor: aerial view from south-east, with ‘great’ Mam Tor landslip between earthworks of the hillfort, perched high upon the flanks of the hill and encompassing numerous artificially-levelled platforms, here seen partially under snow, with Edale and higher land of Kinder plateau beyond. Photograph by A. Barnard, 1993. (Cf. Megaw 1979, fig 6.19; Burgess 1980, pl. XV; Barnatt and Smith 1997, fig. 19; Bord et al. 1997, 69; Cooper and Jarman 2007, fig. 5.27.)

the 17th century, these qualities led to celebrity, with ‘Mam-Torr ... called ye Tumbling hill and looked on for one of ye wonders of ye Peak’ (Aubrey et al. 1980, 3901 [meaning of c.1670s] — for contemporary accounts of Mam Tor’s place among the fabled ‘Wonders of the Peak’, see Michael Drayton’s 1622 edition of Poly-Olbion [in Hooper 1876], wherein Mam Tor is ‘Sandi Hill’; Hobbes 1636, ‘nomine Mam tor’ or ‘Maim’d-Tor’; Cotton 1681, for whom ‘Mam-Tor’ was ‘Phoenix of the Peake’). Ever since, and into the 21st century, Mam Tor has remained on the tourist-trail, lately perhaps largely for the views to be had from the top (still ‘commanding’ — Adam 1838, 225-6), though not least for curiosity at its broken road (page 79 — seemingly regarded by some casual observers as the new ‘wonder’). But the main claim to significance of the Mam Tor landslip is now rather more exclusive, for its on-going ‘activity’ has led to intensive investigation by geomorphologists, rendering it ‘probably the best understood mass movement of natural origin in inland Britain’ (Cooper and Jarman 2007, 167).

phenomena. Numerous writers, coming from diverse geomorphological and historical/archaeological perspectives, have proffered opinions, generally quite arbitrary, as to the order of succession of landslips and fort. It has long been common to imagine that, before slices of it slid down into the dales, the fort ‘must have been entire’ (as, for example, Adam had it ― 1838, 226). The tone was set by Bray, declaring ‘there has been a double trench all round it, but the south corner is broken off by the falling of the earth at Great Mam Torr, and the west by that at Little Mam Torr’ (1783, 203 ― see above and Figure 7 for his terminology and for explanation of cardinal points), and many were to follow suit down the years, even into the present century (Dyer 2001, 55; Hey 2008, 36-7; Everson 2016, 227). Until recently, it has been relatively rare to affirm a preference for what might be considered the less-dramatic storyline of a fort constructed upon a hill already scarred by landslips (the least ambiguous statements of this, again from differing backgrounds, being those of Barnatt and Smith 1997, 45; Waltham and Dixon 2000, 120; Ford 2002, 79). To some extent, this changing balance of opinion has probably been prompted by radiocarbon-dating of various materials derived from deposits within or underneath the extensive areas of ground displaced by these landslips, yielding results that range between the 6th and 1st millennia BP (Redda and Hansom 1989;

Landslips Before Hillfort The upper margin, or crown, of the head-scar of each of the two landslips is met head-on by the hillfort’s earthworks, giving four points of direct contact between these distinct natural and artificial 83

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Figure 4. Mam Tor: hillfort in its topographical setting, showing banks of the fort in simplified outline (based on Figure 11) together with selected natural features, including three major landslips (shaded, with precipitous head-scars darker than expanses of irregular displaced ground) and a stream-channel (outlined and shaded) issuing from within the fort. (Note that smaller landslips, each less of an obstacle, and numerous minor water-courses, all reaching to a lesser height on the ridge, are omitted.) Gradients of intervening slopes are shown by slightly-smoothed contour-lines at 10m vertical interval, with 50m lines thickened and numbered above Ordnance Datum (see Figure 11 caption for further information on contour-lines). Only the highest line (510m) fits almost wholly inside the fort, while two others are coloured for emphasis: 500m (blue), within the fort except where coinciding with its southern earthworks, and 480m (red), largely running with the earthworks along the western and eastern sides. Scale 1:5000.

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Figure 5. Mam Tor: aerial view of hillfort from north, inter alia showing internal platforms (especially those over the western flank of the hilltop), with stream-channel passing through the earthworks in the foreground, inturned N Entrance to its left (giving passage to an eroding modern footpath, subsequently paved over) and ‘Coldside crack’ to its right (running south from the stream along the western hillside, and lying largely above the thin, pale line of another, more sinuous, footpath leading down to a modern road across slipped ground); also illustrating how the south end of the fort is sandwiched between high head-scars of two extensive landslips. Photograph by D.N. Riley, 1988. (Cf. Millward and Robinson 1975, pl. 10b; Coombs and Thompson 1979, pl. 1; Guilbert 1981, fig. 20; Hart 1981, pl. 1; Hey 2008, 37.)

wall), with steep slopes falling away in each direction, reaching greatest steepness, about 1-in-1.25 (or 39°), just below the fort at the east. The contour-lines demonstrate a significant difference in height between the ‘broken’ ends of the earthworks on opposed sides of each landslip-crown (aided by two coloured lines in Figure 4), the height-difference between the ends of the inner bank being c.21m across the Mam Nick slip, c.12m across the Mam Tor slip. Had the landslips not existed when the fort-builders embarked upon their project, it would presumably have been necessary for them to carry earthworks right round the hilltop; in which case, some part of the line chosen for those works would surely have differed from what we now see, so as to avoid the appreciable effort required to complete a circuit through negotiating what would have been abrupt, even salient, corners at both southwest and south-east (i.e. within the now existent areas of slipped land). Each such hypothetical corner would have required not only a sudden change in alignment of the earthworks but also that those works should mount a steep gradient from west or from east to meet the demonstrable southern line (climbing across, say, 40m

Skempton et al. 1989). It is apparent that none of the six dates can be regarded as a reliable indicator of the age of initiation of either landslip, nor of their chronological relationship to the hillfort, not least because each sample was collected at considerable distance from the fort (none closer than 400m), meaning that the dates cannot be sensibly related to either head-scar where these confront the fort (and it is pertinent that such extensive landslips have obvious potential to embody multiple episodes of displacement, each initiated by traumatic rotational shearing and subsequently developed through erratic slumping and progressive flowing of the debris). A more convincing argument for the precedence of landslips relative to hillfort emerges from examining the contours of the ground under and around the fort between the slips, as charted by lines in Figures 4 and 11 (respectively at 10m and 5m vertical interval). It will be seen that the relatively-flat top of the ridge runs roughly north-south through the midst of the fort (essentially linking the N and S Entrances, Figure 11, with ridge-crest followed closely by a boundary85

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Figure 6. Mam Tor: earthworks disturbed by mass-movement in north-west sector of hillfort, looking north-east, with figure standing on a remnant of the ditch, now reduced to a mere ledge where the ‘Coldside crack’, here with near-vertical upslope scar close to 2m tall, has truncated the ditch longitudinally and dislocated a stretch of the outer bank (cf. Figure 11); in profile in the background, a steep scarped slope descends from inner bank to ditch, while the outer bank (left of figure) is made to appear unduly large where the crack has taken away its once-gentler outer slope. Photograph by G. Guilbert, July 2018.

at south-west, maybe 70m at south-east). Clumsy at best, such arrangements would have been quite out of keeping with the character of the rest of the enceinte, which plainly adheres to the attributes of a ‘contourfort’, in its long-appreciated characteristics of hilltop siting ‘with artificial defences following the natural line of the hill’ (CAS 1903, 2, 7 ― reproducing Gould’s plan of 1902 in adducing Mam Tor, among more-celebrated examples, to typify this category of ‘defensive work’ for the purposes of national classification of earthworks of various ages; cf. Allcroft 1908, 21, 89). What is more, at least at the south-west angle, the extra land enclosed by adopting such a peculiar course would probably have held no greater practical value for those occupying the fort than apparently did some of that situated immediately to its north, alongside the present Mam Nick slip-crown, where a sizeable patch of ground inside the fort appears to have been considered too steep even for the construction of platforms (a point made by shadows in Figure 5, and explained further on page 104). Rather, it seems probable the landslips provided a natural complement to the earthworks,

doubtless themselves needing no supplement from such comparatively puny artificial works. The true situation would therefore appear to have involved building the hillfort between pre-existing slip-scars (much as summarized, but not explained, in one group of references given above, among which the closest to expressing a reasoned appreciation of the sequence is Waltham and Dixon 2000, noting tersely the ‘misalignment’ of the ramparts). Those scars would contribute obvious strength if, as we should suspect, they then stood essentially as seen today (which, as will become evident, is not quite to infer that initial encroachment of the slips preceded all human occupation of the hilltop). That said, it is inevitable that the scars should have continued to recede slowly through exposure to the elements, such that, over the past two millennia and more, the earthworks are likely to have become truncated in some measure, perhaps especially above the taller, steeper and, now anyway, balder face of the south-east slip. In fact, from the 17th century on, plentiful written reports of varying 86

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character have borne witness to the propensity of the Mam Tor slip to crumble ― from Aubrey (et al. 1980, 390-1 – again as of c.1670s), stating ‘ye old banks and works on topp of ye hill every day running down in small quantities’, to Cripps and Hird (1992, 26), noting that ‘evidence of fresh falls is usually visible’ ― and such attrition presumably progressed as much during as after the active life of the hillfort. Thus it seems probable that some incalculable, but surely minor, proportion of the earthworks will have been removed, along with narrow and probably irregular strips of the enclosed area.

19th century (details relating to its modern history of development must appear separately). Moreover, the crack has begun to impinge upon the hillfort (as seen through its shading in Figure 11), disrupting or displacing the outer bank along a stretch of nearly 120m, together with 70-80m of the ditch-counterscarp (Figure 6). At the point of highest reach, it has started to nibble into the scarp above the ditch, so far affecting this over a length of barely 10m, though it seems only a matter of time before continuing erosion will begin to intrude upon the structure of the rampart (especially as erosion at this spot has worsened lately through the habit of hefted sheep to opt for the shelter of such nooks, meaning that remedial measures would now seem timely).

Crack After Hillfort This hillfort sits upon a dynamic landscape physiographically and, even though the geomorphological timescale is apt to be a long one by any archaeological terms of reference, it stands to reason that, where there is strength to be had from such towering crags, there must also be weakness. Significantly for us, it can be deduced that massmovement on a scale greater than mere attrition of the major slip-scars has disturbed some part of one adjacent hillside subsequent to the Iron Age. Unlike the Mam Tor landslip, whose debris-mass remains visibly active (even if ‘renewed failure’ of its head-scar is believed ‘not imminent’ ― Waltham and Dixon 2000, 120), both the Mam Nick and the Coldside landslips tend to be regarded as ‘metastable’ by geomorphologists (Cooper and Jarman 2007, 181-3; cf. Skempton et al. 1989, 541; Doornkamp 1990, 57; Waltham and Dixon 2000, 107 ― beware that the last two adopt ‘Hollins’ or [sic] ‘Mollins’ as a name for the ‘Coldside’ slip of others, with the latter preferred in labelling the northern slip in Figure 4 here). Yet this cannot be taken to imply no long-term threat to the fort, as the north-western side of the hill bears clear evidence of movement occurring quite recently, in the shape of what may be called the ‘Coldside crack’ (this hillside being historically known as ‘Coldside’). Superficially, this crack lies open by up to 25m across and, at its greatest, at least 3m deep. It extends northwards from the far deeper, open scar forming the eastern margin of the Mam Nick landslip, while its northern end intersects with the streamchannel at some 300m distance (Figure 11).5 Although lying largely outside the fort and not necessarily originating after it, parts of this crack can be shown to have deepened appreciably even since the mid-

‘A Very Fair Spring’ The Coldside crack may well have had some influence upon another important natural feature of the hill, viz. the spring located close to the north-western shoulder of the ridge, at 483m OD. This is at an uncommonly great elevation for a spring within this landscape, fully 40m higher than any other along the c.1200m length of ridge shown in Figure 4. It presumably owes its existence to a perched water-table, with catchment confined to roughly 7ha, very largely underlying the hillfort. Water-supply, manifestly essential to well-being and livelihood, has long attracted serious debate in the context of hillforts across Britain (e.g. Lane-Fox 1869, 46-7, 49; Christison 1898, 227-8; Allcroft 1908, 2658; Harding 2012, 17 ― the latter citing Mam Tor as one of ‘very few’ to enjoy such a facility ‘within their enclosing walls’), and awareness of the relevance of Mam Tor’s spring goes back almost as far as recognition of the fort itself, being sufficiently remarkable to appear in numerous early references. This started with the manuscripts of no less a figure than John Aubrey, ‘founder of British field archaeology’, who, in the 1670s, was informed of ‘a very fair spring on topp of ye hill’ and ‘within’ the ‘fortification’ (Aubrey et al. 1980, 3345, 390-1 ― note that, on page 390, the 20th-century editor has misread ‘ring’ for Aubrey’s ‘spring’, as seems confirmed by page 334). Thence it first reached print in a posthumous edition of Camden’s Britannia, which also brought the earliest published notice of the fort ‘on a hill call’d Mamsor’ (Camden and Gibson 1695, 498), while the first plan of the ‘camp’ (Figure 7) has ‘the spring’ unambiguously depicted in correct relation to ‘the ditch’. Various commentators through the 19th century remarked upon its perennial nature, some quite fulsome, as in Moore’s ‘flows very copiously in long continued dry weather’ (1819, 105) and Leyland’s ‘constant fount of pure water’ (1891, 64). It can rarely be described in such terms today, perhaps partly due to a general lowering of the water-table locally through

5  The sizeable ‘Coldside crack’ can be most readily appreciated from various aerial photographs, including Figures 1 and 5 here, and none more so than a view from the west taken in February 1970 (CUCAPBAW09), excellent for a range of features covered in the present paper, and published repeatedly in archaeological works (none identifying the crack), including three cited here for other reasons: Taylor 1983, fig. 17; Darvill 1996, pl. 58; Harding 2004, fig. 2.9. See also numerous photographs taken by Derrick Riley (e.g. Riley 1987, figs 9 and 10 [latter reproduced in Hodges 1991, fig. 37, and Parker-Pearson 1993, fig. 111]; Guilbert 2001, pl. 8).

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Figure 7. Mam Tor: ‘Plan of a Camp on the top of Mam Torr’, first published by William Bray (1783, pl. IV) and here enlarged to approximately 1:2500 (original, lacking bar-scale, is estimated c.1:3250), achieved through best fit to N and S Entrances of 2018 plan (Figure 11), whereby the conspicuous compass-rose (tilted by about 40°) is shown to point approximately 30° west of National Grid north (i.e. as used on modern maps, including Figure 11), doubtless due largely to strong, negative, magnetic declination at that time. Ragged hand-written lettering (moved to allow enlargement) identifies features: I and II – ‘Great Mam Torr’ and ‘Little Mam Torr’ respectively (landslips), III – ‘The entrance pointing towards Edale’, IV – ‘The Spring’, V – ‘A modern stone wall’, VI – ‘The Ditch’.

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modern extraction and, not least, by draining of local lead-mines (including the extensive workings of Odin Mine, penetrating to some 300m below the 483m contour where passing beneath the southern side of the hill, though admittedly these mines have a long history ― Rieuwerts 2007, 21-41; Waltham and Dixon 2000, 108). In addition, there is a possibility that the intersecting crack in the hillside has captured some of the outflow, and this in turn may provide a clue to one cause of the crack, or at least its modern enlargement. Nowadays, the spring usually maintains a gentle flow, sometimes a mere trickle, into the boggy channel that carries the stream, spilling straight down the northwestern side of the ridge and gathering volume as it loses height (Figures 4, 5 and 8). Crucially, it now seems abnormal for this spring to dry up entirely.

for anybody who entertained thoughts of settling upon this lofty summit, notwithstanding the rigours commonly associated with such an altitude (for more on this, page 119). And it seems clear that those who designed the hillfort took care to contain the spring within the compass of their earthworks. Had they been inclined to do otherwise, those works could easily have been incurved smoothly to traverse the slope just above the spring, thereby excluding it from the enclosure — and this could have been accomplished without great loss of enclosed land, while avoiding what may seem to us like a substantial logistical difficulty inherent in the chosen line, meaning the necessity of breaking the continuity of the earthworks in order to accommodate the channel (discussed further below). So it seems that the tangible advantage to be had from inclusion of the spring — i.e. water-supply immediately on hand — was seen to outweigh any disadvantages that might arise from the consequent need to cope with a corresponding gap in the rampart.

All told, there may well have been a reliable sufficiency of water issuing from this high spot during late prehistory, offering convenient access to a vital resource

Figure 8. Mam Tor: two views of stream-channel passing through the line of the earthworks in the north-west sector of the hillfort: upper view looking south-west along the line of the inner bank, with figure standing beside the spring inside the fort; lower view looking south-east across the earthworks, with figure standing amid the c.16m gap between the ends of the outer bank (the height of which seems exaggerated to south-west of the channel by disturbance from ‘Coldside crack’ ― see Figure 11) and showing the inner bank beyond the figure. Photographs by G. Guilbert, May 2019 and July 2018.

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Figure 9. Mam Tor: south-east sector of hillfort-earthworks, looking south and showing, from right to left, internal quarry-scoop, inner bank, scarped slope, ditch, and outer/counterscarp bank, with crown of the Mam Tor landslip forming the near skyline. Photograph by G. Guilbert, October 2018. (For earthworks along east side, cf. Bord et al. 1997, 68.)

will need to be accompanied by plans at a larger scale than Figure 11, in which they are simply outlined and shaded (with some additional particulars explained in the caption).

Earthworks Outlined Although much of the focus in this paper falls upon features inside the hillfort, mainly because that is the area most obviously neglected in all earlier plans, the archaeological pride of Mam Tor for most people is likely to be the imposing set of earthworks forming the fort’s enceinte. As Edmonds (and Seaborne 2001, 192) put it, these earthworks ‘now look as if they are being absorbed back into the hill’, so reminding us that surface impressions are bound to be superficial; and all the more so when it is acknowledged that, as now viewed, they could well incorporate multiple developments. The suite of earthworks comprises five elements ― internal quarry-scoop, inner bank, scarped slope, ditch, and outer/counterscarp bank (Figures 9 and 11) ― and these were surely constructed by the ‘downward method’ of Rivet (1960, 31-2) or, to be more exact, the ‘double out-throw system ... arranged in compact form’ of Forde-Johnston (1976, 140). As remarked above, this bivallate fort can be regarded as a typical contourwork, where the ‘natural line’ for the ‘defences’ actually required no slavish adherence to any specific contour; and the point is illustrated by the vertical range of Mam Tor’s earthworks, varying by as much as 31m over the compound c.920m length of the inner bank (its crestline at c.477-508m OD). Beyond such fundamentals, any useful description of these earthworks, and especially explanation of localized variations on the basic formula,

The very simplicity of the present version of the 2018 plan allows some of the more interesting and diagnostic features of the earthworks to stand out among the clutter of adjacent detail, viz. several breaks in the continuity of the circuit, differing widely in character and origin. Three of the breaks reflect natural phenomena, including the two lengthy stretches coinciding with earlier landslips at south-west and south-east (already discussed), plus the narrower gap occupied by the spring and related stream-channel in the north-west sector (also remarked above, and requiring further comment below). The other three breaks each mark an entrance into the enclosure (all three of which, plus the other three breaks, can be seen in Figure 5),6 and it is something of a truism that the most telling parts of many a hillfort’s earthworks lie directly around the entrances. Two of these are flanked by inturned arms of bank, appropriate to the heyday of the hillfort and so meriting closest attention below. They are situated at the southern and northern extremities All three entrances are visible in another of Riley’s aerial photographs, this one of 1976, reproduced in Guilbert 2001, pl. 8, with the inturns of S and N Entrances close to the lower and upper margins; also, of the same date, see Riley 1987, fig. 9; and see CUCAPBAW09, as in note 5.

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of the c.440m length of the ridge-crest encompassed by the fort (labelled ‘S Entrance’ and ‘N Entrance’ in Figure 11), while the third entrance penetrates the midst of the west side, sitting some 35m lower than the nearest part of the ridge-crest (‘W Entrance’ in Figure 11). Given that the present commentary is selective, the W Entrance can be dispatched summarily because best pronounced secondary to the building of the hillfort, at least in its final form, with ditch-causeway appearing to comprise spoil pulled outwards from the inner bank — it may be surmised that this was made, or adapted, for access to some of the post-hillfort quarries mapped in Figure 11 (page 105), there being no other obvious historical context for creating such a breach.

This means there are points to be pondered concerning how the designers might have treated this gap. Were they content simply to leave it open for water to exit unimpeded? — perhaps suggesting less than wholehearted commitment to defence on their part. Or was it deemed necessary to take steps to close the gap? — possibly to prevent exit by animals otherwise confined within the hillfort and/or exclude any unsolicited visitor, be it man or beast. In assessing the potential menace posed by predators, we should be mindful that wolves were a ‘considerable presence’ in the Peak hill-country until well into the Middle Ages (Camden and Gibson 1695, 493-4; Cox 1905b, 398-405; Millward and Robinson 1975, 165-6); and they could be problematic locally, as epitomized vividly in a record of the 13th century, telling of ‘a colt strangled by a wolf in Edale’ (Cox 1905b, 403), so at no great distance from the northern foot of Mam Tor. Who would doubt that they were equally troublesome thereabouts in late prehistory? (cf. Oswald et al. 2006, 88 re Northumberland, though [in 2008, 17-18] querying whether wolves were generally a hazard for humans, as opposed to livestock). If the gap was closed then, how was this achieved while ensuring discharge of the water? ― maybe with a fence of some sort, sufficient to inhibit any incursion but allowing water through, and this might even be made to resemble the façade of a rampart (at least at first sight from outside, but only if the adjacent rampart was faced with timber, for which there is yet no firm evidence here). In these matters, there can be no pretence of parading more than questions without trustworthy answers.

Gap Left for Stream As we have seen, the potential of the 483m spring on Mam Tor to have been a significant player in the story of occupation and fortification has long been recognized, and it is the relationship of spring to earthworks that concerns us now. The spring, situated at the foot of a short, steep scarp forming the head of the related stream-channel (Figure 8), lies c.8m inside the hillfort (as measured from the inner foot of the inner bank, or rather from a projection of that line across the waterlogged infill of the hollowed channel). The channel and flow of water pass through a gap in the earthworks, its surface now lying 3m or so below the top of the inner bank on either side (Figures 5 and 8). The channel narrows to c.7m between the rounded ends of the inner bank, bulging as it crosses the line of the ditch, then narrowing again to c.16m at the outer bank, before widening once more (as evident in Figure 11, where a further constriction at c.50m from the spring is seen to coincide with a terraceway). The narrowing and bulging thus appears to be synchronized with the several elements of the earthworks, so that it might be indicative of sequence, conceivably showing that the bank-terminals protrude over the lips of the channel, though it could alternatively be that the bulging has developed since the bank-ends were juxtaposed with a channel that was formerly more straight (as seen lower on the hillside in Figure 11). In any event, there are no obvious grounds for supposing the spring to have lain appreciably farther downslope 2000-3000 years ago, nor any intimation that its issue can have swept away all trace of both banks from the swathe currently occupied by the boggy channel (which is without superficial sign of its redeposition lower down). All things considered, it does seem likely that the earthworks were never completed across this gap, which surely ‘must have presented a problem to the hillfort builders’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 9 — apparently dubious as to whether the spring then existed, though there seems no reason to support that idea).7

Entrances Inturned It is striking that Bray (1783, 203) should have commented upon all three entrances, albeit briefly, opining that ‘the principal entrance’ was probably that situated ‘very near the top of Little Mam Torr’ (called ‘S Entrance’ here), merely noting another ‘gate … at the small end of the camp’ (‘N Entrance’ here), and ‘a third … going down to Edale’ (‘W Entrance’ here, adjudged ‘secondary’ above). That said, the plan reproduced by him (Figure 7) carries an annotation only for the simple gap of the W Entrance, showing nothing of the N Entrance but, most significantly, depicting the S Entrance complete with its pair of inturns (cf. Figure 10). Such early awareness of an inturned entrance is notable in itself, and it is only a pity that this should have passed unremarked in the accompanying script. (1902, 29) imagined management of water ‘held back within the ramparts, and the surplus carried off by a culvert’, before it ‘has broken through the ramparts ... in later ages’; while Cox (1905a, 369) supposed this ‘break in the ramparts … has been caused by the constant flow of water from a spring within the enclosure’. It seems Preston (1954, 3-4) was first to state explicitly that ‘as the rampart and counterscarp bank appear to end abruptly on either side of the marsh, they may never have been raised across the waterlogged ground’.

Not everyone has concurred with the conclusion that the boggy gap downslope of the spring was never closed by earthworks. So Gould

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Figure 10. Mam Tor: inturned banks of S Entrance, looking south-west from atop the barrow inside the hillfort (cf. Figure 11), with walkers on a footpath (paved in 1994 to restrict erosion) that runs obliquely across the inner bank; in the background, the dark scar of Mam Nick landslip has eaten into Rushop Edge. This inturned entrance has long been recognized, as witness the plan published in 1783 (Figure 7). Photograph by G. Guilbert, September 2013.

In fact, lengthy arms of the inner bank turn inwards along each side of the passageway at N Entrance and S Entrance alike, marking them out as formal points of entry into the precinct of the prehistoric hillfort. Since Bray, these important features have suffered a chequered path in the archaeological literature relating to Mam Tor, with the set of inturns at the S Entrance generally adumbrated poorly in a long series of subsequent plans (Forde-Johnston 1976, fig. 66 made a decent fist of this, but regrettably disregarded the northern inturns), while those of the N Entrance were overlooked until announced by Preston (1954, 4 — writing of two entrances of ‘double-inturn type’) and appeared in no drawing until Coombs sketched them on to a plan derived from an OS map (1971, 100).

help to explain the greater passage-width now seen in the N Entrance, c.3m between inturns at their base, as compared with an equivalent measurement narrowing to as little as 1m in the S Entrance. Then again, disturbance of the northern passageway may have begun some time before the wall-building, as the N Entrance was perhaps used, and maybe modified, by those accessing quarry-pits inside the hillfort. That same episode of, presumptively historical, activity may account for the ‘old road’ noticed by Bray as leading to the N Entrance (marked in Figure 11 by a line of red dots curving in from the west, and crossing the bottom of Figure 5), though it is possible that this terraceway started life as an approach-track serving the fort (cf. Preston 1954, 4). At one time, another ‘old pathway that shows its age from its worn, sunken condition’ is said to have been evident approaching the S Entrance (e.g. Gould 1902, 28-9; Cox 1905a, 369-70; Tristram 1915, 88), but this can no longer be verified as the relevant area of the hillside, adjacent to the crown of the Mam Nick landslip, has become heavily eroded by trampling feet during the ensuing century.

The seemingly disproportionate delay before anyone grasped that both entrances are equipped with inturns may well have arisen in large part from the former existence of a ‘modern stone wall’, as it is labelled in the 1783 plan. From some earlier point of the 18th century, this wall has run along the ridge-crest, dividing pasture and townships, and threading its way through the northern entrance-passage (Figure 11). It presumably stood to several feet in height before dilapidation set in, so perhaps effectively disguised the form of the earthworks where contiguous to them, especially to an essentially untutored eye late in the 18th century (i.e. not long after the dawn of hillfort-studies, though the oversight may seem less excusable in more recent times). In contrast, the S Entrance remained relatively unencumbered, so more easily understood, as the same wall passed over the inner bank immediately to its east (Figures 7 and 11). The presence of the wall, plus modern erosion along either side of it, may also

Some measure of just how formidable and/or impressive these two distinctive inturned entrances may have appeared at their prime can be gained from the overall length of the narrow passageway or, as some might say, ‘defended approach’ confronting outsiders. Assuming this to have run right through the earthworks ― i.e. demarcated first by the ends of the outer bank (in so far as these can now be defined),8 then by the ditchThe outer extent of the outer bank has probably long been poorly defined immediately adjacent to both N and S Entrances, so that, for Figure 11, only the western terminal of each can be outlined,

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ends, before reaching the thickness of the inner bank, with its inturns bounding the innermost stretch of the passageway ― it can be reckoned that the protected distance at the N Entrance was approximately 3335m, with that at the S Entrance exceeding 45m. Even if the outer bank is ignored, the equivalent figures are roughly 28-30m and 30-33m respectively. In both cases, an appreciable proportion of these distances is formed by inturns, and a more conservative procedure, more useful for comparative purposes, would be to measure their lengths. This is best done through the simple formula favoured by Forde-Johnston (1976, 225-6), which involves determining the extension of the inturns into the hillfort-interior from the projected line of the adjacent inner foot of the inner bank (seeming an entirely sensible method, whereas others have complicated it unduly). Gauged thus, these entrances still emerge as sizeable, with the inturns of the N Entrance measuring 12-13m in length, and hence ‘medium’ in Forde-Johnston’s terms, while those of the S Entrance are evidently rather longer, perhaps 15m, or maybe more, putting them on the cusp of ‘medium’ and ‘long’ (though there is some difficulty in computing the full length of the southern inturns accurately because of the proximity of the Mam Nick landslip).

form of the defences, Mam Tor is an iron age hillfort’, while stopping short of useful explanation (Barnatt and Smith 1991, 24; cf. Hey 2008, 36-7; though JC is among those who have been sceptical over this, his ‘logic’ seeming defied by the concept of palimpsest ― Collis 1999, 34). Even so, it would be foolish to dispute that much of the circuit of earthworks could have been in place, and perhaps already of some age, before inturns were added to either entrance, for these might have been among the final flourishes in the building of the ‘defences’, contributing to a palimpsest of earthworks, eventually degrading to reach the form in which we see them today, where any phasing arising out of progressive development would be difficult to decipher superficially. It is all too easy to forget that surface appearances can be deceptively simple, belying complexity of structure and sequence, as witnessed through excavation of certain hillfortentrances elsewhere, and not least in that inturned arms of rampart are sometimes shown to have grown incrementally, through inward extension in two or more stages, so becoming lengthy inturns through lengthy development — widespread examples would include The Wrekin in Shropshire (Kenyon 1942, 1025), Twyn y Gaer in Monmouthshire (Probert 1976, 11112, fig. 5) and Burrough Hill in Leicestershire (Thomas and Taylor 2015, 31-2).

No matter how we choose to assess them, these lengthy inturned entrances are seen to be similar to those commonly found in the ‘developed hillforts’ of the Iron Age in various regions of Britain to south and west of Mam Tor (Cunliffe 2005, ch. 15 — largely subsuming them under the term ‘corridor entrances’, and essentially attributing them to ‘the end of the Middle Iron Age’, meaning within the 4th-2nd centuries BC, though suggesting a ‘fourth- to thirdcentury appearance in the south’). In the current state of knowledge, and to repeat a view expressed some time ago (Guilbert 1996, 12), there seems no obvious reason why an explicitly Iron-Age context should be any less apposite to these entrances at Mam Tor than to those farther south, and this seems vital for any attempt to comprehend the longevity of sequence thought possibly to apply here (page 117). It is arguable that recent commentators, including some local to the area, have shown too little appreciation of this clue in clear view on the ground, but some deserve credit for recognizing that ‘in terms of the

Putting all this further into perspective, it may fairly be contended that these grand, even monumental, deeply-inturned entrances at Mam Tor are the northernmost of their kind in southern Britain (so maybe even in the whole of the British Isles — pace Brown 2019, fig. 3.15). Consequently, at face value, these entrances may seem to declare that those responsible for their construction were looking westwards and/ or southwards when deciding, at some point in the Iron Age, to partake in this vogue for an extended entrance-passage. At any rate, they lend weight to an impression that the hillfort upon Mam Tor would be quite at home in Welsh marchland or on ‘southern’ downland, despite inhabiting a landscape of ‘northern feel’. And if this finds an echo in the thoughts of a previous generation of local archaeologists judging solely from surface signs, then so be it ― consider the words of Preston (1954, 3), for whom ‘the sweep of its defences … resemble … the hill-forts of the southern chalklands’, and Bartlett (1960, 27), who, with a nod to the ‘inturning of the ramparts’ at the entrances, declared that ‘Mam Tor can readily be appreciated as a true northern counterpart of the great Iron Age hillforts of southern England’. As it can be suspected that the tenor of these remarks will not be to everyone’s liking (perhaps particularly Bevan ― 2000, 144, 147; 2005, 89), let it be noticed in mitigation that, for all we know, such distant influence could have been felt in reverse, with those to west and south looking northwards to take a lead from Mam Tor.

though in reality that at the S Entrance is vague, while the sharplytapering end of that alongside the N Entrance reflects the line of a terraceway that may well have been in use later than the hillfort (page 92). Both eastern terminals are deliberately fudged in Figure 11 because erosion through encroachment of modern footpaths has left them too degraded for anything now to be shown of their former shapes, and this seems also to have been at least partly responsible for concealing the true shape and exact position of all four ditchterminals (presuming an uncut causeway to be hidden from view in each case), so making it seem best not to depict them at all in Figure 11. Accordingly, various dimensions given here for the N and S Entrances can be determined only approximately.

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◄ Figure 11. Mam Tor: 2018 interpretative plan of earthworks and interior of hillfort, plus selected features on surrounding hillsides, largely based upon a photogrammetric plot of contours derived from overlapping vertical aerial photographs of 1973; scale 1:2000, with National Grid numbered at 100m intervals around the border. Among the circuit of bivallate earthworks, the inner bank is shaded darker purple than the outer, or counterscarp, bank; and each is outlined only where this can be done with tolerable assurance. The intervening ditch and related scarping are left blank, except to indicate well-marked, curved terminals flanking two ditch-causeways at the west, the southern of these at the W Entrance (in its present form, surely a secondary feature of the earthworks), while the northern causeway is less-easily explained. Much of the inner foot of the inner bank is closely definable on the ground, enclosing c.5.9ha, whereas much of its outer limit must be gauged approximately by predicting the probable upper extent of scarping along the inner margin of the ditch. At both N and S Entrances, the inner bank is deeply inturned along either side of the passageway; but modern disturbance has obscured the shape of ditch-causeways likely to have been left uncut beside the most direct approach to each gateway, just as most terminals of the outer bank have become eroded, and those most obviously so are left open here (see note 8). The outer bank is generally less pronounced than the inner bank, and its outline is here either dashed or omitted where most ill-defined superficially, notably along parts of the east side and towards the east end of the south side, where little more than a break in slope marks the outer lip of a broad ledge in the hillside, perhaps masking the presence of the ditch, which is itself quite obvious around much else of the circuit. Immediately behind the inner bank, quarry-scoops are ranged around the perimeter (with approximate upslope limit shown purple), and these are not always easy to distinguish from neighbouring recessed platforms, more than 200 discrete instances of which are densely distributed over much of the steeply sloping, but not the very steepest or the least steep, ground within the fort. Every platform is delineated along the approximate upper limit of its curvilinear, scarped recess (green), while each of the better-defined 173 platforms has green shading over its relatively flat ‘floor’. Also inside the fort is a round barrow (shaded brown — known to have been plundered late in the 18th century) and a scatter of amorphous hollows and humps interpreted as stone-quarries (shaded yellow — often poorly defined and, in places, perhaps a little under-represented here, all are presumed later than the fort, in certain cases demonstrably so, having evidently impinged upon the internal quarry-scoops at the north end). The quarrying was perhaps undertaken in conjunction with some of the terraced ways (red dotted lines), most of which may well be historical in origin, though some could have been established during prehistory, notably that crossing the south-western quarter of the fort-interior. Three drystone-walls (unbroken thin black lines), all now dilapidated, fall within the 16.2ha coverage of the plan, the longest of them bisecting the fort along the ridge-crest and seen to postdate everything it encounters (having been built as a ‘pasture fence’ along the line of a township-boundary, separating Edale, to west, from Castleton); to its east and west respectively, a 50m length of wall-footing marks another historical division of pasture and an isolated L-shaped wall is interpreted as a sheep-lee. The underlying configuration of the hill is depicted by contour-lines at 5m vertical interval (grey), shown only over areas that appear unmodified either artificially or by mass-movement, with those at 25m intervals numbered above Ordnance Datum (as is the highest, at 515m, surrounding the rounded peak, which currently reaches 517m OD to south-west of an OS triangulation-pillar [triangle], where a second barrow was once evident). As in the wider coverage of Figure 4, contour-lines inside the fort, as well as those close to the outer limit of its earthworks, are taken from the photogrammetric plot, with slight smoothing, and these are likely to be more accurate than those over the lower surrounding slopes (beyond an arbitrary c.20-30m outside the overall c.8ha footprint of the fort), which have been adapted from 10m lines represented in smallerscale mapping (through localized corrections made on site in 2018, with intervening 5m lines then interpolated by eye). Landslips (shaded grey) include two major scars interrupting the circuit of earthworks at both southern corners of the fort, and these slips look certain to have originated before the fort, whereas one of two lesser manifestations of mass-movement, a linear ‘crack’, affecting the north-western side of the hill (known as Coldside) has eaten into the outer bank and the ditch, indicating localized movement since prehistory. A stream-channel in the north-west sector (shaded blue) is constricted to a minimum of c.7m width where passing through a gap in the earthworks, and this seems sure to have been left open purposely to accommodate the flow from a perennial spring (darker blue spot) situated within the fort at 483m OD. The positions of three excavations (selected from a greater number opened in the 1960s) are marked in black, including trenches of 1965 and 1966 crossing the north-eastern sector of the earthworks, plus the platform numbered ‘4’ in 1969 (here framed by a nominal 10m square, not outlining the area excavated), which yielded, inter alia, the fragments of crucible and lead ‘axe’ seen in Figure 22.

Arguably, the principal advance accruing from the 2018 plan is the plotting of features within the hillfort and, above all, it is the multiplicity of platforms that impresses. By way of generalizations, sufficient can be said here to impart some understanding both of the character of the platforms and of the extent of their distribution over the hilltop, as seen in Figure 11, which, in this matter, gives simple expression to something widely known for some time but not usefully illustrated hitherto (cf. pages 79-80).9

The platforms are so crowded over some parts of this site, and so readily apparent when viewed under appropriate conditions of sunlight and grass-growth, either on the ground (Figures 12, 16 and 17) or from the air (Figures 3 and 5), that it may seem strange for such significant detail to have escaped general attention until as recently as the beginning of the 1960s campaign of excavation (Jones and Thompson 1965, 124 — and the tone of their concise statement relays some sense of revelation at noting the platforms). It is not as though this hillfort had been neglected in earlier published works, themselves often essentially descriptive of

It may be argued that some of the numerous previously-published aerial photographs of Mam Tor have gone some way to illustrating the dense clustering of platforms inside the hillfort, including those cited for various other particulars in notes 5, 6 and 18 as well as in the captions of Figures 3 and 5. Apart from an impressionistic sketch

in Smith 1987, 51, the only plans published hitherto attempting an overall representation of the distribution of the platforms are Hart 1981, fig. 7:2.5 and Taylor 1983, fig. 14, respectively stippling and hatching areas where ‘hut scoops’ or ‘hut sites’ occur, but both are too small to be of practical value and, anyway, far from accurate.

Platforms Plotted

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Figure 12. Mam Tor: platforms in north-west quarter of the hillfort, looking north, with strong raking light giving emphasis to the more distant platforms and the sweep of earthworks to their left, while the internal terraced way is seen curving towards the camera (with some platforms in the foreground rendered barely visible in these conditions). Photograph by G. Guilbert, April 1995.

its surface appearance; nor that the identification of platforms here was at all novel in the 1960s, by which time similar features had long been recognized inside some other British hillforts, and often in considerable numbers, especially where located in other upland areas sharing the good preservation enjoyed by Mam Tor. A brief appreciation of the early history of recording of such platforms elsewhere can give some context to its belated achievement at Mam Tor.

Bell in Northumberland, surveyed in 1858, recorded some of its internal platforms, calling them ‘dwellings’; but this too was held in archive until recently (Oswald and Pearson 2005, 102, fig. 31 ― latest plans, with platforms, in Oswald and Pearson 2005, fig. 35; Oswald et al. 2006, figs 4.27 and 6.18). Such identifications are also evident in early references to forts on the Clwydian Range in north-east Wales, where Ffoulkes ‘observed numerous circular hollows, which appeared to mark the site of cyttiau’, meaning huts, at Moel Fenlli (1850, 83-4, without recording their positions, for which see latest plan in Gale 2011, 57), and Pennant had long since remarked upon ‘numbers of hollows’ shaped into the internal quarry-scoop of Pen y Cloddiau, ‘as if designed for lodgments of men’ (1781/3, 413-14 ― there named ‘Bryn y Cloddiau’; cf. latest plan in Gale 2011, 54).10 Viewed against this background, it may be pertinent that, in the Peak upland and neighbouring areas, platforms do not obviously occur inside any hillfort other than Mam Tor (with a few ‘possible hut scoops’ at Fin Cop perhaps offering an exception, though not long recognized — Waddington 2012, 164, fig. 3). So it may have been merely lack of familiarity with such features that left local archaeologists seemingly unaware of them, or uncertain of their significance, until the 1960s (when Butcher may have been first to catch on ― page 80, with note 3).

Platforms within certain hillforts were noticed in print over a century ago, with interpretation as emplacements for ‘habitation’ holding the field from the start. These include reasonably-accessible references relating to far-flung forts, from the Borders country of southern Scotland (i.e. Eildon Hill North — Christison 1894, 11618, fig. 9, and 1898, 228, referring to ‘level foundations for dwellings’, and citing earlier mention of ‘many huts’ by a local minister [Anon 1743, 45-6]; see now RCAMS 1956, 309, fig. 417; Owen 1992, 34-40, 63-7, fig. 2.2) to Mynydd Presceli in south-west Wales (i.e. Moel Trigarn ― Baring-Gould et al. 1900, 194-200, noting ‘hut-sites’ but not mapping them; latest plan, with platforms, in Driver 2007, fig. 199, with fine air-photographs of platforms in figs 191, 197 and 198). Perhaps the most accomplished of early plans of platforms inside hillforts are those surveyed in 1869-70 by H.H. Lines, depicting Midsummer Hill and Herefordshire Beacon, both on the Malvern Hills of the southern Welsh Marches; but neither reached publication for over a century (see tracing of Midsummer Hill in Stanford 1981, 9, fig. 1, with his own plan as fig. 2), though Price did observe ‘many hut hollows’ at each site (1880, 217, 221 ― curiously, the platforms are excluded from the accompanying plan of Herefordshire Beacon prepared by Pitt-Rivers; latest plans, with platforms, in Bowden 2005, figs 2.12 and 2.13). Before that, Henry MacLauchlan’s plan of Yeavering

Still earlier is Plot’s brief, unillustrated account of ‘a very ancient and no less considerable fortification ... standing very lofty on a round promontory … call’d Abbots or rather Ape-wood Castle’, close to the border of Staffordshire with Shropshire, where were then to be seen ‘hollows cut in the ground, over which ’tis thought anciently they set their tents’ (1686, 397), conceivably in reference to platforms of the sort under discussion here. A visit to the likely location (at NGR SO8294) in 2017 gave little encouragement to suppose that any coherent pattern of either earthworks or the so-called tent-hollows might survive in recognizable form.

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made floor is tolerably clear on the ground, frequently being well defined, its area is shaded in Figure 11; and, even at the 1:2000 scale of that plan, it is evident that all platform-floors are decidedly elongated, often near oval, with long axis aligned along the slope. In many instances, this shading is convex along the forward edge, indicating the most definite examples of a constructed apron, the bulge often being easily perceptible when viewed on the ground. Inevitably, however, there is a gradation of certainty in identifying this element of the individual platforms, as the bulge can be slight, perhaps intentionally so, or maybe due to some localized loss through denudation. Occasionally, it becomes a matter of opinion whether or not any apron exists, or ever did so, these floors appearing roughly D-shaped, sometimes slightly crescentic, and sometimes of negligible extent.

Character and Composition To generalize, each of Mam Tor’s platforms has been cut back into one or other sloping side of the ridge, creating numerous discrete, recessed patches of relatively level ground, or artificial ‘floors’, where the natural gradient would otherwise have been too steep for practicable, or anyway comfortable, use in relation to any of a number of possible roles (the commonest presumption being that each served as an emplacement for a structure of one sort or another, leading to plentiful, widely-used generic terms such as ‘hut-platform’ or ‘buildingstance’ ― for more on this, see Guilbert 1981, 121). The upslope, or back, scarp of the quarried recess is the most obvious component of all 248 platforms mapped in Figure 11, many cutting deep into the slope (some greater than 2m in vertical measure), others noticeably less deep wherever the gradient diminishes. These back-scarps are usually distinctly curvilinear in plan, crescentic in general appearance, and probably largely rock-cut.

The latter cases are among what may be regarded as lesser indications of platforms, approximately 30% of the total, each shown in Figure 11 solely by the arc of the back-scarp. Again, there is a range of certainty, or uncertainty, among these lesser platforms. Some seem undeniable, with back-scarp quite apparent but without floor of readily-definable shape at its foot. Others are more vaguely defined in all respects, some because recessed into a relatively gentle slope, while a few may simply be dubious interpretations of what can alternatively be seen as minor undulations caused

It is apparent that the upcast from this quarrying was often piled downslope and forward to construct a bulging embankment with flattish top, sometimes termed an ‘apron’, effectively extending the floor, which thus includes a recessed part and a built part (Figures 13 and 16). Where the outline of such a man-

Figure 13. Mam Tor: one of many well-preserved platforms inside the hillfort (this one situated c.10m north of the barrow, see Figure 11); the figure stands on the artificial apron forming the forward edge, with the back-scarp of the recessed portion to its left (and note the terraced way running from lower right to pass behind the figure); looking west, with the scar of Mam Nick landslip and Rushop Edge beyond. Photograph by G. Guilbert, September 2013.

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Graeme Guilbert naturally or through localized disturbance (and it is always difficult to decide exactly where to set the bar in such circumstances). All this creates a degree of doubt when totting up platforms, and it seems safe only to nominate an unspecified figure in excess of 200.

On site, it was found that contour-lines at 0.25m vertical interval afford sufficient sensitivity for confidence in delineating platforms and other surface features with considerable precision. These lines can seem mesmerizing at first sight, but with practice it becomes possible to read them effectively; and the adopted procedure (laborious but productive) gives good accuracy in outlining the back-scarps and apron-tops/floors of platforms for Figure 11 (the scale of which makes it impractical to include the downslope toe of each apron, which is anyway often poorly defined both on the ground and in the contour-plot). This has been complemented with taped measurements to confirm approximate dimensions for every one of the shaded platformfloors. Although useful illustration of the variety in shape and, especially, size of individual platforms will require reproduction of larger-scale plans, it can be affirmed in summary that, as recorded, the oval floorareas range from around 50sqm down to a few as small as 10-12sqm (with one exceptional instance of just 6sqm). To express it differently, the biggest fifteen floors now measure up to 9-10m across (at a stretch, maybe 11m in a couple of cases), while a majority (c.90%) average 5-8m, down to a few apparently as little as 4m (and the smallest barely 3m).

On a more positive note, the survival of an apron in a majority of the c.70% of platforms that can be depicted with shaded floor is important for two reasons. Firstly, each apron comprises a pocket of stratified material, believed to have been deposited during late prehistory and potentially incorporating structural detail, as some aprons could have been revetted. Secondly, its continuing existence surely indicates the potential of these floors to retain a meaningful proportion of the archaeological evidence pertaining to structures and/ or activities that once stood and/or occurred there. Be that as it may, we should not discount the possibility that some of the platforms lacking a bulging apron might yet hold useful evidence for smaller-scale structural units of some kind, rather than meagre remnants of larger ones. ‘Improved With Lime Alone’ Given the clarity of many of the platforms, coupled with an overall impression that much of the hilltop has survived in good order across the past two millennia and more (i.e. with due allowance for sporadic quarrying, described on page 105; construction of stone-walls, page 92; and localized erosion along modern footpaths, page 81), it may seem implausible that this land is documented to have undergone postmedieval ‘improvement’ for grazing. Fortunately, that process seems sure to have involved minimal grounddisturbance, because the hill is understood to have been taken from the acid heath in a restrained manner, as specified by renowned agriculturalist Arthur Young, who declared that ‘the summit of Mam Tor ... is an excellent pasture … improved ... with lime alone’ (1771, 217; cf. Hutchinson 1809, 70). So it seems that those hill-farmers, probably during the 18th century, will have done little harm here from an archaeological standpoint ― indeed, their actions can be regarded as beneficial inasmuch as the current cover of grasses is their legacy, allowing us to appreciate the detailed morphology of the ground-surface (and contrasting with numerous heather-clad upland hillforts, where the arrangement of internal features is generally far harder to view and hence to record, albeit preservation may be equally good in those cases). At all events, the present vegetation and the resultant visibility contribute to a conviction that even minor breaks in surface configuration are worthy of close inspection and record, as now undertaken through the medium of the photogrammetric contour-plot (page 81), en route to producing Figure 11.

Each dimension stated here is taken from the longer axis of the floor-area as seen today, invariably meaning measured along the contour, because this will probably come closer to original size than could any other measurement that might now be recorded superficially. There is bound to have been a certain amount of deterioration all round, but this seems likely to be more of an issue across the contours, for there is ever a suspicion that some denudation will have affected the lip of the forward apron, so potentially removing some part of the extended floor. On the other hand, over course of time (and presumably largely at an early stage after abandonment), material will have been eroded from the back-scarp on to the rearward part of the original floor, doubtless spreading and thinning towards its middle, thereby protecting that part. Consequently, measurement on this shorter axis can often be expected to provide a lower figure than the original, just as the present turf-covered semblance of the floor is liable to be less truly level than perhaps was achieved, or anyhow intended, originally (as confirmed to a degree by sections drawn across a small selection of them in the 1960s ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, figs 8, 10 and 14). In considering any given platform, then, it should be understood that the processes of progressive degradation will have contributed to, or even caused outright, the present ovalness of the floor, inviting us to suppose that many of them were once more nearly circular. 98

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more partially (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 1829). This is not the place for a full critique of those excavations, but it must be observed that none of them gave compelling evidence for any particular form of structure, even less the ‘round-houses’ or ‘houses’ or (worse because yet more presumptuous) ‘dwellings’ repeatedly surmised in the literature, and seemingly based upon the false premise that any sighting of a few postholes, stakeholes and gullies can mean only that one thing (e.g. Challis and Harding 1975.i, 149; Hawke-Smith 1979, 133-4; Hey 2008, 33, 37; Cootes and Quinn 2018, 680). Here is a preconception that needs to be challenged as often as it is promulgated glibly. In fairness, it should be noted that Coombs steered clear of the more explicit terms, opting instead for blander, but still unfounded, ‘hut-platforms’ or ‘huts’, which ‘it is possible .. originally .. were circular in plan’ (1976, 148); and he eschewed detailed structural appraisal in the final report. Although indications of curvilinear layout are apparent among features recorded in some of the excavations, the partial exposure of the relevant floors leaves open a possibility that those features should not necessarily be taken to represent any kind of walled, let alone roofed, structure. On the face of it, candidates for interpretation as the latter could only come from among the features recorded on ‘Platform 2’ and ‘Platform 3’ (as named by the excavators ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 21-22, figs 6, 8 and 9; these two neighbouring platforms being centred around 90m north of that labelled ‘4’ in Figure 11); yet they illustrate the problems, and temptations, that arise for those inclined to be specific about structural forms on the basis of incomplete excavation of any groundplan, most notably in the case of Platform 3, which is therefore first to receive closer assessment here.

False Premises The preceding assortment of observations can lead to a conclusion that, when freshly made, most of the platform-floors probably measured no greater than c.8m in diameter, meaning up to 50sqm in area, with a few reaching as much as c.10m, or almost 80sqm. This carries obvious implications for the range of sizes and forms of structures that might once have stood upon the platforms. No trace of structural features has been noted on the grass-grown surface of any of them, which is no surprise in view of the foregoing comments about superficial degradation (whereas it has been known for decades that some exceptionally well-preserved platforms on certain settlement-sites in parts of northern Britain do display superficial evidence for timber buildings, including some inside hillforts ― see, for example, Piggott and Steer 1949 re Hayhope Knowe in Roxburghshire; Jobey 1965, 32, fig. 8 re Yeavering Bell in Northumberland). Regardless of that, a widespread favourite in popular ideas of Mam Tor, and even in scholarly commentaries, would have them supporting round-houses of some type ― this can make for an engaging image, and it does appear to be true that a significant proportion of Mam Tor’s platforms could have accommodated round-houses of small to medium diameter.11 But this must not be taken as licence to presuppose that they all did just that. It is surely preferable to accept that the size-range now deduced would allow for considerable variety of purpose, so avoiding plausible assumptions regarding either the role of individual platforms or the form and function of any structures erected on them ― overambitious guesswork will achieve nothing useful in the longer term.12 In discussing these matters, it is obviously pertinent to notice that ten separate platforms, all in the north-east quarter of the hillfort, were examined by excavation during the summers of 1966-69 (see note 2), some of them uncovered almost entirely, others investigated

The excavation-plan of Platform 3 (Figure 14)13 can give rise to a notion that concentric arcs of gully and three postholes (labelled a, b and c) may denote part of a double-ring round-house, which is essentially how Coombs (1976, 149) seems to have regarded it (despite suggesting that ‘Hut 3 was almost completely excavated’ ― i.e. same as ‘Platform 3’ of Coombs and Thompson 1979, 21-2). That interpretation was elaborated by Challis and Harding (1975.i, 144), arguing for a diameter of c.9m, as a reasonable extrapolation from Coombs’s ‘curved gully … at the back of the platform’, which was revealed over scarcely one-third of a circumference (the posited circle being centred close to the posthole against the eastern limit of excavation). When this platform is viewed on site, however, any case for a building of such diameter becomes harder to sustain, because Platform 3 is recessed into ground that can now be gauged to

11  A dataset of 270 double-ring round-houses ‘across northern and central Britain’ shows a lower limit of under 5m in overall diameter, i.e. wall-line, with fewer than a third of 8m or less, and about a third of 8-10m (Pope 2007, fig. 9), providing an appropriate comparison to the dimensions estimated for Mam Tor’s platform-floors. Similarly, from excavations at Moel y Gaer, Rhosesmor in Flintshire, it is possible to gauge a range of 6.5-11.5m diameter for the wall-lines of 26 doublering structures, while twelve instances of a single-ring form ranged 5.7-8.1m (Guilbert 2018c, where respectively termed ‘post-ring’ and ‘stake-wall’ round-houses, the latter type occurring later in the Iron Age at Moel y Gaer). 12  For instance, following a suggestion put to this writer that variations in the grasses growing on some of the platforms might reflect variations either in their make-up or, a more exciting possibility, in prehistoric usage, on-site consultation with Alan Willmott (Derbyshire Recorder for the Botanical Society) raised an alternative, more mundane, reading of the observed patterns, as typical of variability resulting from selective usage by modern sheep hefted on the hills, hopefully thereby nipping a potential factoid in the bud.

13  Each of Figures 14, 15, 18 and 21 is a scanned line-drawing taken from Coombs and Thompson 1979, with minor amendments, restricted to rearrangement of some lettering plus a few cosmetic changes aimed merely at improving the prospects for adequate printing of certain thin lines and dots.

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Figure 14. Mam Tor: David Coombs’s 1968 plan of ‘Platform 3’, at 1:50 (adapted from Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 9, at 1:64); postholes and stakeholes shown black, gullies hatched.

slope by about 1-in-2.4 (i.e. averaging c.23°, not far short of the steepest of gradients underlying platforms on either flank of the ridge ― see discussion of gradients on pages 103-4), and this has repercussions. Given that this platform-floor measures little more than 4m westeast (by 7-8m south-north) ― not just as reconstituted in 1968 but apparently also as recorded in excavation then, it being stated that ‘a large part of this platform … was excavated’ and that ‘to the front … the ground sloped away quite rapidly’ ― it would be implicit that the sizeable eastern apron required to support a circular structure of the size postulated must have been largely removed before excavation took place. It might have eroded away or been deliberately destroyed, conceivably by the internal quarry-scoop (itself taken to have served primarily as a source for material with which to construct the inner bank, as implied on page 90), either way perhaps conveying a hint of sequence. To make a flattish floor fit for a building of 9m diameter, such an apron would have projected by at least 5m, maybe more, beyond the present lip of the platform (which should roughly coincide with the east limit of excavation), demanding a considerable bulk of madeground at its eastern extremity, probably over 2m thick and reaching to within c.4m, possibly closer, of the inner foot of the inner bank, always assuming the hillfort existed at that time.

of Platform 3; and note that a 9m building on Platform 3 would have come perilously close to overlapping the back-scarp of Platform 2 ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 6). Among the structural evidence on record from Platform 2 (Figure 15), the most interesting detail is a c.1.5m length of roughly ‘paired stakeholes’, up to c.0.25m apart centre-to-centre, though just three to five pairs make an appearance in the published plan (and Coombs’s frankness in admitting that other stakeholes may have been ‘overlooked during excavation’ is applauded ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 21). At the time of excavation (1967), these may well have seemed somewhat reminiscent of buildingplans recently excavated more fully elsewhere, as at Huckhoe in Northumberland (Jobey 1959, 236, figs 5-7) or, especially, at Green Knowe in Peeblesshire (Feachem 1961, 83, fig. 3), where two rows of stakeholes, set as much as 0.75-0.90m apart, were interpreted as marking either side of the external wall of a round-house of up to c.10m diameter, constructed with an internal ring of postholes for roof-supports, all sitting upon a platform. Indeed, Challis and Harding (1975.i, 144) adduced the Green Knowe analogue in advancing their view that Platforms 2 and 3 at Mam Tor each supported a similar structure. On Platform 2, however, the few postholes constituted ‘a scatter’, which means that, besides the very limited evidence of the stakeholes, there is only a ‘discontinuous sinuous gully … following the line of the back of the platform’ to entice us into imagining a round-house, its averaged ‘arc’ projecting to give an approximate diameter of 8m (as judged from little more than a quarter of a circumference). Once more,

If those considerations make any round-house interpretation of features recorded on Platform 3 look somewhat dubious, then this may seem even more true of Platform 2 (centred roughly 10m to south-east 100

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Figure 15. Mam Tor: David Coombs’s 1967 plan and section of ‘Platform 2’, at 1:75 (adapted from Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 8, at 1:96); postholes and stakeholes shown black, gully hatched in plan.

when equivalent measurements could have been taken directly from the excavated features ― it is nevertheless hard to credit either of Platforms 2 and 3 as the stance for a round-house as big as 8-9m. In other words, both are left wanting tenable demonstration of any definable structure.

we must take account of the cross-fall of the underlying ground (probably much the same as that under Platform 3, though more difficult to assess) because, to accommodate an 8m building, eastward projection of this platform-floor would also require a large artificial apron, again probably 2m or so in thickness at its eastern margin (and, as gauged today, this would necessarily have extended out over the quarry-scoop to impinge upon the rear of the hillfort’s inner bank, though again, rather than assuming rampart and platform co-existed, it must be allowed that scoop could well have truncated platform).

In the interests of balance, it ought to be acknowledged that, despite an absence of positive evidence, none of this can rule out a possibility that a smaller roundhouse stood upon either of Platforms 2 and 3, especially if single-ring and ‘stake-wall’ in construction, a type that is often of modest dimensions (e.g. see note 11) and requires no postholes other than at the entrance (which need not have lain within either of those trenches of 1967-68). Since the 1960s, convincing examples of stake-built structures have been found in some numbers on sites occupied during the last two millennia BC in various parts of Britain, if only where ground-conditions were suitable for survival of slender stakeholes,14 and where excavations of an appropriate nature were undertaken (Guilbert 1975a, 215-19; cf. Cunliffe 2005, 271; Harding 2009, 68-71; Pope 2015, 168 ― the last arguing for the ‘stake-rings’ to be seen

Imprecision is sure to affect data derived from the present shapes of these platforms, partly due to centuries of weathering and settling of deposits but also, in these two cases, as a consequence of excavation and backfilling, which seems particularly relevant to Platform 2, the floor-area of which is currently no better than vaguely definable (and hence not shaded in Figure 11, though the position of Platform 2 can be confidently identified on the ground through measurement from Platforms 3 and X-Y [Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 6], which have become less blurred, with parts of their own limits of excavation still discernible). Even if it is recognized that there must be some misgiving over various details presented here ― notably in that it would have been preferable for some of the foregoing observations to have been made during excavation,

14  The clayey/shaley subsoil of Mam Tor (as seen in Coombs and Thompson 1979, pls 6 and 7) has shown itself capable of yielding evidence for stake-built structures, with stakeholes recorded on several of the excavated platforms (as remarked on pages 100-2 regarding those on Platforms 2 and 4).

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Graeme Guilbert as components of otherwise ‘decayed organic walls’). It is noteworthy that at least one stake-wall roundhouse is now known from the Peak upland (Barnatt et al. 2017, 101, fig. 57). At Mam Tor, there even seems a slim chance that Thompson’s suggested interpretation of ‘two possible postholes’ on excavated Platform 1 as ‘the position of a narrow door’, though barely 0.5m wide, could signify the presence of such a structure, apparently no more than 4m in diameter (Platform 1, opened in 1965-66, was laid bare to a greater extent that most of those explored subsequently ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 18, figs 5 and 6). Needless to say, this idea requires too much special pleading to be credible (i.e. all trace of stakes must be presumed to have either failed to survive or somehow eluded the excavators), but no more so than does Thompson’s own surmising of lost ‘drystone or turf walls’ ― in truth, Platform 1 also yielded sparse evidence for any intelligible structure.

range of uses represented by Mam Tor’s platforms en masse, it does not seem unreasonable to see them as indicative of intensive prehistoric activity over much of this hilltop, hence denoting occupation of some sort. If this less-ambitious premise can be accepted as sound, it is tantamount to stating that platforms stand proxy for settlement. Wide Distribution with Chronological Depth At face value, then, a sizeable settlement is implied by the plethora of platforms seen in Figure 11, though this too must remain debatable, given that there is uncertainty over the time-span embodied in them. Further insight might be sought through examining variability and complexity in their distribution. First, at a basic level of observation, it is plain that distribution of the recorded platforms inside the hillfort is directly related to the underlying contours of the land, being densely packed along the upper parts of both west- and east-facing flanks of the ridge (page 85; the flattish top of the ridge, varying c.25-75m in width, being evident from the contour-lines in Figure 11). The plan betrays no apparent preference for either aspect, and no other obvious patterning seems detectable within the overall distribution. It is true that the density of platforms is somewhat greater to the west, but this may be attributable to nothing more profound than comparative gradients, for much of the ground, but not all, is a little less steep over the western flank than along the eastern. The same factor may well have contributed to the particular placement of at least some of the relatively large platforms — i.e. the fewer than 10% with floor now exceeding c.8m across — which are distributed without great regularity, mostly scattered rather than grouped, and sometimes located where minor variations in gradient have provided patches of ground that slope slightly less steeply than those nearby. At a practical level, this may seem only sensible because even a marginally gentler gradient will not only require less earth-shifting than a relatively steep one but should also improve the chances of constructing a stable platform, inasmuch as it will employ a lesser thickness of made-ground, so is probably less prone to slumping and erosion (i.e. all other things being equal; and the relevance of these principles should increase in proportion to the extent of the platform-floor, plus that of any superincumbent structure). Irrespective of whether slighter gradients were reserved for bigger platforms or simply gave an opening to make them bigger, there may have been more opportunism than predetermination in the positioning of the relatively large platforms. Even the most noticeable exception to their ‘scattered’ norm ― a tight grouping of four, each of c.40sqm or more, situated just south from the northwestern apex of the recorded distribution of platforms ― occupies part of a relatively extensive patch with gradient rather gentler than ground covered in smaller

Some of the arcuate ‘gullies’ appearing in the plans of platforms sampled by excavation could have been left open to aid drainage of surface-water from the floors. Alternatively, if structural at all, it must be wondered whether they really represent rather ad hoc structures, maybe including fences or windbreaks, curving because positioned so as roughly to match the line of the foot of the quarried scarp, or some possibly erected merely to retain that scarp, or anyway to hold back material eroding off its raw exposure. Either way, the goal could have been to facilitate activities conducted outdoors (cf. Guilbert 1981, 116), including perhaps the metalworking inferred on pages 112-13 in relation to Platform 4 (on which the record of structural features [Figure 21] is certainly inadequate to support any suggestion of even a ‘hut’ [pace Coombs 1976, 149], though there is puzzlement in ‘a line of [five] small stake holes’ crossing the 1.8m width of the trench against the base of the rock-cut back-scarp, as we are told that these stakes ‘were set at an angle’, but neither the direction nor the degree of their slope is specified). Of course, all such options are equally speculative, rehearsed here solely to advocate a more open-minded approach. And in that spirit, it will be fitting to round off these thoughts simply by noticing that one of the larger platforms, excavated almost in its entirety in 1967, is reported succinctly as having ‘produced no evidence of a hut’ (i.e. ‘trenches X and Y’ in Coombs and Thompson 1979, 18, fig. 6), presumably meaning that no cut features were revealed (an experience repeated in excavating platforms elsewhere ― e.g. Guilbert 1981, 116-18, fig. 22; Owen 1992, 34-8, 65-7) and, unusually for Mam Tor, no artefacts recovered; so the purpose of that platform must remain a mystery even for the most imaginative among us. For all that the actual use of individual unexcavated platforms, as well as many excavated ones, cannot be ascertained, and even though we know so little of the 102

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Figure 16. Mam Tor: earthworks along western side of the hillfort, looking north-north-east, with figure standing on the bulging apron of a platform that appears to override shallow quarry-scooping behind the inner bank. Photograph by G. Guilbert, September 2013. (For earthworks, cf. Forde-Johnston 1976, pl. 2.)

platforms immediately to its east and north. Besides those specifics, there is a vague impression in places of platforms loosely grouped by size, especially over the western flank; but this is really too indistinct to be suitable for closer evaluation, not least in light of the manifold issues of comprehending these platforms through superficial examination (page 98), defying any temptation to read meaning into nuances of distribution.

2 and 3 allow for a possibility that they had been truncated by the quarry-scoop. Subtle they may be, but these varied intimations of time-depth do at least encourage inferences that not all of the platforms were used simultaneously, that some may have antedated the fort, and that some may have been contemporary with it. This last deduction might scarcely seem worthy of remark were it not for simplistic suspicions that fort and platforms may represent separate periods of settlement (pages 116-17).

It must always be borne in mind too that not all of the recorded platforms need necessarily have been of an age. In some parts, their very density seems suggestive of chronological depth, and, more significantly, some platforms do appear to intersect one with another. It is even possible to argue a particular succession in a few cases at mid-west, though hardly sufficient to facilitate any disentangling of a wider sequence, even within any localized cluster. Potentially more instructive are a couple of instances, at south-west and south-east, of apparent overlap between individual platforms and the scarping along the rear of the quarry-scoop situated behind the inner bank, where the apron of the platform appears to have spilled over the scarp of the scoop (Figure 16). At first sight, this seems to offer an inkling that construction of these platforms will have occurred some time after material was quarried for bank-building; but, as ever it seems, an alternative reading of the evidence is feasible, with the scoop perhaps sculpted around the aprons of pre-existing platforms (though again it would be impossible to say from surface indications alone whether such platforms were in use before inception of the hillfort or merely before some relatively late stage in its development). And it may be recalled that arguments set out above regarding excavated Platforms

Gradient-Thresholds Even at the 5m interval adopted for contour-lines in Figure 11, it is apparent that, as the gradient lessens upslope towards each shoulder of the ridge, the distribution of platforms peters out. In fact, the recorded platforms situated on these progressively gentler gradients are inevitably shallower, and hence tend to become less clearly distinguishable than are most on the steeper slopes below. Eventually, as the shoulders are reached, the gradients may well have been considered too slight to necessitate any serious modification of the ground, either before erection of structures or in readiness for whatever other activities were to take place there (each of the eight green arcs shown on the highest part of the ridge in Figure 11 marks some slight break in slope, demanding to be mapped but not confidently identified as an artificial platform, and therefore seeming best ignored in the following remarks upon gradientthresholds). So the virtual absence of any indication of platforms along the strip of land forming the ridge-top, amounting to roughly 1.7ha, should not be construed as evidence that activity of one kind or another was less intense over that, the most gently-sloping, part of 103

Graeme Guilbert the hill than it was over those steeper parts that still bear obvious superficial signs of modification, meaning occupation. Despite its even greater elevation than the adjacent flanks, this summit-strip includes what may intuitively be seen as some of the prime land enclosed by the hillfort, notably in its relatively-wide northernmost tongue of c.0.2ha (between c.488-491m OD), where the gradient, as estimated by way of the photogrammetric contours, reduces to as little as 1-in-18 (close to 3° of slope).

to indicate a gradient-threshold for platform-making, in effect setting a practical limit upon what appears to have been considered useful land, which evidently included all bar the very steepest 4-5% of the 5.9ha encompassed by this hillfort’s earthworks. Obviously this observation falls some way short of declaring that the viable 95% was all actually put to use, as it is purely a point of conjecture whether or not the superficial emptiness of all ground sloping by less than about 1-in-5 is more apparent than real. Regardless of such grey areas, however, it would be of some interest to establish comparable thresholds for similar platforms inside other hillforts, as well as on unenclosed sites of settlement, so to learn if Mam Tor should be seen as typical, or exceptional, in this matter.15

At first sight, and in spite of its 510-515m altitude, it may seem especially noteworthy that the one patch of ground inside the hillfort enjoying an unalloyed southerly aspect, situated immediately within the southern end of the fort and also close to 0.2ha in extent, is apparently lacking in platforms (there are hints but nothing convincing). This may be partially explicable by its gradients because, although this is marginally the steepest part of the summit-strip, it generally slopes by no more than 1-in-5 (or 11°), making it comparable to the least-steep ground into which any definite platform has been cut. It seems that this south-facing portion lies close to a critical gradient for the perceived need of a platform, though it is evident that even this rule of thumb — say, somewhere around 1-in-5 — cannot be treated as a definitive threshold for the ‘shallow end’ of the spectrum on account of the difficulty of detecting some slight modifications, particularly where these might encroach upon the gently-shelving shoulders at the margins of the ridge-top.

Grey Areas In exploring areas of uncertainty, it ought first to be emphasized that a good measure of confidence can be upheld in the identification of a great majority of the artificially-recessed platforms shown within the fort in the 2018 plan, which seems probably to include most of those constructed on this hill in prehistory.16 None the less, difficulties in defining, or even spotting, slight indications of the shallowest of platforms, plus problems of poor definition, even insecure identity, of a minority of the ‘lesser’ platforms, have already been noted; and it should next be acknowledged that a variety of other ‘grey areas’ stand in the way of a definitive count of platforms. Most notably, these include the appearance in the plan of two kinds of quarrying, evidently of quite different ages, one being directly involved in the hillfort’s system of earthworks, the other disruptive of prehistoric features.

The other extreme, i.e. the ‘steep end’, of the range of gradients deemed suitable for creating platforms can be similarly calculated, and perhaps rather more exactly, via the photogrammetric plot of the south-western part of the hillfort-interior. There, the steepest patch of land within the fort, covering close to 0.17ha and generally sloping by 1-in-1.8 to 1-in-2.1, is devoid of platforms, presumably because it exceeded a limit of tolerance. If so, the implication would be that such a slope was thought too steep for a levelled floor of any worthwhile size to be constructed without both an unacceptable amount of quarrying and an unavoidable outcome that the eventual platform would comprise largely madeground, so potentially unstable. Adjoining that patch to the north-east, another, of c.0.09ha and sloping by about 1-in-2.4, is also barren of platforms, whereas adjacent patches are thick with well-defined platforms on ground of 1-in-3, even 1-in-2.5 (or 22°). Along the east flank of the ridge, similar gradients also carry platforms; and the steepest patches to do so there slope by as much as 1-in-2.0 (or 26°).

This writer is not aware of any attempts to compile such data for platforms within other British hillforts, but can supplement the identification of an apparent c.1-in-5 ‘shallow end’ for the range of gradients suited to platform-making at Mam Tor with a different, arguably related, kind of evidence taken from Moel y Gaer, Rhosesmor. Much of the 2.47ha hillfort-interior there is of relatively gentle relief, with no artificial platforms evident superficially, and excavation of a block of 0.43ha gave confirmation that no alteration of the ground had been undertaken in preparation for construction of any of the numerous prehistoric structures recorded therein, principally roundhouses and four-posters, all of which were erected on unmodified slopes, in certain cases reaching gradients marginally steeper than 1-in-10 (Guilbert 2018c). 16  It has been suggested that further platforms ‘occur in smaller numbers outside the defensive line’ on Mam Tor (Manley 1989, 117), which, were it true, might be held, inter alia, to indicate extra-mural settlement during the life of the hillfort, or it might even add another piece to the case for extensive pre-fort settlement. This can only have been in reference to the western hillside, which has a gradient averaging about 1-in-2.3, marginal, but evidently tolerable, in terms of the threshold for platform-making identified within the fort (page 104), and rather less steep than land immediately outside the fort to east and south (where gradients steeper than 1-in-2 are normal, even reaching 1-in-1.25 along part of the east side). It is true that a group of undulations at the west, on a patch of ground separated from the fortinterior by the c.20m swathe of the earthworks and situated above the ‘Coldside crack’ (Figure 11), can appear to resemble artificial platforms in certain conditions of light, but repeated scrutiny on the ground has persuaded me of their natural formation (cf. note 17). 15 

While recognizing that it is important not to be overly prescriptive in such analysis of surface slopes that frequently show subtle variations over little distance, it can be ventured that the figures given above do seem 104

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Figure 17. Mam Tor: south-west quarter of the hillfort, looking south; on the skyline, as so often nowadays (see page 81), a group of figures is gathered around the OS triangulation-pillar on the peak of the hill, marking the location of one barrow, while the extant barrow is seen in profile (arrowed from above) and, to its right, another low bump is the west inturn of the S Entrance; the inner bank meets the crown of the Mam Nick landslip on the near skyline at mid-right; inside the fort, the terraced way passes between platforms, curving towards the entranceinturn. (Cf. Figure 11.) Photograph by G. Guilbert, February 2019.

The upslope limit of the rear-scarp of quarry-scooping behind the inner bank (outlined in Figure 11) is seen in places to describe arcs of a size appropriate to the scarps made for many of the discrete platforms; and this can alert us again to the possibility of overlap between these two phenomena. Quite apart from those instances where platforms appear perched above the scarp of the scoop (noted on page 103), other such arcs may indicate where scoop and platforms have morphed one into the other, perhaps especially along the south side where the scoop is now fairly flat-floored. This would seem a wholly sensible strategy on the part of hillfort-builders (and is more obviously seen at numerous other forts), again tending to suggest, though far from proving, contemporaneity of some platforms with the fort.

features, there is obvious potential for confusion, with the greatest risk of ambiguity seeming to lie around the mapped margins of the quarry-pits, some of which are poorly defined in certain stretches, meaning that partially surviving platforms may there masquerade as portions of quarry-pits and vice-versa. Fortunately, the shapeliness of many platforms marks them out as different from the amorphous unevenness of the more blatant of the sprawling quarry-pits, while the piles of upcast generated by the latter often rise above both the base of the adjacent pit and the level of the immediate surrounds, thus contrasting with the spoil produced in digging out platforms, which, as explained, has generally been fashioned into a usefully flattened space.

Some patches of ground inside the hillfort, as elsewhere along this lengthy ridge-top, have been lost to stone-quarrying, now represented by scattered groups of irregular pits with attendant spoil-heaps (shaded overall in Figure 11, and further explained in the caption). These cannot be analyzed closely here, so it must be enough to contend that all the quarrypits are likely to relate to medieval or post-medieval extraction, so they may well have removed and/or buried some small proportion of platforms. This seems particularly likely in the north-west sector, where the quarrying has been most extensive, conceivably erasing and/or obscuring platforms, or other features, situated nearest to the spring (which actually rises barely 15m from flattish ground where platforms may not have been required). It is, of course, true that each of the recessed platforms is a small quarry in its own right, so that, in the grass-grown state of all these

On this particular hill, another factor might be held to inhibit calculation of an original total of platforms, for it is undeniable that landslipping presents a further issue, and for two contrasting reasons. In the first place, there must be a possibility that a few platforms have been taken away by attrition of the major slip-scars (as described on pages 86-7), and the most obvious appearance of truncation is situated beside the crown of the Mam Nick slip, where approximately half of a platform may have been lost immediately west of the S Entrance of the hillfort. Although nothing similar has been noted against the Mam Tor slip, this is not to say that no loss has occurred there, not least as this now looks the more likely of the two landslips to be receding. Secondly, there must be a danger of mistaking minor slips for platforms even within the fort — and yet, being conscious of this throughout more than 30 years of growing familiarity with the ground around 105

Graeme Guilbert Mam Tor, it has seemed possible to distinguish minor natural landslips from anthropogenic disturbances on other parts of the ridge. At any rate, while accepting that landslipping could have contributed in the odd case, there is no need of hesitation over disregarding Taylor’s comment that ‘the dimpled effect inside [the hillfort] is the result of landslips’ (1983, 58), seeming to presume a natural origin for all of the platforms and quarries, which is surely misguided (and, incidentally, contradicted by his own 1983, 52-3).17

In all honesty, it cannot be reckoned safe to dismiss unreservedly a sequence in which the terrace was devised or developed later than some or all of the surrounding platforms, passing between them along a convenient platform-free strip of ground, having possibly never extended farther north or south than as seen in Figure 11. Be that as it may, the continuity of the terrace seems maintained with sufficient regularity amid the clusters of platforms as to foster an impression of complementary elements of a unified settlement-plan (which is not necessarily to suggest that all these platforms belonged to a single episode of settlement). Whether this occurred by design or by accretion cannot be told, though it might at least be argued that the consistency of the terrace implies purposeful construction, as opposed to progressive development purely through wear. Then again, none of this need discount a possibility that it began life as a natural phenomenon —perhaps as a smaller, older, degraded variant of ‘crack’ (page 87) — adapted for use within the settlement (though this amounts to little better than guesswork).

Terraced Way One more feature inside the hillfort is significant in the context of the present paper, this being a long and narrow terrace that sweeps across the south-west quarter of the fort, appearing to mark the line of a trackway (red dotted line in Figure 11; and see Figures 5, 12, 13 and 17).18 It can be traced among denselydistributed platforms, and merits careful attention not only for its intrinsic interest but also because it can be seen to supplement the inferences of time-depth already identified within the gross pattern depicted in the 2018 plan. This linear terrace is cut back into the hillslope along a c.160m stretch, climbing obliquely and steadily southwards from c.487m to c.506m OD, across land that is mostly of a gradient close to 1-in-3, and itself sloping lengthways by up to 1-in-7 (this in its northern part, lessening to 1-in-9 through the middle and southern parts). On the ground today, it may look like this route would suit only traffic on foot or hoof, but, with due allowance for erosion from its back-scarp, former use by vehicles, whether on wheels or runners, may have been possible. Even at its most marked, the scarp along the back of the terrace is generally well short of 1m in height, while, in cross-profile, the flattish surface typically averages c.1.5m in width, sometimes as much as 2m, narrowing to barely 1m in passing tight behind one group of platforms (to south-east of ‘W Entrance’ in Figure 11), its line perhaps deflected upslope a little in order to circumvent them, just as it may have been through an even gentler bend at some 70m farther south. Alternatively, it might be supposed that those particular groups of platforms backed on to a pre-existing path, while some others can seem to have given its course a respectful berth.

Ambiguity of succession is not resolved at the most obvious intersection between a platform and the terrace, close to the northern extremity of the latter as mapped, where tangential overlap can again be read either way (though it has seemed least provocative to allow the line of the apparent track to run through unbroken in Figure 11). This happens to be the very point at which the terrace curves most abruptly, as though to round the platform, simultaneously grading from its terraced form into a linear hollow, c.3-4m in width and probably no more than 0.3m in depth (best seen under low light and with grass-growth subdued, as are all these features). The hollow runs more nearly straight downslope, extending the line for almost 20m to the north-west, with gradient gradually increasing from 1-in-3.5 to 1-in-2.5 as it heads towards the hillfortearthworks. Some 5m before reaching the inner bank, the hollow merges imperceptibly into the gentlyscarped rear of the quarry-scoop, at c.480m OD. On the face of it, the relationship of hollow to hillfort looks inconclusive there, but it does seem decisive that the inner bank passes by unbroken (so too ditch and outer bank), implying that fort postdates trackway. Additional intrigue attaches to an anomalous bulge in the line of the banks thereabouts, and there is even some indication of a shallow hollow extending down the hillside for c.15m to west of the outer bank, though interpretation of this is too tentative to warrant inclusion in Figure 11 (for it lies alongside that patch of ground with problematic undulations remarked in notes 16 and 17).

Taylor’s suggestion was made in explanation of an aerial photograph (CUCAP-BAW09 — cf. note 5) showing, inter alia, platforms and the terraceway in the western part of the hillfort, as well as deceptive irregularities on the hillside between the earthworks and Coldside crack (i.e. the ‘undulations’ of note 16). 18  The narrow terraced way and adjacent platforms are well seen in numerous aerial photographs (including CUCAP-BAW09, as in note 5), in some of which, especially of the 1970s, the terraceway can appear to extend farther north than seems evident on the ground (e.g. Riley 1987, fig. 9; Guilbert 1981, fig. 20; 2001, pl. 8); but this is misleading, quite possibly due to recent use by stock habituated to a longer route along the ridge, so passing through the hillfort repeatedly, apparently via the spring. 17 

At its southern end, the terrace peters out as the gradient reduces, its back-scarp diminishing and becoming indiscernible at 15-20m short of the northern terminal of the west inturn of the S Entrance ― so, again, there is 106

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no direct relationship, but the telling point would seem to be that the projected alignment of the terrace would take it under that inturn rather than into the passage between inturns. From such superficial observations, it is impossible to be certain that no unseen bend in its course carried the route forward into the passage (or into a shorter, earlier version of that hillfort-entrance, for it should not be forgotten that such features could have become buried beneath the earthworks now in evidence). To all appearances, however, it seems more likely that, there too, the earthworks have effectively obstructed the line of the terrace, and they may well have passed over it.

the two sections proved inconsistent, and rarely was it more apt to interject a comment that excavations so very constrained as these are plainly unequal to the task of gathering enough reliable information for useful unravelling of the history of development of such a substantial monument, especially where complexity of stratified structural forms seems inevitable (as intimated below). For this reason, it is surely desirable that this well-preserved hillfort should experience no additional archaeological excavation of such small scale, particularly (but not solely) where examining the perimeter-earthworks and ground covered by them (cf. Guilbert 1975b; 2018a, section 2.3 — and here is something over which there can be some confidence of accord with JC, as witness Collis 2001, 145-8; 2010, 32) ― when the day comes for Mam Tor to be submitted again to this, the most ‘destructive’, form of archaeological interrogation, then it deserves to be tackled far more expansively, commensurate with both its extent and its potential, for only thus can there be a fair chance of recovering evidence in sufficient quantity to permit interpretation with reasonable conviction (as, for instance, at The Breiddin, further remarked on page 116). Meantime, regarding the 1960s excavations into the earthworks, it is feasible only to review the illustrations and the words as chronicled, accepting that they convey little definite about the structure of rampart(s) composing the inner bank (the strongest of several possible indications of stone-revetments seeming to have been at its front in the 1966 section, though even this looks less than wholly convincing in a photograph ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, pl. 5b). Rather, the aim here is to focus upon details recorded beneath the inner bank (and it can be stated at the outset that nothing pertinent to this inquiry transpired from excavating the outer bank in 1965).

In sum, the spatial relationship of the inner bank of the hillfort to each end of the linear terrace/hollow would seem to imply not just a lack of contemporaneity but the antecedence of the apparent routeway, maybe even referring it to some pre-hillfort settlement ― it would surely be harder to argue the reverse sequence. Under the Rampart in 1965 and 1966 Given the distinct possibility of pre-fort occupation of this hilltop, an obvious place to search for further clues would be under the earthworks, archaeological investigation of which has been restricted to two trenches, or ‘sections’, cut through the north-east sector in 1965 and 1966 (c.60m apart, as labelled in Figure 11; see note 2 and, especially, Coombs and Thompson 1979, 14-17 — source for quoted words and phrases in this and the following five paragraphs). The 1965 trench was opened across both banks and the intervening ditch, while the 1966 trench crossed only the inner bank, in each case removing a thin slice of the fabric for the purpose of recording a transverse vertical section (common practice then, as it still is for some), essentially hoping that this would faithfully represent both structure and sequence in microcosm (Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 4 — reproduced here as Figure 18, with minor amendments noted in the caption). Each trench was nominally just ‘6ft (1.8m)’ wide at the top, narrowing downwards through their full c.3m (1965) and c.2m depths (Figure 19; Coombs and Thompson 1979, pls 3-5), leading the excavator (Hugh Thompson, showing commendable candour) to remark of the 1965 cutting that ‘severe contraction of the trench at the bottom’ caused ‘difficulty in recording the section’, due to ‘the rushed nature of the excavation’.19 All of this is bound to put limits on evidence recoverable for structure, perhaps also particulars of stratigraphy, seriously circumscribing the range of information that might come available for analysis. Not surprisingly,

To their excavator, ‘the most striking conclusion to emerge from a comparison of the sections cut in 1965 and 1966 is the apparent difference in the construction of the rampart’, for which he wisely ventured no firm explanation, dallying briefly with a notion of ‘different work-teams … for different stretches’, but inclining to suppose that what he perceived as ‘a need for a more massive rampart in the vicinity of the northern entrance’ was due to a ‘tactical weakness’ of that gateway because of ‘the more level nature of the ground’ thereabouts than around much of the circuit of earthworks. This is hardly credible, as the entrance-passage, surmounting an approach as steep as 1-in-4 (or 14°), is situated fully 40m distant from the nearer of the two trenches, that of 1965, itself positioned directly above a hillside averaging about 1-in-1.5 (or 33°). Thompson’s sense of variation in structural form arose partly from what he took to be the ‘relatively simple construction’ revealed in 1966 as compared with that of 1965, and partly from an appearance in 1965, and only in 1965, that ‘successive tips of material had built up the rampart’ over ‘an

An early interim report helps to quantify this issue over the basal width of the bank-cuttings, stating that the 1965 ‘trench was narrowed to 2ft on the outer face in order to complete the section’ (Jones and Thompson 1965, 123).

19 

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Figure 18. Mam Tor: Hugh Thompson’s 1965 and 1966 drawings of sections cut through the inner bank along the east side of the hillfort (positions marked on Figure 11), at 1:75 (adapted from Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig 4, at 1:72). Principal alterations made here involve removal of detail of undisturbed bedrocks, though other deposits apparently considered to have formed naturally are retained, including Thompson’s ‘old ground surface’ of variable composition (i.e. in 1965 section, layers 15 and 22 [latter actually said to be ‘natural shale layer’], and in 1966, layers 11, 12, 17 and 18, because the discrete conformation of each, as recorded, suggests a possibility of, at the very least, redeposition, and there is no knowing whether this might have been caused anthropogenically). A notable addition, alongside the 1965 section, is the significant word ‘platform’, formed in FHT’s own hand.

attempt to cut into the original slope to create a level platform’, evidently implying what, for distinction, he might better have termed a levelled linear shelf (which is essentially how it has continued to be regarded across decades ― e.g. Coombs 1976, 148; Avery 1993.ii, 236; Dyer 2001, 55; Brown 2009, 49 ― some seeming to display due diffidence). In contrast, the 1966 trench showed ‘no sign of a deliberately levelled platform to receive the rampart’ (though it might have been argued that 1966 layer 10 was somehow related, there involving a building up of what he considered an artificial ‘berm’, as opposed to the cutting back attested in 1965). An obvious alternative interpretation for the ‘platform’ of 1965, seeming to carry another heavy hint of pre-hillfort settlement, has passed unremarked hitherto, and elucidation of this requires a deeper engagement with certain details recorded in that trench, as does commentary upon a solitary posthole recorded at depth in 1966.

1965 Trench ― ‘Platform’ Unearthed The trench of 1965 is said to have been ‘inconclusive’, partly because incompletely excavated to the ‘natural shale layers’ (i.e. bedrock), though it appears from the recorded section that the buried ‘platform’ alone was not wholly bottomed to ‘natural’ ― hence the broken line employed by Thompson for approximate interpolation of some part of its basal profile (Figure 18). Looking more closely at the 1965 section, the eye is first drawn to several strong lines of solid black, each viewed as ‘turf’ by the excavator, though description of these (in one case only, and presumably broadly applicable to all) is terse — ‘thin clay band’ (11, 7, 4, and another unnumbered between 17 and 19, which may have continued either 7 or 4 into the inner tail of the bank, behind a ‘slight stone retaining wall’ [21] at the ‘rampart rear’). These were interleaved with a series of deposits, ‘tips’, constituting the build-up of the 108

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bank and variably said to comprise, essentially, ‘rubble’ or ‘stones’ and ‘clay’ or ‘soil’. If correctly interpreted, all bar the lowest of the ‘turf lines’ (11) might be taken to represent stages in the careful construction of a singleperiod rampart (as favoured by Challis and Harding 1975.i, 110 [reflecting Jones and Thompson 1965, 123-4], who nevertheless accepted other clues as implying two separate builds of rampart embodied in the inner bank ― cf. Manby 1986, 66; Darvill 1996, 110; Brown 2009, 49), or they might indicate three distinct episodes of rampartconstruction (as discussed in Avery 1993.ii, 236, adducing ‘tumbled traces’ of ‘rear walling’ in support), so perhaps signifying hiatuses of incalculable length ― from the evidence to hand, there is no means of choosing between these contrasting scenarios. Either way, the rampart(s) survived to more than c.2.5m above the lowermost ‘turf’ (11), which was evidently thicker, so conceivably more fully developed, than the higher ones, and plausibly regarded as a buried land-surface. This in turn makes it reasonable to infer that the material sealed beneath that surface — numbered 12 and described rather vaguely as ‘dark brown soil’, so seeming likely to have lacked the quantity of stones characteristic of superincumbent layers — will have been deposited before, and maybe some considerable time before, rampart-building commenced. Yet much of layer 12 occupied the rock-cut ‘platform’ believed by Thompson to have been constructed shortly before the rampart, a suggestion which becomes all the harder to sustain once the apparent character of 12 enters the equation, for this seems more appropriate to a gradual, colluvial, accumulation than to any ‘tipped’ deposit. Even so, the platform looks real enough, and it may be conjectured that the 1965 trench has sampled the fill of a localized, artificially-levelled patch of ground, instead of a relatively extensive, shelf-like feature ‘to receive the rampart’, as envisaged by Thompson — i.e. he may actually have encountered a discrete recessed platform in the sense of the preceding account of those now mapped superficially inside the hillfort (and the absence of any quarried shelf under the rampart in the 1966 trench is at least conformable with this new view). If so, it is but a small step to suppose this platform to have resembled some of the smaller instances among the many scattered over this flank of the hilltop at little distance upslope. For comparison with those discussed above, this buried platform measured 4m or so across the contours, to judge from the west-east section (which allows no possibility of gauging its length along the contour), its floor cutting back into a slope close to 1-in-3 (not extreme by gradients seen elsewhere on this hilltop) and now shown to have lain between 476m and 477m OD (which would make it the lowest of those on record at Mam Tor).

amassed to a thickness of at least c.0.35-0.55m (and maybe close to a metre if the broken line in Figure 18 is correct) before it turfed over, suggesting stabilization, and thereby giving grounds for deducing that the postulated platform-floor had been out of use for some considerable time before it became hidden by the fort-builders (for whom it may have been more of an inconvenience than the advantage assumed by Thompson). We may feel emboldened to infer an appreciable hiatus in the sequence, at this spot anyway (if not necessarily overall), unfolding a possibility that the suspected, and conceivably unenclosed, platformsettlement was no direct harbinger of the hillfort (a thought taken further on page 117). From what has already been said, it should be clear that danger lurks in presenting a simplistic, perhaps deceptively neat, interpretation on the basis of this narrow cutting through a sizeable earthwork. In reality, there will always be loose ends in such situations, creating difficulty in explaining certain of the recorded details, as, for example, among deposits situated high on the scarped slope between rampart and ditch in the 1965 trench. In accordance with the interpretation outlined above, layers 14 and 13 in Figure 18 (for which Thompson proffered intuitive interpretation as, respectively, ‘a possible turf marker bank concealed within a retaining bank of brown soil and stone’) might best be seen as materials cast up in making the platform within which layer 12 later accumulated — in which case, at least the western part of 13 would be likely to have formed the forward apron of the platformfloor.20 What seems curious is that the surface profile of 13 in combination with the western, apparently truncated, lip of 15 gives an impression that the rockcut portion of that floor (as partly recorded [unbroken line] and partly projected [broken line] by Thompson, all underlying 12) had been somewhat scooped below, rather than cut level with, the adjacent surface of 13. Arguably, then, this overall profile of the alleged ‘floor’ is more reminiscent of a small quarry than a levelled platform, with 14 and 13 representing casually-heaped spoil rather than carefully-extended platform. In such a situation, however, this distinction is sure to be woolly, as it has already been acknowledged that any ‘recessed platform’ is, in essence, a small quarry. The analysis risks becoming too particular, possibly tangling with localized peculiarities (especially hard to grasp in small trenches), and we must be content with the essential deduction that, by chance, the 1965 trench appears to 20  The deposit labelled 15 in the 1965 section (Figure 18), lying below 14/13 and appearing truncated at the west by the ‘platform’ containing 12, comprised ‘a grey band, presumably turf, on a bright orange soil’, and this seems reasonably regarded by Thompson as a buried ground-surface, presumably revealing the presence of a leached upper horizon (grey) over an iron-enhanced lower one (orange) within a substratum overlying the bedrock of shales interbedded with so-called ‘gritstone’.

These several observations can offer at least a morsel of fresh encouragement to the case for a settlement occupying the hilltop ahead of the fort. Moreover, the apparent colluvium infilling the buried platform had 109

Graeme Guilbert

Figure 19. Mam Tor: 1966 cutting through the inner bank (cf. Figure 18), nearing completion of excavation, looking east-south-east from inside the hillfort; scales divided into feet. (Cf. Coombs and Thompson 1979, pl. 5.) Photograph by F.H. Thompson.

indeed that this could have been precursor to the hillfort — if so, at Mam Tor, it would presumably have surrounded an area close to 6ha, i.e. the whole hilltop, because anything significantly less would be illogical topographically. On the other hand, it would be nonsensical to dispute that the posthole could as easily have belonged to some other form of construction, perhaps pre-rampart, and perhaps having no relation to enclosure or defence (though the gradient of the ground into which it was cut, close to 1-in-2.5, would obviously place restrictions on the sorts of structure that might have been erected there).

The 1960s excavators evidently had a liking for the idea of a primary palisade on Mam Tor (doubtless because this was in tune with expectations), but it is proper to notice that they chose not to impose that interpretation on this posthole more strongly than ‘conceivably’ or ‘presumably’ or ‘possibly’ (Coombs 1971, 101; 1976, 148; Coombs and Thompson 1979, 16-17, 49),22 at one stage even seeming open-minded to a structural alternative, as ‘revetment’ (Coombs 1976, 151), which undeniably remains another option. Rather it is the greater assertion of others, taking liberties with insufficient evidence, that has led to the palisade pretensions of the 1966 posthole flourishing into the factoid it has become for some (among the many that might be cited as unduly accepting down the decades, see Challis and Harding 1975.i, 32, 102, 110; Hart 1981, 73; Fowler 1983, 71; Manby 1986, 66; Darvill 1996, 110; Barnatt and Smith 1997, 45 [curiously linking ‘palisade with ditch’]; Edmonds and Seaborne 2001, 192; Everson 2016, 13, 227). Fortunately, this has not applied to all, though dissenters are fewer, with Vyner’s ‘not justified’ being most explicit in exposing it for what it is (1988, 92), when others have been, at best, ambiguous (Megaw 1979, 288) or ambivalent (Hawke-Smith 1979, 118; Avery 1993.ii, 236; Brown 2009, 32-3, 49). Treated less emotively — meaning merely as a positive indication of some kind of structural activity occurring on this steep hillside, whatever its relationship to the hillfort — the position of this posthole is anyway intriguing beyond what would normally be due to any such feature considered in isolation.

have partially unearthed a quarried platform, which, at some remove, was overlain by the first of what may, or may not, have been several builds of rampart. 1966 Trench ― ‘Palisade’ Exposed The trench of 1966 has registered a greater impact upon subsequent archaeological literature, largely because a single posthole, ostensibly ‘pre-dating’ the rampart and often accorded the status of ‘palisade’, was uncovered at the bottom of the narrow trench (Figures 18 and 19). Even if we ignore the feasibility of a stonefronted rampart having already been in place when this post was perhaps erected on the artificial ‘berm’,21 it cannot sensibly be endorsed as evidence for a palisade, most obviously on grounds that ‘one posthole does not a palisade make’ (to adapt a memorable adage of Aristotle, whose writings, as it happens, may not have been wildly different in date from the posthole itself); and the same might be said of similar cases, as at Sutton Walls in Herefordshire (Kenyon 1953, 1011, 13, pl. XI; cf. Hogg 1975, 282; Avery 1993.ii, 331). It would, of course, be foolhardy to rebut any prospect of learning eventually that this hole once held one of many stanchions supporting a wooden fence, or 21  The sequence of rampart and ‘circular posthole (13)’ in the 1966 trench cannot be considered certain (cf. Avery 1993.ii, 236), because the posthole lay c.0.5m outside the ‘rampart front’ (as in Figure 18, meaning ‘stone revetment wall (7)’ of Coombs and Thompson 1979, 16) but could only be pronounced ‘presumably cut through the overlying ground surface (12)’ because the similarity of the ‘yellow-brown’ soil of each meant that the posthole was ‘not detected’ until layer 12 had been removed. Moreover, the posthole was evidently projected on to the recorded section, having stood clear of it within the trench (Coombs and Thompson 1979, pl. 5b; cf. Figure 19), so leaving open to question even its stratigraphical relationship to the higher layer 10, i.e. the artificial ‘berm’, essentially comprising an undistinguished rubbly brown soil (pace Challis and Harding 1975.i, 102).

The first published mention of a ‘palisade’ on Mam Tor is less tentative than those appearing in the excavators’ later accounts, this being included in a brief interim note on the 1966 excavation accredited to G.D.B. Jones (1966), who was party to the project (see note 2).

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cautioning against dating by style alone and/or by reference to other regions ― 1999, 12; 2000, 147; 2007, 255-6).

Artefacts with Implications Some prehistorians will be most familiar with Mam Tor from the range of artefacts retrieved through excavation in the 1960s, especially ‘pottery sherds in large numbers’, and these have drawn more informed comment in the archaeological literature than have many other outcomes of that fieldwork. Much of the pottery and most of the few other artefacts came from five of the platforms excavated in 1966-69 (some aspects of which are reviewed on pages 99-102), while a few sherds were recovered from a series of ‘small trenches’ opened for testing geophysical anomalies detected across the northern part of the hillfort-interior in 1965-66 (apparently recorded sparingly ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 11-14, 41, fig. 27); and it is as notable as it is unfortunate that ‘no finds at all’ emerged from in or under the earthworks in the cuttings of 1965 and 1966 (see above). For present purposes, comments on the artefacts can be consciously selective, recapitulating or, in certain cases, expanding upon implications arising from supplementary information acquired, and/ or fresh observations made, since publication of the excavators’ final report.

Since admirable drawings were produced by Jenny Coombs (in Coombs and Thompson 1979, figs 16-27), the greatest advance in appreciating this pottery came in the 1990s through petrographic thin-sectioning of a few, carefully selected, diagnostic sherds (Guilbert and Vince 1996). This made it look likely that a sizeable proportion of vessels was manufactured using specific locally-available materials, as indicated by a predominance of basic-igneous clasts comparable to volcanic rocks occurring widely (though highly localized) within the Dinantian limestone of the ‘Derbyshire Dome’, which extends some 38km south from the southern foot of Mam Tor; and some suitable beds of volcanic rock can be found in outcrop at less than 2km from, and in sight of, the hilltop. Results set out in Guilbert and Vince 1996 are understood to be essentially reinforced and expanded by those from subsequent analysis of a greater number of sherds, together demonstrating heavy use of basicigneous temper (‘ideal filler for coarseware vessels’) not just in pots from Mam Tor but also in comparable assemblages from other sites of broadly-contemporary occupation, as well as earlier contexts, in the Peak region (Cootes and Quinn 2017, 174-6; 2018, 682-5, table 1). It is notable that such inclusions occur both in heavy jars of Plainware and in the finer ware of the most distinctive of the decorated pots from Mam Tor, its oxidized, smooth and ‘burnished’ surface ornamented with raised arcs/circles (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 33-6, fig. 23; Barrett 1979, 47, regarding it as a ‘finely

Pottery Pre-Eminent

In terms of potential for dating, the pottery is preeminent among Mam Tor’s artefacts, essentially because of its quantity and definable character when considered en masse, while a few pieces are furnished with tolerable contextual information (whereas details of find-spots and archaeological contexts of artefacts of all kinds are often minimal in Coombs and Thompson 1979). Generally regarded as a characteristic assemblage of ‘Plainware’ forms, made in relatively coarse fabrics with obvious lithic inclusions, the bulk of this pottery is usually assigned broadly to the ‘Late Bronze Age’, so probably belonging somewhere in the 12th-9th centuries BC (Needham 2007, 40-2, 55). Even so, it remains unclear to what extent there might have been a continuation, or resumption, of activity beyond that period, particularly as implied by the minority of pots bearing finger-impressed decoration (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 30-42; Barrett 1979; Guilbert and Vince 1996, 49 [with multiple references]; Figure 20. Mam Tor: ‘pottery as found’ (as noted on mount of colour slide of 1969, in collection of Knight 2002, 124-7; Needham late David Coombs) on ‘Platform 4’, presumptively in ‘pit g’ (Figure 21), so thought to include the 2007, 42; while Bevan has been two pots illustrated in Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig. 25; scale of 0.30m, graduated in units of centimetres and inches. Photograph by D.G. Coombs. more circumspect, repeatedly 111

Graeme Guilbert produced jar ... unparalleled’; sherd 23:4 in Guilbert and Vince 1996, 52-4, 56). Several sherds of that decorated vessel came from ‘pit f ’ (partially excavated in 1969) on the platform dubbed ‘4’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 22-4, figs 7 and 10 — latter reproduced here as Figure 21, and see page 102), and, although we are told nothing of how those sherds were disposed within that pit, other pots in other pits seem to reveal curious traits of depositional behaviour.

14; and see pages 99-100), where a group of large and determinate potsherds ‘covered a stone axe’ in one of several ‘odd lengths of gully’ (this pottery, from ‘gully d’, includes fragments of typical coarse jars along with a rarer bowl ‘in thin fabric’ ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 22, 33, figs 9, 20.4, 21.1, 22.1 and 22.2; Barrett 1979, 47; for the axe, see Coombs and Thompson 1979, 22, 41, fig. 28.8). It would be easy to regard that arrangement as embodying some act of formal placement involving artefacts of differing ages ― i.e. as a likely product of the Neolithic, the polished axe was perhaps just a curio by the time of the Plainware, unless it had actually been put to some secondary use late in the Bronze Age (and it is not clear whether this was Coombs’s inference in noting ‘signs of hammering’ at the butt and along one edge). Anyhow, there is ever a risk of assuming too much in such a situation, potentially leading to fanciful reading of what might equally have been either an adventitious association or, if deliberate, may have lacked any mysterious motive, maybe even seeming unexceptional at the time, albeit ‘odd’ to us (as in Brück 1999, using the word differently to Coombs).

Odd Pit-Deposits The manner in which some pottery was deposited in certain of the excavated pits/gullies at Mam Tor has largely evaded comment previously, though it may tell of obscure activities taking place on particular platforms. Besides that singular decorated pot in ‘pit f ’, Platform 4 (located close behind the inner bank of the hillfort, in the midst of the east side — Figure 11) yielded a stash of sizeable sherds from two plain, shouldered jars, found in ‘pit g’ (Figure 20, apparently there seen as they lay, densely packed together ― cf. Coombs and Thompson 1979, 24, 36, fig. 25). This may seem to smack of something a little more esoteric than casual discard (or keeping the ‘occupation area ... clean of debris’, as Coombs had it). An even more abstruse deposit was encountered at c.95m to the north, on Platform 3 (Figure

Scraps of Lead Axe and Crucible Platform 4 is one of the more extensively sampled platforms (Figure 21), and the most fascinating of them all. In addition to the pottery, it produced the most remarkable of the ‘small finds’ reported by the excavators, viz. a ‘bronze axe fragment’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 44, fig. 28.9), subsequently shown to comprise lead (Guilbert 1996, 12). Given that many productive veins of ore occur in the neighbouring limestone, which reaches to within 400m of the hillfort, it has seemed reasonable to suggest a local origin for this lead until proven otherwise, though this remains circumstantial (Guilbert 1996, 15-16; cf. Barnatt 1999b, 22; Timberlake 2003, 38; and note that further analysis, Barnatt and Doonan 2010, has failed to establish a source for the piece from Mam Tor). At any rate, just as it is conceivable that some, even most, of Mam Tor’s pottery was fabricated at or near the site, so the possibility of local metalworking emerges from this rare and counterintuitive artefact (clearly not a functional ‘axe’ as such), as this is anyway implicit in more than one of a variety of feasible explanations for its occurrence here ― i.e. perhaps a trial-piece or pattern (Guilbert 1996, 13; and see Tylecote 1986, 71-4, 84, 89, 91-3; Needham and Hook 1988, 263-8, 272-3; Webley and Adams 2016, 332). If allied to the ‘Sompting’ form of socketed axe (Figure 22), as cautiously maintained by Coombs (repeating this in 2003, 206-7), it should have been made in the 7th century BC or thenabouts (O’Connor 2007, 73; Needham 2007, 41, 53), and hence nominally attributable to the ‘Earliest Iron Age’ of, say, 800-600 BC (Cunliffe 2005, 32; Needham 2007, 40). What is more, this would have to be regarded as a mere terminus post quem for the inferred episode of metalworking, because such a fragmentary

Figure 21. Mam Tor: David Coombs’s 1969 plan and section of ‘Platform 4’ (position marked on Figure 11), at 1:100 and 1:50 respectively (adapted from Coombs and Thompson 1979, fig 10, at 1:64 and 1:32); pits, possible postholes and stakeholes shown black or hachured, gullies hatched in plan.

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0

0

30 mm

60 mm

Figure 22. Mam Tor: artefacts from ‘Platform 4’ (excavated by David Coombs in 1969) include a fragmentary socketed ‘axe’ of lead (at 1:2; shown as ‘best fit’ within outline of axe of ‘Sompting’ type ― Curwen 1948; see Coombs and Thompson 1979, 44, fig. 28.9; Guilbert 1996, fig. 2) and a sherd of crucible (at 1:1; showing rim-top above presumed external surface, with interior to right of section; since this piece is too small for the angle of the rim to be ascertained, it is here shown more-or-less upright, to be non-committal). The fragment of crucible (mentioned in Guilbert 1996, 14 but not illustrated previously) was first noticed in 1994 (among Mam Tor artefacts stored by Museums Sheffield), sharing a bag with the potsherd published as fig. 23.6 in Coombs and Thompson 1979, with no apparent reason to question the implied spatial association. Drawn by K. Fearn and G. Guilbert.

object could well have become scrap by the time of its deposition where found on Platform 4, which therefore need not mark the spot where any intended reworking of the metal was to happen.

22 caption], in Coombs’s catalogue of sherds ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 36). Consequently, the two objects redolent of metalworking seem unlikely to have lain as much as 5m apart, and conceivably much closer, within the forward, or eastern, half of the excavated portion of Platform 4. Granted that neither find-spot necessarily matches the exact location of fragmentation, let alone use, it is not unreasonable at least to suspect that their apparent proximity may intimate a connection.

That said, another item apparently retrieved from Platform 4 offers some small support for the notion of metalworking on or near its floor ― viz. a sherd of ceramic, barely noticed in print hitherto, that seems to take us rather closer to the actual production-process. This sherd is no more than 23mm across, with simple flattened rim of 11-13mm thickness (Figure 22, with inferred provenance explained in caption). It has a porous, friable, sandy fabric, appearing quite distinct from the many potsherds recovered in the 1960s (not least those from Platform 4); and one face, presumed to be the inner, has a partial thin coating of a harder material, seeming fused into the surface of the ceramic. That coating is of vitreous appearance, with smooth surface and tinged purplish, and it is seen to be vesicular where crumbling, qualities which suggest a ‘slag’ of some sort, implying a vessel used in metalworking, so presumably a crucible. Non-destructive XRF analysis (conducted by B.P. Atkin at University of Nottingham) determined that the slag-coated surface, and only that surface, is rich in copper, tin and lead, with slighter traces of zinc, suggesting residues from working bronze.

This may seem true too of the clustering of pottery over the same limited patch of ground (less than 20sqm), though there can be no certainty of contemporaneity of all the material garnered from Platform 4, which might easily have seen episodes of reuse, perhaps quite informally, and possibly separated by appreciable intervals. So there is no knowing whether all of the Plainware found there is exactly of an age, nor whether any of it had a temporal connection with the conjectured metalworking; and the same goes for the more elegant, decorated vessel in ‘pit f’ (in the 1970s, some were tempted to see similarities between the ornamentation of this pot and certain Early-Bronze-Age urns ― references in Guilbert and Vince 1996, 56; revived by Harding and Beswick 2005, 17, notwithstanding the apparent match of its igneous tempering to that of the Plainware, noted above). Even those caveats need not deter us from noting provocatively that the extraordinary deposits of pottery on Platform 4, as outlined above, were loosely juxtaposed with the fragments suggestive of metalworking, for this can evoke recent remarks regarding an apparent ritualization of much metallurgy during late prehistory (Bradley 2005, ch. 5), sometimes occurring at ‘evidently special places’, even on ‘sites with a ritual dimension’ (Haselgrove 2015, 126, 132), hence finally calling forth recognition that some symbolic or votive role has been seen as another possible explanation for the manufacture of an ‘axe’ in lead (Needham and Hook 1988, 267; Guilbert 1996, 13; Webley and Adams 2016, 332).

The excavator’s words (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 24) permit us to deduce that the fragments of axe and crucible were probably found in the same general area of the Platform 4, because it is stated that the axe and ‘all of the pottery from this platform’ (taken to include the piece of crucible) ‘came from east of [pits] a-d’, either lying ‘on the surface’ (assumed to mean the flattish platformfloor following removal of ‘turf and topsoil’) or on ‘the slope at the front’ or ‘concentrated in [pits] e, f and g’ (Figure 21; and note that no pit is specified for potsherd 23.6, and hence presumably also the crucible [see Figure 113

Graeme Guilbert cited elsewhere, and since they have seen far too much undisciplined interpretation, it seems fitting here to emphasize their deficiencies, joining a few others in recognizing them as an unhelpful influence and an undesirable temptation.

Dubious Dating If there is no real confidence in anything but the broadest typological dating for Mam Tor’s Plainware pottery ― which, it seems, cannot currently be pinned down typologically any more tightly than, say, the 12th7th centuries BC of the Late Bronze Age and Earliest Iron Age ― then even greater circumspection should be exercised in attempting to ascribe dates to most of the few other, more individual, artefacts recovered there in the 1960s (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 41-4, figs 28 and 29).23 Apart from the stone axe found ‘beneath sherds’ on Platform 3 (discussed above), all of the non-ceramic finds lack helpful evidence from close associations, seeming often to have been less than securely stratified (the fragments of ‘lead axe’ and crucible being cases in point). Neither should it go unnoticed that a significant proportion of the potsherds seem to have occurred ‘in a general scatter’ over the platforms subjected to excavation (Coombs 1971, 101; 1976, 149), apparently contained within ill-defined deposits of charcoal-flecked ‘soil’ sandwiched between ‘topsoil’ and the undisturbed ‘natural grey shale’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 18, 21). The minimal recording of find-spots (page 111) can but exacerbate this vagueness, with numerous potsherds attributable to a particular platform but nothing finer, so amplifying remarks already made concerning the potential for Platform 4 to have yielded a mixed bag (though inadequate, the published record for locating finds on Platform 4 is actually rather fuller than that for other platforms), and this is doubtless equally possible of other platforms (e.g. pottery and shale-bangles from Platform 3). In other words, there is an undeniable possibility that the gross assemblage of artefacts found in excavations on this hill constitutes a chronological miscellany, though there has sometimes been a tendency to assume otherwise.

Radiocarbon-Dates Best Forgotten The two radiocarbon-measurements acquired in 1970 (Birm-192 and Birm-202 ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 44) have a hopelessly lengthy time-span, within the 16th to 12th centuries cal BC even at a mere 68% confidence (17th to 11th at 95%, so covering the Middle Bronze Age and a little more, overlapping the early part of the expected date-range of Plainware pottery ― page 111). This is presumably as much an issue of age of assay as age of samples. Besides that, both results are beset with uncertainties in some variety: each was measured from a bulked sample comprising ‘small pieces of charcoal collected from the floors of platforms 2 and 3’ (excavated in 1967-68; discussed on pages 99101 and 112-14), further described generically as ‘very small fragments scattered over the platforms’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 21, 44); and that charcoal was of undetermined species and growth-age.24 In short, these could not now be considered sensible subjects for radiocarbon-dating. Admittedly, those were still early days for application of the technique, but the quality of the dated material was quickly, and rightly, questioned (Coles and Jones 1975, 124 ― concerned about possible use of ‘wood from aged trees’, soon duly acknowledged by the excavator ― Coombs and Thompson 1979, 44), as was the ambiguity of archaeological associations (May 1977, 390). More recently, the looseness of the excavated contexts has drawn fuller comment (notably by Barnatt 1995, 10; Barnatt and Smith 1997, 46; though seemingly not conceded by everyone), and it must be accepted that not only the character but also the history of the dated pieces of wood are obscure, as much before as after they came to be charred, which happened at some incalculable interval before deposited where eventually recovered through excavation.

These circumstances are bound to frustrate any aspiration to contrive a sequence cum chronology even of the few activities and events yet attested upon this hill, so curbing thoughts of any meaningful assessment of its temporal relationship to places of similar, or differing, character both locally and afar. It may come as no surprise, however, that this has not deterred many a writer from leaping to conclusions over the chronological significance of Mam Tor’s artefacts in relation to the hillfort; and ill-advised assumptions on that score have sometimes been abetted by inappropriate application of another strand of information arising from the 1960s excavations, viz. a pair of radiocarbon-dates. As the sole scientific dating obtained from the hilltop, those results have often been

Contrary to statements frequently made elsewhere, it is clear that these radiocarbon-results are not useful for assessing the date of any stage of activity on this hilltop, not to mention those of the hillfort, especially bearing in mind that both samples derive from the area encompassed by the earthworks, so physically separated from them and quite invalid for dating them (as Coombs affirmed immediately ― 1971, 102). The early criticisms really should have put an end to any distraction caused by these radiocarbon-dates,

23  Additional artefacts are now known from the hilltop, especially a wider range of flintwork, varying in character from Mesolithic, through Neolithic, to Early Bronze Age, most having been found loose on an eroding ridge-crest footpath during the 1980s-1990s, joining a few from the 1960s excavations.

It seems puzzling that such comminuted charcoal was chosen for dating ahead of the charred lining of ‘pit a’ on Platform 4, which might anyway have been more susceptible of close description (page 118).

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and the fault in more recent years lies wholly with those (too many and too invidious to name here, but persisting well into the 21st century) who seem unable to resist the lure of an absolute date, irrespective of its manifestly poor quality as archaeological evidence. All told, these unreliable radiocarbon-dates really do seem best ignored henceforward.

end of the Bronze Age (for which c.800-750 BC is a fair approximation by recent chronologies ― Cunliffe 2005, 31-2; Needham 2007, 39-42; Bradley 2007, 183) could never be justified from the record presented by the excavators, nor from the impression of its earthworks gained on the ground. Happily, from the outset, some were inclined to admit the frailties of the data to hand, most notably David Coombs, whose unequivocal and repeated statements to the effect that ‘as yet there is nothing to date the defences’ (1971, 102; 1976, 151; Coombs and Thompson 1979, 44) were soon shown respect by commentators prepared to look beyond seductive headlines ― and credit should go to those quickest to adopt the point, whether coming from a local or a national perspective, respectively Lewis (1971, 27-8, feeling ‘it could be that the hut sites relate to a pre-fortification phase’) and Cunliffe (1971, 55, suggesting the ‘Late Bronze Age occupation ... is likely to have preceded the defences’). As we have seen, some pre-hillfort episode of settlement is an obvious possibility, and Coombs was also prompt to appreciate this (1971, 102), envisaging ‘an elevated settlement’ involving ‘huts’ on platforms, which might have been unenclosed or maybe lightly enclosed. All that said, it should not be overlooked that Coombs was himself instrumental in setting the hare running with the ‘Bronze Age hill-fort?’ title of his most influential, because briefest and most disseminated, account of Mam Tor (1971).25 Since then, fortunately, it has become as common to question whether many of the recorded finds and features are actually pertinent to the time of the hillfort as it is to assume a direct relationship between artefacts and fort.

Another Illusory ‘Bronze-Age Hillfort?’ At the time of that 1979 visit of the Hillfort Study Group to Mam Tor, the concept of forts built before the end of the Bronze Age stood high on the agenda for those researching late prehistory in Britain; and Mam Tor was then numbered among the few to have entered the lists, not least on account of those contestable radiocarbon-dates. Indeed, over the past half-century, it is probably that persona ― as alleged Bronze-Age hillfort ― that has come to define, and to dog, this place above all else, with some writers having deemed it appropriate to treat Mam Tor as if it were a proven example. If this has become contentious, it is because, as so often elsewhere, the hard information available for assessing its character in the Late Bronze Age is frustratingly limited and intractable ― as Willis has put it (with a touch of overstatement) ‘this colossus of later prehistory remains enigmatic … in a manner that is metaphorical for our presently limited understanding of the earlier first millennium BC in the region’ (2006, 94). Once more, it is the deployment of the meagre evidence that has led to discord in the literature, essentially whether accepting it at simplistic face value or querying its integrity. So it is that several widelyread commentaries of national coverage, disregarding palpable provisos, have branded Mam Tor as a ‘Late Bronze Age hillfort’ or the like (categorical instances include Megaw 1979, 289 [despite 288]; Taylor 1983, 58; Parker-Pearson 1993, 119). As is the habit of factoids, this misrepresentation has filtered down to some of the more local and popular publications (e.g. Makepeace 1999, 15; Dyer 2001, 55; Clarke 2014, 14), eventually entering the wider imagination as received doctrine, to be repeated regularly by those understandably engaging only with the gist of what they have been led to believe is ‘known’ (too tedious to adduce examples here). Some archaeologists have been more specific, seeing fit to misappropriate Barrett’s (1979) remarks on Mam Tor’s pottery so as to entertain thoughts of the hillfort having even been ‘abandoned by the beginning of the eighth century BC’ (Nevell 1992, 50; and, less certain, Matthews 2001, 5), while Cunliffe has it ‘abandoned in the eighth or seventh century’ (2005, 400, seeming to sit uncomfortably with his page 60, as well as his 1971, 55 cited below) — either of these anyway seems improbable in view of the lengthy inturned entrances discussed on pages 91-3. Hence, it needs to be reiterated bluntly that the wider contention of construction of this hillfort, let alone its abandonment, by or before the

To comprehend the wider context, mention may be made of other notables in the vanguard of speculation over an early inception of full-blown hillforts in Britain. These included Ivinghoe Beacon (on the English Chilterns) and Dinorben (by the north coast of Wales), each of which was also submitted to excavation in the 1960s, each generating temptation, but no good proof, for their excavators or others to claim hillfortconstruction late in the Bronze Age. Just as for Mam Tor, those assertions were prone to be ‘greeted with more enthusiasm than the evidence warranted’ (Green 1981), though mercifully not by all (for Ivinghoe Beacon, see, for example, Cunliffe 1971, 55; Avery 1993. ii, 199; Needham 2007, 41, 48-9; for Dinorben, fresh information has exposed shortcomings, most recently explained in Guilbert 2018b, with reference to earlier claims and counter-claims). Mature reflection has led to recognition of general ‘failure to find good early dating evidence for ramparts’, so that ‘development of Or maybe Coombs was merely complicit, as it may be wondered to what extent that seductive headline was truly of his own making, given Selkirk’s journalistic piece of 1970.

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Graeme Guilbert … classic hillforts … is no longer obviously a key feature of the Late Bronze Age’ (at least in southern England ― Needham 2007, 55). For balance, it is well to recall an apparent exception on The Breiddin (amid the Welsh Marches), where excavations undertaken little later than those at Mam Tor but contrasting in scale and proficiency (as though of another archaeological era), provided a much more convincing case. In marked contrast to Mam Tor, multiple closely-provenanced samples for radiocarbon-dating were the making of The Breiddin’s impact upon hillfort-studies, as their aggregated value renders it hard to argue persuasively for attribution of the early ‘timber-reinforced rampart’ there to anything but the Late Bronze Age (Musson 1991, 25-8, 176, fig. 6, tables 1 and 6, microfiche pages 187-9 ― even here, however, the spectre of ‘old wood at felling’ has been raised by Needham [et al. 1997, 95], though he had otherwise seemed disposed to accept the hillfort on The Breiddin as ‘securely dated to the full Late Bronze Age’ [Needham and Ambers 1994, 240; Needham 1996, 136, fig. 3]; see also Harding 2012, 156 for a carefully-worded endorsement).

full use concurrently (page 103). Other possibilities of time-depth can be deduced through the manner in which various platforms inter-relate with the quarryscooping behind the inner bank, some relationships seeming more hazy than others, but anyway implying sequence (pages 100-1 and 103). Furthermore, a singular feature within the fort — viz. a 180m length of a narrow routeway, largely terraced and partly hollowed, stretching out between platforms on the south-western flank of the ridge — may well have been used in conjunction with, and hence of broadly similar age to, some of the platforms, though it seems incompatible with a hillfort context as its line looks likely to have been blocked at each end by the earthworks of the fort (pages 106-7). These varied snippets of fresh perception and new information may lack a single decisive factor, and may therefore seem insignificant, even debatable, when assessed individually — considered cumulatively, however, they acquire credibility one from another, as all are leaning towards the same broad inferences of complexity and longevity. Being realistic, these deductions may be as good as we should expect in such circumstances, and they do tend to bolster the idea that a settlement of some kind occupied this summit at some stage before the time of the mighty hillfort. Since the principal evidence for such a pre-hillfort phase resides in the platforms (or, more likely, just some of them — pages 103 and 105), it may conveniently be termed a ‘hilltop platform-settlement’. Given that the intended function(s) of individual platforms should never be taken for granted (pages 99-102), whether inside a hillfort or upon a hill lacking a fort, even this limited level of interpretation requires acceptance of an essential proposition that their presence can generally be regarded as a sign of some sort of former settlement (page 102). At the very least, the case for a pre-hillfort settlement is beginning to take on greater shape than has previously been made apparent and, if wider interpretation is to be broached on the back of these modest improvements in appreciation, it is necessary to try to persist in advancing cautiously, never forgetting that more elaborate constructs are destined to be increasingly nebulous, all emanating from the same set of tentative observations of localized and/or superficial particulars.

Hilltop Fastness Before Fortified Stronghold? It is almost 50 years since the notion of a settlement standing high upon Mam Tor in advance of the building of the hillfort was first announced. This remains a viable option, and perhaps all the more so in light of various points outlined in this paper, inspired both by critical attention to detail in accounts of the 1960s excavations and by independent scrutiny on the ground, recently leading to compilation of a systematic, interpretative, surface record of the hilltop, distilled into the 2018 plan seen in Figure 11 here. It may be helpful to begin the concluding discussion by recapping concisely on some of the observations most salient to this theme. It is suggested that the 1965 trenching of the hillfort’s inner bank may have given partial sight of a discrete platform smothered by the rampart, apparently after some interval of neglect (page 109). It is also contended that a single posthole recorded deep in the 1966 trench, possibly antedating the rampart, possibly not, provides no credible grounds for postulating a primary palisaded enclosure (page 110). However we seek to interpret those buried features, it may be suspected that more await discovery in similar positions, as it would seem decidedly fortuitous for those two narrow trenches, being the only recorded excavations into these earthworks, to have hit upon the sole spots around the circuit of the fort where such stratigraphical relationships exist. In addition, the more recent surface mapping inside the fort has drawn attention to a few points of apparent intersection between platforms among the more tightly-clustered groups, making it seem improbable that all of the platforms were in

By definition, then, the postulated hilltop platformsettlement would have comprised some proportion of the 200 or more platforms still to be seen strewn over the western and eastern flanks of the ridge inside the hillfort, and the problems lie in achieving any enhancement of that basic premise. Just as the buried platform sampled in 1965 may be indicative of a greater number in use at a pre-hillfort stage, so the recognition that certain platforms could have been 116

Mam Tor, Derbyshire: new plans outlining hill and fort, internal platforms and all

fashioned simultaneously with the scooping out of quarries close behind the rampart, i.e. in gathering material for its construction (pages 103-5), acts as a reminder that many of the discrete platforms set farther upslope may have been used during the active life of the hillfort (whether made at its inception or after, or possibly re-used, or continuing in use, from pre-fort times). Chances are that the sundry indications of a palimpsest, as already aired, reflect a lengthy, complicated and possibly intermittent succession, in which some episodes of settlement may have been more restricted in extent than others, so sometimes covering far less than the total c.6.0ha of the hilltop.26 As matters stand, there can be no saying how many platforms might relate to any one point in time, and certainly no way to know how extensive may have been any stage of pre-fort settlement. The plausible argument that the maximum number of platforms which could have co-existed on a given site should denote the greatest extent of occupation (Alcock 1965, 192, complete with presumptive ‘houses/dwellings’ interpretation, as deprecated on page 99) can be laid aside because it is too easy to frame all manner of hypothetical sequences in which that simplistic solution would not apply. It is also as well to remind ourselves that even fuller and more meticulous excavation might struggle to establish the contemporaneity or otherwise of all the pits, gullies, postholes and stakeholes, plus all the pottery and other artefacts, that may lie in wait on the platforms at Mam Tor; and, even if that could be accomplished, there still might be some difficulty in demonstrating that such a suite of information relates to a time before rather than after fortifications were constructed. Without great investment of time and money, and without a good deal of luck in addition, such niceties may often be quite beyond the power of archaeological excavation to decipher in upland Britain.

greater complexity of sequence is no less likely. What is more, the recorded circuit of earthworks need not be excluded from involvement in the suspected longevity. For instance, different readings of the 1965 section through the inner bank have it comprising anything from one to three builds of rampart (page 109); and, even if the seemingly best evidence for stone-revetting may appear open to question (page 107), it may equally be felt that the excavator’s dismissal of the ‘slight stone face’ within layer 4 of 1966 ‘as fortuitous rather than as secondary revetment’ was possibly a little hasty (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 17; see Figure 18; also Brown 2009, 49, apparently regarding this as ‘stepped revetting’, so not necessarily indicating more than one episode of construction). Due note should once more be taken of the pair of lengthy inturned entrances, as these could have been relatively late additions, and they might even have developed in stages until eventually appearing to stamp this hillfort with a hallmark of the fully-fledged Iron Age (page 93). In this respect, the earthworks may seem to signal a contrast with the Plainware, itself so prevalent among artefacts excavated from the north-east sector and usually taken to imply a focus of activity on this hilltop during the Late Bronze Age or, at latest, the Earliest Iron Age (page 114).27 These points, though tenuous individually, would again appear to boost a growing impression of chronological complexity and lengthy overall sequence (Willis would ‘not be surprised’ ― 2006, 118). Neither should it be presumed that there was continuity between phases of occupation and/or enclosure. Whatever the goal of those who made the platform found under the bank in the 1965 trench, the possibility of a hiatus implicit in its apparently colluvial infill seems to bespeak intermittence (page 109). Although it would be hopelessly rash to construe this one localized instance, arising from tentative re-interpretation of an old and restricted excavation, as fairly representative of the whole hilltop, it is necessary to acknowledge that centuries of abandonment could have intervened between occupations, either dividing distinct phases of unenclosed settlement and/or separating that entity from the creation of the hillfort. So, if there can be no automatic assumption that the former was an immediate precursor of the latter, then logically there is no particular reason even to suppose exact affinity of purpose (whatever that may have been), albeit this may ‘feel’ somewhat specious.

There is no compelling reason to advocate a simple twofold sequence of platform-settlement succeeded by hillfort, nor to suppose that the hilltop was always wholly unenclosed prior to imposition of the present set of earthworks ― i.e. there could easily have been some slighter form of enclosure, or fortification, of the summit that has so far avoided recognition (ironically perhaps just the sort of palisade for which there is yet no tenable evidence — cf. page 110). Simplistic expectation, nothing stronger, might lead us to imagine this to have intervened between a settlement initially of ‘open’ status and the mature hillfort, but

This leads on to equally demanding issues, urging us to contemplate why people should have chosen to occupy

Compare Driver’s view of the many platforms plotted at Moel Trigarn, Pembrokeshire, supposing the hillfort to have probably ‘expanded over many centuries ... complex and long-lasting ... with all its phases of occupation on show’ (2007, 136), though it is unclear how he envisages this expansion to have related to the several lines of earthwork around that hilltop. There has also been recognition of longevity represented among abundant platforms at, for example, Yeavering Bell in Northumberland (Oswald et al. 2008, 26) and Eildon Hill North in Roxburghshire (RCAMS 1956, 309-10; Owen 1992, 25, 66).

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27  A few potsherds found on the ridge-crest in 1989 and 1993 can be taken to imply that activity of the Plainware period was not confined to the north-east sector of the area encompassed by the hillfort, for they include some at c.30m above (i.e. at c.514m OD), and at c.150m south-west from, the nearest of the platforms (4) to have yielded plentiful Plainware in the 1960s (Guilbert and Vince 1996, 50, 57).

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Graeme Guilbert this hilltop in late prehistory, be it intermittently or, at least by intention, permanently, and quite what they did when there. Granted there is no chance of addressing such matters conclusively in the present state of knowledge, we can at least mull over a few glimmers of insight courtesy of recent re-examination of certain artefacts among those found in excavating platforms in the 1960s, coupling this with re-appraisal of such information as can be gleaned from scanty written accounts of how and where a few of the artefacts lay in the ground. This has necessitated dabbling in notions of quirky behaviour responsible for oddities unearthed in a few pits/gullies, seeming to include examples of structured deposition involving some of the plentiful sherds of Plainware (page 112), though it is impossible to say whether or not these deposits antedated the establishment of the hillfort. So too other artefacts seeming to offer glimpses both of industry upon Mam Tor itself and of agriculture locally, possibly embodying activities more ordinary than obscure, and each worthy of further consideration.

the ridge, at above 480m OD (pages 112-13 and Figure 22). The typological traits of this ‘lead axe’ imply its manufacture at a late stage of the Late Bronze Age, placing its supposed secondary use in metalworking at some point after c.700 BC, which is tantamount to calling it Iron Age, so leaving us guessing one more time whether this might have happened before or after the hillfort appeared on the scene. It is of interest too that this activity is something which Mam Tor shares with several other prominent hilltops believed to have been ‘occupied’ in or around the Late Bronze Age (as attested by a variety of dating-evidence), each as much a landmark locally (though not attaining quite such extreme altitude as Mam Tor), each sporting a fort (again not necessarily when metalworkers were active) and each producing fragments of comparable thick-walled crucibles with flattened rim (also other indications of working bronze) ― among widelydistributed places already cited here for other reasons, these would include Eildon Hill North (Spearman and Wilthew 1992, especially fig. 2.16; some 250km north of Mam Tor) and The Breiddin (Musson 1991, 57-61, 147-9, 178, especially fig. 60; 108km south-west), while Beeston Castle, just 64km westwards into neighbouring Cheshire, is another case in point (Ellis 1993, 24-5, 47-8, 54-6, 90-1, especially fig. 38).

Despite the uncertainties sure to attend attempts to get to grips with fragmentary records of fragmentary artefacts, there seem sufficient grounds to countenance the working of metal, maybe bronze as well as lead, as witnessed by ‘slag’ adhering to a sherd of crucible and by a piece of lead ‘axe’, apparently found at little distance apart on a platform on the east-facing side of

0

Others have viewed some of the pits excavated in the 1960s, specifically those on ‘Platform 4’ (pages 102 and 112-13), in a utilitarian light, suggesting a suitability to storage (Coombs 1971, 101 ― provisional, and not pursued in his later accounts, but more positively proposed by Challis and Harding 1975.i, 32, 158, 185; 1975.ii, 55; followed by Hart 1981, 75; Dyer 2001, 55), and thereby evidently alluding to local cultivation. Most distinctive is ‘pit a’ with its ‘clear outline in charcoal of a bell shape ... organic container burnt in situ’ (Coombs and Thompson 1979, 24, fig. 10; Figure 21 here, including section), this being the imagined ‘lining of wickerwork’ (words of Challis and Harding, not of the excavator) singled out by some as seeming pertinent.28 All of that was highly speculative, whereas the presence of a humble saddle-quernstone (found on the hill more recently; Figure 23), usually regarded as a vital tool of food-preparation, would seem to offer more substantive evidence for the consumption of cereals in the everyday round of settled life, arguably also a strong hint that crop-husbandry was practised at no great distance from Mam Tor at some point late in prehistory (cf. Guilbert 1995, 34). The quern may lack a stratified context but, in such a place as this, it is potentially instructive anyway in that it touches upon an element of the prehistoric economy for which other firm indications have yet to be recovered

300 mm

Figure 23. Mam Tor: netherstone of saddle-quern (type 3 of Peacock 2013, 14-16), with marks of redressing on its grinding-surface (at 1:5; found in 1989 lying loose among superficial rubble exposed by erosion of a footpath passing through the N Entrance of the hillfort ― Guilbert 1995). Drawn by R. Sheppard.

28  Bearing in mind its partial excavation, it might alternatively be wondered whether ‘pit a’ on ‘Platform 4’ was some form of bowlhearth related to the suspected metalworking.

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Mam Tor, Derbyshire: new plans outlining hill and fort, internal platforms and all

in this vicinity. It introduces lines of inquiry liable to prise open the Pandora’s box of high-altitude hillforts, highlighting a need to ponder what style of life might have been sustainable on and immediately around such a lofty hill as Mam Tor and others of its ilk. This big topic overshadows much else observed here, and, while it must be left largely for another day, it would be remiss to ignore it entirely.

themes more fully debated apropos of regions farther north, see Young and Simmonds 1995, 12; Tipping 2002, 21-3; Topping 2008, 360-1). And this view seems no less applicable to an unenclosed settlement on this hilltop than to a later one ensconced within a fort (though here is a point that seems to find me at odds with JC, as in Collis 1994, 127). Even so, at this remove, there seems no obvious imperative why any of the activities mentioned above (though admittedly expected to fall far short of a complete picture) should have required resort to the great height of Mam Tor; or, to reverse the observation, why those activities should not have been conducted at some lower site, seemingly more hospitable. No doubt numerous other considerations came into play, including practical ones ― for instance, notwithstanding its high-level spring (pages 87-9), the summit of Mam Tor, like the ridge-top extending to its north-east, remains tolerably dry underfoot throughout the year (nowadays anyhow), so contrasting with various other hilltops at no great distance (even some of lesser elevation), where a covering of hill-peat ensures dampness for many calendar months. This factor, which may have been underplayed in wider discussion of upland settlement-patterns, could have been equally true for many lower-lying and ill-drained locations in this general area; and the valleys can also suffer from nagging winter chills, conceivably making them feel less desirable for settlement in past millennia than were some higher hillsides and even hilltops (cf. Hawke-Smith 1979, 133-4; Harding 2000, 292). Here is another dimension of Mam Tor and like places that may deserve deeper deliberation, though want of relevant archaeological data locally is bound to leave it in the realms of speculation hereabouts.

Latter-day perception can seem to condition unduly how the highest of our hillforts, and hence also any unenclosed settlements on high-level hilltops, have often come to be interpreted. Regarding Mam Tor, it will pay to recall that the entirety of the 5.9ha enclosed by its fort stands between 477m and 517m OD, while any pre-fort settlement on this hill is unlikely to have extended much farther downslope (unless on the ridge-top projecting northwards from the fort — Figure 4). This is remarkable in itself, as fewer than twenty others among the 3600 or more hillforts in Britain have any part of their internal space reaching up to 470m. Moreover, anything above 400m is reckoned high for any kind of prehistoric settlement-remains across the Peak upland (cf. Barnatt 2000, 7-18), while this hill has been thought to ‘lie close to the environmental limits for cereal cultivation’ (Hawke-Smith 1979, 190). Besides the issue of agricultural marginality, the altitude-factor has seemed enough on its own for some to question whether any occupation of the exposed top of Mam Tor could have been more than seasonal (e.g. Millward and Robinson 1975, 122; Manley 1989, 115, 117-18; Darvill 1996, 110; Edmonds and Seaborne 2001, 192). They may be right, but this widespread preconception also needs to be challenged, because it is generally born of nothing more than contemporary intuition, reflecting personal attitudes to altitude, with the discomfort and inconvenience perceived to be its corollary. There is obvious potential for misjudging the outlook and expectations of those inhabiting such an upland landscape over 2000 years ago, as modern opinions are liable to be voiced by those familiar with these places largely, probably solely, through some brief adventure, if not merely through day-trips that end in returning to a comfortable base. The experiences of those who may have lived and worked on and around Mam Tor in late prehistory will surely have been quite different, when this may have been the only home they had known, accepting of its conditions through being more finely tuned to the demands of its environment, engaging in the only lifestyle they had ever practised, and capable of the resilience and persistence demanded by their lot. So an alternative for us is to recognize that those who then frequented Mam Tor (likewise other high hills that can now seem similarly ‘bleak’, as it is so often put) may have been more hardy than we can either comprehend or sometimes care to consider (cf. Fleming 1983, 173, instancing ‘hillforts like Mam Tor’; and, for related

Nothing said here can come close to explaining why prehistoric people, robust or not, should have elected to occupy a site at such high altitude, looming over much of the surrounds (Figures 1, 3, 5 and 24), and it is arguable that this means little has changed in at least the forty years since Champion declared plainly ‘it is still difficult to discern reasons for … the preference for such a location’ (1979, 365, specifying Mam Tor). For me, there is enduring appeal in the notion that a perceived need of security should have been influential in initiating the move to this hilltop, as to many another, recalling Hawkes’s elementary axiom that ‘hilltops stand for safety’ (1971, 7; echoed in Darvill 1987, 128, naming Mam Tor; and in Harding 2000, 292). It is clear enough that Mam Tor possessed considerable natural assets suited to just such a scenario (pages 81-6), its craggy landslips combining with steep hillsides as contributions to defensibility, maybe also conferring a sense of grandeur, and complementing the amenity of a perennial high-elevation spring in seeming to 119

Graeme Guilbert

Figure 24. Mam Tor: hillfort crowning the summit and looking down over the eastern escarpment of the ridge rounding the western end of Castleton Dale; the most severe part of the skyline (at upper left) is formed by the Mam Tor landslip, here seen descending from the line of the fort’s earthworks, themselves between 467-492m OD in this view, looking up from north-east and from c.370m OD. Photograph by G. Guilbert, March 2017.

make this a fastness fit for the purposes of a hilltop platform-settlement, and for conversion into a fortified stronghold when its time eventually came. Much as it may be out of keeping with caution generally espoused above, it remains easiest to view that development as ‘more a question of degree than of different intention’ (Harding 2000, 292). In the first instance, maybe it was believed sufficient to hold the upper hand psychologically, if only in achieving superiority through an ability to look out over surrounding ground from on high, thus to see what, or who, was afoot in the vicinity (while the apparently careful placement of those artefacts in pits may signify something more deeply irrational entering the mix). No matter how reassuring such over-sight may once have seemed, and no matter how dominant this hilltop naturally, it must be doubted that such a strategy could have proved effective for long in the absence of ‘a full set of defensive barriers’, be it palisade or some more substantial works, capable of warding off, at the very least, the persistent nuisance of human or animal predators (though there is reason to query whether that threat would necessarily have been wholly overcome even after the hillfort’s earthworks were put in place ― page 91).

connection (a general concept repeatedly discussed of late — for example, by Oswald et al. 2006, 39-41; Brown 2009, 29, 209; Sharples 2010, 32-4; Harding 2012, 273-5); but we should be hard-pressed to know whether that sharing of this locus had real purpose in a region where most hillforts seem not to enclose barrows,29 whereas many hills lacking a fort are topped off with a burial monument or two (Barnatt 1996; 1999a, 22-4 and fig. 2, in which Mam Tor is labelled). Even if essentially coincidental at Mam Tor, and leaving aside the obvious attraction of such a hill to the builders of barrows and later settlement/fort alike if each desired to be sited where visible from far and wide, there still might have been a common cause inasmuch as this specific spot is thought to be ‘well set on important lines of access … where paths crossed … a focal point for communities drawn from several directions’, so that eventually it ‘became a place of more persistent settlement’, in which role ‘the first appearance of earthworks may not have marked a dramatic break with the past’ (Edmonds and Seaborne 2001, 188-92). The ‘nodal’ nature of this location in the landscape, situated both on the route along the ridge-top and adjacent to relatively low points in the ridge where it might most easily be crossed from dale to dale (Figure 1), has often been remarked by local writers (for instance, from differing perspectives, by Barnatt 1995, 15; 1999a, 33 ― one of several factors contributing to his sense of ‘specialness’ about Mam

Of course, there may have been more to it than merely seeking the deterrent effect of height, particularly in the selection of one hilltop over others (assuming there really was freedom of choice in that regard). The presence of two barrows standing on the highest eminences of the stretch of ridge-top enclosed by the hillfort (Figure 11 caption, and Figure 17) may tempt some to consider the possibility of a significant

The interiors of all but three of the dozen hillforts in the Peak upland appear devoid of superficial evidence for barrows, those three being Fin Cop (Waddington 2012, fig. 3), Gardom’s Edge (Barnatt et al. 2017, fig. 5) and Mam Tor.

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Tor ― and by Hey 2008, 37, 42, 96-7, 101, 304). For people passing this way in the past, this can only have been given emphasis through the unmistakable status of this hill as a prominent local landmark, to use a term that has lately found favour with those endeavouring to capture the qualities of other highly conspicuous hills crowned with a fort (for geographical diversity in recent discussion of the basic concept, in spirit if not all actually employing ‘landmark’, see, for example, Hamilton and Manley 1997, 104, 107; Harding 2004, 289, 298; 2012, 273; Oswald et al. 2006, 99; Halliday 2007, 103-7; Brown 2009, 195-6; Driver 2013, 109-13; Haselgrove 2015, 131-2). In the case of Mam Tor, the powerful image of this landmark-hilltop is made all the more visual by the scars of its formidable landslips, the most spectacularly visual of natural features in this exceedingly three-dimensional tract of Peak landscape. It seems inconceivable that the aura of the great, eastfacing landmark-landslip should not have played some part in drawing people to this place in late prehistory, just as in historical times (pages 82-3), when the hill was afforded numerous epithets and became much admired for its capacity to steal eye and mind from many a neighbouring hill and vale, that ‘grand and striking object … raising its head beyond’ (Aikin 1795, 499). This is a fruitful field for speculation, though, in the present context, it behoves us to remember that there can be no certainty of the chronological priority of either of those landslips relative to any pre-hillfort settlement ― i.e. confident as we may feel that the slips were already in existence when the earthworks of the hillfort were set out against them, the method of establishing this via contour-lines cannot be deployed in a pre-fort context because, unlike the fort, the outline of settlement then remains unknown (pages 85-6).

grappling with caveats and nuances in the preceding pages, it seems feasible to conclude only by considering how it might be possible to embellish the broad binary scheme that still gives the most economical fit for the medley of tantalizing hints so far available from Mam Tor. Thus, to recap, the fortifications of this stronghold — the finest set of earthworks for miles around — must be stripped away in the imagination to expose the rudiments of a ‘hilltop platform-settlement’, perched and clustered atop a natural fastness, a landmarkhilltop, equipped for partial protection by forbidding landslips, but maybe little else, meaning essentially without man-made barrier against perceived perils from the encircling world. Simplistic as it is, our best hope of building greater confidence in that image, of endorsing it and perhaps even refining it, may lie in thinking outside the Mam Tor box (and much the same might be said of various hills surmounted by a fort plus platforms in other regions of Britain, each confronting a similar interpretative impasse). To be more specific, such thoughts might steer us in a direction flagged up by Dennis Harding when commenting upon highaltitude hillforts in general, adducing Mam Tor in particular — responding to the increasingly popular hunch that ‘surrounding walls were added to what was already a significant open settlement’, he reflected that this ‘would gain credibility if we could point to instances of unenclosed hilltop settlement’ (2012, 96). So, if reinvigoration of debate is to involve lateral thinking of that sort, thereby aiming to effect some small advance in appreciation of Mam Tor’s own story, it stands to reason that any breakthrough will have to spring from active scrutiny of likely-looking hilltops without hillforts. Bibliography

In the end, discussion has inevitably come down to increasingly opaque conjecture, and it is not easy to see how more substantive headway is likely to be made in understanding Mam Tor without investigations of far more penetrating ambition than those of the 1960s, which merely scratched the surface of an extensive site that doubtless holds a veritable mine of information. Excavations of appropriate scale seem improbable here in the foreseeable future and, without an expansive dissection of some part of the earthworks and underlying deposits, these would anyway have difficulty in unlocking the twin crux of sequence and structure (cf. pages 107 and 117), just as geophysical survey would seem incapable of resolving either of those issues, which have come to dominate ruminations upon this hilltop.30 In these circumstances, and for all the

Adam, W. 1838. The Gem of the Peak; or Matlock Bath and its Vicinity. London. Aikin, J. 1795. A Description of the Country from Thirty to Forty Miles Round Manchester. London. Alcock, L. 1965. Hillforts in Wales and the Marches. Antiquity 39: 184-95. Allcroft, A. H. 1908. Earthwork of England – Prehistoric, Roman, Saxon, Danish, Norman, and Mediæval. London. Anon 1743. A Description of the Parish of Melrose …. Edinburgh. Aubrey, J., Fowles, J. and Legg, R. 1980. Monumenta Britannica – John Aubrey (1626-97). Parts One and Two. Sherborne. Avery, M. 1993. Hillfort Defences of Southern Britain (British Archaeological Reports, British Series 231, Volumes i and ii). Oxford.

30  It might be felt that geophysical survey could facilitate the search for prehistoric structures on Mam Tor, but such investigation must be treated with caution on such a site as this, not least as the character of stake-wall round-houses (briefly discussed on pages 101-2) is liable to make them a major Achilles heel for remote sensing, so that, without a lot of luck, its prospects of demonstrating the distribution and

density, maybe even the presence, of buildings can become seriously limited (cf. Guilbert 2018a, section 2.7).

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A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury Timothy Champion Our knowledge of Roman and pre-Roman Canterbury is based largely on the excavations carried out since 1944 on sites destroyed by war-time bombing or affected by subsequent redevelopment, but one of the most important series of observations prior to that was occasioned by the deep trenching required to construct the sewer system under the city in 1868. The work was undertaken by James Pilbrow, an engineer with considerable experience in the design and construction of such works in the 1850s and 1860s. He kept watch on the work and published a fairly detailed account (1871) of his observations and the further information he had been able to gain from the workers. Though many of his interpretations have needed revision in the light of later work, his record of discoveries is still valuable. At the northern end of Palace Street, to the north-west of the Cathedral, he records the discovery of two cremation burials. It is worth giving his detailed account (Pilbrow 1871, 161):

original deposit. Some of the finds from Pilbrow’s work were donated to the British Museum in 1876, including the two handles and the base of the bronze vessel; the Museum also acquired an enamelled strap union of Iron Age date, but this was from a different site in the city (Pilbrow 1871, 159, Jope 2000, 313 and Pl. 297c). The other material from these two cremations does not appear to have survived.

a Roman bronze vase found inverted ... it rested on two bars of iron 15 inches long and 2 inches wide, and when found 1/4 inch thick. Within it was a deposit of calcined human bones, which, from the costly nature of their receptacle, we may conclude to have been the remains of a person of distinction. The whole lay at 9 feet below the present surface. ... Among the debris of bones a small metal object was found, which appears to represent the face of a lion or other like animal, also a singularly marked object, the material of which, at first sight, would be taken for fine bone or ivory slightly calcined, but upon inspection is evidently something allied to very fine porcelain. The piece is a fragment about 1 1/8 inch long by 1/4 inch wide and 1/4 inch thick, having two patterns or figures deeply and most accurately cut or engraved on the smooth side, each consisting of two ovals, one within the other, and a deep whole in centre. ... A short distance up Palace Street was found a black earthen vase accompanied by calcined bones.

Pilbrow clearly recognised the various bronze objects as the elements of a bronze vessel with a body of thin sheet metal and cast parts for the handles and the base. His illustration (1871, Pl. XXIII, no. 3 and 4) shows the finely decorated vine-leaf handles and the form of the base (Figure 1). He described it simply as Roman, a reasonable term especially at that time when he had no reason to suspect a pre-Roman origin for any finds within the city of Canterbury, in contrast to the wealth of Roman material revealed in the sewer trenches. At some point in its history in the British Museum it appears that the vessel was restored from the fragments donated to the Museum in 1876; Smith (1922, 86), describing a display case in the Museum, refers to ‘the larger specimen from Canterbury below, of which the bronze mounts are now attached to a wooden model’. Eggers lists it in his catalogue of bronze vessels from Roman Britain with an outline profile (1966, 110, no.90 and fig. 64), with the comments Fundort unbekannt (provenance unknown) and Unrichtige Ergänzung in Britischen Museum hier korrigiert (wrong restoration in the British Museum corrected here); it is curious that he was unaware of its origin. Its true provenance was recognised, and the faulty restoration reversed, by the curatorial and conservation staff of the British Museum before the objects were included in the redisplay of the finds from the Iron Age in 1997.

Pilbrow was apparently a careful and observant recorder of what he saw or was told, but it is unlikely he was able to observe every find and he must have been reliant on the information given him by others. The deep, narrow trenches, seldom more than 2’ 6’ (80 cm) wide and 8’-16’ ( 2.5-5 m) deep, were scarcely ideal for making archaeological observations, and it is quite possible that what was recovered was only a part of the

There does not seem to be any reason to doubt Pilbrow’s identification of the assemblage as the remains of a cremation burial. It will be argued here that it was not Roman, as he thought, but a hitherto unrecognised rich burial of the Late Iron Age, possibly dating to the first half of the first century BC. The elements of the bronze basin, the only physically surviving evidence, are the key to the argument and will be discussed first. The bronze vessel

The vessel can now be recognised as an example of the type identified by Eggers (1951, 168-169 and Taf.

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 127–135

Timothy Champion

Figure 1. Pilbrow’s original illustration (1871, Plate XXIII), published without scale.

9) as his Type 94 (Dobbin), itemised by Werner (1954, 55-56 and 70) in his List G, and described by Bolla (1991) as basins with vine-leaf attachments; it also figures as Type BB-1121 in Py’s dictionary of artefact types (2016) and in the online encyclopaedia artefacts (2017) under code BAS-3005. Bronze bowls of Eggers Type 94 are known from locations across Europe from France to Russia, both inside and outside the empire, as well as from Egypt. Eggers (1951, 168-169) listed three in northern Europe outside the Empire; Werner (1954, 70) listed eight examples, but was unaware of the Canterbury vessel. Bolla’s catalogue (1991, 119) includes a total of nineteen then known finds, while the on-line artefacts has twenty-two entries; both of these lists follow Eggers in recording the British Museum example as from an unknown find spot. The basin has an almost hemispherical body on a small base, rising to a shoulder, above which is a neck and a wide rim; two handles are fixed immediately below the shoulder. Complete vessels are rare, and in most examples it is the cast parts, the base and the distinctive vine-leaf handles, that survive.

Unfortunately, there are few useful associations to help fix their chronology (Bolla 1991, 117). On stylistic grounds, Boucher and Tassinari (1976, vol. 1, 14, no. 128) suggested a date in the third or second century BC for an example from the Saône at Lyons; an example found at Delos was from a context dated by reference to the historically known destruction of the island in 69 BC (Siebert 1975, 723 and Fig. 7). The type does not appear in Tassinari’s typology of bronze vessels from Pompeii (1993), nor in Petrovszky’s (1993) catalogue of bronze vessels with maker’s stamps, so may have been out of use by the time of the adoption of name-stamping in the late first century BC. The most useful evidence comes from three grave finds. A basin of this form was found in Grave 7 in the San Bernardo cemetery at Ornavasso (Graue 1974, 29, 215 and Taf. 10, 2-4, Piana Agostinetti 1972, 40-43 and Figs 15-16). The relative and absolute chronology of this cemetery has been much discussed, and Grave 7, though richly furnished, is difficult to date with precision. It has been assigned to the early part of Piana 128

A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury

Agostinetti’s Phase II, perhaps 100-50 BC; to Graue’s Period II, 90-50 BC, though Crawford has argued that, on numismatic grounds, Graue’s absolute dates are too late, suggesting instead 110-70 BC (1985, 295); MartinKilcher placed it in her Phase 2a, dated to 120/10090/80 BC (1998); a more recent seriation of the regional cemeteries by Pernet and Tori (2012) suggests that the accompanying brooches belong to their Phase 5, approximately equivalent to La Tène D2, or 85-40 BC. A further example has been excavated from a grave at Hedegård in Denmark (Madsen 1997, 63-64), in association with a handled beaker and other items, the assemblage assigned to Period IIIb of the Danish PreRoman Iron Age, with a date unlikely to be much later than c. 50 BC. More recently, an example was found in a richly furnished grave at Lattes in southern France, in an assemblage dated to 100-75 BC (Bel, Barberan, and Chardenon 2009).

bars might be of approximately the right size for elements of such an object, but it is difficult to see how it could have produced two bars lying horizontal and apparently close together, if put into the grave complete. The other possibility is a gridiron such as those found in the Ornavasso San Bernardo Grave 7 mentioned above (Graue 1974, Taf. 12, no.6) or at Clemency, Luxembourg (Metzler et al. 1991, 44). Gridirons of this sort are rare in Britain, but an example was found in the large deposit of early Roman iron work at Silchester (Evans 1894, 153154). Though the Canterbury bars seem the right length for such an item, their cross section seems too large. The bars in the Silchester grill were only 3/4 inch by 1/4 inch (1.5 cm by 0.5 cm), while the Clemency piece was made of bars approximately 1 cm (1/2 inch) square; the grill from Ornavasso appears to have been made from larger bars, but even so, they do not measure up to the size of those at Canterbury.

On the basis of the available evidence, it seems most likely that this type belongs predominantly to the first half of the first century BC; though an earlier origin is quite possible, it is unlikely to have continued much later. The Canterbury basin, the only example of its type so far found in England, is therefore probably one of the earliest of the Late Iron Age Italian bronze vessel imports.

If the iron objects were separate items, they might be compared to the iron rods in the so-called Doctor’s Grave at Stanway, Essex (Crummy 2007, 224-229); though of similar length, however, the Canterbury pieces were of very different cross-section and were clearly ‘bars’, not rods. A more realistic possibility might be a pair of firedogs (Piggott 1971). If the firedogs had been laid transversely across the line of the trench, the iron bars would represent all that could be recovered of the horizontal bars in such a narrow trench. Pairs of iron firedogs have been found in the Late Iron Age burials at Mount Bures, Stanfordbury A, Welwyn A (Stead 1967, 53, 55 and 57, Saunders 1977) and Baldock (Stead and Rigby 1986, 59-60). The dimensions of the cross-section of the Canterbury bars are comparable to the examples from Welwyn and Baldock, and to another from the ironwork hoard discovered at Bulbury, Dorset (Cunliffe 1972).

There is no clear evidence for the original function of the vessel in the classical world; with its wide, deep profile, it seems likely to have been to hold water for washing before a meal, as was more certainly the case with pans and basins of later periods (Nuber 1972). Whatever the bowl may have been used for in Iron Age Kent before its inclusion in this grave, it was not used as a cremation container in the strict sense but rather inverted as a cover for the cremated remains which were heaped up on some surface below it.

Iron bars have also been found in the form of curved and straight strips in the rich Late Iron Age grave at Hertford Heath (Stead 1967, 52, no. 17-18). Further study, however, suggests that they were the bindings of a large wooden vessel or container, and they were clearly much thinner and longer than the bars from Canterbury (Hüssen 1983, 18-19). Two iron bars were found in the Stanfordbury B burial (Stead 1967, 56, no. 15). They are now lost, and neither their form nor their function is known.

The iron bars Pilbrow’s description is the only evidence we have for the other items in the grave. The two iron bars may have been single items, perhaps a pair, or, given the circumstances of discovery, parts of a larger object or objects, which may have extended beyond the limits of the narrow trench. The description tells us that they were lying horizontally below the bronze bowl, which had been inverted over the cremation, and suggests that they were of a standard shape and size throughout their length. The details of their size and profile make it unlikely that they were either swords or currency bars; Pilbrow significantly fails to compare them in any way to swords. If they were parts of a single larger item, there are two possibilities to be considered. One is a large frame similar to that found in the Welwyn B burial (Smith 1912, 13-15, Brailsford 1958). The Canterbury

Clearly, certainty is now impossible, but in view of the presence of a pair of bars and of their dimensions, they may have been the remains of a pair of firedogs. Such items were clearly known in the Canterbury region, since there was a fragment of an iron firedog, albeit of a rather different type, among the collection of Late Iron Age ironwork from the hillfort of Bigberry (Thompson 1983, 273, no. 30 and fig. 17, no. 37). 129

Timothy Champion practices, the burial and the grave. The burnt nature of the ‘ivory’ item and the location of the lion’s head suggest that the deceased was cremated with pyre goods, and at least some of the material from the pyre was collected, including fragments of the burnt pyre goods. Grave goods were deposited, including some large object or objects of iron, and the collection of cremated bone and pyre goods was then deposited on top of the grave goods, either in a heap on top of the other items or possibly in some organic container, but certainly not in a pot. The cremated bone was then covered by an inverted vessel, an imported Italian bronze bowl.

The lion head Pilbrow tells us little about this object, not even the metal from which it was made, though presumably that was bronze. We do not know its size, and Pilbrow seems to have had doubts even about its identification as the head of a lion. It is important to note, however, that Pilbrow describes it as having come from among the bones, and therefore, though he does not specifically say so, presumably having been burnt in the funeral pyre and collected up with the ashes. It is difficult to speculate what it might have been, and no obvious parallels spring immediately to mind. There is a rather mixed series of Late Iron Age or early Roman brooches with lion heads or even lion figures on the bow (Hattatt 1985, 40 and fig. 18, no. 280-281, 1987, 44-47 and fig. 17). They are classed by Feugère (1985, 278-287) as his Type 18b1-4. In construction they are closest to Langton Down and Rosette type brooches, and Feugère dates them to the period c. 20 BC to the first half of the first century AD. Another type, the bronze plaques with lion faces found in some casket burials, does not seem to be earlier than Claudian (Borrill 1981). Lion masks also appear on a series of bronze jugs characteristic of Nuber’s (1972, 45-54) Type E (Millingen) service, of Tassinari’s (1993) form D2300; though in use from the Claudian period into the second century, it is possible that manufacture began slightly earlier. If Pilbrow was mistaken about it being a lion, he might perhaps have seen a face from the handle of an earlier type of bronze jug, such as the so-called Silenus masks from Kelheim jugs (Boube 1991, 39). The Welwyn A burial also included three small human masks in bronze, of unknown function (Smith 1912, Stead 1967, 57, no. 6). Once again, though, certainty is now impossible.

Pilbrow gives us almost no information about the size of the grave itself, except to say that the finds were located at a depth of 9 feet (2.75 m) below the present surface, but without any indication of the contemporary ground level. He does, however, tell us (Pilbrow 1871, 152 and 154), when talking about the trenching in what was then Staplegate, a few metres to the north around the corner from the Palace Street find, that the Roman ground level and road surface were generally found at a depth of around 5 feet (1.5 m), though he also noted that the Roman roads in this part of the city had accumulated to a depth of several feet. There have been few other excavations in this region, and therefore detailed understanding of the subsurface deposits is impossible. On the basis of Pilbrow’s figures, however, it is possible that the depth of 9 feet was well below the Late Iron Age or early Roman ground surface, representing a grave cut to some depth. Many of these features can be matched in other rich burials of the Late Iron Age in the south-east of England, especially in Stead’s (1967, 44-46) Welwyn group. This group of rich burials was originally defined by key characteristics such as grave form (a large rectangular grave without a superimposed mound), treatment of the body (cremation), and the nature of the grave goods (a quantity of pottery, at least one amphora, and usually some imported metal or glass vessels); burials of this group were seen as clearly distinct from other richly furnished burials such as the Lexden group, with a barrow, or bucket burials. The definition of this group has now become somewhat blurred with the discovery of broadly similar burials such as that at Baldock (Stead and Rigby 1986, 51-61), which had a circular grave pit and no pottery other than an amphora, although it did include a cauldron, buckets, bronze basins and a pair of firedogs, or at Dorton (Farley 1983), which contained amphorae and other pottery and also a mirror in a wooden box.

The bone or ivory (?) This object is also enigmatic, though Pilbrow does confirm that it too was found among the bones, and compares it to calcined ivory, so again it may be inferred that it had been burnt in the pyre. His original identification of the material as ivory or fine bone may well have been correct, but he did not provide an illustration, and the details he does give are tantalising: it had one smooth, decorated surface, and it may have been a fragment of something larger, but there is no indication of possible shape. The concentric oval incised decoration with central hollow may be a variation on similar circular motifs well documented in Late Iron Age material culture, e.g. at Snailwell (Lethbridge 1953, fig.2) or King Harry Lane (Stead and Rigby 1989, fig.90, 12). The burial rite

Features of the Palace Street burial can be paralleled in this rather ill-defined group. Many of Stead’s Welwyn burials were not recent excavations and detailed accounts of the deposits of cremated bone and other

Pilbrow’s account gives some slight information that allows us to make inferences about the funerary 130

A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury

items are rare. Nevertheless, the burial at Welwyn Garden City also included a distorted fragment of bronze, possibly a brooch, and burnt bear phalanges, suggesting that the body had been covered with a bearskin (Stead 1967, 29). In the Baldock burial, there was a small sample of cremated human bone, mostly from the base of the cauldron, but it also included bear phalanges (Stead and Rigby 1986, 33). At the small cemetery of Swarling, 5 km south of Canterbury, excavated in 1921, Grave 13 stood out from the rest: the cremated bone and ash, which had been placed in an iron-bound wooden bucket, included ‘a shapeless lump of bronze probably representing some ornament melted during the burning of the body’, the only item found in the whole cemetery that could be considered to be a pyre good (Bushe-Fox 1925, 6). It is important to note, incidentally, that there was regional variation in this practice: at Westhampnett in Sussex all the personal ornaments appear to have been burnt as pyre goods, suggesting that the bodies were burnt in some form of costume (Fitzpatrick 1997, 236-241), but in the southeastern region such pyre goods are comparatively rare.

Deal, where Graves 2 and 4 in the South-east Cemetery contained such deposits accompanied by aboveaverage assemblages of grave goods (Parfitt 1995, 16870), but elsewhere it was found in significantly richer graves. It can be found in a group of graves where the cremated bone was found in a bucket with a pair or more of brooches suggesting the use of an organic container, as in Grave 13 at Swarling (Bushe-Fox 1925, 6); in at least one of the two bucket burials at Alkham, near Dover (Philp 1991, James and Rigby 1997, fig.80); and possibly also at Aylesford, where the bucket burial, Grave Y, may similarly have contained cremated bone and brooches (Stead 1976, 402). At Westhawk Farm, near Ashford (Booth, Bingham, and Lawrence 2008, 2734), the cremated remains were found not in an urn, but possibly originally within a box, while of the two rich graves excavated on the A2 Pepperhill to Cobham road scheme in north-west Kent (Allen et al. 2012, 288302), the cremation in Grave 4298 was found heaped in association with a group of brooches, and in Grave 4312 within a bucket, in both cases probably originally within an organic container. The deposition of a heap of cremated bone at Palace Street would therefore be in line with prevailing traditions for rich burials in Kent.

The deposition of the cremated bone in a heap, or possibly in an organic container such as a bag, can also be well matched among these other richer graves. Again, there is regional variation: at Westhampnett, most burials were deposited unurned (Fitzpatrick 1997, 38), while on the northern fringe of the distribution of the Aylesford burial tradition, at Hinxton Rings, Cambridgeshire, unurned deposition was also the universal practice (Hill, Evans, and Alexander 1999, 247). There has been no recent study of burial rites in the core area of the tradition, in Essex and Hertfordshire, or in Kent, but urned cremation seems to be the norm, with a recurrent minority of unurned burials. Among the richer burials, unurned deposition can be documented at Welwyn Garden City (Stead 1967, 5) and Snailwell (Lethbridge 1953, 26), as well as at Baldock (Stead and Rigby 1986, 53) and Dorton (Farley 1983, 278), and in most of the burials in the highstatus complex at Stanway (Crummy 2007, 428). More generally, Whimster (Whimster 1981, 157) noted that the unurned cremations ‘tend to fall into two categories, representing opposite ends of the social spectrum’. At the King Harry Lane cemetery, Verulamium (Stead and Rigby 1989), more than 20% of the cremations were not placed in urns: one third of these unurned burials were simple piles of cremated bone in a small grave with no grave goods, but others were in graves with substantial quantities of grave goods. As Stead and Rigby note (1989, 83), ‘in the most elaborate burials, too, the bones seemed to lack a container’; Millett’s analysis produced similar results: ‘perhaps surprisingly there is a tendency for cremations which are accompanied by larger assemblages of other grave goods to have no surviving container’ (1993, 264). In Kent, similar practices seem to have prevailed: unurned burial can be seen at Mill Hill,

Comparative information on the depth of grave cuts is harder to find, but it seems that the graves dug for the richer burials were substantially deeper than the normal burials, even if only to accommodate the grave goods such as amphorae, firedogs or buckets. At Swarling, Grave 13 was the largest and deepest, cut c. 1 m into the gravel, about twice the average depth of graves there (Bushe-Fox 1925, 6). If, as argued above, the Palace Street burial was as much as 4 ft (c. 1.2 m) below contemporary ground level, it would have been of comparable depth. Canterbury in the Late Iron Age What Pilbrow found in Palace Street was clearly a cremation burial, originally a richly furnished one including an imported Italian bronze basin and other grave goods. The basin dates to the period before 50 BC, but it is not possible to give a precise date for the other items found; unless the basin was already rather old before burial, it is possible that the cremation also dates to the period before 50 BC. The mode of burial and the contents of the grave make it comparable to Stead’s Welwyn series, and it is likely to have been one of the earliest such graves. It is therefore important to try to situate it in the wider context of pre-Conquest Canterbury, though a full reappraisal of the Late Iron Age evidence is beyond the scope of this paper. The evidence for Canterbury’s origins is tantalising. Despite more than seventy years of excavation, opportunities to examine the earliest structural layers have been very limited. Continuous occupation of 131

Timothy Champion of the Flat Linear II series (Holman 2005, 24-30). The chronology of these coins is problematic, but modern estimates have tended to set them progressively earlier (Haselgrove 2006); the most recent discussion, as part of a major reclassification of the series, would date the start of the production of the earliest Flat Linear I coins to c. 125 BC, and of the Flat Linear II to c. 60 BC (Holman 2016, 9-10). Many of the Canterbury coins might therefore date to c. 85-45 BC, though some must have been minted in the second century BC. Unless an earlier nucleus has been missed, the coins suggest that activity began well before the middle of the first century BC and that the earliest occupation was located around the Marlowe Car Park site. A triple-ditched enclosure with internal structures was found here: a floor layer associated with Structure B3C, the latest in a stratigraphic series of three overlying structures, contained Dressel 1B amphora sherds and a Flat Linear II potin coin, suggesting a possible date around the middle of the century for the latest occupation here (Blockley et al. 1995, 35-36, 629633, 925 and 968).

the site from the Late Iron Age to the present means that much of the earliest layers has been removed by later activity, and many of the most datable Iron Age finds, such as coins, brooches and amphorae, have been found in Roman and medieval contexts. Most of the excavations, especially large-scale exposures, have taken place in a limited area of the south-eastern part of the city, the zone of war-time destruction and later redevelopment. The artefactual evidence so far available is consistent in suggesting a possible origin somewhat before 50 BC. The amphorae include several examples of Dressel IB, the dominant type from c. 80 BC to 15 BC (Arthur 1986, 240-242), while the brooch series starts with LTIII types, including the boss-on-bow form that should date to LTD2, or c. 80-20 BC. The coins are perhaps the most sensitive chronological indicators: there is an almost total absence of the early Kentish Primary Series potins and limited numbers of the earliest types of the Flat Linear I series, but more of the latest types of this series and especially

Figure 2. Location of the Palace Street burial, indicated by a star, in relation to the excavated evidence for the south-eastern corner of the triple-ditched enclosure on the Marlowe Car Park site. The later walled area is shown for reference.

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A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury

The Palace Street burial would have been located about 400 m to the north of this important enclosure (Figure 2). There have been comparatively few excavations in the immediate area, which is perhaps scarcely surprising, given the presence of the cathedral precinct immediately to the east, and the focus of major wartime damage some distance to the south. Investigations at No. 3 Palace Street, about 200 m to the south of the burial, showed a sequence of three phases of Iron Age structures, the latest of which dated to the Claudian period; the date of the start of the sequence is unclear, and it may all have post-dated the probable date of the burial in the mid-first century BC (Frere et al. 1987, 8185). The Palace Street burial may, therefore, have been located in an as yet unoccupied zone some distance north of the earliest nucleus of Late Iron Age occupation in Canterbury. Pilbrow’s record of another cremation nearby suggests the possibility of a cemetery area.

been dated to the 50s AD (Gechter and Kunow 1983), but the associated pottery should be slightly earlier (Petrovszky 1993, 58-60). Petrovsky suggests a date range of AD 15/25 to AD 35/40 for the manufacture of this type of bucket, implying a date shortly before or around the time of the conquest for any such burial at Canterbury. Conclusion Pilbrow’s description together with the surviving parts of the bronze basin clearly confirms that what he found was a richly furnished burial of the Late Iron Age, though there can be no certainty about the other contents. The grave may date to the middle of the first century BC or earlier, making it one of the earliest such burials in south-eastern England. Such a date would agree with suggestions based on coinage, brooches and amphorae that Canterbury was already flourishing by the middle of the first century BC. The Palace Street burial is, so far, the only known richly furnished burial of the first century BC associated with the pre-Roman occupation of Canterbury.

Little is known about burial practices in pre-conquest Canterbury; the meagre and varied evidence, much of it poorly recorded and difficult to date, has been reviewed by Helm (2014, 137). An important, but enigmatic, burial was recently excavated at the Rhodaus Town site to the south-east of the later walled area. The inhumation has been radiocarbon dated to the second or first century BC (UBA-16765, 2064±26 BP, calibrated to 16819 BC or 12-1 BC); it may originally have been covered by a mound, one of several burial monuments in this region, and seems to have been the focus for a fourthcentury AD shrine (Helm 2014, 15). This burial and the Palace Street cremation may point to important burials in the first century BC. Unfortunately, their dating is not sufficiently precise. It is possible that the burials occurred in mid-century, when the other evidence suggests that Canterbury was flourishing; it is also possible that these two burials represent the earliest evidence for Late Iron Age activity at Canterbury and may have played a role in the foundation of the later site.

Acknowledgements I am greatly indebted to Dr Julia Farley (Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory, British Museum) for help with my enquiries about the acquisition and curation of the finds by the Museum. I am also grateful to Peter Clark and Jake Weeks (Canterbury Archaeological Trust) for discussions about Canterbury in the Late Iron Age. The figures were kindly prepared by Penny Copeland. Bibliography artefacts. http://artefacts.mom.fr/en/home.php. Accessed 10 October 2017. Allen, T. G., Donnelly, M., Hardy, A., Hayden, C. and Powell, K. 2012. A road through the past: archaeological discoveries on the A2 Pepperhill to Cobham road-scheme in Kent. Oxford: Oxford Archaeology. Arthur, P. 1986. Roman amphorae from Canterbury. Britannia 17: 239-258. Bel, V., Barberan, S. and Chardenon, N. 2009. L’enclos funéraire de la Céreirède à Lattes (Hérault): un ensemble aristocratique de la fin du IIe et du Ier s. av. J.-C. in Barral, P., Dedet, B., Delrieu, F., Giraud, F., Le Goff, I., Marion, S. and Villard-Le Tiec, A. (eds) Gestes funéraires en Gaule au Second Âge du fer: 311-325. Besançon: Presses universitaires de Franche-Comté Blockley, K., Blockley, M., Blockley, P., Frere, S. S. and Stow, S. 1995. Excavations in the Marlowe Car Park and surrounding areas, The Archaeology of Canterbury 5. Canterbury: Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Bolla, M. 1991. Les bassins: I bacili con attachi a foglia di vite. in Feugère, M. and Rolley, C. (eds) La Vaisselle

The only other possible evidence for an important burial is from Hales Place, about 1.5 km north of the city centre, where a bronze handle mount was discovered before 1975 (Hawkes 1975). Hawkes suggested a preAugustan date, but that now seems too early. It is a handle mount decorated with an incised vine-leaf pattern, clearly from a bronze bucket of Eggers’s Type 31, Type Ehestorf (1951, 162 and Taf. 5), Petrovszky’s Ehestorf Type bucket, Type XX, 1 (1993, 58-60). The type is not common (Petrovszky lists only eight examples, but was not aware of this piece), and this is the only example in Britain; nothing is known of its context but it seems most likely to have derived from a disturbed burial. Dating evidence is provided by four examples from Pompeii, and an important association with terra sigillata in a grave at Mehrum, Germany. This burial has 133

Timothy Champion tardo-républicaine en bronze: actes de la table-ronde CNRS organisée à Lattes du 26 au 28 avril 1990 par l’UPR 290 (Lattes) et le GDR 125 (Dijon): 113-120. Dijon: Université de Bourgogne, Centre de recherches sur les techniques gréco-romaines. Booth, P., Bingham, A.-M. and Lawrence, S. 2008. The Roman roadside settlement at Westhawk Farm, Ashford, Kent: excavations 1998-9. Oxford: Oxford Archaeology. Borrill, H. 1981. Casket burials. in Partridge, C. (ed.) Skeleton Green: a late Iron Age and Romano-British site: 304-321. London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Boube, C. 1991. Les cruches. In Feugère, M. and Rolley, C. (eds) La Vaisselle tardo-républicaine en bronze: actes de la table-ronde CNRS organisée à Lattes du 26 au 28 avril 1990 par l’UPR 290 (Lattes) et le GDR 125 (Dijon): 23-45. Dijon: Université de Bourgogne, Centre de recherches sur les techniques gréco-romaines. Boucher, S. and Tassinari, S. 1976. Bronzes antiques du Musée de la civilisation Gallo-Romaine à Lyon. Lyon: Boccard. Bushe-Fox, J. P. 1925. Excavations of the Late-Celtic Urnfield at Swarling, Kent, Society of Antiquaries of London Research Report 5. London: Society of Antiquaries. Crawford, M. H. 1985. Coinage and money under the Roman Republic: Italy and the Mediterranean economy. London: Methuen. Crummy, P. 2007. Stanway: an élite burial site at Camulodunum. London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Cunliffe, B. 1972. The Late Iron Age metalwork from Bulbury, Dorset. Antiquaries Journal 52: 293-308. Eggers, H. J. 1951. Die römische Import in freien Germanien. Hamburg: Hamburgisches Museum für Völkerkunde und Vorgeschichte. Eggers, H. J. 1966. Römische Bronzegefässe in Britannien. Jahrbuch der Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz: 67-164. Farley, M. 1983. A mirror burial at Dorton, Buckinghamshire. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 49: 269-302. Feugère, M. 1985. Les fibules en Gaule méridionale de la conquête à la fin du cinquième siècle après J.-C., Revue archéologique de Narbonnaise Supplément 12. Paris: Editions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique. Fitzpatrick, A. P. 1997. Archaeological excavations on the route of the A27 Westhampnett Bypass, West Sussex, 1992. Volume 2: the Late Iron Age, Romano-British and Anglo-Saxon cemeteries. Salisbury: Trust for Wessex Archaeology. Frere, S. S., Bennett, P., Rady, J. and Stow, S. 1987. Canterbury excavations: intra- and extra-mural sites 1949-55 and 1980-84, The Archaeology of Canterbury 8. Maidstone: Kent Archaeological Society for Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Gechter, M., and Kunow, J. 1983. Die frühkaiserzeitliche Grabfund von Mehrum: Ein Beitrag zur Frage von

Germanen in römischen Diensten. Bonner Jahrbuch 183: 449-468. Graue, J. 1974. Die Gräberfelder von Ornavsso: eine Studie zur Chronologie der späten Latène- und frühen Kaiserzeit, Hamburger Beiträge zur Archaeologie Beiheft 1. Hamburg: Helmut Buske. Haselgrove, C. 2006. Early potin coinage in Britain: an update. in de Jersey, P. (ed.) Celtic Coinage: New Discoveries, New Discussion, British Archaeological Reports International Series 1532: 17-28. Oxford: Archaeopress. Hattatt, R. 1985. Iron Age and Roman brooches. Oxford: Oxbow. Hattatt, R. 1987. Brooches of antiquity. Oxford: Oxbow. Hawkes, S. C. 1975. Rare bronze escutcheon from Canterbury. Kent Archaeological Review 41: 6-8. Helm, R. 2014. Outside the town: Roman industry, burial and religion at Augustine House, Rhodaus Town, Canterbury, Occasional Paper No. 10. Canterbury: Canterbury Archaeological Trust. Hill, J. D., Evans, C. and Alexander, M. 1999. The Hinxton Rings: a Late Iron Age cemetery at Hinxton, Cambridgeshire, with a reconsideration of northern Aylesford-Swarling distributions. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 65: 243-273. Holman, D. 2005. Iron Age coinage and settlement in East Kent. Britannia 36: 1-54. Holman, D. 2016. A new classification system for the Flat Linear potin coinage. British Numismatic Journal 86: 1-67. Hüssen, C.-M. 1983. A rich late La Tène burial at Hertford Heath, Hertfordshire, British Museum Occasional Paper No.44. London: British Museum. James, S. and Rigby, V. 1997. Britain and the Celtic Iron Age. London: British Museum Press. Jope, E. M. 2000. Early Celtic art in the British Isles. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lethbridge, T. C. 1953. Burial of an Iron Age warrior at Snailwell. Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiquarian Society 47: 25-37. Madsen, O. 1997. Hedegård—a rich village and cemetery complex of the Early Iron Age on the Skjern river. Journal of Danish Archaeology 13 (1): 57-93. Martin-Kilcher, S. 1998. Gräber der späten Republik und der frühen Kaiserzeit am Lago Maggiore: Tradition und Romanisierung. In Fasold, P., Fischer, T., von Hesberg, H. and Wittayer, M. (eds) Bestattungssitte und kulturelle Identität: Grabanlagen und Grabbeigaben der frühen römischen Kaiserzeit in Italien und den Nordwest-Provinzen: 191-252. Cologne: RheinlandVerlag, in Kommission bei R. Habelt, Bonn. Metzler, J., Waringo, R., Bis, R. and Metzler-Zens, N. 1991. Clemency et les tombes de l’aristocratie en Gaule Belgique, Dossiers d’Archéologie I. Luxemburg: Musée National d’Histoire et d’Art. Millett, M. 1993. A cemetery in an age of transition: King Harry Lane reconsidered. In Struck, M. (ed.) Römerzeitliche Gräber als Quellen zu Religion, 134

A rich Late Iron Age burial from Canterbury

Bevölkerungsstruktur und Sozialgeschichte: 255-282. Mainz: Institut für Vor- und Frühgeschichte der Johannes Gutenberg-Univesität Mainz. Nuber, H. U. 1972. Kanne und Griffschale. Ihr Gebrauch im täglichen Leben und die Beigabe in Gräbern der römischen Kaiserzeit. Bericht der RömischGermanischen Kommission 53: 1-232. Parfitt, K. 1995. Iron Age burials from Mill Hill, Deal. London: British Museum Press. Pernet, L. and Tori, L. 2012. Chronologie de la fin de l’âge du Fer (IIIe-Ier siècle avant J.-C.) dans les nécropoles du Tessin et du Val d’Ossola. In Barral, P. and Fichtl, S. (eds) Regards sur la chronologie de la fin de l’âge du Fer (IIIe-Ier siècle avant J.-C.) en Gaule non méditerranéenne. Actes de la table ronde tenue à Bibracte ‘ Chronologie de la fin de l’âge du Fer (IIIe-Ier siècle avant J.-C.) dans l’est de la France et les régions voisines. Glux-en-Glenne: Bibracte, Centre archéologique européen. Petrovszky, R. 1993. Studien zu römischen Bronzegefässen mit Meisterstempeln, Kölner Studien zur Archäologie der römischen Provinzen, Bd. 1. Buch am Erlbach: M.L. Leidorf. Philp, B. J. 1991. Major Iron Age site discovered near Alkham. Kent Archaeological Review 103: 5-52. Piana Agostinetti, P. 1972. Documenti per la protostoria della Val D’Ossola: San Bernardo d’Ornavasso e le altre necropoli preromane. Milan: Cisalpino-Goliardica. Piggott, S. 1971. Firedogs in Iron Age Britain and beyond.’ In Boardman, J., Brown, M. A. and Powell, T. G. E. (eds.) The European community in prehistory: studies in honour of C. F. C. Hawkes: 243-270. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Pilbrow, J. 1871. Discoveries made during excavations at Canterbury in 1868. Archaeologia 43:151-164.

Py, M. 2016. Dictionnaire des objets protohistoriques de Gaule méditerranéenne (IXe-Ier siècles avant notre ère). Lattes: L’Association pour le développement de l’archéologie en Languedoc-Roussillon. Saunders, C. 1977. The iron firedog from Welwyn, Hertfordshire, reconsidered. Hertfordshire Archaeology 5: 13-21. Siebert, G. 1975. Delos, Le quartier de Skardanha. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 99: 716-723. Smith, R. A. 1912. On Late-Celtic antiquities discovered at Welwyn, Herts. Archaeologia 63: 1-30. Smith, R. A. 1922. A guide to the antiquities of Roman Britain. London: British Museum. Stead, I. M. 1967. A La Tène III burial at Welwyn Garden City. Archaeologia 101: 1-62. Stead, I. M. 1976. The earliest burials of the Aylesford culture. In Sieveking, G. de G., Longworth, I. H. and Wilson, K. E. Problems in economic and social archaeology: 401-416. London: Duckworth. Stead, I. M. and Rigby, V. 1986. Baldock: the excavation of a Roman and pre-Roman settlement, 1968-72, Britannia Monograph 7. London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Stead, I. M., and Rigby, V. 1989. Verulamium: the King Harry Lane site, Archaeological Report 12. London: English Heritage. Tassinari, S. 1993. Il vasellame bronzeo di Pompei. Roma: ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider. Thompson, F. H. 1983. Excavations at Bigberry, near Canterbury, 1978-80. Antiquaries Journal 63: 239-278. Werner, J. 1954. Die Bronzekanne von Kelheim. Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter 20: 43-73. Whimster, R. 1981. Burial practices in Iron Age Britain: a discussion and gazetteer of the evidence c. 700 BC - AD 43, British Archaeological Reports, British Series 90. Oxford.

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Some reflections on phenomenology, structure, agency and actancy in medieval pottery studies C. G. Cumberpatch Introduction In 1997 I published an article in which I proposed a phenomenological approach to medieval pottery (Cumberpatch 1997a). Without dismissing the importance of characterisation, provenance and typological studies, I argued for the equal importance of considering the physical and material properties of pottery as a potentially significant and meaningbearing aspect of their existence. In particular I suggested that in Yorkshire it is possible to identify regularities in the colour and texture of pottery which, in the case of colour could be related to the broader field of medieval colour symbolism and in the case of texture highlighted distinctions between types of pottery used in different domestic contexts. Critiques of the approach were published by David Austin (2007) and Ben Jervis (2014). In this paper I shall address some of Jervis’ concerns while a response to Austin’s critique will be the subject of a future paper. Some readers may find it odd that I am contributing a paper based on a debate within the field of medieval pottery studies to a volume celebrating the achievements of John Collis whose academic reputation is based primarily on his work on the European Iron Age. If so, this will not be the case for those who experienced the stimulating atmosphere of the archaeology department at Sheffield University in the 1980s when a concatenation of circumstances produced a fertile atmosphere in which a wide variety of approaches to theory and data were debated at length and in depth using a range of diverse case studies. As one of John’s post-graduate students (and following the example of one of the distinguished editors of the present volume) my work should perhaps be characterised as lying within the Marxian-influenced ‘socio-economic’ school of thought (Cumberpatch 1991) although this was informed by the evident strength of the post-processualist critique of such approaches and specifically of some of the more foundationalist claims of Marxism and structural Marxism. When I began to look at medieval pottery, initially with a report on an assemblage from a site in Bawtry (Cumberpatch 1996), my approach was, to a significant extent, informed by my work on the prehistoric pottery from John’s long-running project in the Auvergne (Cumberpatch 1989) and by my experience of

research environments in the UK and central Europe. I encountered a very different environment within the the field of medieval pottery studies. At about this time I was also working with JD Hill on a paper in which we discussed approaches to the European Iron Age (Hill and Cumberpatch 1993). Following the path established by John, we argued for a perspective which was inspired more by innovative work on the British Neolithic and Bronze Age than it was by the traditional borrowings from Classical archaeology which then dominated the archaeology of Iron Age Europe (and which, regrettably, still exert a high degree of influence even today). We were particularly motivated by a strong desire to free later prehistoric archaeology from the malign hand of culture history and, in particular, from the bizarre fixation with the ethno-cultural entity known as ‘the Celts’ (Cumberpatch unpublished 1, 2). Looking at the study of medieval pottery from the perspective of a prehistorian, rather than a medievalist, I was struck by how distinct it was, as a field of research, from pottery studies in earlier periods. I was surprised at the lack of explicitly theoretical perspectives and, given my interest in the socio-economic aspects of pottery production and consumption, I felt that there was a need to bring some prehistory into medieval pottery studies, just as Hill and I had earlier argued for a more explicitly theoretical approach to the Iron Age which Hill had characterised as ‘bringing some of the Neolithic into the Iron Age’ (Hill 1989). In general terms I saw similarities between the problems that I had encountered in trying to write an account of the central European Iron Age which did not start and end with illustrations of the Celtic fairy tale and in developing an approach to medieval pottery that was not rooted wholly in studies of provenance, typology and chronology. In this I was also encouraged by the work of other colleagues in Sheffield including Hodges (1982), Moreland (1991) and Johnson (1993) which suggested that medieval archaeology was increasingly open to the insights afforded by a theoretical and specifically post-processual perspective, as developed in prehistoric archaeology. I published a number of papers arguing that studies of medieval pottery, while technically sophisticated, were theoretically constrained by a lack of original and philosophicallyinspired approaches to the archaeological data (e.g. Cumberpatch 1997b, 2000). The phenomenology paper was the first in which I took a substantial body

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Some reflections on phenomenology, structure, agency and actancy in medieval pottery studies

of data and attempted to interpret it from an explicitly theoretical perspective. The immediate inspiration for the paper was Tilley’s Phenomenology of Landscape (1994) and I am quite happy to admit that it was Tilley’s interpretation and deployment of the philosophical concept of phenomenology, rather than any close engagement on my part with the original literature (Merleau-Ponty 1962, Moran 2000) that lay behind the paper. My intention was to strike out in a different interpretative direction to that represented by what I saw as the mainstream of medieval pottery studies and to try to return pottery to the everyday, domestic context in which it was used and consumed and the essentially local context in which it was manufactured. In order to do this I felt that it was necessary to focus on those aspects of the pottery which may have been directly perceptible to the people who made and used it. Given that we have little or no idea of the extent to which individuals had relationships with potters which affected their purchasing decisions, we have, perhaps, to step back from concerns with the minutiae of fabric description and provenance studies in order to focus on the more generally perceptible aspects of the pottery and particularly those which were controlled by the potters. It was their purposeful and informed actions, I felt (and still feel) that determined the character of the pottery. Given their close cultural and spatial relationship with their customers, it was my assumption that the potter’s products would conform closely to the expectations of those customers and so, inevitably, to wider cultural perceptions of what was appropriate and acceptable in a pot or a range of pots. In pursuit of this aim, I tried to link the version of phenomenology set out by Tilley with the social theories of Pierre Bourdieu and Anthony Giddens, notably the concepts of habitus and structuration (and particularly the concept of the duality of structure and agency) which appeared broadly complementary in theoretical terms. There may have been, I suggested, a relationship between practice at the levels of the manufacture and the consumption of pottery and the enduring social structures which constituted medieval society and ensured its reproduction over a period of hundreds of years.

specificity that have characterised some approaches to the archaeology of both medieval England and the European Iron Age. This may, of course, be at odds with some strands of philosophical phenomenology, sensu stricto, but this does not, so far as I can see, de-legitimise either my intent or my practice. Phenomenology, as I conceive of it in this context, is a conceptual resource to be drawn on in order to make specific points about particular sets of data and to encourage alternative perspectives on data sets that might otherwise be overlooked or subsumed into more functionalistic or culture-historical explanations for variability and change. I seem to recognise something analogous to this in Bjornar Olsen’s description of his bricolage approach (2010: 12-14) even though Olsen draws upon very different authors to those who influenced my approach to medieval and later pottery and are now influencing my work on Iron Age pottery from northern and eastern Yorkshire (Cumberpatch 2016). Jervis: Beyond post-processualism and towards a relational archaeology? Jervis’ critique of the phenomenology paper is derived from his commitment to a relational approach to medieval pottery (2014: chapter 2) and his characterisation of my position as a specifically postprocessual and phenomenological one. His argument, as I understand it, is that the phenomenological approach is essentially post-processual in nature and as such is primarily anthropocentric in that it focuses on the human experience of, in this case, a single artefact category; pottery. Jervis, following Olsen (2010), argues that the ‘focus on human perception of the world, through the understanding and interpretation of things as symbols, provides a reflective view of the world, meaning that the more detailed a study becomes the more distanced the objects themselves become, leaving us with a modern individual’s commentary on the objects, rather than an understanding of their role in the past (Jervis 2014: 17-18). Later he situates my argument in the wider context of studies of symbolism and decoration noting that

The underlying intention behind this and later papers (Cumberpatch 2003, 2014a) was a desire to relate the phenomenological attributes of the pottery, knowingly and intentionally created by the potters, to broader issues of interpretation, continuity and social reproduction over the long term while looking not only at periods of stability but also at the crucial and often rapid periods of change which saw significant changes in the phenomenological attributes of pottery (Cumberpatch 2003). In order to achieve that (perhaps over-ambitious) aim, a broadly postprocessual approach was necessary in order to sidestep the traps of functionalism and the excessive historical

Studies of decoration have largely seen pottery as displaying a meaningful grammar or sign system in its decoration, with these designs being inherently meaningful within the social context of medieval England (2014: 33) He focusses attention on several specific aspects of the case study, noting in particular my identification of sets of binary oppositions in the colour and texture of different types of pottery and the symbolism of the bearded face (Cumberpatch 2006, Jervis 2014: 50-1). 137

C. G. Cumberpatch Such an approach, he argues, fails to establish how such categorisations were reached in the past and also fails to

primarily because of its anthropocentrism. I would argue that archaeology, by its very nature, places objects at the heart of practice because these are the primary data which we use to write our accounts of human life in the past. Such objects are the outcome of labour, the result of the work of making, through which human beings transform the world that they perceive and encounter into forms that have utility but, critically, enjoy this utility within frameworks of shared meaning which may encompass both acquiescence and resistance to existing or emerging structures of practice on a contingent, contextual and, above all, on a nuanced basis. I find it difficult to agree that a focus on human beings is a bad thing, either theoretically or practically. On the contrary, archaeology is, as I understand it, primarily the study of human beings and human societies, albeit through the medium of material culture, conceived of in its broadest sense. Studies of the nature of objects and, most significantly, the relationships between people and objects that must surely lie at the heart of any archaeological practice.

address the plurality of ways that decoration may have been understood and the various ways in which it may have affected its viewer (2014: 51) Finally, Jervis characterises approaches such as mine as anthropocentric, privileging human experience, action and understanding over the material properties of the ‘stuff ’ under discussion (2014: 1589). It is somewhat unfair to extract isolated quotations from a much longer and more detailed piece of work and to see these in context one must appreciate the theoretical position adopted by Jervis. This he describes as a relational approach which focusses on the processes through which humans and nonhumans form relationships and the effects of these relationships on the emergence of social contexts, identities or objects (2014: 17).

I would argue that it is the construction of a self-aware and self-critical archaeological practice which lies at the heart of post-processualism and that this involves the absolute necessity to theorise and to interpret in order to span the conceptual gulf between the object and the person or, more usually, the objects and the people. I should note here that in referring to ‘objects’, I do not mean solely items of material culture; excavation uncovers and identifies objects of all kinds; pits, ditches, walls, deposits etc, not to mention landscapes at various scales. The most robust interpretations emerge from those analyses which most successfully combine a wide variety of types of data within an internally coherent and consistent argument. Whether or not my efforts to achieve something along these lines in respect of the medieval pottery industry of Yorkshire were in any way satisfying or successful is, of course, a moot point and not for me to judge; a specific case study may or may not be convincing in terms of the account it gives of the situation under discussion, but I would argue that in making the attempt I was trying to move towards a position in which both the characteristic physical traits of specific items of material culture and the role of perception, as we can interpret it based on the nature of the objects, was foregrounded in a way that I felt was lacking in some of the studies of provenance and dating being undertaken at the time. This may well amount to an admission that my approach is anthropocentric but if so, is this as much of a problem as Jervis asserts? I would suggest not. My analysis does not preclude the writing of alternative, object-centred accounts of such as those proposed by Jervis and may even bring to light aspects of the pottery that might contribute to such analyses. At least one strand of post-processualism emphasises the importance of multi-vocality and while this has come to be equated with the validity attributed

Drawing on the work of Olsen (2010) and others, Jervis identifies the notion of ‘agency’ as lying at the core of his approach. Agency is not a property of an actor but the result of action. Objects or humans do not have agency, it is produced through performance and action … . Agency is therefore present in these associations as a potential energy until the actors begin to act, the network is mobilised and ‘the social’ is constructed (2014: 30-1). Using this definition ‘agency’ is not an inherent property of a self-conscious and self-aware entity, capable of acting (at least conditionally) within a social context - as one might suppose given the common meaning of the word ‘agent’ and its use by some writers (including Gell; Jervis 2014: 53). Rather it is a more diffuse and in some senses perhaps more nebulous concept which sees agency as emerging through action and involving both human and, crucially, non-human actors. It is action and the conceptualisation of ‘the social’ as a fluid and changing bundle of associations, formed and maintained through action’ (2014: 23) that characterises the approach. While I recognise the value of Jervis’ work (Cumberpatch 2014b: 59-63), I remain somewhat baffled by his contention that a post-processual approach is flawed 138

Some reflections on phenomenology, structure, agency and actancy in medieval pottery studies

to different accounts of the past given by distinct socio-cultural groups in the present it can equally apply to alternative accounts derived from the same or similar bodies of data. In focussing on the attributes of colour and texture in medieval pottery it was never my intention to create a single grand theory through which pottery production and consumption should be understood but rather to highlight one possible interpretation of a much larger body of data which drew on specific attributes and characteristics, much as an account based upon petrographic analysis draws on an explicitly geological body of data and practice without necessarily prejudicing accounts based, for example, on typology.

then a crucial methodological step in describing the agential relationships between human and non-human actors must surely involve the explicit characterisation of objects in terms of their material characteristics as it seems that, in part at least, it is these characteristics (amongst others) and the ways in which they are understood by makers and consumers which will determine their agential role and, through it, contribute to the constitution of the social. If the relationships between people and objects are fundamental to the production of agency then as archaeologists (as opposed to the participant observers who presumably contributed to Latour’s studies of relationships in laboratories and other scientific establishments), we have, by the nature of the discipline, to begin with a consideration of the material traits of the objects as a necessary precursor to attempting more sophisticated analyses and accounts of human beings and their actions in the past.

In trying to write about medieval pottery in this way, I was following what I understand to be one of the cardinal principles of the post-processualist project; the possibility of considering archaeological data from a range of perspectives, any or all of which might be useful in thinking and writing about aspects of past human societies. As I have alluded to elsewhere (Cumberpatch 2014b), an explicitly post-processual approach to a set of data is just that; the classification, codification (subsumed, for descriptive purposes within the term ‘reading’) and writing of a complex and multifacetted entity which, while sometimes referred to as ‘a text’ is in fact considerably richer and more complex than the literary texts that offered such a compelling metaphor for some post-processual theorists.

This would seem to be necessary precondition if we are to address the issue highlighted by Olsen when he writes of the need to move beyond seeing the material traces of past societies as either an epiphenomenal outcome of historical and social process or as merely an epistemological component through which these processes can be grasped (Olsen 2010: 38). It is here that I take a more materialistic line than does Jervis in that I would suggest that it is through the identification of practice and the delineation of habitus, that we can grasp (to some extent at least) aspects of the medium to long term social structures within which actions and performances take place and, as Jervis suggests (2014: 30-1), objects are produced (and, I would add, reproduced) and within which agency emerges as the result of action. In this context I would identify practice as including (but not necessarily limited to) the acquisition and use of raw materials with specific, known, physical and perceptible (phenomenological?) characteristics, their processing and eventual use in the making of pots. The acts involved in ‘the making’, structured by the prevailing habitus as well as by technical constraints, involve human beings in close relationships with both raw materials and with materials already transformed into objects replete with agential and phenomenological attributes and associations.

My arguments were not intended to be hostile to other approaches but rather to complement the dominant typological, analytical, materialistic and explicitly ‘scientific’ approaches which constitute much of the archaeology of medieval pottery. There was no sense in which I sought to criticise an approach predicated on the arguments of the Actor-Network (ANT) and actancy theorists. Indeed, such an intention would have been difficult given the date of publication of my paper, 1997, which preceded the explicit discussion of ANT, actancy and the object-centred approach in archaeology by a number of years, at least as far as I was aware at the time. The argument that it is the directly perceptible features of pottery (colour, texture, shape etc) that have a significance over and above matters of function or the constraints of manufacturing technology can be seen, I would suggest, as actually contributing to a relational or object-centred discourse by virtue of the very direct focus on the nature and characteristics of the objects that are the subject of study. If, as Jervis argues, agency is formed in the relationships between people and things and that

As an aside, it might be noted that it may even be a mistake to draw too clear a distinction between raw materials and manufactured objects; at one level at least the perception of a material (such as clay) as an entity in its own right means that it already possesses (or has been endowed with) a specific identity, distinguishing it from related classes of object (soil, manure, rock etc). Indeed, it might even be argued that the actions of potters in digging up roads and commons,

all things have the potential to produce agency, to affect a course of action’ (2014: 30) 139

C. G. Cumberpatch as documented in Staffordshire, West Yorkshire and at Verwood (McCarthy and Brooks 1988: 15) in order to win clay for potting highlights the extent to which the definition or identity of the material can be contested; on the one hand clay is one of the raw materials required for potting, on the other it is part of the make-up of a road or trackway. Recourse to an explicitly social construct, the law (constituted to a significant extent in England around the establishment and defence of property rights), which might be seen as an culturally specific actualisation of the notion of structure, was required to regulate the distinction between these two contrasting realities.

draw on the work of literary theorists in developing ideas which included the possibility of multiple interpretations (characterised as ‘readings’) of the same bodies of data (or texts) and the unseating of ‘master narratives’ through notions such as the ‘death of the author’, absent presence and the notion that literary texts and, by extension, text-like entities, may have independent existences in the minds of readers which are not reducible to a single authoritative, authorial, reading. The recognition that issues such as gender and ethnicity were significant not only in establishing the social, economic and intellectual dominance of certain perspectives on society but, by their very existence as narrative elements, also entailed the existence of subaltern readings of the same data and the formation of different interpretations, seems to have contributed to the importance of the textual metaphor as a rhetorical device in the heated debates within post-processualism and between culture history, processualism, postprocessualism and naïve empiricism.

In this sense it seems to me that rather than the relational approach supplanting post-processualism as an explanatory framework, we should understand both terms as situated and contextually specific. Postprocessualism (as the name implies) emerged in the 1980s as a direct response to the creation of processualism, itself a historically situated development, the nature of which has been discussed at length elsewhere (e.g. Gibbon 1989, Trigger 1989, Johnson 1999). The nature of the debate, constituted in many ways as a battle between the ‘big men’ of the American scientific establishment and a body of discontented British, American and European ‘young Turks’ (for example at the 1988 Sheffield TAG conference), inevitably established it as a high profile confrontation between two mutually antagonistic camps. There seems little need to seek a similar scenario in the present debate, particularly as one of the claims of post-processualism was to a position in which relativism was accorded its proper place and in which archaeological data could be employed in a variety of ways and were susceptible to different forms of analysis. The adoption of the textual metaphor was one aspect of this, and it is the notion of ‘archaeology as text’ that we must consider next.

In my understanding however, the textual metaphor, while a powerful one, was never intended to be (and, in fact, never was) itself a master narrative as implied by Jervis and certainly never had the direct relationship with the notion of habitus that he suggests. Rather, it was more of a device, heuristic possibly, which allowed the possibility of multiple interpretations, multiple narratives, to be proposed, evaluated and transformed through the famous hermeutic spiral (or, to be more geometrically accurate, the hermeneutic helix) as part of the ongoing process of interpretation and reinterpretation that constitutes archaeological reasoning and which served as the basis for interpretation and presentation. In short, post-processualism was never a unitary phenomenon and always encompassed a range of approaches to archaeology and archaeological data (Johnson 1999: 101). Indeed, in the preface to Reading Material Culture, Chris Tilley commented that the intention of the book was

Metaphor wars; Archaeology as text A central element in Jervis’ critique is the understanding of archaeological data as text which he appears to consider as a defining trait of post-processualist approaches, even stating at one point that

‘to stimulate debate, not to forge a spurious consensus’ (1991: ix)

The adoption of the metaphor of material culture as text has ultimately led to the adoption of the notion of habitus in the analysis of medieval material culture … and has meant that material culture has come to be viewed as symbol with contextual meaning to be unravelled (2014: 158; my emphasis)

It might even be possible to go so far as to suggest that post-processualism achieved unity only in its opposition to the reductionism of hard-line processualist thought and the lurking spectre of fascism which dogs culture history. Debate within post-processualism, at least during the 1980s and early 1990s, was both vigorous and at times intense. Some strands of thought, including my own, were strongly influenced by Bourdieu’s ethnography (with habitus the key concept) and Giddens’ investigations of 19th century social thought (1979, 1984), while others looked more towards Ricoeur, Derrida and French literary and

The textual analogy was certainly an important element in the development of the post-processualist critique of archaeological theory and practice and it has been enshrined in a number of key texts (Tilley 1991). Its particular value was that it allowed archaeologists to 140

Some reflections on phenomenology, structure, agency and actancy in medieval pottery studies

social theorists. Although others may disagree, from my perspective those of us working within the socioeconomic paradigm, derived from an interest in the social dimensions of production and distribution and influenced by Marx, Althusser and the 19th century political economists (see, for example, Gosden 1983, Cumberpatch 1991, Wickstead 2008) were perhaps more influenced by Bourdieu and Giddens and their practice-orientated thinking than we were by those who found the literary theorists more stimulating. It was perhaps the archaeologists and anthropologists who understood the latter who were particularly concerned with text and the textual metaphor and I am profoundly sceptical of Jervis’ claim that this concern ‘led to’ the adoption of habitus as a key concept in archaeological interpretation. I would suggest that it was the impact of ethnography on archaeology that resulted in the exploration of the potential of habitus to inform interpretation and explanation rather than a simple progression from text to habitus.

passion of the moment may easily be lost, particularly when viewed from a chronological distance. Given the seemingly authoritative nature of culture history and processualism and particularly the authoritarian rhetoric employed by Lewis Binford and other processualists (well captured in the cartoon included as the frontispiece to one of the early collections of self-consciously ‘post-processual’ essays which showed Lewis Binford as the archetypal hospital consultant administering a foundationalist ‘cure’ to Ian Hodder, the post-processualist patient) it became almost an article of faith amongst self-identified post-processualists that post-processual interpretation should be open to critique even while they (we) sought to employ categories of internal consistency and coherence in order to establish convincing, if necessarily partial and contingent, accounts of particular sets of archaeological data. In this discussion I have sought to subvert Jervis’ characterisation of my position as ‘post-processual’ as opposed to his own ‘relational’ standpoint, not because I have any problem with being considered to be ‘a postprocessualist’ but rather because, having lived and worked through the emergence of post-processualism as the dominant paradigm in archaeology, I am committed to seeing it develop as a theoretical standpoint that offers a productive and comprehensible way of dealing with the creation of specifically ‘archaeological’ data and the writing of the archaeological record. The ‘post-processual’ turn was the outcome of a set of political and intellectual circumstances that can never, by virtue of their circumstantial nature, be repeated. It represented a turning point in archaeological reasoning and in the way that we conceive of our relationships not only with the past and the present, but also with archaeological data and archaeological writing. I remain to be convinced that the ‘relational’ turn represents a comparable change in thinking.

The use of the textual metaphor might be better seen as an intentionally provocative response to the authoritarian inclinations of processualism and as a call to examine the nature of the ‘archaeological record’, identified as a problematic construction, afresh (Patrik 1985, Lucas 2012). Amongst some, it was the nature of ‘text’ itself which was the issue with techniques such as deconstruction being discussed as a way of decentering and deconstructing apparently authoritative ‘readings’ of archaeological data, although others such as Silverman actually spent some time questioning the utility of the textual metaphor in relation to material culture, noting that The text has no unity and no essential meaning. Different readers see different texts and derive different meanings. Difference and plurality, not a unified single meaning, inhere in the text (Silverman 1991: 152)

Bibliography

In this respect, Jervis’ reading of the post-processual project seems to over-emphasise both the importance of the textual metaphor and the more general authoritarian character of post-processualism as a whole. In my own recollection, the establishment of a unitary postprocessual paradigm was never the intention or the case for those working within the emerging post-processualist tradition, although it has to be acknowledged that the combative and confrontational nature of some of the discussions, both in print and at conferences, may have given onlookers a contrary perception. When profoundly held and equally profoundly incompatible ideas are being discussed, tempers may be lost and overassertive statements may be made, while arguments may be framed in terms which are deliberately designed to provoke a reaction. In retrospect the element of robust ‘knockabout’ conflict and even humour, arising from the

Austin, D. 2007. Examining the fragments 1: pot and clay In: Austin, D. (ed.) Acts of perception: A study of Barnard Castle in Teesdale English Heritage / The Architectural and Archaeological Society of Durham and Northumberland Research report 6, 345-503. Cumberpatch, C. G. 1989. The reconstruction of prehistoric pottery production: an example from central France. Archeologia Polski 34 (1), 179-198. Cumberpatch, C. G. 1991. Social and economic dimensions of late Iron Age pottery production and exchange in Central Europe Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Sheffield. Cumberpatch, C. G. 1996. The pottery. In: Dunkley, J. A. and Cumberpatch, C. G. (eds) Excavations at 16 - 20 Church Street, Bawtry, South Yorkshire. Tempus Reparatum / British Archaeological Reports, British Series 248. 141

C. G. Cumberpatch Cumberpatch, C. G. 1997a. Towards a phenomenological approach to the study of medieval pottery. In: Cumberpatch, C. G. and Blinkhorn, P. W. (eds) Not so much a pot, more a way of life. Oxbow Monograph 83. Oxbow Books. Cumberpatch, C. G. 1997b. The concepts of economy and habitus in the study of later Medieval ceramic assemblages. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 14: 2. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2000. Philosophical and theoretical approaches to medieval pottery. Unpublished conference paper Medieval Pottery Research Group March 29, 2000. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2003. The transformation of tradition; the origins of the post-medieval ceramic tradition in Yorkshire. Assemblage 7 http://www. shef.ac.uk/assem/issue7/cumberpatch.html. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2006. Face to face with medieval pottery: Some observations on medieval anthropomorphic pottery in north-east England Assemblage 9 http://www.assemblage.group.shef. ac.uk/issue9/cumberpatch.html. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2014a Tradition and Change: the production and consumption of early modern pottery in South and West Yorkshire In: Cumberpatch, C. G. and Blinkhorn, P. W. (eds) The Chiming of Crack’d Bells: current approaches to artefacts in archaeology: 73-97. British Archaeological Reports International Series 2677, Archaeopress. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2014b. Review of Pottery and social life in medieval England (Ben Jervis) Medieval Ceramics 35, 59-63. Cumberpatch, C. G. 2016. Later prehistoric hand-made pottery In: Glover, G., Flintoft, P. and Moore, R. (eds.) ‘A mersshy contree called Holdernesse’ Excavations on the route of a National Grid pipeline in Holderness, East Yorkshire Archaeopress Publishing Ltd, 103-166. Cumberpatch, C. G. Unpublished 1. ‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’ Iron Age archaeology and the Classical World. Unpublished seminar paper, February 1989, Department of Archaeology and Prehistory, University of Sheffield. Cumberpatch, C. G. Unpublished 2. Daphne Nash’s conception of ‘Celtic’ society – some implications of the evidence from Central Europe. Unpublished seminar paper Iron Age seminar, University of Edinburgh.

Gibbon, G. 1989. Explanation in archaeology Blackwell. Giddens, A. 1979. Central problems in social theory Macmillan. Giddens, A. 1984. The constitution of society Polity Press Gosden, C. 1983. Iron Age pottery trade in central Europe Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Sheffield. Hill, J.D. 1989. Rethinking the Iron Age Scottish Archaeological Review 6, 16-23. Hill, J. D. and Cumberpatch C. G. 1993. Volviendo a pensar la Edad del Hierro, Trabajos de Prehistoria 50, 127-137. Hodges, R. 1982. Dark Age Economics: the origins of towns and trade AD600 – 1000, Duckworth. Jervis, B. 2014. Pottery and social life in medieval England, Oxbow Books. Johnson, M. 1993. Housing culture: Traditional architecture in an English landscape, UCL Press. Johnson, M. 1999. Archaeological theory: an introduction, Blackwell. Lucas, G. 2012. Understanding the archaeological record, Cambridge University Press. McCarthy, M. and Brooks, C. 1988, Medieval pottery in Britain, AD 900 – 1600, Leicester University Press. Merleau-Ponty, M. 1962. Phenomenology of perception, Routledge and Kegan Paul. Moran, D. 2000. Introduction to Phenomenology, Routledge Moreland, J. 1991. Method and theory in medieval archaeology in the 1990s, Archeologia Medievale 18, 7-42. Olsen, B. 2010. In defense of things: archaeology and the ontology of objects, AltaMira Press. Patrik, L. 1985. Is there an archaeological record?, Advances in Method and Theory 8, 27-62. Silverman, E. 1991. Clifford Geertz: Towards a more ‘thick’ understanding?, In Tilley, C. (ed.) Reading material culture: 121-162. Blackwell. Tilley, C. 1991, Reading material culture, Blackwell. Tilley, C. 1994, A phenomenology of landscape, Berg. Trigger, B. 1989. A history of archaeological thought, Cambridge University Press. Wickstead, H. 2008. Theorising tenure: Land division and identity in later prehistoric Dartmoor, south-west Britain, British Archaeological Reports, British series 465, Archaeopress.

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‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath (- Mary Chandler 1733: The Description of Bath)

Lisa Brown Bathampton Down (ST 77456502), a large limestone plateau forming a detached southern outlier of the Cotswold Hills, dominates the north-eastern fringe of the modern city of Bath and provides impressive views across the city and its ‘green setting’ (UNESCO CONF 005 VII.A). The aspect from the north side of the Down draws the eye to the Iron Age hillfort of Little Solsbury Hill, situated some three kilometres across Bathampton Meadows and the River Avon. The southern part of Bathampton Down merges with Claverton Down, where disused quarries are visible reminders of extensive extraction of Bath stone from the Roman era until the 19th century (Willies et al. 2011), an enterprise now reflected in the impressive Roman and Georgian architectural heritage of the city of Bath. It is perhaps surprising that there has been little formal archaeological investigation of prehistoric activity on the Down, considering its topographically prominent position, and the generally astute, prosperous, and often leisured condition of some residents of the Georgian and later city of Bath. In prehistoric times, as now, Bathampton Down was a topographically conspicuous focal point, but the prehistoric ‘Bathampton Camp’ has attracted relatively scant attention (Figure 1). The earthworks can be described as unimpressive in comparison to some contemporary monuments, but the scale of the enclosed space is remarkable and begs the question as to motivation and intent of the prehistoric builders in undertaking the considerable task of its construction. This paper presents a collation of the later prehistoric evidence from Bathampton Down, drawing on the previous work of members of the Bath and Counties Archaeological Society (BACAS), notably retired Bath physician, Dr Rod Thomas (2008), and especially to highlight the results of their recent geophysical survey, small-scale excavation, and artefact analysis. The new findings encourage us to speculate as to how the prehistoric population of this locality regarded and exploited the compelling setting, and to consider what contemporary associations may have existed with the wider visible landscape, including the neighbouring Little Solsbury Hill.

Archaeological background Evidence of human activity from the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods on Bathampton Down lies in public and private assemblages of lithics collected from superficial scatters by antiquarians and archaeologists over some two hundred years. The prolific antiquarian, John Skinner, and later amateur archaeologists, JPE Falconer (1935; 1937 – 47) and AE Shore, recorded earlier prehistoric activity on the site, and the excavations of several round barrows during the early 20th century by Gerald Grey and Thomas Bush were published at the time (Grey 1904; 1905). Seven early Bronze Age barrows are listed in the Sites and Monuments record, and these and several others were inspected and recorded by Leslie Grinsell (1971) during the 1950s. Additional barrows have been identified more recently by Bath archaeologist Marek Lewcun, bringing the current total to at least a dozen (pers. comm.; Thomas 2008, 21, 30). Most of the barrows have been damaged or destroyed by antiquarian excavation, quarrying, agricultural activity, and modern development. Crawford and Keiller (1928) identified ‘Bathampton Camp’ from the air, describing it as ‘one of the most interesting sites photographed’. It is now a Scheduled Monument (SAM 1002480). The site has not been included in the recently published Atlas of Hillforts of Britain and Ireland (Lock and Ralston 2017) for reasons discussed later, and is generally described as a ‘hilltop enclosure’ in recent publications. During a visit to the site in April 2018 by members of the Hillfort Study Group, a divergence of opinion emerged, strongly argued on both sides, as to whether it should be classified as a hillfort. In this paper, the site will be referred to as a hillfort, partly for the sake of brevity, but also to accommodate the possibility of future reclassification. The univallate hillfort has been the subject of only minor archaeological investigation. Pottery and animal bone were recovered from small trenches dug by into the ditch at its southwestern corner in the early 20th century by Thomas Bush, whose intention was to investigate the Wansdyke at this location. Winwood published the findings in a local journal (1905), but

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 143–154

Lisa Brown

Figure 1. Plan of Bathampton Down

investigated across southern England, a middle or late Bronze Age origin would be most likely, with modification and/or abandonment at the beginning of the Iron Age, a period when elsewhere smaller field systems were reconfigured as larger entities - linear earthworks sometimes referred to as ‘ranch boundaries’.

the nature and significance of the findings were not understood at the time, and the finds now appear to be lost (Thomas 2008, 48). In 1965 Geoffrey Wainwright (1967, 42 – 59) excavated three small trenches across the southern rampart and ditch under rescue conditions in advance of construction of the Bath University of Technology, now the University of Bath. He recorded structural elements of the earthworks and described evidence of pre-rampart activity on the berm between the rampart and ditch. Wainwright dated pottery sherds found ‘partially on the berm… and partially under the rampart on the same layer’ to the late Bronze Age or early Iron Age date. Wainwright concluded that the monument was probably a stock enclosure, based on the rampart morphology, the large scale of the enclosed space, an absence of observed or recorded internal structures, and the ceramic evidence. He failed to identify an entrance to the hillfort, as did a geophysical survey during the 1980s (Isles 1982).

Others believe that the field systems are Iron Age and later, based on general morphology and on relationships observed by Wainwright and others. During his 1965 excavation Wainwright sought to demonstrate the relationship between the fields and the hillfort, and found that some field banks overlay the enclosure ditch. At one location, in fact, a bank was constructed upon an 18th century cobbled track that overlay the enclosure ditch. An archaeological watching brief undertaken by Bath Archaeological Trust in the late 1980s during development works at the Bath Golf Club demonstrated that at least one of the field banks consisted of collapsed drystone walling, but there were no stratigraphic relationships observed, and no associated dating evidence (pers. comm. Peter Davenport). In their final form, the field systems were not confined to the higher ground of Bathampton and Claverton Down, but extended down into the Avon valley, on both sides of the river. Rescue excavations carried out in advance of the construction of the Batheaston Bypass in 1994 strongly suggested that the fields visible across Bathampton Down can be traced across the floodplain, where they may be associated with Iron Age enclosures and roundhouses (Davenport 1995; forthcoming). In short, the inception date of the field systems remains open to debate. Unfortunately, a comparison of the original aerial photographs of the Bathampton fields with more recent versions shows

A dense network of prehistoric field systems, dramatically highlighted by Crawford and Keiller’s (1928) aerial photographic surveys, bears witness to prehistoric agrarian exploitation of the Down. Crawford believed that the hillfort earthworks post-dated the field boundaries, based on his observation that the rampart cut across some field banks. A possible Bronze Age origin for the land divisions has also been supported by Thomas (2008, 40) and Bob Whittaker (2000), who have inspected them on the ground. The field systems are also described as Bronze Age by Bradley (2007), albeit probably as an assumption based on the published literature rather than field inspection. If the development of the field boundaries conforms to that of similar land divisions 144

‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath

continuing damage inflicted on these earthworks by development and leisure activities on the Down.

have originally embraced a sub-rectangular area of approximately 32 hectares. This is an immense expanse even by the standards of similar sites of the same date, so the construction undoubtedly demanded resolute motivation and concerted effort. The original function of the enclosure, however, and the catalyst for enclosing this hilltop, remain contentious.

Evidence of prehistoric activity has been documented elsewhere on the plateau, and in the immediate vicinity. In 1949 JRT Colley, the owner of a house called ‘Nutley’, which lies on the west side of the Down about 600m below the rampart (Figure 1), found sherds of pottery while digging his garden. He then dug a small trench and collected more pottery, which he sent to the British Museum for identification. Wainwright included Colley’s pottery in his excavation report (1967, 48, fig. 5, nos 7 - 13), using this well-preserved material to establish affinities with his fragmentary collection from pre-rampart deposits, and to conclude that it was of early Iron Age date. Some of the Nutley assemblage was republished by Cunliffe (2005, 99 – 100, fig. A:9, nos 12 – 16), who classed it as a ‘Somerset variant’ of his ‘All Canning’s Cross-Meon Hill’ style, dated to c 600-400/300 BC. Radiocarbon and artefact evidence from recently recovered assemblages of similar pottery could push the dating of this ceramic tradition back several centuries to the tenth – mid-sixth centuries BC in the Wiltshire region (Lawson 2000), with a very recent revision to an end date of mid-to-late fifth century cal BC based on a programme of Bayesian dating (Waddington et al. 2018).

The compilers of the Hillfort Atlas decided that the ‘Bathampton Camp’ univallate enclosure does not fulfil the agreed criteria for inclusion, and the monument has been referred to as a ‘hilltop enclosure’ in most recent references. However, the site has a long history of ambiguous nomenclature, which reflects some irresolution as to where it should reside in a glossary of archaeological monuments. Thomas (2008, 43) points out that it was originally labelled a ‘Camp’ by the Ordnance Survey, and subsequently redefined on various OS editions as ‘Fort’ in 1974, then as ‘Enclosure’ in 2005, and then even more confusingly labelled ‘Bathampton Camp Enclosure’ in 2007. Thomas also alludes to the apparent indifference to the significance (or even existence) of the ancient monument on the part of locals, the tourist trade, and those who hike and golf on this large tract of altered ancient landscape. An informal poll of a random sample of inhabitants of Bath and the surrounding villages confirms a puzzling lack of awareness of this legally protected monument which commands such a prominent position in the locality.

Pottery resembling the Colley material had been recovered in 1821 by the antiquarian Skinner at the same location during his investigations of earthworks on the Down (Skinner MS 33669, 201). This site now lies in woodland owned by the National Trust, and similar pottery was collected by members of BACAS during their trial excavation and geophysical survey of the site (Thomas, Oswin and Brown 2011, 204 – 7, 2012). The pottery was not found in the excavated trench, but rather collected from the spoil of a large badger sett in the woodland nearby. It is described and illustrated below.

What is known about the enclosure relies on series of investigations of very limited scope. Wainwright’s 1965 excavation revealed details of the rampart structure and ditch fill in three small trenches, and produced evidence of pre-enclosure settlement activity within a buried soil preserved on the berm and below the rampart (Wainwright 1967, 46 – 49). He postulated that the enclosure was constructed during the early Iron Age as a stockade.

Little Solsbury Hill, also currently under the ownership of the National Trust, lies a short distance across the River Avon from Bathampton Down. A programme of geophysical survey recently undertaken by BACAS (Oswin and Buettner 2012) produced evidence of intensive Iron Age occupation of the hilltop. Based on size and position, at least one of the features highlighted in the survey may be a Bronze Age barrow ditch. The proximity and intervisibility of the two hills provokes questions about the relationship between the two sites during prehistory. ‘Bathampton Camp’ - hillfort or hilltop enclosure?

Apart from Bush’s diggings into the ditch (Winwood 1905), the only other notable examination of the earthworks was Isles’ (1982) geophysical survey, which failed to locate an entrance, as did Wainwright. However, the existence of an entrance somewhere along the circuit, and probably on the western side, can be assumed. The apparent absence of internal features cannot necessarily be regarded as conclusive, since no excavation or geophysical work has been carried out to test this. A mid-nineteenth century observation of ‘hut circles’ within the enclosure (Scarth 1857) could be significant, although no visible traces remain.

The plateau on which the Bathampton Down enclosure was constructed rises to 204m above sea level, and the enclosed area now measures approximately 650m east - west by 500m north – south, much of the eastern side lost to 18th century quarrying. The earthworks would

In three cuttings measuring 2.5m wide across the southern stretch of the earthworks, Wainwright found the base of the rampart to be just under 3m wide, extant to a height of only 0.76m high (Wainwright 1967, 49 – 50). A revetment of large limestone slabs survives 145

Lisa Brown at both the front and back of the structure, the space between infilled with stone rubble and clay. No trace of timbers was found, but they may have been removed by modern disturbance, had they existed. The slightly battered front face of the rampart, and its relatively slight width, suggested to Wainwright that it could not have stood very high. The ditch was 5.5m wide, about 1.8m deep, steep-sided with a flat base (Ibid., 50). Notably, the basal fill of the ditch in the westernmost trench (R3) produced a large deposit of animal bone (Wainwright 1965, 51, 53). No dating evidence was found within the rampart or ditch sequences, but on the pre-rampart ‘old land surface’ exposed on the berm Wainwright found postholes, charcoal rich soil, and a small collection of highly fragmented sherds.

and Curwen, 1926; Curwen 1954), which produced large deposits of animal bone, and suggests that Ram’s Hill in Berkshire (Bradley and Ellison 1975), Highdown Hill (Wilson 1940) and Harting Beacon in Sussex (Bedwin 1983), Norton Fitzwarren in Somerset (Langmaid 1971), and Bathampton Down as could have served similar functions. Some hilltop enclosures eventually developed as hillforts, others were abandoned during the early and middle Iron Age. The distinction between ‘hillforts’ and ‘‘hilltop enclosures’ is a fairly recent archaeological convention, and remains somewhat muddled, and so the debate will undoubtedly continue. Recent work

The apparent lack of evidence of activity within the enclosure could argue for classification as a hilltop enclosure, but is inconclusive, since no excavation or geophysical work has been carried out to test this. Moreover, some sites accepted as hillforts are also devoid of internal features. Since the foundation of the Bath Golf Club in 1880 access to the interior of the enclosure has been restricted, and it is likely that landscaping to create the golf course could have destroyed or masked remains of previous human activity, including Scarth’s putative ‘hut circles’.

New archaeological evidence about the prehistory of Bathampton Down and Little Solsbury Hill has emerged during the past decade, largely through the efforts of BACAS, with the support of the National Trust. An earthworks and geophysical survey of parts of the Down is described in an unpublished dissertation by Rob Whitaker (2000), and Rod Thomas published a comprehensive summary of the then existing evidence in 2008 (Thomas 2008). BACAS members undertook fieldwalking, trial excavations, and geophysical survey in 2008 and 2010 on land close to the Nutley property, where Colley recovered pottery from his garden (Thomas et al. 2011; 2012). This part of the Down is now under woodland owned by the National Trust, and these recent investigations have shown a continuing threat of damage caused by badgers (Ibid., 204). Thomas recovered pottery from badger spoil during the 2010 survey work, and this small assemblage was described in a short report on the excavation and survey results (Thomas et al. 2011, 206 – 7). This pottery and additional fragments recovered in 2013 are described and illustrated below.

Regarding the classification of the enclosure, the surviving earthworks are badly eroded, arguably unimpressive, and poorly dated. Nonetheless, Graeme Guilbert (pers. comm.) argues that they are of a scale reasonably in keeping with some recognised hillforts elsewhere. The enclosure embraces a hilltop of considerable extent that overlooks the surrounding landscape, and so he believes that the monument does satisfy the Atlas criteria. Guilbert and others argue that the modest scale of the earthworks and the unusually large enclosed space, which might preclude a defensive function, should not necessarily be sufficient to exclude a site from hillfort status. This argument is perhaps especially pertinent in the context of recent reasoning that defence was a secondary motive, or no motive at all, in the conception and construction of ramparts and ditches on prominent settings.

With an archaeological research agreement obtained from the National Trust, the BACAS team carried out a trial excavation in 2008 on the presumed site of Colley’s trench (Figure 1). Three small test pits produced no prehistoric finds or features (Ibid., 205). However, the recovery of large fresh sherds of pottery amongst dark earth from badger spoil some 50m from the test pits prompted the team to seek permission to undertake a geophysical survey at this location. The National Trust cleared a terraced area 75m by 20m, and in 2010 a twinprobe resistance and magnetometer survey was carried out. The resistance survey results appear to show stone wall tumble, retaining wall footings, and a possible rectangular structure. The magnetometry results show a group of features resembling postholes or pits that form a rectangular pattern extending across the terrace, on a similar alignment to the rectangular structure (Thomas et al. 2011, 206). It was not possible

On the other hand, Ian Brown of the Hillforts Atlas Project feels that the site better fits the currently accepted criteria for hilltop enclosures (pers. comm.; 2009, 29). These sites feature earthworks defining large areas of pastoral upland, probably designed for the management of livestock, and were possibly the settings for large communal gatherings that involved feasting. These sites emerged during the late Bronze Age and early Iron Age in southern England, but may have an ancestry in Neolithic causewayed enclosures, and affinities with cross-dyke systems and plateau enclosures. Brown cites Harrow Hill in Sussex (Curwen, 146

‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath

to accurately determine the dimensions of the pit/ posthole features but the investigators conjectured that they may have belonged to roundhouses. The dark soil and large potsherds found nearby indicate the disturbance of primary occupation deposits which could be the fills of substantial features such as pits, but are more suggestive of a midden deposit (Ibid., 207).

ceramic affinities for these ‘nondescript’ sherds with pottery from the pre-rampart phase at Chalbury, Dorset, dated there to the late Bronze Age (Whitley, 1943, fig. 3), but says that they could be very early Iron Age (Wainwright 1967, 53). An assemblage of 173 sherds of pottery weighing 4,652g was collected from badger spoil by BACAS members in 2010 and 2013 (Figures 2 and 3). An average sherd weight of almost 30g for the group is relatively high for a later prehistoric settlement, even if the pottery derived from fills of pits or other large features. The pottery is in very good condition, with fresh breaks and uneroded surfaces suggesting breakage just prior to deposition.

Little Solsbury Hill has also benefited from recent local investigations. In 2012 a BACAS team carried out a comprehensive programme of geophysical survey of the site (Oswin and Buettner 2012; Current Archaeology 2014). The survey produced evidence of intensive occupation across the hilltop in the form of penannular gullies of an appropriate size to represent Iron Age circular structures. Although the survey cannot alone demonstrate the chronological span represented, nor the intensity of settlement activity at any given point, the location was obviously extensively exploited during the later prehistoric period.

The combined Bathampton Down pottery assemblage, including the Colley collection, corresponds stylistically to the late Bronze Age – early Iron Age post-DeverelRimbury (PDR) decorated ware tradition, commonly referred to as All Cannings Cross wares, named for the type site in Wiltshire (Cunnington 1923). It includes a range of large shouldered and carinated jars, bipartite and tripartite bowls, and conical and biconical bowls and cups. The shouldered jars can be decorated with fingertip/nail impressions and the carinated jars embellished with incised geometric patterns, which are sometimes filled with white inlay made from chalk slurry or crushed calcined bone. Some of the bowls are enhanced with furrows, and the surfaces of fineware jars and bowls may be highly burnished or red-finished to produce a lustrous surface, probably intended to evoke the metallic sheen of bronze vessels. Notably, amongst the sherds recovered by Skinner from a dark soil deposit that corresponds to Colley’s trench and the BACAS survey site, there are sherds decorated with a ‘zigzag’ pattern (Skinner MS33669).

The Solsbury Hill survey results confirmed the evidence from a site visit by Sir John Evans (1866), who reported finding Iron Age pottery, and from inspections of the exposures of opportunistic quarrying and erosion by Collins and Cantrell (1909), who illustrated sherds they found in rampart deposits. Falconer and Adams (1935, 183-221) found similar pottery, along with other artefacts, when they visited the location of Collins and Cantrill’s discoveries. In the mid-1950s Dowden (1957; 1962) carried out smalltrench excavations at the northwest corner of the hillfort, and found considerable quantities of early and middle Iron Age pottery, a large group of metalwork, some worked bone, animal bone and a human mandible. There is strong local interest in Solsbury Hill, and local resident, Nick Cooper, has brought to the attention of this writer sherds of Iron Age pottery eroded from surface exposures. These are also described below.

This decorated tradition is now generally understood to span the late ninth to the mid-sixth centuries BC, but a recently published paper reporting the results of a dating programme for East Chisenbury, Wiltshire, brings the end of the sequence forward by a century or so, to the mid to late fifth century cal BC (Waddington et al. 2018).

Pottery from Bathampton Down and Little Solsbury Hill Bathampton Down (Figures 2 and 3)

Obviously the Bathampton Down pottery is unstratified, so it is impossible to do more than describe the forms and cite parallels from stratified site sequences that produced similar material, for example Potterne (Gingell and Morris 2000, 149 – 157). The Bathampton Down range includes shouldered coarseware jars, carinated jars, globular or rounded jars (one with a handle), carinated and hemispherical cups, biconical bowls, and tripartite or long-necked bowls, some of them furrowed. The shoulders of some of the coarseware jars are embellished with fingernail-impressions. Examples of both jars and bowls are decorated with incised linear devices, mostly based on chevron patterns. One jar

Wainwright’s pre-rampart pottery assemblage is highly fragmented, with few diagnostic features, and the four published rim sherds from the berm collection may be incorrectly illustrated since he describes them as of ‘upright’ form, but they are shown as inturning (Wainwright 1967, fig. 5, nos 1 – 4). Admittedly, the small sherd size meant the angles were difficult to determine. Further inspection by this writer of the pottery, now in the collections of The Roman Baths Museum, indicates that the rim sherds were inaccurately illustrated as inturning, and that the written descriptions, rather than the illustrations, are accurate. Wainwright cites 147

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is accentuated with impressed circles (Figure 3, no. 28) and there is a single example of white inlay, on a burnished body sherd belonging to a large jar.

by BACAS had snapped at a crucial point, so it was not possible to determine its original form. The only complete profile, found in badger spoil in 2013, is a highly burnished carinated cup with a long profile (Figure 3, no. 17) which closely resembles a form from Potterne (Type 82), dated there to the seventh – sixth century BC. Continuing a comparison to the Potterne assemblage (Gingell and Morris 2000, 149 – 157; figs 47 – 62), a simple hemispherical cup and a cup with a more developed rim (Figure 2, no. 15 and Figure 3, no. 24) correspond to Types 80 and 86, dated to the

At Potterne biconical furrowed bowls are more common in the lower part of the sequence, and long-necked bowls dominate the upper layers (Morris 2000, 161). The furrowed bowls from the Colley assemblage are longnecked (Wainwright 1965, fig.5, nos 3 and 10) and so the Bathampton Down pottery may belong to the later part of the furrowed bowl tradition. Unfortunately, the rim of the single example of a furrowed bowl recovered 149

Lisa Brown eighth – seventh and seventh century BC respectively. A biconical bowl decorated with incised chevrons (Figure 2., no. 1) resembles Type 1 vessels, dated very broadly from the tenth – sixth centuries BC. A distinctive globular lugged jar decorated with impressed circles (Figure 3, no. 28) compares to Type 20, dated to the eighth – sixth centuries BC, and a carinated jar (Figure 2, no. 10) is a close match to Type 51 (Ibid., fig. 58, no. 89), also eighth – sixth centuries BC.

(Raymond 2010), and are mentioned in a report of a recent evaluation at this site (Wessex Archaeology 2017, 12). A large collection of pottery recently recovered by Operation Nightingale from badger spoil at the midden, examined by this writer, also includes a sizeable shell/ limestone component. It is therefore possible that some of the Bathampton Down pottery originates from the same shell and limestone source/s as the Pewsey Vale midden assemblages, an issue that can be resolved by a combination of systematic macroscopic examination, petrography, and geochemical analysis.

Taken together the affinities for the most distinctive of the Bathampton vessels suggest a date somewhere between the seventh and sixth centuries BC, or, on the recently obtained radiocarbon results from East Chisenbury, as late as the mid-to-late fifth century BC. Cunliffe republished some of the Nutley sherds illustrated by Wainwright, referring to the assemblage as a ‘Somerset variant’ of his ‘All Cannings Cross – Meon Hill group’, to which he assigned a date span of fifth – third centuries BC (2005, 99, fig. A:9, 14 – 16). If the Bathampton Down pottery does in fact represent a Somerset variant of the All Cannings Cross tradition, the chronology of this variant tradition is poorly understood, and so entirely unsettled.

Little Solsbury Hill The pottery from Solsbury Hill published by Evans (1866), Collins and Cantrell (1909), and Falconer and Adams (1935) suggests that activity on the site dates from some point in the early Iron Age. Occupation of the hillfort certainly extended into the middle Iron Age, based on the presence of South Western Decorated Wares (‘Glastonbury Ware’) (Dowden 1957, 25; 1962, fig. 40, no. 533). This material from historic collections has not been recently re-examined, but some of the earliest pottery may be contemporary with the Bathampton Down material. The published pottery includes fingerimpressed coarseware vessels and red-finished bowls, which can, of course, date to later phases of the early Iron Age, perhaps as late as the fifth – fourth century BC. Red-finished bowls are absent at Bathampton Down, but a distinctive rim with a perforated protrusion has parallels at All Cannings Cross (Cunnington 1923, pl. 37,1), and one of Dowden’s finds may be a fragment of a furrowed bowl (Dowden 1962, fig. 40, no. 466). Collins and Cantrell (1905, fig. 8) illustrate sherds with geometric decoration and impressed dots which correspond to decorated All Cannings Cross types from Bathampton Down. Sherds collected in recent years from superficial exposures on the hillfort by local resident, Nick Cooper, are mostly undecorated body fragments in fabrics that match descriptions of Dowden’s and Collin’s material. These correlations are mere hints of possible contemporaneous activity at Solsbury Hill and Bathampton Down during the late Bronze Age – early Iron Age transition, which can be resolved only through programmes of scientific dating and a re-examination of as much of the pottery from both sites as can be located.

The fabrics in the Bathampton Down collection almost invariably contain inclusions of fossiliferous limestone rock and/or platey fossil shell, with oolites and bryzoa visible in some examples. Some of the inclusions are doubtless natural components of clays formed close to weathering outcrops of Jurassic limestone, but in other cases crushed pieces of rock may have been deliberately added to clays procured close to Jurassic outcrops. These fabric varieties correspond to 65% of the pottery from Wainwright’s fragmented berm assemblage (Wainwright 1967, 48), the remainder of his sherds containing material described only as ‘grits’. Wainwright described the stylistic features of the pottery from Colley’s Nutley collection, now housed in the Castle Museum, Taunton, but did not mention the fabrics, stating only that the Bathampton Down material is paralleled at Solsbury Hill, Ham Hill, Cadbury Camp, Chalbury, and other hillforts in Dorset and further afield. Thomas examined and photographed some of the Colley collection but did not describe the fabrics, since the origin of the pottery was not a principal concern of his work (Thomas 2008, 52). Fossiliferous Jurassic limestone is a very common component of prehistoric pottery from the Somerset region, and so the Bathampton pottery may have been locally produced, and may well represent a variant of the mainstream All Cannings Cross tradition. However, shelly and oolitic fabrics constitute up to a quarter of the fabrics from the Cutting 2 earliest layers and the Cutting 3 pre-Deposit features and layers at Potterne (Morris 2000, 140 – 49). Shelly fabrics are present also in the assemblage from the East Chisenbury midden

An elevated midden site on Bathampton Down? It is not intended here to provide a detailed description of midden sites of the late Bronze Age – early Iron Age transition. Suffice it to say that they are now well-recognised in southern Britain as rich organic accumulations that generally contain abundant quantities of animal bone, decorated ceramics, and 150

‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath

sometimes metalwork and other artefacts. They are understood to be deliberate accumulations and/ or detritus of communal events that attracted the inhabitants of surrounding, or indeed far flung, settlements for the necessary exchange of blood lines of livestock and humans, the exchange of information, skills and goods, and which were accompanied by ceremonies that included feasting and (arguably) conspicuous waste.

relationship with the ‘Bathampton Camp’ enclosure? The presence of thick deposits of dark soils, the quantity and condition of the late Bronze Age - early Iron Age pottery, and Wainwright’s animal bone assemblage certainly point to such a possibility. If so, the midden site occupies the southwestern edge of the Down, concentrated on a terraced area some 0.5km away from the southern ditch of the hillfort. The scale of the midden is entirely unclear, as there has been no opportunity to investigate its extent. As broad context, Potterne and East Chisenbury, two of the Pusey Vale midden sites, are five hectares and two hectares respectively.

During one of his frequent visits to Bathampton Down the antiquarian Reverend John Skinner entered in his journal in 1821 that… ‘we descended the hill, a little beyond, where I had previously noticed the earth to be exceedingly dark…we found the black mould at least three feet in depth, abounding in fragments of coarse British pottery’, some of which was decorated with an incised chevron pattern (Skinner MS33669, 201; Thomas et al. 2011, 204). The location of this deposit, which Skinner marked on a map, corresponds to that of Colley’s 1949 trench at Nutley. This site lies on the western slope of the Down, now under woodland owned by the National Trust, and with a fine view of the Avon Valley and what is now the city of Bath.

Topographical position appears to have been an important consideration in the siting of large midden sites. All Cannings Cross occupies a striking position at the foot of the Marlborough Downs escarpment, looking out across the Vale of Pewsey towards Salisbury Plain (Barrett and McOmish 2009). The top of the midden at East Chisenbury lies on a spur of Upper Chalk which protrudes into the valley of the River Avon, and also affords panoramic views of the Pewsey Vale. The Potterne midden occupies an elevated position overlooking the Vale of Pewsey at the watershed between the Bristol and Hampshire River Avons, two of southern England’s principal waterways (Lawson 2000, 4).

A later reference to a dark soil deposit is provided in Winwood’s (1905b) description of trenches excavated by Thomas Bush in his quest to locate the Wansdyke. The location of these trenches coincides with the southwestern ditch of the hillfort earthworks, which Bush mistook for the Wansdyke ditch. Here he found ‘rude brown, black and red pottery’, animal bone, a flint scraper, a conglomerate crystalline rock, and lumps of iron oxides, probably haematite, along with fragments of reportedly human bone. In another trench on the western side of the hillfort Bush found more pottery and animal bone, including a dog tooth (Winwood 1905a, 57). Unfortunately, all of the material described by Bush appears to be lost.

The setting of the postulated Bathampton Down midden is exceptional. It occupies an elevated position on a terrace on the western edge of the Down. The terrace may be natural, but has possibly been modified through centuries of landscape modification. Although it now lies in overgrown woodland, the location affords a setting of almost theatrical character, whether as an observation point or a stage. It is no coincidence that the entrepreneur and philanthropist, Ralph Allen, built the Sham Castle folly in 1762 to improve the view from his house in Bath, and conversely to provide a spectacular prospect of the Georgian city which he was so instrumental in creating.

The deposit of well-preserved animal bone found by Wainwright in the Trench R3 ditch consisted mostly of cattle, including a complete ox skull, but also sheep/ goat, pig and ‘possibly deer’, along with a single horse tooth (Wainwright 1965, 51, 53). Whether this deposit represents midden material is unclear from his description. However, the bone assemblage adds weight to the other evidence that there is a midden-like site on the southwestern side of the Down.

As an observation point, the site takes in an enormous swathe of the surrounding landscape, including the floodplain of the River Avon, and the Lansdown escarpment (Figure 4). The terrace directly overlooks the site of the modern city of Bath, where geothermal springs bubble up from a geological fault. From the perspective of a prehistoric observer on the terrace, and bearing in mind a then uncontained hot spring, in the right conditions the spectacle of steam rising up from the valley would have been remarkable.

The BACAS investigations at the Colley site were prompted by finds from recent badger activity (still visible in 2018), and the historical reports of dark earth finds in the vicinity. The badger spoil incorporates patches of very dark, organic-rich soil, consistent with descriptions of published midden deposits. The combined evidence begs the question – is there a large midden deposit on the Down, and if so, what is its

Speculating that the Bathampton Down site was indeed a focal point for communal gatherings of peoples from the surrounding area, the prehistoric viewshed 151

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Figure 4. A view of Bath from the eighteenth-century Sham Castle

from this location on the Down includes Stantonbury hillfort, which lies on one end of a spur (Figure 5), the other end occupied by unpublished Stanton Field midden (pers. comm. Peter Davenport). The Tumps, a univallate hillfort (destroyed by quarrying), lies a short distance away, and Tunley Hill to the southwest of the Down. Little Solsbury Hill, on the other hand, would be visible only by crossing to the north side of the Down, which raises questions about the relationship between the two hillforts, should further evidence emerge that they were occupied contemporaneously, or otherwise.

Winklebury hillfort (Hingley 1979–80). It is probably no coincidence that some other midden sites have a close topographical association with hillforts or hilltop enclosures. All Cannings Cross, for example, is overlooked by the prehistoric enclosure complex of Rybury (McOmish 2009). Waddington suggests that associations between hillforts and middens may indicate a chronological overlap between the demise of midden sites and the development of some hillforts (Waddington et al. 2018). Postscript

Midden sites in elevated positions are known elsewhere. An obvious example is Wittenham Clumps/Castle Hill, Oxfordshire, where a late Bronze Age – early Iron Age midden accumulated in the upper part of a late Bronze Age enclosure ditch. Radiocarbon dates on material from the lower fills of the ditch provide a very broad terminus post quem for the accumulation sometime between 900 cal BC.and 400 cal BC. The rampart of Quarley Hill, Hampshire sealed midden deposits incorporating post-DeverelRimbury decorated pottery (Hingley 1979–80), which suggests the site of an earlier settlement, as is possible at Bathampton Down. Dark earth accumulations containing similar pottery were found outside

This paper raises more questions than it answers. This was the intention, as it presents an appeal for future archaeological work to refine the relative chronologies and the nature and extent of prehistoric activity at Bathampton Down and Little Solsbury Hill. Further programmes of geophysical survey and smallscale trial trenching can address these questions, as can a comprehensive reassessment of the ceramic assemblages from these sites, in the light of the growing body of data from research into stylistically similar material, and of scientific dating results. It is also useful to highlight the ongoing threat to the archaeology of the Down by badger and human activity. 152

‘Friendly Hills by Nature Guarded Round’: Recent work at Bathampton Down, Bath

Figure 5. Bathampton Down in its archaeological setting

advice on many aspects of prehistory through his publications and lectures, and in person, and for the very best of good company.

Acknowledgements I am hugely indebted to the members of the Bath and Counties Archaeological Society, who carried out much of the fieldwork and research cited here. Without their efforts there would be no basis for this paper. Rod Thomas showed me sherds of pottery from the badger setts while working with the Society on Bathampton Down, which first piqued my interest in the site. I have relied heavily on his publication, ‘A Sacred Landscape’, for the basis of the background information. John Oswin and Rick Buettner have kindly allowed me to cite and reproduce information from their geophysical surveys on Bathampton Down and Little Solsbury Hill. I would also like to thank Nick Cooper, erstwhile archaeologist and local enthusiast, for sharing his knowledge of Little Solsbury Hill, and for showing me surface finds of pottery from the hillfort. Martin Papworth of the National Trust gave permission for the work on both sites. Finally, but not least, I would like to thank John Collis for sharing his views and offering constructive

References Barrett, J. C. and McOmish, D. 2009. The early Iron Age in Southern Britain: Recent work at All Cannings Cross, Stanton St Bernard and East Chisenbury, Wiltshire, in Roulière-Lambert, M.-J. De l’âge du Bronze a l’âge du Fer en France (Xe-VIIe s. av. J.-C., actes XXXe coll. AFEAF, Saint-Romain-en-Gal, Suppl. RAE 27, Revue archéologique de l’Est - Suppléments. Beaton, M. 2003. An Archaeological and Landscape Survey of the National Trust Bath Skyline Properties, unpublished report, Bath Archaeological Trust Buettner, R. 2013. Surprising results on Solsbury Hill, Camertonia 51, 5 - 8. Collins, W. G. and Cantrell, T. C. 1909. Solisbury Hill Camp, near Bath, The Antiquary 5, 326-331, 419-425, 451-456. 153

Lisa Brown Crawford, O. G. S. and Keiller, A. 1928. Wessex from the Air, Oxford. Cunliffe, B. 2005. Iron Age Communities in Britain, 4th edn, Abingdon. Cunnington, M.E. 1923. The Early Iron Age Inhabited Site at All Cannings Cross, Devizes. Current Archaeology June 2014. On Solsbury Hill: Seeing Inside a Hillfort. Curwen, E. 1954. The Archaeology of Sussex, London. Curwen, E. and Curwen, E. C. 1926. Harrow Hill Flint Mine Excavations 1924-5, Sussex Archaeological Collections 67, 103-138. Davenport, P. 1995. Batheaston By Pass, Rescue News 65, 4-5. Davis, G. and Bonsall, P. 2006. A History of Bath: Image and Reality, Lancaster. Dowden, W. A. 1957. Little Solsbury Hill Camp, Proceedings University of Bristol Spelaeological Society 8, 18-29. Dowden, W. A. 1962. Little Solsbury Hill Camp, Proceedings University of Bristol Spelaeological Society 9, 177-182. Bedwin, O. 1983. Miss PAM Keel’s excavations at Harting Beacon 1948 – 52, Sussex Archaeological Collections 121, 199-202. Bradley, R. and Ellison, A. 1975. Rams Hill: a Bronze Age Defended Enclosure and its Landscape, British Archaeological Reports 19. Evans, J. 1866. On a discovery of Flint Arrowheads and Other Stone Implements at Little Salisbury Hill, near Bath, Transactions of the Ethnological Society of London, 4, 240-303. Falconer, J. P. E. and Adams, S. B. 1935. Recent finds at Little Solsbury Hill Camp, near Bath, Proceedings University of Bristol Spelaeological Society 4 (3), 183-222. Falconer, J. P. E. 1937-47. The Flints of the Bath Downs, Proceedings Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, Bath and District Branch, 289-291. Gingell, C. J. and Morris, E. L. 2000. Pottery, in A Lawson, Potterne 1982 – 5: Animal Husbandry in Later Prehistoric Wiltshire, Wessex Archaeology Report 17, Wessex Archaeology. Grey, G. J. 1904. Exploration of Barrows, Hampton Down, Proceedings Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society, Bath and District Branch 1904-1908, 14-15. Grey, G. J. 1905. Exploration of Tumulus, Hampton Down, Proceedings Somersetshire Archaeological and Naturl History Society, Bath and District Branch 19041908, 51-54. Grinsell, L. V. 1971. Somerset Barrows, Part II: North and East, Proceedings Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society 115 (supplement), 44-137. Hingley, R., 1979 – 80 Excavations by R A Rutland on an Iron Age Site at Wittenham Clumps, Berkshire Archaeological Journal 70, 21-55 Isles, R. 1982. Avon Archaeology 1982, Bristol and Avon Archaeology 2, 48.

Langmaid, N. 1971. Norton Fitzwarren, Current Archaeology 28, 116-120. Morris, E. L. 2000. Fabrics, in Lawson, A. J. Potterne 1982 – 5: Animal Husbandry in Later Prehistoric Wiltshire, Wessex Archaeology Report 17, 140-49. Morris, E. L. 2000. Summary, in A J Lawson, Potterne 1982 – 5: Animal Husbandry in Later Prehistoric Wiltshire, Wessex Archaeology Report 17, 166-177. Oswin, J. and Buettner, R. 2012. Little Solsbury Hill Camp Geophysical Survey, Batheaston, Somerset 2012, BACAS. Raymond, F. 2010. Pottery, in McOmish, D., Field, D. and Brown, G. (eds), The Late Bronze Age – Early Iron Age Site at East Chisenbury, Wiltshire, The Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine 103, 66-69. Scarth, H. M. 1857. On Ancient Earthworks in the neighbourhood of Bath, Journal of the British Archaeological Association 13, 2, 98-113. Thomas, R. 2008. A Sacred Landscape: The Prehistory of Bathampton Down, Bath. Thomas, R., Oswin, J. and Brown, L. 2011. A Late Bronze Age/earliest Iron Age Settlement on Bathampton Down, Bath, Somerset Archaeology and Natural History 155, 204-207. Thomas, R., Oswin, J. and Brown, L. 2012 Bathampton Down Settlement, Camertonia 50, 17-19. Waddington, K., Bayliss, A., Higham, T., Madgwick, R., and Sharples, N. 2018. Histories of deposition: creating chronologies for the Late Bronze Age – Early Iron Age transition in southern Britain, Archaeological Journal, 175, 1-49. Wainwright, G. J. 1967. The excavation of an Iron Age hillfort on Bathampton Down, Somerset, Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeol Soc 86, 42–59. Wessex Archaeology, 2017. East Chisenbury Midden, Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire. Archaeological Evaluation Report. Trust for Wessex Archaeology (unpublished report 70241.01). Whitaker, R. J. 2000. Bathampton and Claverton Down: a Study of an Historic Landscape, Bath, Somerset, unpubl dissertation University of Bristol. Willies, L., Redvers-Higgins, N. and Wain, I. 2011. Finished Labour of a Thousand Hands: the Archaeology of the Combe Down Stone Mines, Bath, Somerset, Oxford Archaeology Monograph 13, Oxford. Wilson, A. E. 1940. Report on the excavations at Highdown Hill, Sussex, August 1939, Sussex Archaeological Collections 81, 173–204. Winwood, H. H. 1905a. The Wansdyke, Hampton Down, Proceedings of the Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society 51, Bath and District Branch 1904-1908, 56-57. Winwood, H. H. 1905b. Exploration on Claverton Down, Bath, Proceedings of the Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society 51, Bath and District Branch 1904-1908, 54-56.

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Mapping Celticity Olivier Buchsenschutz A prominent professor of Roman archaeology, who was open-minded enough to take an interest in the Barbarians as well, called me some thirty years ago to inform me that ‘Hallstatt place names’ had been discovered in his region. Noting my amazement he quickly grasped the strangeness of his expression, but this slip of the tongue is nevertheless indicative of the confusion that can exist in our minds when we try to solve the problem of the location of the Celts of Antiquity. Since the publication of John’s book The Celts, Origins, Myths, Inventions in 2003, archaeological data have multiplied exponentially, and several research teams have carried out spatial and statistical analyses on much larger corpuses of data than those available last millennium. John has addressed this issue in several articles, most notably in Chapter 6 of his book on ‘Locating the Celts’, and more recently in his contribution to the Festschrift for Barry Raftery (2009, 233-240). I will not here go over the difficulties in combining the different sources at our disposal, because he has already clearly shown the misdirections that these hazardous correlations can lead to. However, I believe that we could make rapid progress in this domain if we rigorously applied the simple mapping tools at our disposal. The rules of archaeological mapping While they have been defined on several occasions, by both archaeologists and cartographers (e.g. by the group that produced Archaeologia geographica, 1950; Bertin 1967), the essential rules of cartography are rarely respected by either ancient historians or protohistorians. For maps at the scale of a country or continent, the only ones that concern us here, the scale and the direction of north are not of paramount importance, because they will be obvious to the reader. On the other hand, a title and legend are essential: the discussion between John Collis and Christopher Pare about the map reproduced as fig. 46 is significant (Collis, 2003, 98). The early examples of general maps of the Celtic world reproduced by John are unusable because they mix several kinds of sources without explicitly stating this fact in the legend or title. With regard to archaeological sources, the relevance of distribution maps at different scales, whether of objects or of archaeological sites, is only valid if the boundaries of the survey are clearly indicated, which

is rarely the case (cf. Archaeologia geographica, passim). When well-constructed, these maps are nevertheless a very effective tool to show not only the diffusion of a type of object, a form of settlement, or a funerary ritual, but they can also in some cases distinguish places of production (e.g. the quarries from which quernstones were extracted), the regional extents of the contemporaneous use of a types of object (e.g. in graves), the distribution of local imitations of a frequently-copied type (e.g. the diffusion of fibulae types and their variants around the Alps according to Parzinger (1988)), or the existence of long-distance import/export systems (as shown by the increasing complexity of diffusion maps of republican amphorae in temperate Europe (Olmer et al. 2013)). O. Nakoinz’s work shows how the direction of trade can even be modelled, quantified and detected today, using maps supported by statistical methods (Nakoinz 2005, 2013). The classic criticism of archaeological maps, at any scale, is their susceptibility to distortion from a whole series of parameters: soil or plant cover that conceals sites; the distortions resulting from modern development which causes rescue fieldwork to be concentrated on currently inhabited areas, or the impact of the results from a researcher who has focused his attention on a particular region or period. These biases are in fact easy enough to identify and consider in regard to archaeological distributions, allowing them to be interpreted taking into account such distortions, as we have done for example for the Atlas du Berry antique (Batardy et al. 2000). We will explain below why this stage of knowledge is being superseded by the use of new sources of information. An archaeological map is difficult to interpret if the author does not provide the nature of the sources consulted in its compilation and their origins. This constraint is all the more important today because the databases we can now frequently access to make maps no longer contain tens, but tens of thousands of relevant findspots and objects. The choice of which sources to use – whether fully published material, archival reports and grey literature, administrative inventories such as historic environment records, or the most recent theses, etc. – has to be made. The criteria used in the analysis, and the precision of the underlying data (topographical, descriptive, chronological) are factors that guide, and limit, the scope of interpretation.

Challenging Preconceptions of the European Iron Age (Archaeopress 2022): 155–161

Olivier Buchsenschutz

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Figure 1. Anamorphosis of the number of Iron Age sites published by department for three periods

such remains were very rare, and that it was necessary above all to seek to understand, beyond the groups of miraculously preserved remains, the silences that remained. While there are still many gaps in our data today, our knowledge of the content of the Iron Age has literally exploded, and we have not yet examined all the consequences.

The development of large corpuses of archaeological data (big data) The survey by Bradley et al (2016) of the protohistory of the countries bordering the English Channel, based mainly on data from recent rescue excavations, is a good example of the results that can be drawn from an incomplete but clearly defined corpus, which contains over 5000 data points. A study by S. Krausz of the six departments of the Centre region of France from 5000 to 50 BC includes 14,000 archaeological entities spread over nearly 8000 data points (Krausz 2016). The Basefer database on the Iron Age of France which UMR AOROC developed in Paris, derived solely from published data, currently has 15,000 data points described by about 100 keywords. One of the main results from this type of work is the demonstration that the distributions of finds of all types from different periods do not coincide spatially: it is contended that the results are substantially independent, at the scale of a country, from both the opportunities for research and the circumstances of preservation.

This table of cross percentages quantifies the main categories of physical remains from the Iron Age in France, highlighting the relative variation in our sources of information, over time on the X-axis, and for each period using the columns. It concerns uniquely data points that are both well dated and occupied for a short period of time, which drastically limits their number. The first surprise is the initial importance of hoards, which decrease in number in favour of graves during the Hallstatt period; coin hoards need in due course to be added for the last centuries, but they are currently absent because their dating remains to be determined. If the Basefer database had included unpublished sites from the last three decades (see Bradley et al. 2016, or Malrain et al. 2013), the numbers of lightly- or unenclosed settlements would be even higher for the latest periods considered here. Everyone can thus add their own commentary, but now this can be achieved with reference to the distribution of evidence that is currently available; a reliable diagnosis of the current evidence is presented from which the ‘silences’ and lacunae in the data can be analyzed. Specific issues such as the scarcity of settlements of the end of Hallstatt D and of the Middle La Tene period, or the unevenness of the record for graves and cemeteries during the last centuries BC, can be tackled anew, or more general concerns such as the weak representation globally of evidence for La Tene B can be considered.

Anamorphic maps of the numbers of Iron Age sites by department across France during different periods of the Iron Age display very large differences: these results are independent both of opportunities for survival and detection of sites; they have a historical significance. Whether at the scale of a region, a country or the entirety of Western Europe, the number of sites and thus data points has increased so significantly that the nature of the problem archaeologists face has changed. The table (fig. 66) drawn by John (Collis 2003, 145), which compared the approximate number (low, medium, high) of hillforts, settlements, burials, shore finds, and hoards, for 14 regions in Hallstatt D, Tene A and Tene B, now provokes new questions. He concluded at the time that

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Bze fin. HA B

HA C

HA D1

HA D2

HA D3

LT A

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LT B2

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LT C2

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LTD2

atelier

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dépôt

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funéraire

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settlement

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sanctuaire

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objet isolé

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Pourcentages croisés des gisements datés

1706 well sites thecontenus 15567 included in the Basefer database have been retained. 1706 bien dated datés sur lesfrom 15567 dans la Baseferont été retenus. Width ofduthe black rectangle each box: Height of the black rectangle in chaque each box: % :in%column. Largeur rectangle noir dansin chaque case % : %inenline. ligne. Hauteur du rectangle noir dans case en colonne Side value of the whiteblanc square: Valeur de côté du carré : 7070%. % Basefer,AOROC AOROCParis, Paris,O.O.Buchsenschutz. Buchsenschutz Basefer, Figure 2. Cross-percentages of dated deposits in the Basefer

La Tène cultural province - functional - it was deployed to enhance the decoration of a limited number of ornaments -, and artistic insofar as it is applied to motifs inscribed in the vocabulary of ‘Early Celtic art’ (Challet 1992). While the physical extension of this geographical survey is better defined in text than on the maps, it is evident that the distribution of such material is clearly centred on this area, extending from the Atlantic to the Hungarian plain, during the period from 400 BC.

The validation of distribution maps and the construction of a cultural map The distribution of archaeological data of many domains, from buildings to art and including the depiction of a number of technical developments and cultural traits, forms a crescentic shape to the west and north of the Alps; this endures from the Bronze Age until the Roman conquest which broadly speaking incorporates it within the boundaries of the Empire. Of course, there are some features which are specific to this area, whereas others extend only partially over it, while yet others extend far beyond it. The question is whether or not this polythetic ensemble corresponds to a cultural identity that could persist through time despite external influences or changes in behaviour. It is admitted that in due course Romanization so profoundly changed the way of life of the bearers of these Iron Age cultures that we thereafter entered another world (Tacitus, Agricola, XXI; Buchsenschutz 2004).

Metal scabbards for swords are also a speciality of the La Tène culture, even if, according to the Dictionnaire Gaffiot, there seem to be no Latin texts that confirm this. Between J. Déchelette’s syntheses and the 1970s, research on the Iron Age in France was so limited in scope and ambition that the maps showing the distribution of La Tène culture artefacts, produced mainly in Germany, were most often restricted geographically to Central Europe and Eastern France. The cartography of metal scabbards decorated with the ‘dragon pair’, initiated by de Navarro in 1972 and developed by Nathalie Ginoux in her thesis published in 2007, has evolved considerably, as Ginoux’s study highlights (maps of figures 3 to 7 p 15 sq). Systematic research undertaken in France by several researchers supported by the effective

V. Challet-Defente’s work on red enamel reveals a unity that is simultaneously technical - in that the formula used for this glass was homogeneous throughout the

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Olivier Buchsenschutz restoration of many scabbards has made it possible to increase the total recognized from some 30 specimens in 1972 to more than 150 by 2007. While the differing styles of this motif were once interpreted as regional, researchers are nowadays convinced of a fairly uniform chronological evolution of these pieces across space, from the Hungarian plain to southwestern France. N. Ginoux has even suggested a correlation between the distribution of the decoration found on these sheaths and Celtic movements in the Balkans between 310 and 278 BC as described in classical texts.

Language and peoples All atlases of protohistory come up against the problem of the transition from maps based on protohistoric material ‘cultures’ of the 4th or 1st century BC defined by region, to maps that attempt to locate data from Greek and Latin literary texts in space or to present the distribution of Celtic place names. The obstacles and difficulties are well known: the initially-approximate Greek and Roman comprehension of the geography of Europe, which drew on mythological accounts that were not concerned with the delineation of real space. However, making use of geographical information from Ptolemy and the toponyms that have been identified on Roman inscriptions allow the possibility of locating at least those places that have retained Celtic names. Sims-Williams published a cartographic and statistical analysis based not only on the location of Celtic place names within the Roman Empire, but also on their density in comparison with Latin place names found on the same one degree topographic grid (Sims-Williams 2006). While he drew attention to some aberrant results, the geographical coincidence between the toponymic evidence and the La Tène archaeological culture is too strong to rule out a straightforward correlation between the distribution of Celtic languages as evidenced by place names and the bearers of this archaeological culture.

Is it possible to decide whether the presently-known distribution of a category of objects is stable and credible? This is formally impossible, but analysis of the evolution of distribution maps initially prepared by Déchelette into the 21st century shows noteworthy trends. The distribution of the murus gallicus style of rampart architecture is significant, because we can compare the map prepared by M. A. Cotton in 1957 to the current distribution (Buchsenschutz, Ralston 2014): the number of examples has increased from about twenty to sixty, but the overall distribution has remained spatially constant. To the east of the Rhine, with two exceptions, walls of Pfostenschlizmauer type dominate; there are regional variants comparable with those known for example in the architecture of Gothic cathedrals. Similarly, the deposition of major series of iron tools or other items is commonly recorded across the entire La Tène culture area, but in Central Europe such finds are concentrated in the fortifications of upland sites, whereas in northern France they occur in sanctuaries; a further series are those represented symbolically by the iron spikes recorded in walls of murus gallicus type.

If this correlation is sufficiently obvious for the last centuries before our era, how far back in time can it be traced? Livy’s famous text on the migrations led by the nephews of King Ambigatus has generated much discussion (Orchard 2003; Peyre, Buchsenschutz 2008). It is evident that the author locates the Gallic peoples mentioned by reference to Caesar’s text. There is still scope for doubt with regard to these earlier periods, but to date there is no other historical testimony indicating that these people took part in any migrations. Archaeology is unlikely to answer this category of questions, because the evidence contained in the texts, for example on the migration of the Cimbri and Teutones, generally leaves no corresponding direct trace in the ground to be detected archaeologically.

As a final example, maps of the distribution of objects decorated according to the grammar of ‘Celtic art’, especially those attributable to the 4th century BC, when the representation of reality was gradually abandoned in favour of the overall coverage of objects, with shape and background combined, and systematically asymmetrical and curvilinear, contributed to the distinctive cultural identity of the products of the La Tène archaeological culture. In general, what has been called ‘Early Celtic art’ for over a hundred years failed to provoke a reaction from their neighbours. While researchers have been able to detect individual motifs originating from the South or East, the art of no other European culture of the period diverged to such a degree from Greco-Roman or Scythian models. Here again, the distributions of different objects intimate different chronological stages rather than regional styles. Information on the historical context of the 4th century BC allows us to attribute this art to the Celts, the inhabitants of Western Europe, who were both mercenaries and settlers beyond this zone, and the bearers of the material culture termed La Tène in archaeology.

It is clear that archaeological and linguistic research should not be uncritically intertwined. However, when the task in hand is to provide a synthesis, there is nothing that should prevent apparent coincidences from being highlighted. It will none the less certainly be easier in future years to extend the archaeological analysis of the various provinces of the Roman Empire than it will be to bring to light new historical texts to detect survivals of the Celtic way of life, such as tools and the means of agricultural production.

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Sépultures en «tombes plates» Tombes à char Expansion celtique

Arras

Croft A mbrey

Influence celtique L. Woodbury Danebury

Haps Gournay

All Canning cross Cadbury Gussage A ll S.

Jenisuv Ujedz Glauberg Duchcov Radovesice Befort Zavist Waldalgesheim Amfrevill e Bucy-le-L. Courselles-sur-Mer Bopfingen Roseldorf-Sa Berru Bobigny ndberg Meaux Ouessant Gondreville Ymonville Mannersdorf Paule Sajopetri Dürrnberg Saint-Jean-Trol imon Chotin Piscolt Mirebeau Münsingen-Rain Sopron Liter Ertsfeld Gurgy La Tène Sanzeno Saint-Sulpice Agris Idrija pri baci Prestino Mantoue Novo mesto Marzabotto Gètes Bologne Monterenzio Casalecchio St-Blaise Monte Bibele Lattes Ensérune Marseille Filottrano

es

yth

Sc

Thraces

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Galates

Figure 3. Map of the Celtic world in the 4th and 3rd centuries BC, O. Buchsenschutz, Ch. Bailly, J. Cavero

Gundestrup

Traprain Law

Tre'r Ceiri Croft A mbrey

Hod Hill Hengistbury H ead Maiden Castle

Hodde

Production, transport et diffusion des amphores romaines au IIe s.

Arras Feddersen Wierde Stanwick Snettisham Ezinge Saint Albans Aylesford De Panne

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Teutoburg Dünsberg

Ripdorf Zedau

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Grossromstedt Principaux oppida Bad Nauheim Ribemont Eprave Lovosice Fesques Titelberg Wederath Zavist Gournay Jaux SCYTHES Stare Hradisko La Maill eraye Trisov Manching Nanterre Nemcice Liptovska Mara Bobigny Châteaubleau Berching-Pollante Roseldorf n Allonnes Bibracte Paule Moulay Alésia Bratislava Bâle Bourges ND d'A llençon Besançon Noreia Levroux Yverdon Berne DACES Aulnat Idrija pri baci Hérisson Mormont Schlern Gergovie Giubiasco Corent Tintignac Karaburma Tayac Murcens Lacoste Boé Puy d'Iss. Entremont Toulouse

THRACES

La

Numance Segeda

Rome Pydna

Las Cogotas

Figure 4. Map of the Celtic world in the 2nd and 1st centuries BC, O. Buchsenschutz, Ch. Bailly, J. Cavero

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Olivier Buchsenschutz necessary to practice the delicate cartographic art of ‘generalization’.1 This is what we have tried to do in highlighting the distribution of the main indices of the evolution of Celtic populations between the 7th and 1st centuries BC (Buchsenschutz et al. 2015) (Figs. 3 and 4). It is essential to present the ancient Celtic world in several stages, because phenomena as many centuries apart as Richard the Lionheart and Queen Victoria cannot be depicted on the same map (Kruta, 2009-2010; Buchsenschutz 2012).

The chronological and spatial evolution of the ancient Celtic world Livy’s text is also of interest. It is one of the few to bear witness to the ancient origins of the Celtic populations. Even if it is expressed as a mythical reconstruction, including events such as the founding of Rome or the organization of the first Olympic Games, it puts forward a foundation narrative, which furnishes a framework and a historical origin. An equivalent narrative is cruelly absent in relation to the definition of Celtic culture. Archaeological analyses remain insufficient to identify the first communities who shared a way of life identifiable as Celtic and to date the moment when they became distinct from their neighbours. We can only list the elements they had in common and which were to evolve over time within a relatively stable territory. We have proposed a comparison with the images produced by a kaleidoscope, whose elements are always the same, while their combination changes each time the device is moved through a quarter turn (Buchsenschutz 2015) This image of controlled change applies well to the evolution of funerary rituals, including the spatial and chronological variations analysed by H. Lorenz (Lorenz 1978): weapons, vehicles, andirons, and ring ornaments, decorated with coral and amber in due course replaced by red glass; the layout of chariot tombs, the construction of barrows with their evidence for the consumption of food. These elements remain more or less the same, but their relative importance and detailed disposition changed primarily through time, and their patterns also varied regionally within the Celtic world.

The quantity, relative stability and very frequent overlapping of the distributions of the data which has now been assembled, whether it is cultural (in the archaeological sense), linguistic or artistic, thus make it possible to locate the Celtic domain, and to trace its evolution and influence with some precision. Bibliography Archaeologica Geographica (1950-1960) Hamburg: Hamburgische Museum für Völkerkunde und Vorgeschichte. Batardy, C., Buchsenschutz, O. and Dumasy F. (eds) 2001. Le Berry antique: Atlas 2000. Tours : RACF, Supplément à la Revue archéologique du centre de la France 21. Bertin, J. 1967. Sémiologie graphique, Paris, Mouton Gauthier-Villars, Paris. Bradley, R., Haselgrove, C., Van der Linden, M. and Webley, L. 2016. The Later Prehistory of North-West Europe, The Evidence of Development-Led Fieldwork, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Buchsenschutz, O. 2004. Les Celtes et la formation de l’Empire romain. Annales HSS, 59.2, 337-361. Buchsenschutz, O. 2006. L’apport de la cartographie à l’étude des sociétés sans écriture: l’exemple des Celtes de l’âge du Fer, Mappemonde 83 (2006.3), http:// mappemonde.mgm.fr/num11/articles/art06305. html. Last consulted 14th September 2020. Buchsenschutz, O. 2012/2015. Les Celtes, Guerriers et paysans, L’atlas des civilisations, Le Monde hors série, 2012, 46-47, 3 cartes ; ibidem 2015, L’atlas des civilisations, 42-43. Buchsenschutz, O. 2015. Das keltische Kalejdiskop. In: Gediga, B., Grossman, A. and Potrowski, W. (eds), Europa zwischen 8.Jhd. V. Chr. Geb. bis 1 Jhd U. Zeit: 339350, Biskupin Wroclaw. Buchsenschutz, O. Batardy, C., Cartereau, M., Gruel, K. and Levéry, M. 2015. Une base pour l’élaboration de modèles de peuplement de l’âge du Fer en France Archeosciences, Revue d’archéométrie, 39, 157-175.

To use the concepts of ‘emic’ and ‘etic’ deployed by anthropologists, views of the Celts become increasingly clear thanks to the increasing recovery of archaeological resources, while concurrently the testimonies provided by their Greek and Latin neighbours take their rightful place in the unending and stimulating debate between these two kinds of information. However, two categories of data must be distinguished as particularly significant among the archaeological remains: on the one hand those that convey a particular message developed by the Celts themselves, such as richly-furnished graves or decorated objects; and on the other those that can be reasonably deduced from material remains and discarded waste products left in the ground, and from which we try to reconstruct the techniques, food and movements of these populations. As John rightly pointed out, we have to get rid of old nationalist or hagiographic models, but I think that they were already dead by the end of the second millennium. It is important to identify the sources to be used when working amongst specialists and at a large scale. On the other hand, for the making of small-scale general maps, which are to be deployed in front of an audience which needs general models for its orientation, it is

1  The classic example of generalization is the representation of the thousands of Canadian lakes known at the 1:100,000 scale, so as to maintain the representation of their extreme fragmentation as water bodies while simultaneously reducing their number so that the map remains readable.

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Buchsenschutz, O., Chardenoux, M.-B., Gruel, K., Lambert, P.-Y., Lejars, T. and Verger, S. 2015. L’Europe celtique à l’âge du Fer (VIIIe – Ier s.), Collection Nouvelle Clio, Presses universitaires de France, Paris. Buchsenschutz, O. and Ralston, I. 2014. Nouvelles remarques sur les muri gallici. In: Bullinger, J., Crott, P. and Huguenin, C. (eds) De l’âge du Fer à l’usage du verre : Mélanges offerts à Gilbert Kaenel: 171178. Lausanne, (CAR 151). Challet, V. 1992. Les Celtes et l’émail. Documents préhistoriques 3, éditions du CTHS, Paris. Collis, J. 2003. The Celts, Origins, Myths, Inventions, Stroud: Tempus. Collis, J. 2009. To be, or not to be, a Celt: does it really matter? In  : Cooney, G., Becker, K., Coles, J., Ruan, M. and Rieckhoff, S. (eds) Relics of Old Decency: archaeological studies in later prehistory, Festschrift for Barry Raftery: 233-241. Dublin, Wordwell. Cuche, D. 2004. La Notion de culture dans les sciences sociales, coll. Repères, Paris: La Découverte. Déchelette, J. 1914. Manuel d’archéologie préhistorique, celtique et gallo-romaine. 2, Archéologie celtique ou protohistorique. 3e partie, Second âge du fer ou époque de la Tène, Paris, Picard. Gaffiot, F. 1934. Dictionnaire illustré latin-français, Hachette, Paris. Ginoux, N. 2007. Le thème symbolique de ‘ la paire de dragons ‘ sur les fourreaux celtiques (IVe- IIe siècles av. J.-C.). Étude iconographique et typologie, British Archaeological Reports, International Séries, 1702, Oxford. Krausz, S. 2016. Des premières communautés paysannes à la naissance de l’État dans le Centre de la France : 5000-50 a.C. Scripta antiqua (86), Bordeaux. Kruta, V. 2010. Les Celtes, peuple de légende, L’atlas des civilisations: 46-47, 2 cartes. Le Monde hors série.

Lorenz, H. 1978. Totenbrauchtum und Tracht. Untersuchungen zur regionalen Gliederung in der frühen Latènezeit, BRGK, 59, 1- 380. Malrain, F., Blancquaert, G., and Lorho, T. (eds) 2013. Habitat rural du second âge du Fer, Rythmes de création et d’abandon au nord de la Loire, INRAP CNRS, Paris. Nakoinz, O. 2005. Studien zur raümlichen Abgrenzung und Strukturierung der älteren Hunsrück-Eifel-Kultur, UrForschungen zur prähistorischen Archäologie, 118, Bonn, 2005. Nakoinz, O. 2013. Archäologische Kulturgeographie der ältereisenzeitlichen Zentralorte Südwestdeutschlands. Universitätsforsch. prähist. Arch. 224, Bonn. Parzinger, H. 1988. Chronologie der Späthallstatt- und Frühlatene-Zeit. Studien zu Fundgruppen zwischen Mosel und Save. Weinheim: Quellen und Forschungen zur prähistorischen und provinzialrömischen Archäologie 4. Peyre, C. and Buchsenschutz, O. Tite-Live, Bourges, et les premiers processus d’urbanisation à l’âge du Fer en Europe septentrionale, Germania, 86.1: 29-46. Olmer, F., Girard, B., Verrier, G., Bohbot, H. 2013. Voies, acteurs et modalités du grand commerce en Europe occidentale, in: Colin, A. and Verdin, F. (eds) L’âge du Fer en Aquitaine et sur ses marges. Mobilité des hommes, diffusion des idées, circulation des biens dans l’espace européen à l’âge du Fer : actes du XXXVe Colloque international de l’AFÉAF, (Bordeaux, 2-5 juin 2011): 665-691. Pessac, Fédération Aquitania. Sims-Williams, P. 2006. Ancient Celtic place-names in Europe and Asia Minor, Publications of the Philological Society, 39, Oxford. Verger, S. 2003. Le bouclier de Diviciac, à propos de Liv. V, 34, In  : Vitali, D. (ed) L’immagine tra mondo celtico e mondo etrusco-italico., Aspetti della cultura figurativa nell’antichità, Bologna, 333-369.

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